Otherworld 11 - Waking the Witch (6 page)

I supposed when I got access to the funds, I’d buy a condo or something. I didn’t have any firm plans. That applied to most of my life right now. I liked where I was. Occasionally, I got the feeling I should be leaving home and setting out on my own, but it never happened. I’d go when I was ready, I guess.

AFTER SAYING GOOD-BYE to Jaime, I read the reports, which could be summed up as “three young women were murdered.”

The coroner’s report did mention the object in Claire’s hand. A pewter bead. A note on the file speculated it came from something she’d been wearing, but no one had found a necklace or bracelet. Had it been yanked off her killer? That was a possibility. A plain piece of pewter, though, was more likely symbolic.

I searched the reports for Ginny and Brandi. No mention of anything found in their hands or of any pewter in the vicinity. I could ask Bruyn, but if it was supernatural in origin, I didn’t want him to know it might be significant.

I moved on to Internet searches. As I expected by now, the motel didn’t offer Internet service. Luckily, Paige showed me how to tether my laptop to my iPhone, which was a relief, because as cool as that little browser app is, it’s a bitch for doing serious Web work.

The first person I looked up was Michael Kennedy. With a name like that, can you imagine how many hits I got? Even knowing he was from Texas didn’t help.

Eventually, I found a newspaper article about a case he’d worked. Being a photogenic guy, his picture was included—one of him turning away, unimpressed with the prospect of being captured on film. It was clearly him, though, so his story was legit.

Next on my list: Cody Radu, a name that was much easier to search. The first hit I got was Facebook. One look at the picture and I had my guy, and a read through his profile gave me more information on him than I cared to know. That alone suggested the diner folks were right about Cody. He was one of those people who pretends to be an open book, putting every bit of minutiae about himself into the public domain, as if to say “See, I’m not holding anything back,” which tells you that he is.

I tried pairing up Cody with search terms like drugs, sex, gambling, everything I could think of that might link to illegal activity. Nothing. If it were that easy, though, Bruyn would have nabbed him by now.

So I switched to Alastair Koppel. Plenty of hits for him. There was a Facebook group and a Web site run by the parents of girls who’d joined his commune. Neither were exactly flattering to the old guy.

He wasn’t that old, though. Midforties. Decent enough looking. Dignified. The kind of guy whom lost little girls would flock to.

Flock they did. Megan hadn’t been lying about that. I found a dozen message boards with young women asking how to get into the commune, and more from young women agonizing over why they hadn’t been accepted.

Megan hadn’t been lying about the cookies either. The small business had been written up in a handful of magazines as a model of entrepreneurship. Of course, they glossed over the commune part, preferring to praise the company’s “unique and philanthropic” model, which combined rehabilitation with enterprise.

As Megan had said, Alastair was a therapist, though the sites run by the girls’ parents were quick to point out he had a bachelor’s degree, not a doctorate. They also noted his work history, which showed that the guy liked to move around. And he changed wives as fast as he did jobs. Four ex-wives, the dates of the weddings running close enough to the divorce decrees that you knew he hadn’t finished with one before starting on the next. Each divorce petition charged infidelity. Alastair liked variety. Surprise, surprise.

That was all very interesting, but nothing more than I’d have expected. A guy who had made a very nice life for himself, surrounded by girls half his age, who when they weren’t fighting to share his bed, were raking in some serious cookie dough for his coffers.

What interested me was that talisman painted on the gate. It looked like a simple protective symbol, though I couldn’t identify it. Maybe one of the girls was a practicing Wiccan. Nothing wrong with that, but considering I was investigating possible occult-linked killings, it was a lot more interesting than Alastair’s ex-wives.

I ran a bunch of searches on his name and the company name, combining them with everything from “satanic” to “occult” to “ritual.” The closest thing to a hit I got was a deeply buried post on a message board where someone joked that Taste of Heaven cookies had more than just organic flour in them, explaining their popularity.

I was pretty sure you couldn’t get drug-laced cookies past the FDA, but was it possible to enchant them? I always said that Paige did something with her cookies—they never turned out the same for me—but she just rolled her eyes and said that the only “magic” was that she actually followed the recipe and measured the ingredients.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of “lost” spells and rituals floating around. Most likely, though, they were simply good cookies.

My alarm rang then, reminding me of my non-date with Michael. I showered and dressed, grateful that Paige always insisted we pack an outfit for every undercover eventuality, including cocktail parties.

As I got ready, I racked my brain for more things to research. I was doing my makeup when an idea hit. I returned to my laptop and combined the occult keywords with Cody’s name. Bingo. On Facebook no less, in a frat buddy’s photo album. A picture of Cody Radu conducting an occult ritual.

It was tucked into a section from rush week—old photos of guys making jackasses of themselves and, ten years later, thinking it was cool to post evidence of their youthful stupidity online for the world to see.

There were two pictures conveniently labeled “Awesome Occult Ritual.” The first showed a bunch of guys standing around a young Cody, who was kneeling, drawing with chalk on the floor. The caption read “Cody shows us how it’s done.” The second was too dark to make out, but was obviously the ritual in progress, captioned “Cody leads the way.”

While I couldn’t make out details, there was enough to suggest Cody knew what he was doing. Had he seen it in a movie? Researched it for rush week? Or was it something more sinister?

A honk outside my motel room made me jump. I bookmarked the site, disconnected, and hurried to the door. I waved at Michael, motioning that I’d be just a couple of minutes. I was putting on lipstick when he rapped at the door.

“Come in.”

The door clicked. “No rush. I’m early—”

He stopped. I turned. He gawked, then blushed, clearing his throat and saying, “That’s a good color for you,” before looking away so fast you’d think I was naked.

It wasn’t even a very revealing dress. I don’t have a lot to reveal. My legs are my best feature so, yes, the skirt was short. Damned short, actually. Other than that, it was just your basic little black cocktail dress, only it wasn’t black—it was peacock blue, like my eyes. I know, bringing out your eye color is such a cliché, but if I have a second best feature, my eyes are it, and I always play to my strengths.

Obviously it worked for Michael, who continued to gaze around the room as if committing the wallpaper to memory.

“Research?” he said, pointing at my laptop. “Have you found—?” He cut himself short with a wry smile. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. Tonight isn’t about the case, and I won’t say another word about it.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Er, more of an intention. But a strong intention.”

I laughed, closed up my laptop, and tucked it under the mattress. Then we left.

F
or the first part of the drive, Michael struggled to make conversation, but without the case, we didn’t have anything to discuss, and he was playing up his determination to avoid that. I tried asking about Claire but he only gave short answers, clearly uncomfortable discussing his sister with a stranger. Finally, I asked about his job, and that got him talking. Yes, he did use it to veer toward the case a few times, checking to see if I’d nibble. I didn’t. No sense making this easy for him ... or risk losing out on a free meal.

And it wasn’t a meal I’d have cared to miss. Michael had gone all out, making reservations in the nearest city—Vancouver, Washington, just across the state border from Portland. He’d picked one of the best restaurants there. Upscale continental. The kind of place that made me really glad I’d packed the dress.

I ordered what I wanted. I never get the most expensive thing on the menu, but I don’t stress about the cost. Michael didn’t bat an eye, even suggested an appetizer. Added a very nice bottle of wine, too. I don’t know my wines, but it was good.

Michael kept my glass filled. Being a considerate guy, though, meant keeping his filled as well. Being nervous meant that he drank
his
a lot faster and didn’t seem to notice that I was barely on my second when he was starting his third. It hit him a lot harder, too, and by the middle of the entrée, the granite-jawed cop was gone and I was getting a very nice look at the guy underneath, the one who drove a modified BMW and blushed at being caught eyeing a pretty girl.

“—so at this point, the guy finally notices the video camera,” he was saying. “He stares at it for a minute. Just stares, like he’s never imagined such a thing in a liquor store. Then you see him mouth two words.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. He’s standing there, a hole in the ceiling behind him, broken bottles from his crash everywhere, blood dripping down his face. Then he sees the flashing lights. He could still run. But, no, he figures he can salvage this. Cops walk in two minutes later and find the guy leaving a twenty at the till with a note.
Store was closed. Keep the change.”

“Big of him.”

“I thought so.”

He took another sip of wine. The server stopped by to ask about dessert. I took a menu, and Michael followed suit. As we read them, I could see him doing a mental “oh, shit” of his own, his fuzzy brain realizing the meal was almost over and he hadn’t gotten anything out of me.

We ordered. After the server left, he said, “Speaking of dumb criminals, how about that Cody Radu? Everyone in town is sure he at least killed the first two girls. Maybe Claire, too.”

“But no one can prove it, which doesn’t make him very dumb.”

“No, of course not.” It was cute, watching his brain skidding on the wine. “He’s the
opposite
of a dumb criminal. That’s what I meant.”

The coffee arrived. He took a big gulp, gasping as it burned his throat. I decided to help him out. If he wanted leads, I’d give him some ... just not real ones.

“From what I hear, there’s a good reason Bruyn can’t pin Ginny and Brandi’s murders on Radu,” I said. “He didn’t kill them himself. He hired someone.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if it was the same for Claire. I’m still trying to find a link between her and Radu ...” I trailed off, but he didn’t bite. “Word is that Radu hired this guy who lives over near Cougar. You know where that is?”

“I think so.”

“Guy’s name is Brody Manchester. Claims to be an Iraq vet, but I can’t find a record of him serving. I suspect the only serving he did was in a penitentiary. Sounds like a real whack-job.”

“And he lives in Cougar?”

“Near it. He has a camper and moves around outside town staying ahead of the cops. I figured I’d swing by tomorrow afternoon and hunt him down.”

“Good idea.”

“Do you want me to call you if I find anything? I might need backup.”

“Sure. Absolutely. Manchester, you said?”

“Like the soccer team.”

He took out his BlackBerry. “I’ll do some digging myself.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

Two CUPS OF coffee and an espresso crème brûlée had not made Michael any steadier on his feet.

When we reached his car, I held out my hand. “Keys?”

“I’m good.”

“Please tell me you’re not one of those cops who thinks the laws don’t apply to him.”

“No, course not. I ...” He looked around, blinking, then nodded. “You’re right. One glass too many. But you had—”

“One and a half, the last sip an hour ago, and I’m firie.” I walked along a yellow line dividing parking spots. “Want me to do it backwards?”

“Sure.”

I did, making him laugh ... and hand over the keys.

As I pulled out of the parking space, he said, “Watch out. She’s got a lot of—”

I hit the gas, smacking him back in his seat. At the street, I braked, sending him snapping forward.

“Sweet,” I said.

“Just be careful. You may not be impaired, but your reflexes could be a little—”

I tore off, accelerating, then hitting the corner fast and hard. Three blocks later I idled at a stop sign.

“Reflexes okay?” I said.

“Carry on.”

I turned left.

“Actually, the highway is—” he began.

“Too many cars. Don’t worry. I have an excellent sense of direction.” I took the first left onto a back road. “Columbus is this way. Roughly.”

I hit the gas.

I PARKED BESIDE my motorcycle.

“Good thing we took the back roads,” he said. “One cop and you’d have been out of a license.”

“Not too worried about that,” I said as I got out.

He eyed me over the roof. “You do have your license, don’t you?”

“Sure. I’ve got one.”

“One?” He looked at my bike. “Please don’t tell me—”

“Then don’t ask. I’m honest, remember? Not necessarily law-abiding, but unrelentingly honest.” I walked around and held out the keys. “And I do believe you’re ready for these.”

As I handed them over, he caught my hand.

“I had a good time tonight,” he said.

“So did I. You aren’t nearly as boring as you look.”

His laugh rang through the empty lot. “God, you
are
honest.” His hand slid around my waist, pulling me to him. I backpedaled away.

“Kissing? On a first date?” I said. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

He grinned and tried again, but I danced out of his reach.

“Second date,” I said. “And only if you let me drive your car again.”

“Without a license?”

“Ah, such a moral dilemma.” I unlocked my motel room door. “Call me tomorrow night if you’ve made up your mind.”

“I don’t think it’ll take that long.”

“Mmm, it might. Better wait until then. See if you’re still interested.”

I slid inside and closed the door before he could say more.

I stood there, fingers on the chain. I’d had a good time, too. Not a rock-my-world date, but a really nice one.

As I got older, I dated less, and I’d thought I was just slowing down, getting ready for that big moment when Adam would notice me, but after I realized that wasn’t happening, I just kept slowing down.

In some ways, it was like mourning after a bad breakup. I needed to get back in the game, and Michael would have been a nice place to start. Too bad he’d never call for that second date.

“Now that’s a dress,” said a voice behind me. “He let you get away that easily? What’s wrong with the guy?”

I spun to see Jesse stretched out in the armchair, file on his lap.

“Good thing I
didn’t
invite him in,” I said.

“Why would you do that? It was business, wasn’t it?”

“I can multitask.”

He laughed.

“You seem to have a talent for getting into places you aren’t supposed to be,” I said, kicking off my heels.

“You did read my record, right?”

“It’s juvie. Sealed.”

He arched his brows. “What kind of detective are you? Break and enter, as you probably guessed. Two years in juvenile detention, where the only thing I learned was how
not
to get caught next time.”

“Shocking.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “And you’ll give me pointers, right?”

“Anything you want to know.” He set the file on the side table. “I apologize for breaking in. Kind of. But I was sitting in my truck and the manager kept looking at me like he was five seconds from calling the cops.”

“That’s your pickup? The blue one? Or, presumably, used to be blue, at some point?”

“Yes, which explains the manager’s interest.”

“So, to avoid being suspected of breaking in, you broke in.”

“Exactly. If it bothers you, though, I won’t do it again.”

He said it like he was offering not to smoke in front of me.

“Call me next time,” I said. “So I know you’re inside and don’t blast you with an energy bolt.”

“Hadn’t thought of that. Consider it noted.”

He reached for an open Coke bottle on the table. When he couldn’t quite get it, he flexed his right hand slightly and the bottle slid to him.

“Show-off,” I said.

“Hey, I have to use my powers for something. They aren’t good for much else. Not like I’m a supercharged Volo.”

“And good thing, too.”

He frowned, then snapped his fingers. “Right. Lucas mentioned that you guys knew one. Quite the character, I hear.”

“Crazy psycho bitch, more like. Left me trapped in a research lab, tried to kill Paige and Lucas, and probably had something to do with my mom’s death. Let’s just say I fondly recall the day Paige sent her home to hell.”

“Don’t blame you.” He took a swig of Coke. “So, as you can tell, I’m swinging by earlier than expected. I figured I’d read the files and make copies of some pages.” He held up a camera. “I also figured I’d take you for a beer and discuss the case if it’s not too late.”

“It’s only ten o’clock.”

“I’m giving you an out, in case you’re still pissed off at me for dumping the case on you.”

“I was never—”

“Annoyed, then. So you’ll join me for a beer?”

“Or two.”

“Good.”

I grabbed my shoes. My cell phone chirped on the night table.

“You forgot this,” Jesse said, grabbing it for me. “It’s been going off all night.”

Not so much
forgotten
as left behind so I couldn’t get a call from Adam when I was out with another guy.

I checked it. Three text messages. One missed call. All from Adam, looking for that promised update. Damn.

“Just a sec,” I said to Jesse. Then I popped off a quick text, saying I was still working and I’d call in the morning.