No Place Like Hell (14 page)

A second floor cloistered balcony overlooked the cobblestone circle that wound around the fountain. One section of the balcony glowed with light from the open French doors of the demon's study. All the other windows remained dark.

Seve knew how to live in style. It irked Kasker that he scraped by in only a one-bedroom apartment while the demon enjoyed such opulence. Imagine the orgies he could hold in such a palace.

Kasker left the Mustang beside the fountain and sauntered to the front door. Two bodyguards, one on each side of the door, watched his approach. Neither blocked his path when he reached for the ornate knob. Kasker chuffed a laugh. Word got about.

Inside, soft light shone from wrought-iron wall sconces in the expansive foyer and up the long staircase. Although the interior of Seve's home was immaculate, an ancient, musty odor hung in the air, an odor that seemed to follow the demon wherever he went. Kasker took the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to be done with the meeting so he could bask undisturbed in the afterglow of his soul feast.

Old paintings in heavy gilded frames graced the walls of the upstairs hallway. The subjects were mostly humans suffering for their sins or depictions of damned souls cast down into Hell. They brought a homesick tear to his eye.

The study doors stood open. The spacious room was dominated by a wood desk polished to a dark satin sheen. A mace and broadsword decorated one wall above a mahogany credenza that served as a liquor cabinet. A black leather couch ran along the other wall, another of the old oil paintings above.

Two cowhide chairs were placed before the desk. Seve sat behind the desk swirling a glass of whiskey and ignoring his guest. Lamplight glinted off the glass. The whiskey's scent saturated the room.

Kasker flopped in a chair across from the demon. He could use a drink, but Seve didn't offer. Kasker considered helping himself.

"Renquist has been delivered to Hell," he announced, since the demon still hadn't uttered a word of greeting.

"About time you did your job right," Seve grumbled. He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, rolling the liquor in his mouth before swallowing.

So the demon's insults were to be his thanks. Kasker deserved better. Hadn't he eluded the annoying angel with his cleverness?

Kasker jumped to his feet, crossed to the credenza, and grabbed the whiskey decanter. He pulled the stopper and took a long swig. The strong liquid burned like brimstone.

He coughed and plunked the decanter down to cover his discomfort. Seve had little appreciation for the hunt. Kasker would educate him.

"It wasn't a walk in the park, you know," he said, returning to his chair. "I had a guardian angel and his ward on my tail."

But wait, he hadn't meant to tell the demon of the angel. Too late. The demon's focus snapped to him.

"Angel?"

Kasker spread his hands. "Didn't I mention? The pigs who caught me at the bookstore."

Seve ground his teeth. "Heaven knows you're here in the flesh? The angel follows you?"

"No," Kasker said with a laugh. "The angel is a dork. He has so little power that he can't see me. I'm surprised that you weren't aware of him, you being the big bad boss in Solaris."

"Fool!" the demon said. "If he discovers you, there will be Heaven to pay, especially with these killings afoot. Do you think for a moment they will believe we're not involved? You could restart the war between Heaven and Hell. Our preparations are not complete. You could ruin everything."

Kasker dropped his eyes and crossed his legs. The high from his soul feast was clouding his thinking, slowing his reflexes. He should go before he said anything else he'd regret.

"What of Decker's diary? What of Holmes?"

"I'm working on it." Kasker leaned back in the chair, contentment fizzing like Alka Seltzer in his brain.

The demon's narrowed eyes gazed at him and his lips thinned. "Whose names appear in the diary?"

"I haven't had a chance to study it," Kasker lied.

"You know nothing of Decker's associates. Give the diary to me. I will tell you which of them might be involved in his sacrifice." Seve held out a peremptory hand.

Kasker shifted in the chair. "I don't have it with me."

The demon raised his eyebrows. "Bring it to the restaurant in the morning. Early."

Kasker squirmed, then stood. "I didn't get the diary from the secretary."

"Because you weren't strong enough to take it from her? I must meet this señorita who keeps the sabueso del infierno's tail between his legs."

In his stoned haze, the words slipped out. "You can't. She's dead."

Seve shot to his feet, a look of horror on his face. He bumped the desk hard enough to slop whiskey from his glass. "You killed her?"

"Of course not." Kasker shuffled his feet on the tile floor. This conversation couldn't go more wrong. "Someone shot her and took the diary."

The demon fell back into his chair. "Holmes?"

"Or another of Decker's acquaintances. I think she intended to blackmail those who appeared in it."

Seve wiped the back of his hand across his lips. His eyes locked on Kasker.

"You must return to the Oracle and learn where Holmes hides. He cannot be allowed to remain at large any longer. The danger is too great."

Kasker folded his arms over his chest. Just the mention of the Oracle's name caused a cold sweat to break on his forehead.

"The Oracle will not cooperate."

The demon seemed almost as uncomfortable with the topic of the Oracle as Kasker.

"Then how will you find Holmes?" Seve asked.

"There must be others who associated with Decker. They may have information about Decker's movements before he died, who he talked to," Kasker said.

Seve tapped a finger on his desk, lost in thought. Kasker wished he could go. He wanted to revel in what remained of his soul-eating high, not think about his problems.

The demon pulled a pad of note paper from the top drawer and took a heavy gold pen from a holder on the desktop. He scribbled a name and address and tore off the sheet.

"Decker cheated all his associates. I doubt he told them anything helpful—or truthful. But he liked to brag about his business conquests. Try this woman. She entertained him regularly." Seve pushed the paper across the desk.

Kasker snatched the paper and squinted at the demon's awful handwriting. He gave up trying to decipher it and stuffed it in his jean's pocket. It would wait until tomorrow.

"Time runs short, sabueso. Find Holmes or face consequences."

23

Emmett Merkel. Mid-fifties, a little overweight, well dressed, filthy rich, and dead. He was our consolation prize. The rest of the Solaris PD was a mile from our location, responding on another Slasher killing.

Except for Merkel's car and our cruiser, the parking lot was empty. He'd parked next to the back door, in a spot with a reserved sign. Ornate lamps lit the lot. The one nearest the car was broken, casting this corner in gloom.

Visibility from the street was limited by a row of trees at the edge of the lot. The bus line ran two blocks south. The neighborhood had no apartment buildings. The odds of anyone passing on foot to see Merkel sprawled on the asphalt were slim.

Dave had his notebook out, pencil at the ready. "What did you see, Mrs. Sanchez?"

Mrs. Sanchez wrung the hem of her apron. Her dark eyes flitted to the body and away again. "I seen Mr. Merkel laying there by his car, so I checked, and he didn't look too good. That's when I called the cops."

I listened to the cleaning lady with half an ear. Sleeth had struck again. I knew it would happen. He was sick, crazy sick. Anger churned in my gut.

"You didn't move him?" I asked too briskly.

"Are you kidding? I don't touch the dead." She crossed herself and mopped her forehead with her apron hem.

Dave nodded his approval. "Was there anyone else in the parking lot?"

"Not when I came out for a smoke."

"And what time was that?"

"I always take a break when I finish the fifth floor, around twelve-thirty."

Her statement jibed with the time we'd gotten the call. The left rear tire on Merkel's Lincoln Continental was flat. The trunk was open, the keys still in the lock. The jack and tire iron were on the ground by the flat, but the spare was still in its cover at the rear.

Merkel lay on his back near the car, one arm flung over his head, one sticking out at a ninety degree angle. No bullet holes. No signs of strangulation or a bashed in skull. No scraped knuckles.

He wore black pants, a white shirt, and a black and red tie. The left cuff was missing the cufflink. The left wrist might have a bruise. I didn't see the cufflink on the ground. I'd make sure the ME checked his pockets for it.

His skin was cool to the touch.

"But you saw someone earlier," I said

"I saw a van from the window." Mrs. Sanchez pointed to the structure behind her.

The Merkel Building was a stately five stories on the western edge of city center. An elegant hotel built in the late 1800s, it had fallen into disrepair by mid-1950. Emmett Merkel, nouveau rich from his oil investments, bought the place and converted it to high-priced offices.

"What kind of van?" Dave asked.

She looked at Dave like he'd asked her to translate Chinese. "From up there, they all look alike. It was white with writing on the side, I think."

"When did you see the van?" I said.

Mrs. Sanchez checked her watch and frowned. "Must have been a little after eleven-thirty."

"Had Mr. Merkel left by then?"

"Oh, yeah, he went out by ten-thirty." She shifted her weight from foot to foot and checked her watch again.

I pulled out my own notebook to make a quick sketch of the scene. "Was that typical?"

"He worked late a lot. I think maybe he wasn't in any hurry to get home, you know what I mean?"

Dave and I exchanged a look. Dave said, "You think he and Mrs. Merkel weren't getting on?"

"What do I know? I'm just the cleaning lady. But once I overheard him on the phone with her. It didn't sound friendly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez," Dave said. "If you think of anything else, please call us."

Mrs. Sanchez shuffled a couple of steps and stopped. "Sometimes those disciples of that phony church hang around on the corner. You know the ones I mean? They wear those green dresses. Mr. Merkel never liked having riffraff at his business, but that didn't stop them. If they were here, maybe they saw something."

The quasi-religious cults had followed the hippie invasion. Solaris street corners were painted in a riot of hues as each group chose a color and sent their acolytes to beg from those willing to work for a living. They'd become a rainbow plague on the city.

"Did you see them tonight?" I asked.

The cleaning lady shook her head.

Dave lowered his voice. "I don't see any signs of foul play. Looks like he just keeled over. Too much exertion for an old guy in his shape."

Something about the way Merkel lay bothered me. In my limited experience, people having heart attacks tended to grab their chest and fall forward. I shone my flashlight around the interior of the car.

An ambulance pulled up at the curb, red light strobing in the dark. Dave walked over to confer with the driver. Doors slammed and a stretcher rattled.

I stared at Merkel with little sympathy. We were stuck with him while the rest of the squad chased a killer. Of all the times to croak, he had to pick tonight.

I faced Mrs. Sanchez. "Did Mr. Merkel have a suit jacket when he left?"

She held a hanky over her mouth as though she thought it would prevent her from inhaling Merkel's death. "Of course. It's only proper for a man of his position."

Mrs. Sanchez tiptoed around the body and peered in the Lincoln's window. Her face wrinkled in a frown.

"I don't see his jacket. It was black. Italian silk, someone said. Real sharp."

Guys who wore expensive silk suits didn't fix flats. They called Triple A. "Was Mr. Merkel the do-it-yourself type?"

The cleaning lady took a step back and gave a vigorous shake of her head. "No way. He had a flat before, a couple months back. He took a cab home. Someone from the garage fixed it in the morning. He said it was the best part of being rich; he didn't have to get his hands dirty no more."

The ambulance attendants rolled the stretcher to the body.

"Hold it," I said, waving them back. "We need the crime scene boys."

"What?" Dave looked at me and then at the body. "That'll take hours, and this is open and shut."

I planted myself next to Merkel and crossed my arms. "Emmett Merkel is a big financial supporter of the mayor's. What do you think Mayor Newell will say if the autopsy turns up foul play?"

"Where's the evidence of foul play?" Dave knelt beside the body and withdrew a wallet from Merkel's back pocket. He flipped it open. Credit cards were slotted behind a driver's license. Cash bulged from a side pocket.