Speak of the Devil (17 page)

“Morgan Kingsley,” I said, hoping against hope that the firm had so many clients she wouldn’t recognize my name. But things never go that well for me.

Regarding me carefully, she hung the phone up once more. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Kingsley,” she said, “but unless you have your attorney with you, there is no chance Mr. Hillerman will agree to see you.”

“But this isn’t about the case!” Okay, maybe it kind of
was
about the case, but it was pretty obvious Hillerman had not only misplaced his ethics, he’d buried them in some deep, dark pit and built a parking lot on the site.

The receptionist shook her head. “It’s just out of the question, I’m afraid. I’ll let him know you stopped by, and he and your attorney can schedule a meeting.”

So far, this was all going about as I expected, with the added bonus that the receptionist’s nervous little glances let me know which hallway to go down to find Hillerman’s office. Without another word, I headed down that hallway.

I heard the receptionist say my name sharply a couple of times, but she didn’t follow me or physically try to stop me. I glanced at the name plates on the offices I passed. The doors were closed on most of them, and they didn’t have any convenient little windows I could look in. The name plates were discreet enough that I was almost past Hillerman’s office before I realized it was his. Inside, I heard the phone ringing—probably the receptionist letting him know I was storming his fortress. I pushed open the door.

Hillerman was sitting at his desk, phone to his ear. In front of him lay an enormous, greasy calzone, oozing cheese and tomato sauce into a Styrofoam takeout box. He smiled at me, but the smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

“That’s all right, Marta,” he said into the phone. “No need to call security. I’ll talk to her.” Apparently, Marta had something to say about that. Hillerman
listened politely to whatever it was, then said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

I think Marta was adding yet another protest to the list when Hillerman hung up.

“Please come in,” he said, gesturing me forward.

I closed the door behind me and remained standing. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk to me. I’d just hoped he’d let something slip as he was trying to kick me out. Or that somehow, looking at him would trigger a memory in my brain, give me some idea who he was and why he had it in for me.

“You’re not worried about your professional ethics?” I asked, stalling while I tried to figure out what his game was.

He pushed aside the calzone. “Not particularly.” He smiled again, and the expression gave me the creeps.

I shook my head. “Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

Maybe I should have listened to my common sense and stayed home. He was looking way too happy about me being here. And way too cavalier about his career. Yeah, okay, he was obviously dirty, but it wasn’t like the whole world knew about it. Yet.

“Please,” Hillerman continued, dabbing grease off his fingers with a paper napkin, “come have a seat. I’d offer you something to eat, but all I have is the calzone.”

How hospitable of him! “Why are you eating a crappy takeout calzone at your desk?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to take two-hour lunches with lots of martinis?”

“What can I say? I’m a workaholic.”

I didn’t feel like sitting down, but I did come to stand closer to the desk, resting my hands on the back
of one of the dark green leather visitor chairs that sat in front of it.

“Do I know you?” I asked bluntly.

He gave me a look of faux innocence. “I hardly think you would have come to visit if you didn’t know me.”

Oh, great. A smart-ass. “I meant before the case. Is there something you have against me personally?”

He didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Funny you should mention it, but yes.” The creepy smile was back. This guy was freakin’ weird!

“Care to elaborate?” I prompted. “Because, frankly, I have no idea who you are or what you have against me.”

He giggled. Actually
giggled
. “I know. That’s part of the fun.”

I’d known he had to be some kind of psycho to carry out this incredible vendetta against me, but I’d assumed it was a subtle kind of psycho, the kind that would be hidden under a polished, professional veneer. Right now, he was looking like a good candidate for the psych ward.

I’m beginning to suspect Jack Hillerman isn’t the only one in that body
, Lugh’s voice whispered in my head, and suddenly things made a lot more sense.

I hadn’t kept an exact count, but over my years working as an exorcist, I must have sent hundreds of demons back to the Demon Realm before they were ready to go. Because I’m stronger than the average exorcist, I get called in on cases where the local exorcist has failed to cast out the demon, which meant I’d worked far more cases than other exorcists my age.

In the good old days before Lugh had entered my life, I thought demons died when they were exorcized. Up until right this moment, I hadn’t put much thought
into what the fact that they just returned to the Demon Realm meant for me.

Hundreds of demons, floating around the Demon Realm, blaming me for their banishment. Since these were all illegal or rogue demons we were talking about—meaning demons who had the morals of cockroaches—I guess it shouldn’t come as any great shock that one of them had made his way back to the Mortal Plain and decided to get revenge.

Don’t let on that you’ve figured it out
, Lugh warned.
You’re not supposed to know the demons you’ve exorcized aren’t dead, so you should still have no idea why he’s after you
.

Damn it, Lugh was right. Hillerman was looking really pleased with himself. I had about a million legitimate questions to ask—like when did the demon move in? Did the vendetta have anything at all to do with Jordan Maguire, or was that just an excuse to come after me? Why would even a psycho demon be this determined to get revenge on his exorcist? It wasn’t like sending him back to the Demon Realm had hurt him!

But I couldn’t afford to ask any of those questions, couldn’t allow myself to tip my hand. So what I said instead was, “Did you forget your meds for the last several weeks or something? Because you are making about zero sense.”

Some of the manic humor faded from his eyes, and I got a glimpse of the malice that lay hidden beneath. It was enough to send a serious chill down my spine.

“I don’t like to be thwarted, Ms. Kingsley,” he said, his voice now arctic-cold, the humor deeply buried. “I will make sure the remainder of your life is a living hell.”

I had to clamp my jaws together to contain my retort, which would have been something about how
much I looked forward to exorcizing him a second time.

Perhaps now would be a good time for a tactical retreat
, Lugh suggested.

Once again, he was right, though I was loath to admit it. Sitting right here in front of me was the man who was responsible for all the hell I’d gone through since Jordan Maguire Jr. died. He could call off the goons with the baseball bats and the severed hands. He could probably convince Jordan Maguire Sr. to drop the lawsuit. There was nothing he could do to heal the damage he’d done to my relationship with Brian, but I would have loved nothing more than to make him suffer for it.

But there wasn’t a thing I could do, at least not right now. When I left the office, I could contact Adam and let him know Lugh’s and my theory that Hillerman was possessed. I’m not sure if we had enough evidence to convince the court to order an examination by an exorcist, but Adam would know for sure what it took, and he’d find a way to produce the evidence.

“Won’t you at least tell me what I did to piss you off?” I asked, because that’s what I would have asked if Lugh hadn’t guessed about the demon. “Were you and Jordan, er,
close?”
I said that with just the right inflection and facial expression to get my meaning across. I have a feeling the real Jack Hillerman would have objected strenuously to the implication. It would be nice if the demon would tip his hand by attacking me, giving me an excuse to sic Adam on him— assuming I survived the attack, that is—but he just laughed.

“I think it’s time for you to leave now, Ms. Kingsley.”

I wondered if it was possible to die of frustration.

If so, I was on the verge of doing it. Two things I really hated: sitting around doing nothing while my life went to hell around me, and retreating—even when I knew it was the right thing to do.

“This isn’t over,” I said. It sounded like a line from some bad action flick, but it’s hard to be witty and clever when you’re so pissed you’re trying to talk yourself out of punching someone’s lights out.

Hillerman looked absolutely delighted. “No, indeed it isn’t.”

Before I could say anything else to amuse him, I hightailed it out of his office, slamming the door behind me for the sheer satisfaction of it.

I tried
to call Adam as soon as I left Hillerman’s office, but he was on duty today. I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of trying to get his office to put me through to him, so I just left an urgent message for him to call me. Then I bought an extra-salty, mustard-coated soft pretzel from a street vendor for lunch. What can I say, I like to eat healthy. Besides, the pretzel didn’t break my bank.

Afterward, I went to my own much-neglected office. I didn’t have anything terribly interesting to do, not when I was under suspension, but at least I could sort through the mail and make sure there weren’t any bills I’d forgotten to pay.

For once, there weren’t. I threw away approximately ten acres’ worth of junk mail, then cleared my work e-mail of the penis enlargement and debt consolidation ads. Do I know how to live it up or what?

I’d run out of time killers and was on my way home when my cell phone rang. As usual, it was at the bottom of my purse, and it seemed to consider ringing an invitation to play hide-and-seek. I finally got a grip on it and pulled it out, dislodging a used tissue and a pair
of tampons at the same time. I answered the phone while I dove after the tampons, which naturally rolled to a rest right at the feet of a stuffy-looking middle-aged man in a three-piece suit. He started to bend to help me retrieve the dropped items. Then he saw what they were and gave me a look like I’d just flashed him.

“Hello!” I barked into the phone as I grabbed the tampons and shoved them back into my purse.

“Where are you?” Adam asked. His voice wasn’t quite a bark, but there was no missing the tension in it.

“About three blocks from my apartment,” I said, standing up now that I had everything stuffed back in my purse. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll be at your apartment in about fifteen minutes.”

“You know, you could at least acknowledge that I spoke, even if you’re not planning to answer me.”

“Just be there. This isn’t something we want to talk about on the phone.”

Of course, I objected to being ordered around. I guess Adam knew that, because he hung up after making his will known.

I’d have loved to say “to hell with him” and gone on about my day. However, that probably wasn’t a good idea, and right now, going on about my day entailed going home anyway.

I made it home before Adam arrived. Saul had gotten a cryptic call from Adam, too, but he didn’t know any more than I did. Neither one of us had been terribly comforted by the tone of Adam’s voice, so the wait for Adam was a tense one. It didn’t help that Saul was still ticked at me about the whole Taser thing.

I’d told the front desk Adam was coming, so they didn’t bother to call and let me know he was there. I
was so tense I actually jumped when he rang the doorbell.

His face when I opened the door suggested that whatever was wrong, it was serious. Not that I’d doubted that, but a girl can always hope. I wanted to curse out the universe for piling even more shit on my shoulders, but that wouldn’t be terribly productive.

“Do I need to sit down for this?” I asked. I was trying for a tone of nonchalance.
Trying
being the operative word.

“Not a bad idea,” Adam said, gesturing me toward the couch.

Shit. I was beginning to hate my couch. Nothing good ever seemed to happen when I was sitting on it. But I sat anyway, with Saul on the other end of the sofa and Adam in the love seat. I tried to brace myself for whatever was coming, but it’s hard to brace for the unknown.

“Jack Hillerman is dead,” Adam said, and the words detonated like a bomb.

There was a moment of shocked silence afterward. I replayed the words in my head, hoping I’d misheard. But no, he’d said what I’d thought he’d said.

“What?” I finally managed to yelp. “When? How?”

Adam gave me one of those chilling glares of his— he’s really good at that. “How was with a silenced 9mm. When is somewhat under debate, but it’s around the time
you left his office.”

Gee, he sounded kind of ticked about that. I refused to bow my head in shame. “I was hoping I could get a read on his motive.”

He was still glaring at me. “You realize that ‘around the time you left his office’ can very easily be ‘while you were
in
his office,’ right?”

I swallowed hard. No, I hadn’t realized. I’d been too focused on the accusation in his voice.

“As of now,” he continued, “you’re officially a ‘person of interest,’ not a suspect. So far, the police don’t know you have a motive, so it’s hard to pin it on you just because you were there sometime around the time he was killed. The receptionist doesn’t remember seeing anyone else go into his office after you left, nor does she remember seeing Hillerman after you left. Luckily for you, she’s not
sure
no one went in.”

I shot him a glare of my own. “You make it sound like you think I did it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what the evidence suggests. And if the police discover you have a motive, the evidence is going to point to you. More than it does already, that is.”

“That’s crazy!” I protested. “If I were going to kill him, you can bet I wouldn’t show up at his office and announce my presence to the world beforehand. And obviously—” I cut myself off, remembering with a start that Lugh and I had determined with a fair amount of certainty that Jack Hillerman wasn’t himself.