The Hell You Say (6 page)

The badly decomposed body of a young white male was discovered in a shallow grave beneath a tree carved with symbols believed to have occult significance. Similar symbols were found r

on the victim’s body. A sou ce close to the investigation confirmed that the heart of the victim had been removed.

Detective James Riordan of the Pasadena Police Department refused to speculate on a possible link between this death and the discovery of a woman’s similarly mutilated body in the Hollywood Hills last month.

As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.

Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

32 Josh Lanyon

Chapter Five

“I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday night’s Partners in Crime writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

“You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my handiwork.

“I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”

I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.

I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.

“Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”

Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual friendship -- which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.

“A task force?”

“Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.

If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained The Hell You Say

33

how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything remotely occult-oriented.

I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder -- let alone two murders. I mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.

The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion.

The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own unexpected and slight literary success -- although ironically it was my “cred” as a published writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in crime.

They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.

I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts on whether -- should the situation deteriorate further -- I could track Angus through his girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.

I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as I knew, Wanda lived at home with her parents, so maybe there was a lead there.

I realized Jean had stopped reading. The group was ready for discussion. The Finches have been working on this monsterpiece for the past two years. The latest revision had to do with turning a relatively minor character, Avery Oxford, into the protagonist. I had a lot of problems with Avery, not so much because he was a gay stereotype, but because I feared he was based on me. True, he was a Hollywood gossip columnist, but he was thirty-three, five-eleven, slender, had black hair, blue eyes, and a friend on the police force named Jack O’Reilly -- and he kept showing up in my clothes. In the scene I’d just read, he was wearing

“a favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a black lambswool sweater over a crisp, white T-shirt” --

pretty much what I’d worn to last week’s meeting.

I said, trying to be tactful, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think turning Avery into the protag is a good idea, Jean. I think you should stick to the original plan. Kill him off in chapter seven. Or even sooner.”

“I don’t know,” Max mused. “He’s an amusing twerp.” Max was a rugged forty, with yellow shaggy hair and yellow shaggy beard. Attractive, I guess, if you don’t mind a guy who 34 Josh Lanyon

sees deodorant and razors as a threat to his masculinity. He was aggressively heterosexual and made a point of dating every unattached woman who joined the group. Since his regular pillow pal was Grania Joyce, another of our partners in crime, it made for an interesting dynamic.

Ted turned to Jean, whose face had fallen at my words. She faltered, “We’ve already rewritten those first nine chapters to reflect the new character dynamic.”

“I don’t think he’s a strong enough character.”

“You could go with the cop,” Chan suggested. “O’Reilly’s a strong character.”

“If you don’t mind the testosterone overload,” Grania sneered. Grania was tall and rangy, with an unruly mane of sorrel hair: your basic warrior princess model.

“I got no problem with it,” said Chan.

Their gazes locked. They did this dueling lightsaber thing, which I hastened to interrupt. “But you see, that makes more sense,” I said quickly. “It’s more believable that a cop would get involved in solving these murders. I mean, you’re talking about writing a series. How believable is it that this Hollywood gossip columnist is going to keep stumbling on all these murders?”

“That’s the problem with the amateur sleuth in general,” Grania pointed out. Grania, naturally, wrote about a kick-ass female PI. “It’s totally artificial.”

Chan said reasonably, “I don’t know. A lot of kinky shit goes down in Hollyweird. A gossip columnist could get sucked into that.”

“Hey, you’re writing about a gay Shakespearean actor solving mysteries,” Max pointed out to me. “You sold the series to some lunatic fringe publishing house.”

Ted said, “How believable is it that a bookseller and mystery author would get involved solving mysteries? But you’ve been involved twice in murder cases, Adrien.” Jean nodded eagerly. “You’re like a real-life amateur sleuth. So it does happen. Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Let them write what they want to write,” Max said irritably. “What do you care?”

“I don’t think that Avery’s…likeable.”

Jean looked like she was going to cry, like I’d insulted her precious prune of a newborn.

“You don’t like Avery?”

Ted glared at me.

The entire circle stared at me.

“Not a terribly constructive comment, Adrien,” Grania observed.

* * * * *

When the group at last broke up, I cleared the chairs and crumbs, made sure the side and front doors were secured, and climbed the stairs to my flat.

The Hell You Say

35

I poured myself a drink and tried to think of an entertaining way to fill the rest of the evening. I don’t think of myself as a loner, but it’s a fact that my friends generally do the calling. And I’ve never been able to get into the whole club scene. I don’t like crowds. I like reading.

I’d carried a stack of books upstairs. I lazily skimmed a copy of Rick Copp’s The Actor’

s

Guide to Murder. I noticed a lot of these gay amateur sleuths have cop boyfriends. And I noticed that none of these cops seem particularly closeted. I also noticed that they all seemed amazingly agreeable about sharing privileged information with their non-cop boyfriends. It was a shame Jake didn’t read these books.

I was getting into a scene in which Copp’s protag was once again being scolded by his (yikes!) hazel-eyed, brawny cop boyfriend for sticking his nose into a criminal investigation, when I noticed the answering machine blinking. I pressed the button, listened to a stiff Professor Snowden telling me I could call him at a certain number. I picked up, dialed the number he’d left.

He answered on the fourth ring, sounding as preoccupied as if I’d caught him correcting final exams.

“Hi, it’s Adrien English.”

There was a pause. “Oh. Er…hello.” Pause.

I opened my mouth to say hello again -- it seemed to be one of those conversations --

but Snowden said carefully, “I’ve been unable to get in touch with the person I thought might know about our mutual friend’s difficulty.”

The guy sounded like he worked for the CIA. Or Charles Dickens. I said, “Well, not to pressure you, but some joker painted a pentagram on my front step last night. The folks at Dragonwyck seemed to think this was not good.”

Silence stretched on the other end.

“Perhaps we should meet,” he said finally.

I had no problem with that, provided it was in a public place in broad daylight, not Eaton Canyon at midnight. “Sure,” I said. “When and where?”

* * * * *

Wednesday morning brought fitful sunshine and Lester Naess. Lester was about my age, very heavy and a talker. He smelled of cigarettes and astringent. By midmorning I’d heard about his first divorce, his second wife, and his kidney operation. On the bright side, he wasn’t afraid to deal with the customers. The fear was all on the side of John Q. Public.

Before lunch, Lester had updated me on his gallstones, his second divorce, and his current girlfriend. Immediately following lunch, he had what he described as “a nicotine fit.”

When he recovered, I slipped out for a Starbucks and a quick nervous breakdown. I phoned Guy Snowden to tell him I’d have to reschedule our meeting.

36 Josh Lanyon

“Has something happened?” he asked warily. Possibly it was my tone.

I assured him all was cool, although I couldn’t help wondering: If God works in mysterious ways, why shouldn’t the Devil seek temporary employment in a mystery bookstore?

After lunch Lester told me about his angina, his IRS audit, his first heart attack, and his girlfriend’s lousy teenagers. I decided that another day of Lester, and I’d also be having chest pains.

I called the agency once more.

* * * * *

Jake dropped by that evening with Chinese takeout and the Alien vs. Predator DVD. I had closed shop on the ponderous heels of Lester and was trying to drape miniature Christmas lights along the ceiling. I had the McGarrigle sisters’ Christmas CD playing in the storeroom, so maybe that’s why I didn’t hear him using his key in the side door.

A floorboard squeaked, I glanced down, and for once, there really was a shadowy figure coming at me.

“Jesus!” I yelped, nearly overbalancing the ladder.

“Christ!” finished Jake, who also jumped, but managed to make it look more like someone leaping into battle mode and less like someone about to rocket through the roof.

These tender greetings out of the way, he ordered me down from the ladder, took my place at the dark beams. I carried the takeout upstairs, emptied out the soggy containers, put the food into pans to heat later, and briefly studied the DVD cover.

“My money’s on the aliens,” I called, starting back down the staircase.

“Nah,” Jake returned, seriously. “No way. All the aliens have is acid blood. The predators have body armor and invisibility.”

Ah, yes. I saw why Jake was voting for the predators. Nothing like invisibility when you need it.

He had already managed to string the lights all along the back partition of the shop. I dug fake pine garland out of the dusty cardboard boxes and draped it artistically over the faux fireplace.

We worked for long, companionable minutes. No mention of his case load, no mention of my straying off the reservation. The music filled in the silence.

“Rufus Wainwright?” he inquired when the song “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” whispered through the canyon of bookshelves.

“Yeah.”

He grunted disapprovingly.

The Hell You Say

37

“Hey, you think you’d want to go to this wedding?” I asked casually. “I could use the moral support.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t see his profile; the upper half of his body was in shadow.

I qualified hastily, “I mean, as a regular guest. As a friend of Lisa’s.” Meaning not as my personal guest, meaning his cover would not be compromised.

“Uh, sure,” he said vaguely. “I could do that.” He glanced back at me. “How does this look?”

“Great.”

He tossed me the extension cord. “Try plugging that in.”

I found the wall socket behind the tall mahogany counter which had once served as the hotel’s front desk. I guided the prongs into the wall socket and felt a weird rippling jolt wash through my body. The cord dropped out of my hand, though I don’t think I consciously moved my fingers.

“Shit! It shocked me.” I sat back on my heels, heart pounding way too fast, thinking, shit, shit, shit. Not good…

“Are you okay?” Jake jumped from the ladder, came around the counter, squatting down, face tense.

I waited for my heart to start skipping and stuttering. It continued to gallop away, trying to outrun the threat.