No Place Like Hell (25 page)

The suspicion in her eyes turned to confusion. She addressed Kasker. "Calderon didn't… ? The police said you…"

"No," Kasker said, "I didn't. Neither did Seve. But he'd be grateful to know who did. Very grateful."

Kasker's gaze fell to the cash in the woman's tight grip, and he pushed temptation at her. The ward's cheek twitched, and her hand went to her temple. Rodriguez glanced down at the money she held.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

The ward guided Rodriguez to the couch. "Did Alan meet anyone new recently? Someone who offered him a job?"

Rodriguez scrunched her brow. "A month ago, he started talking about moving away. San Francisco, he said. Or maybe Seattle, where no one knew him. I thought it was just talk. He owed Calderon more than he could ever pay off. But he said he'd have a lot of cash soon."

"Who offered him the money?" Kasker asked.

"He never told me." The woman wrung her hands. "Then that man, Decker, got killed in the bookstore, and Alan got jumpy. He said we had to go right away."

Another dead end. Kasker wanted to throw something. Bite something.

"Did you ever see him with these two men?" The ward drew pictures of Bronski and Warner from her back pocket.

Mong's woman stared at the pictures. Her eyes went wide. "They came for Alan, a couple days ago. He met them in the parking lot. I thought one of his bookies sent them to collect." She hung her head. "He gambled."

The hint of a smile tightened the muscles in the ward's face, and a new sharpness showed in her eyes. "Did you see their car?"

Kasker stopped breathing. He stared at the woman, willing her to speak.

"A white van, I think—with writing on the side. My eyes, I'm nearsighted," she said. "I couldn't read it."

The ward rose, reiterated her condolences, and thanked Rodriguez for her cooperation. They left the apartment and clomped down the four flights of stairs to the parking lot.

In the ward's car, Kasker drummed his fingers on the dash. They'd learned nothing new. He'd hoped for more.

The ward clicked her nails against the steering wheel. "The white van again."

"What I saw last night," he said.

"The same one Mrs. Sanchez saw at the Merkel building?" she muttered. "What does Merkel have to do with this?"

Kasker couldn't follow her reasoning. When he'd read Merkel's obituary, he'd realized the man died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. It explained why he'd found Merkel's soul in the middle of the roadway. Thousands of humans departed the realm of the living every day. They weren't
all
Holmes' victims. Being anywhere near the site of Haskell's death was pure coincidence.

He brushed aside the ward's comment. That he'd spent so much time and raised uncomfortable blisters on his feet without finding the sacrifice angered him. When he found Holmes, Kasker would enjoy every luscious bite.
If
he found Holmes before the damned soul destroyed Heaven and Hell. The terrifying thought of Hell's imminent destruction raised his hackles.

43

I got a newspaper from the box outside the Denney's and followed Sleeth in. The sun had dipped to the horizon, and we were no closer to finding Holmes' lair.

We'd looked into Decker and Mong. In the morning, we'd start on Haskell. I didn't have high hopes about turning up vital clues.

We took a booth, looked over the menus a waitress provided, and ordered. I didn't have much appetite and went with an egg and toast. Sleeth ordered a burger basket.

The front page of the paper was devoted to the Slasher killings. The writer rehashed their gruesome nature and emphasized the inability of the police to stop the killer. The story continued on page five.

I flipped pages. Sleeth drained his water and flagged the waitress for a refill. She rushed right over, ignored my own half-full glass, and filled his to overflowing.

Page five included additional stories detailing Decker and Haskell. I found nothing new or startling in Decker's bio. Haskell was another matter.

"Robert Haskell was a professional bowler?" I said. I'd expected him to be another businessman. "Why would Holmes choose him to frame you? Did you know Haskell?"

"Does it matter?" Sleeth's gaze followed the swing of the waitress's hips as she returned to the kitchen. His eyes grew heavy, and a lecherous smile curled his lips.

"Of course it matters," I hissed at him. "You said Holmes wanted to take over Calderon's turf. What kind of business would Calderon be in with a pro bowler?"

The hippie turned his stone-cold eyes back to me. "I only said it was
possible
."

I sorely missed my police contacts. Five minutes gossiping in the canteen would have netted me the information about connections between Sleeth and Haskell or Haskell and Calderon. Or I should have asked Tad when he called to offer condolences.

I set the paper aside, tapped a finger on the table, and frowned across at my new, unhelpful partner. It didn't elicit a more helpful answer.

"Merkel as a victim makes sense. He was a man of power, of money, like Decker," I muttered.

"Too bad the dude croaked on the way to emergency, not in a rune circle." His voice dripped with sarcasm and anger.

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked, forcing myself to remain calm.

Sleeth must have sensed my tension. His attitude became guarded. "His obit, I think."

I'd read the obituary published by the paper. It hadn't mentioned a trip to emergency or even the cause of death.

"He never went near a hospital. His body was found in the parking lot behind his office."

"Bullshit," Sleeth replied with certainty. Then he clamped his jaw shut and turned his gaze out the window.

He knew something about Merkel's death, and he wasn't telling me. Getting answers from Sleeth was like navigating a maze blindfolded—too many dead ends.

"The death was suspicious," I said, just to see his reaction.

That got his attention. I swear I could hear the clack of wheels turning inside his head. "Why?"

"His jacket and heart meds were missing from the scene."

Sleeth snorted. "Probably stolen by some junkie."

"The building cleaning lady said she saw a white van in the parking lot shortly before she discovered the body."

The waitress arrived and set our plates in front of us. She asked Sleeth if he needed anything else. He didn't seem to see or hear her despite her flirty smile and flouncy moves.

"The Oracle said Holmes needed five by Friday," he mumbled more to himself than me. "If Merkel died before they were at the construction site…"

"You think they snatched Merkel, and when he keeled over, they grabbed Haskell instead?" I asked. "Merkel was another one of Calderon's business associates?"

Sleeth ignored me and dug into his burger. I'd dealt with drunks, spouse beaters, drug addicts, and raving lunatics. None of them irritated me more than the hippie. I wanted to reach across the table and shove the burger down his throat.

"It's too late tonight. Tomorrow we'll talk to Haskell's family and see what we can learn about him," I said.

"Someone will die tonight." Sleeth took an enormous bite of his burger, which he talked around. "You said you know where the next ritual will take place."

"Every incident happens at a ley line intersection. There's about thirty intersections in the Solaris area."

"Which one will he use?" He crammed a wad of fries in with the remains of a burger bite.

My stomach did a slow roll, and I addressed my answer to the tabletop so I didn't have to see his gaping maw.

"How should I know?"

Sleeth's voice dripped derision. "You said you knew, not that you had a long list of possibilities."

"He doesn't kill every night." I used my toast to mop up egg yolk. "Or at least he hasn't so far."

"The Oracle said he needed five by Friday—"

"And you believed that gibberish about points on a star and Heaven and Hell?"

The hippie dropped his burger and braced both hands flat on the table while he swayed. Color drained from his face. I wondered if he had some kind of seizure disorder or suffered from narcolepsy.

"Hey, are you okay?" I touched his right hand.

He leaned back and sucked in a deep breath.

"We need a shortcut," I said. "A way to get in front of the murders instead of traipsing around a day late."

Sleeth straightened and resumed stuffing his face. I stared into the darkness out the window and racked my brains.

"I want to talk to Calderon," I said after several minutes.

Sleeth froze in mid-bite. His chest didn't rise. His eyes didn't blink. The burger eventually made a slow descent to the basket.

"Why?"

"We're getting nowhere chasing dead men. If you're right and the victims know and trust Holmes, then someone may have been approached already and can give us a description or even tell us how to find him. Calderon is the connection behind Decker's murder and your frame-up. Maybe he's tied to Haskell, too. Since you don't know anything about Calderon's business dealings, I'll have to ask Calderon. He may know who Holmes will go after next."

After a long moment, he said, "Calderon won't talk to you. I'll ask."

"Look, Sleeth, you can introduce me or I'll go on my own, but I'm talking to Calderon first thing tomorrow."

A low rumble carried across the table. Maybe he was growling at me. Or maybe his stomach was fighting back against his steady diet of burgers and fries.

"His bodyguards won't let you in."

"They have to let a police officer in."

Sleeth raised his eyebrows. "Thought you weren't one anymore."

It was my turn to grit my teeth. I might have fooled the idiot at the brothel without showing my badge, but Calderon's guards weren't so gullible. I was stuck.

Sleeth knew it and smirked.

"I'll pick you up—early." I flagged the girl to bring our check.

"Where?" Sleeth asked. "I can't go to my pad. The pigs will be watching."

"Get a hotel."

The waitress brought the check and flashed her pearly whites at Sleeth. He undressed her with his eyes and gave her his most sultry smile. She jotted something on the check and put it beside his empty basket.

"I'll stay at your place," he said.

"Like hell you will," I said.

"I doubt your place is anything like Hell," he replied, a wistfulness in his tone. "The pigs would never look for me amongst their own."

He had a point. Still, I could only imagine what the neighbors would say if they saw me come home late with a man. Maybe I could sneak him in unseen after dark.

"Fine. You can use the guest room."

He turned the sultry smile to me. I resolved to lock my bedroom door. He tossed a couple bills on the ticket and shoved it across to me.

I noted that he'd shorted his half by a buck, and the waitress had added her phone number at the bottom of the bill. I didn't point it out to Sleeth. I added more bills and a stingy tip.

"You have any beer?" he asked. "Or weed?"

"House rules." I rose from the table. "No booze, no dope if you want to stay with me."

"Lighten up, Officer Demasi," he said while he trailed me to the door. "Live a little. Tune in, turn on, drop out."

"Call me 'Officer Demasi' again and I'll drop you at police headquarters."

44

The ward pulled up before a squat, dark house in a working-class area just after ten. Kasker wondered why she'd taken the long way. They could have arrived half an hour ago.

No lights were on—anywhere. All the dull suburbanites were tucked up safe in their beds. He'd hoped the ward lived in a sprawling apartment complex, one with an active party life he could crash after she'd gone to sleep. The flesh craved a joint and a woman.

This neighborhood was as boring as a cemetery. All the good little souls would never break the rules. Never pursue their true desires. Never sate Kasker's growing lust for a damned soul.

Except in the ward's home, where a tainted soul moved from the front picture window to the middle of the house. It hasn't crossed the line into 'destined for Hell' territory—yet—and so wasn't quite fair game—yet.

Perhaps he could change that. A little temptation here, a little nudge there. His master would be pleased if he delivered such a gift. It might mitigate some anger over Kasker's slow restoration of Holmes' soul to Hell.

Why would the ward associate with a tainted soul?

"Your boyfriend gonna be okay with me dropping in?"

The ward turned a hostile look on him. "None of your business, but I don't have a boyfriend."

"Just asking. Don't have a cow." Kasker tilted his head. "Roommate?"

"Not even a dog."

Good. No whining, snapping cur to give away his true being.