No Place Like Hell (12 page)

He hurried through the creaking side gate and tripped over a rake, falling on the dry, prickly grass. He cursed Susie for leaving the rake and whoever killed her for depriving him of release from the demands of the flesh.

The window stood open as before. It was placed at an inconvenient height to shimmy through. He scraped his back on the sash and banged his head on Susie's dresser.

The smell of her death tainted the air. He tripped over something on the floor and crashed onto the bed, which wasn't where it used to be. With care, he crawled to the door, encountering more unexpected obstacles. He turned on the light.

Dresser drawers lay scattered across the fuzzy carpet, undergarments strewn amongst them. The mattress had been sliced open, the dresser toppled away from the wall. The contents of the closet decorated the top of the wreckage.

Kasker moved to the living room. The bedroom light illuminated couch cushions ripped open, the lamp overturned, the braided rug shoved into a rumpled mess at one side.

Susie lay on a mound of stuffing just two steps inside the door, a single red hole in her back. Kasker pictured her killer searching the house for Decker's diary. When he didn't find it, he waited for her to return and shot her through the bloody throw pillow now on the floor beside the body.

If the wraith of her soul still clung to the flesh when he arrived, she'd been shot four hours earlier, or around four that afternoon. Or perhaps she'd lain wounded on the floor for some period before death overtook her, in which case, she could have been attacked earlier.

A large pool of blood spread under Susie. He wasn't sure what that meant in relation to the time of the shooting. He checked to be sure there was nothing of interest under her or clenched in her hands. Turning her over had all the charm of wrestling a beached whale.

Beside her, a torn grocery sack contained chocolate syrup, raspberry syrup, melted peach ice cream, and a broken bottle of cheap white wine. She'd anticipated his return and remembered that he preferred raspberries to strawberries. Thoughts of where she would have applied the syrup flickered through his brain, and his flesh swelled. Goats! The timing of her demise was unfortunate.

He righted the lamp and turned it on. A few steps away, he found her voluminous purse dumped out amid the destruction. Cosmetics, hair brush, nail file, wallet containing twelve dollars, her ID, and another photo of the dog.

He pocketed the money.

A ring of keys, pen, checkbook, two paperback romance novels with half-naked couples clutched in suggestive embraces on their covers. The swollen bosoms increased the pressure of his woody.

No diary. He examined the check register. The last entry was for today at Wally's Food Mart. Tucked in the register was a receipt for a dollar and change from Postal Instant Press, a copy shop. It carried today's date.

So that's why Susie sent him on the wild goose chase to Decker Industries. She wanted a copy of the diary before she gave it to him. Why copy it? If it contained information Decker wanted to conceal from the cops, blackmail of Decker's associates came to mind.

But who knew she had the diary? Decker, but since Kasker had detected no untethered soul outside the bookstore door, it was unlikely Decker's soul survived. And if Decker thought he'd want it later, why hadn't he taken it with him? Why come back for it when the cops would be searching the place and Kasker would be hunting him? It didn't make sense.

Possibly Susie had already contacted someone from the diary, and they were responsible for her death. If that was true, whoever it was worked fast. They'd had little time to react. Holmes?

Kasker stuffed the receipt in his jeans with the money and left through the window. He had no leads to either Holmes or Decker. Seve wouldn't be pleased. Neither would his master. He had to think of something soon. Otherwise, he'd be forced to revisit the Oracle.

19

Parking at the beach was a bitch. Sunday noon, and the surf was up. Half of Solaris lounged on the sand or played in the water. The girls were strutting in their teeny weeny yellow-polka dot bikinis. Hard-bodied weight-lifters and sunburned surfers trailed after them, all awash in a cloud of hormones.

I wore a cool cotton sundress that brushed the top of my knees. I walked the quarter mile from my parking spot to the old pier that jutted into the ocean. The wind ruffled my hair, turning it into a frazzled mess. I squinted against the reflection from the water and looked for Tad.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I spun around.

"Wow, Nicky, you look great," Tad said, running his eyes from my feet to my head. "I almost didn't recognize you."

My face warmed more than the sun accounted for. Tad looked very handsome in his casual cotton shirt and Bermuda shorts. Ropes of muscle wrapped his arms and legs. So did patches of scabs and bruised skin.

"You look…" I didn't know what to say.

"Lucky to be alive?" he suggested and grinned.

My heart sped up. He took a firm grip on my elbow and steered me toward the pier. We trod the faded boards, staying so close that our shoulders brushed. Waves rolled in and crashed against the pilings below us, sending salt spray into the air.

Tad pointed to a vacant bench near the end and invited me to sit. He joined me. I could smell his aftershave. It reminded me of his skin against my lips. A shiver twitched up my back.

Why had I let Tad talk me into this? I should be at the station going through the mug books.

"Any progress on the Slasher case?" he asked.

"I'm not part of the investigation, remember?"

He took my hand in his. "You must hear things around the station, things that aren't in the updates my father receives."

"I'm not exactly 'one of the boys.' Besides, I have more important things to investigate."

"What could be more important than stopping a crazed lunatic from committing another murder?" His voice dripped with incredulity.

"Finding out why two hard-looking men chased you into the street the night you were hit."

Tad's brow drew down, and he let go of my hand. "I don't remember anyone chasing me."

I rolled my eyes. "You don't remember anything from that day. How would you know whether someone was chasing you?"

He leaned back and put his arm behind me across the top of the bench. He watched the wave roll in without saying anything.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" I asked.

That brought him up short. "What kind of question is that?"

"Do you know two guys, one white and skinny, with a cross tattooed on the side of his neck, the other Negro, medium height, bad acne scars on his face?"

He massaged his right temple. Sweat glistened on his forehead. "I can't think of anyone like that. They were probably drawn by the accident. You know how people like to gawk."

"You haven't received any death threats? No one's sent you any hate mail?"

"Despite my dad's best efforts, I'm not that famous." He gave a wry laugh. Then his eyes narrowed as he watched the waves crashing against the beach. "You seriously believe they were chasing me? I didn't just step off the curb in a moment of carelessness?"

The news seemed to shake him more than I expected. I wanted to console him, but I couldn't find the words.

He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and stared at his hands. "You think you know what life's about, your place in it. And then in one moment… one decision… it's all turned upside down. You see where you went wrong, but there's so little time left to make a difference, to correct your mistakes."

I put a hand on Tad's shoulder. "I'll protect you. I'll find those guys and make them tell me why they were after you."

His hazel eyes met mine. "Protecting me isn't worth the effort. You need to go after the Slasher."

I stood up and leaned against the railing to face him. "It's not my case."

"It doesn't matter whose case it is. The Slasher has to be caught. I've seen the reports. The detectives aren't asking the right questions."

In some ways, I had to agree that Lt. Mack didn't seem to be doing all he could to stop the Slasher—like take Sleeth off the streets. But Dave's words echoed in my mind. We were a team. We didn't cut one another off at the knees.

"If we want a conviction, we have to follow procedures. I'd arrest Sleeth right now—"

"That's not what I mean." Tad ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Answer me this: why the bookstore?"

I didn't know, hadn't thought to ask the question.

"It must have taken a long time to set that elaborate scene. Why didn't the alarm go off sooner? And how did Bill Decker get there in the first place?"

"Well…" I chewed my lip.

"See, that's exactly what I mean. Everyone is so busy crucifying Sleeth that no one's looking at the big picture." Tad rose from the bench. "But
you
could. Find the secretary. Ask her about Decker's appointments. Where did he go and who did he see the week before he died?"

"You think he knew the psycho who gutted him?"

Tad lurched back like I'd slapped him. His hand went to his mouth, and color drained from his face.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I should watch my mouth."

"It's okay."

He turned and began walking back along the pier. I fell in beside him.

"I know your job's important to you, Nicky, but you have to find the Slasher. No one is looking in the right places. Find this person. Make Solaris safe again."

I took a deep breath, let it out. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, I'm going to look for those two men who were at the Carlisle when you had your accident."

"If anyone comes after me, I'll kick their ass, excuse my French. I'm a decorated combat vet, you know." He smiled, and his eyes gleamed. "But if you want to protect me, I won't object. Maybe you could do it over dinner tonight?"

He took my hand. His grip felt warm and firm against mine, and he gave me his undivided attention while he waited for my answer.

"Sorry," I said. "I work tonight."

"Can't call in sick?"

"And then be seen at a restaurant having dinner with you? I'm in enough hot water already."

"Who said anything about a restaurant? I thought you could come to my place." He waggled his eyebrows.

For one tiny moment, I thought about taking him up on his offer. But I couldn't lie to Dave. Besides, I wasn't ready for a private dinner with Tad. In fact, it made me more than a little uncomfortable.

"Maybe a rain check?"

Tad's mouth turned down. "It never rains in California."

We'd reached the end of the pier, but Tad didn't show any signs of turning my hand loose despite my refusal of his invitation. I wondered if anyone would recognize us from the newspaper pictures. The last thing I wanted was to end up on the society pages.

Tad walked me all the way to my car. He took my keys, unlocked my door, and opened it for me. His manners made my toes curl.

"Think about what I said, Nicky. Think about the innocent victims you can save if you stop the Slasher."

I slid behind the wheel. Tad leaned over, kissed my cheek, and then closed my door.

"If you won't let me make you dinner, will you at least have lunch with me tomorrow?"

The spot where his lips touched me tingled. A voice I thought couldn't possibly be mine replied, "You're on."

20

Kasker missed Susie. He'd found a brunette at a party to give him a blow job, but she'd been so drunk there'd been minimal pleasure in it. Susie had been the adventuresome sort who knew how to get a guy's rocks off.

There'd been no word of Susie's death either in the Sunday morning paper or on the radio news later in the day. Perhaps the neighbors hadn't smelled her yet. They would. It was just a matter of time.

The cops would find his fingerprints at Susie's. Then they'd come knocking. He'd cleaned out his stash of weed and wad of cash and made sure his apartment had nothing more innocuous in it than a six-pack of beer and a wedge of moldy cheese.

He wasn't worried. He had the mechanic to provide an alibi for how he'd spent Saturday afternoon. He hoped the guy wasn't still pissed about the walk to his truck.

But now it was time to focus on the hunt. In another twenty minutes, Lester Renquist would die from a ruptured aneurism. Kasker didn't understand how Seve could predict the exact time and cause of death, but he did. The foreknowledge robbed much of the satisfaction from the hunt.

When Renquist died, Kasker would devour his soul. He could smell the damnation burning sweet in his nostrils, taste the essence in his mouth, feel its silky texture sliding down his throat.

His foot pressed the accelerator, sending the Mustang charging through the night toward the luxury apartment building where the unsuspecting Renquist awaited. Cool salt air flowed through the window but did nothing to slow the heat building in his true skin.

Three blocks from Renquist's, he slowed. Renquist lived in the penthouse on the fifteenth floor. The height added to the logistical problem of getting the flesh close enough that he could maintain his connection while he abandoned it to harvest the soul.