Silent Doll (9 page)

It was quiet now, it no longer screeched at me; and I had not heard again the voice that had spoken to me while a bullet festered in my gut. That voice had been strong; it was reassuring and convincing. Part of me wanted desperately to hear it again—and part of me was afraid to.

* * * *

I was down in my office at twenty to eight, doing a bit of cleaning up. I thought again about getting a secretary to do these things, but looking around my office, it wasn’t really big enough to have someone else in it. People who had secretaries had a bigger office, with an outer space for the secretary to sit in and direct visitors to chairs. Setting a desk up in the corridor outside would have just looked dumb.

I would have had the room if my landlord hadn’t decided to screw me on square footage. I’d gotten the grant to convert the ground floor flat into an office, but once I had the workmen in, my landlord, who’d been wanting me out for years so he could pull my building down, had decided to cut the space in half to create storage for himself. I think he just did it to screw with me. I was cleaning up some files from some minor jobs involving missing items and pets when there was a knock at the door. The silhouette was that of a man with large shoulders.

“Come in,” I called, tucking files into the cabinets. The door opened and Hamilton peered around it. I smiled at him.

“Hey, Hamilton, you’re right on time. Come on in and take a seat.”

He gave me a brief smile as he came inside and shut the door behind him. I took my chair behind my desk, crossed my knees over and cupped my clasped hands over it. He took one of the comfortable leather chairs across from me.

“Evening,” he said, looking around him. It had to be the first time that Hamilton had come to my office, although he knew where it was.

“So, Hamilton, what is it you wanted to see me about?”

He brought a soft leather briefcase onto his lap, unsnapped it and pulled out a folder. He pushed it across the desk toward me. I flipped it open and started reading. It was a police report dated three weeks ago, detailing the murder of another young woman.

Molly Howard, twenty-five, was found in the alley next to her building. Her heart had been removed. There were color photos attached.

I swallowed, regretting the sandwich I had before coming down to the office. It was pretty much the same sort of wound: a stab to kill, then the heart was taken out almost delicately. Whoever had taken it wanted the heart whole.

I laid the folder down, closing my eyes, and took a deep breath before looking at Hamilton.

“How many more are there?”

Hamilton brought out three more folders and slapped them down on the desk. I read them all; the last one held the full work-up on the woman from last night.

“So, four women are dead. All with the same method.”

“Yes,” he said, and he looked a little guilty. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I was hoping serial killer, but I can’t find any of the normal things we associate with serial killers. No commonality between the victims, no signature but the hearts. I’m suspecting some sort of occult connection, and you’re my expert.”

“As I said, I can look into it, but I’m thinking black magic.”

“I thought I heard somewhere that magic wasn’t good or bad.”

“Technically? No. Magic itself is just a force, a power that is completely neutral. It’s the wielder that determines whether or not it’s for good or for bad. Unfortunately, you can’t escape calling it black magic; it’s just the most common term.”

Hamilton rubbed the bridge of his nose, seeming tired. He said, “I don’t know how many more we can expect; we’re no closer to finding who’s behind it than we were three weeks ago. I’m just at a dead end.”

“There is absolutely no connection between the victims?”

“Apart from the fact that they are all women in their twenties? They are all different shapes, heights, races, hair color, eye color. None of them knew each other, they didn’t go to any clubs or activities in the same places, none of their occupations were the same. One was married, the next lived alone, the other lived with a roommate.”

I put my hand up in a stop gesture. “It’s okay. I get the point.”

“I should have come to you sooner. I knew this was weird the minute it landed in my lap, but…”

I couldn’t read his mind, but I could read his face. “You didn’t want Rourke sticking her nose in. This would be something she would fight you for.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been doing this job for a long while, Cassandra, and the job never gets done when departments end up fighting among themselves. She’s so determined to get out of PCU that it affects her work.”

I leaned my head against one hand. “Yeah I had noticed that. You can take these.” I pushed the folders back over to him.

“How long do you think it will take you to find something?”

“If I start on this tonight, maybe a day. I can call in a favor to get me to the materials I’ll need.”

“Anything you can come up with,” he said, standing. He reached across the desk and we shook hands; then I rose to my feet to show him to the door.

“I’ll come by your office tomorrow night.”

“All right.” I held the door open and he stepped out into the corridor, turning back to look at me.

“Cassandra,” he said, “be careful, okay? This guy’s only apparent criteria is females in their twenties.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. Try to get some rest, you look exhausted.”

He gave me a watery smile and headed off down the steps. I closed the door and pressed my back against it. This case had to really be bothering Hamilton; he hadn’t suggested we go out on a date even once.

I went back over to my desk and dug out my little black book; I kept all the numbers I needed in it, various contacts throughout the magical communities of Worcester. I didn’t often call the number I was searching for, which was the only reason I didn’t have it programmed into my phone’s directory. I held one finger under the number and deftly maneuvered the phone free of its cradle and under my left ear with my free hand.

The other party picked up after three rings.

“Hey, it’s Cassandra,” I said by way of greeting before jumping straight to my point. “I need a favor.”

Chapter Ten

I stood outside the occult bookstore, waiting. Luckily, it was summer, so the night wasn’t particularly cold; I hated waiting in the cold. Not that I would bring it up, because I was being granted a huge favor. Eventually I heard the sounds of heels on stone as the woman I was waiting for approached.

Truth Charity Mallory was born blind. This, however, did not affect her in the slightest as she was gifted with a kind of second sight. She could read people as auras; she saw the truth, so no one could hide who they were from her. She was a tall slim elegant woman who dressed a bit like she belonged in a Victorian steampunk novel. Her brown hair bowed around her pretty face, lacing into a chignon, and her sable lashes were enough to detract from the fact that her eyes were filmy white. She was wearing a long dark coat buttoned up to her throat, and from it flowed a deep burgundy skirt that looked to be made of rich velvet. She had Victorian button-up boots on her feet and a miniaturized top hat pinned on top of her locks. It had a small veil of netting that could be pulled down to shield her eyes. She had a cane in her left hand, mahogany wood up to the handle, which was shaped like a bird’s head and made from some yellow material. She smiled when she sensed me.

“Ah, Cassandra, your aura gets more and more like a burning beacon of light every time I see you. I could never mistake you for anyone else.”

I took that as the compliment it was.

“Thanks, Tru, and thanks for agreeing to come out here and open up for me at this time of night. You have the largest collection of dark works that I know of, and if I’m going to find what I have to, then it’ll be here.”

“Well, that is only the truth.”

Truth was wealthy—old money wealthy. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth and used that to chase the occult all around the world. She’d had a very blessed existence and as such often couldn’t get along with normal people. Most found her haughty and rude; I saw her as precise and to the point without sentiment or waffle. She took a key on a silver chain from her pocket and walked toward the door. I didn’t offer to help her; she had been doing this for years and would have found such an offer insulting.

Her shop, Grimoire, was a magical emporium. She sold basic, simple spells to tourists who were looking for a cheap thrill, but she also had a collection of more dangerous magical items. She had a huge collection of texts on magic and the occult; the wizarding council would have loved to get their hands on some of the books, but Truth wouldn’t donate them and the council wouldn’t pay her prices. Truth was a businesswoman and didn’t let anything go for nothing. She considered helping me out to be charity, and if I came across anything she wanted, I would slip it her way. She had travelled the world in search of her treasures. If you needed it, and it was out there, Truth could find it; but sometimes it was best not to ask her how she got it.

The lock clicked and she pushed open the door, a little bell above chiming as it brushed past. Flicking on the light, she ushered me inside.

I loved her shop. It wasn’t one of these New Age stores that were all tan walls, airy colors and smelled distinctly like someone had been smoking a bit too much wacky baccy out the back. This shop was dark and musty and dingy, like an occult store ought to be. It played on the dramatic gothic themes: a skull with a red rose between its jaws sitting on a table decked out with black candles and a purple cloth with a silver pentagram on it. Another table held rough cut crystals, precious stones and geodes with uncut gems hidden in the cracks.

The shelves held all the books you’d expect about magic, and some you wouldn’t. There were original editions of works by Edgar Allen Poe and manuals on reading Tarot cards correctly. Best of all was the smell: musty and ancient and magical all at the same time. It’s hard to put what magic smells like into words, and it smells different to different people. Each practitioner also carries their own unique scent. When I’d first met Truth, she had asked me to do magic before her just to prove that I was a witch. She had told me that my magic smelled like sunshine, peaches, rose petals and summer rain all at the same time. Her magic, to me, smelled like tea leaves and Chanel Number Five.

I watched as she unpinned her hat and laid it gently down on the counter. She unbuttoned her coat, unerringly hanging it up on the coat stand behind the counter. She was wearing a black short sleeved top, which from the collar bone up seemed to be made of some intricate pattern of lace. Her throat was elegantly encircled by what I could assume was a real pearl necklace.

“So,” she said, clasping her hands and rubbing them together. “Where would you like to start?”

We walked to the back of the shop as I explained to her about the killings. She let me talk all the way through what I knew without interrupting, which was something I had always liked about her; she saved questions until the end. At the back of the shop was a flight of cast iron steps that led up to a mezzanine loaded with tall bookcases filled with Truth’s personal collection of occultist law. She had no intention of selling the priceless volumes; I had asked her before why she kept them at the shop. She’d told me that her insurance policy was better for the shop than for her home; she wanted people to come here if they decided they would try to rob her of something. She, like me, was a woman who liked her privacy. Strange people in her home had no appeal to her. We stopped at the foot of the stairs.

She said, “I would suggest starting with Michael Hopkin’s definitive work on blood magic to see if he references any other works.”

“Wasn’t he the one in Suffolk?”

Truth laughed. “No, the one in Suffolk was Matthew Hopkins, the witch finder general, and he was a ridiculous man. Three nipples indeed,” she said with a derisive snort. “I do, however, believe that his hunts inspired a fascination with the occult in his lineage. Michael might be distantly related. I never thought to find out. Cup of tea?”

I accepted the offer merely out of politeness; I much preferred a cup of coffee, but Truth was never one to drink that. I knew she would return with two pristine china cups filled with Earl Gray or oolong, or some other kind of tea that had a funny name and tasted just as bad.

I headed up the stairs, stepping over the worn velvet rope at the top that was supposed to stop customers from crossing. I wasn’t sure at first if I could find the book she meant, until I remembered that she was a stickler for alphabetizing. I found the book and relaxed into a beanbag that graced the mezzanine floor, leaving the chair with the reading table vacant for Truth.

Michael Hopkin’s book, titled
Blood Magic
, was indeed a definitive guide to magic involving the use of blood and blood letting. It wasn’t a heavy volume, and it was bound with a fairly modern cover, which told me that it was published sometime in the last half of the twentieth century. I found a curious little spell called “fire in the blood” that was supposed to be a protection against vampires draining you, by making your blood literally taste like they were consuming flames. As flames are nearly deadly to a vampire, that wouldn’t be a pleasant sensation. I made a mental note of the incantation in case I ever needed it.