Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians (14 page)

And all of a sudden all the pieces snapped into place. I called myself a thousand times a fool. “They’re going to flex their magical muscles by dropping us into the drink!”

“I think so. Sierra Talbot’s fear, the Oracle’s warning—it all makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Lau countered, raining on our parade. “Why kill Sierra? Who would have believed her?”

“In these crazy days when we see a terrorist hand in every abandoned bag, you’ve got to be kidding. She wouldn’t have to mention gods, even if she knew what she was dealing with. All she’d have to do is give a credible-sounding tip on a terrorist plot. It’s speculation, sure, but work with me. The fact that rather than move up the plan, someone took Sierra out means they probably had some reason to wait. Maybe a day of significance. Maybe—”

Hermes’s jaws snapped in irritation. “Well, I know when I’m not wanted. That’s the last time I waste a killer entrance.” He turned tail, which whipped angrily behind him.

“Wait!” I yelled, remembering that earlier warning shudder. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

He swung his head back around and fixed his inhuman eyes on mine. “I haven’t decided yet. Whichever wins, I suppose, though with the forces arrayed against you—” he shook his head sadly, “—it will hardly make for a decent match.”

“Then tell us something that will even things out.”

“And risk the wrath of my fellows?” He turned away again, this time with an air of finality. “No, you do not seem to be stuck for a solution. I will take my leave.”

He paced away, growing less material with each step until the gently swaying grass could be seen right through his form. Finally, he was gone altogether, though the strains of the Steve Miller Band floated back to me on the breeze, “
—and fly to the revolution
.”

“I must be crazy. I’m starting to believe this whole thing,” Armani said, staring at the place where Hermes had vanished.

“Just starting?” I asked. “I’d say the mark of a wise,
sane
man is an open mind willing to adjust as circumstances dictate.”

Lau eyed us sourly. “I hate to interrupt this little love fest, but I have an idea of what might be taking the gods so long to set things in motion.”

“So you’re with us on that now?” Armani asked.

She shrugged. “As a wise, sane woman,” she mocked, “it makes as much sense as anything I can come up with.”

“Okay then—shoot.”

“Explosives. Tori says the gods have lost a lot of their power. What if they need something to start things off with a bang—a concentration of energy they can magically amplify? In any reaction, most of the energy goes into jump-starting the process, so if they can do that artificially…”

“Oh my gods!” I stared at her in horror. “And something like that is going to take time and care to collect without raising any red flags.”

“Bingo.”

“But I know just the man to do it.” Both detectives stared at me. “Hiero Cholas, a.k.a. Hephaestus, god of all things technological. How hard do you think it would be for a special effects guru to lay hands on the right stuff?”

Silence reigned.

On the way back to the station we plotted. Armani and Lau were taking point on the explosives angle, since any interest I showed would get me on a Federal watch list, not to mention likely be completely unproductive. They were also going to find some way to get Hiero tailed, even if they had to do it themselves. I had dibs on Sierra’s roommate and Circe’s long-ignored files.

Earlier leap of my heart aside, I still had several bones to pick with Armani, but I was sure right up until the time that he put a hand on my arm to hold me outside while Lau proceeded us in that I wasn’t going to get the chance.

The breeze blew my unruly curls into my face as I stood there waiting for him to begin. He watched the curls, but declined to brush them romantically from my face, preferring to watch me spit hair out of my mouth.

“Very sexy, Karacis,” he commented.

There were days I considered hacking the whole mop to within an inch of its life, but I had a feeling that arming me with sheers right now would be a bad idea.

“Just say what you have to say,” I snapped.

“I’m sorry for what I said before.” Points to him for actually holding eye contact and projecting sincerity.

“Which part? The part where you accused me of drugging your partner or the part where you were going to lock me up?”

That made him look away.

“Oh, and what about the part where you investigated me to begin with?”

“I was worried about you. I had no idea Lau was going to call you in for questioning.”

“But you ratted me out.”

Armani’s eyes rose to meet mine again. “I passed on information pertinent to an ongoing investigation, yes.”

“And you’re just a poor automaton, slave to your rules and regulations? That’s some defense.”

“I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”

“Fine.”
 

I started to walk past him, but he, thankfully, stopped me with a hand to my arm. “Dinner?”

“Is that your way of dodging an apology?”

“Just answer the question,” he growled.

“Your treat?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Nice place, real utensils?”

I could tell by the look on his face that I was pushing it, but he nodded again.

“One condition, though, that puts us even. We drop the whole thing. Deal?” he asked.

Guess he could see me milking it for all it was worth. Hmm. It was a tough call—a free meal/almost date versus something to hold over Armani. If I really worked at it, I could probably find a way to keep the agreement and still tweak him.

“Okay,” I agreed finally, “but no seafood.”

Circe’s files were a complete waste of time. There were no helpful death threats like: “Dear Circe, It would be my greatest honor to see you dead. If it’s not too inconvenient for you, I’ve chosen the alleyway behind Renee’s, the better to chance witnesses to your downfall. Signed, Third God to the Left.” Oh no, that would have been too easy. If I hadn’t already ruled out a fully human perp, I’d now have a solid list of mortal suspects, A-, B- and C-list actors who had to be pleased as punch by Circe’s early shuffle off the mortal coil. However, since I’d seen most of them on screen at one time or another, I was pretty certain they lacked a certain scaly green quality.

I’d left a message for Sierra Talbot’s roommate earlier, but it hadn’t been returned—or if it had, the message had gone to my dearly departed cell phone or my office answering machine. Unfortunately, we still used Uncle Christos’s antiquated model, so there was no way for me to check messages remotely. Since Sierra and Tracy’s apartment was in West Hollywood, a helluva lot closer to Circe’s office than mine downtown, I decided just to swing by and hope Tracy was in.

I sat outside in the Camaro for a minute just getting a feel for the neighborhood, watching the flow. There wasn’t a ton of foot traffic. A young mother in spandex prepared to power walk with her sleeping child strapped to her chest in what looked like a reverse backpack; a twenty-something guy wrestled an oversized package through the front doors. I emerged to help him, but he was already through and gone by the time I reached the entrance.

Once there I was confronted with an entire panel of buttons numbered but with no corresponding names. If you didn’t know the apartment number of the party you’d come to see you didn’t belong. I chose the correct button and waited for a distorted voice to “Yes?” me through the intercom.

“Tori Karacis,” I answered the disembodied voice, “I called earlier about Sierra T—”

A buzzer sounded and a click came from the inner door. I took that as my welcome.

The woman who watched me approach from the doorway to apartment 6D was a surprise. For some reason, I’d expected Sierra’s roommate to be another struggling actress, but I didn’t get that vibe from Tracy. She stood all of about five foot two in her bare be-ringed feet, cutoffs and dashiki. Her RuPaul blonde hair hung in dreadlocks halfway down her back. Her bronzed face was unadorned except for bars through her left brow, nose and lower lip.

“Hey,” she said, studying me rather than inviting me in. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. I just—couldn’t deal. Plus, I already told the police everything.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“So you, like, have some ID?”

I flashed my PI license and tried not to stare at her hardware while she looked it over.

“Okay then, come on in.” Finally, she stepped aside, admitting me to her inner sanctum, where I nearly choked on the clashing potpourri of scents duking it out inside.

Impressions formed through the haze—artwork on the walls tending toward stark silhouettes and simple but somehow compelling pictures in bold colors. Beyond those minimalist scenes the design seemed like something out of India—sumptuous fabrics, a three-quarters life-size statue of a multi-armed goddess, an elephant-headed god staring down from a bookshelf.

“The motif was mostly Sierra’s,” Tracy said, having turned and noticed my distraction. She ran her hand over a satin pillow on their low-slung couch. “The pictures are mine, though.”

“They’re wonderful.”

Tracy sighed heavily and met my gaze. “Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve got any connections in the art world?”

“Afraid not.”

“Yeah, well. Have a seat, please. Can I get you anything? I’ve got mango iced tea.”

“That would be great.”

The cloying scents were starting to give me that tickly itchy sensation in my throat that I got in smoky bars. A tingle crept up my nose, and I looked hurriedly around for a tissue. None in sight. As a last resort, I flung my hand up before my face just in time to let out a King-Kong-sized sneeze. I never had been dainty, but thankfully it was more noise than funk.

“Sorry,” Tracy called from the little kitchenette off to the right. “Sierra never would let me burn the stuff inside. She didn’t want to smell—well,
reek
she called it. But I had to chase away, you know, all the negative energy.”

“Sure,” I said, like I got it. The stuff would sure chase me out.

“I’ll open up a few windows in a minute.”
 

She came back with two tall glasses of mango iced tea with raw sugar granules still spinning at the bottoms and handed me one. I sipped mine gratefully while she propped a window open with a wedge.

“They fall again the second you let them go,” she explained, relaxing all the way back into a covered chair. “So, what do you want to know?”

“This stalker that Sierra had, what can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing. I’m not even sure there was one. Sierra mentioned some guy early on in the shoot. Strange. Kind of intriguing, but
strange
was kinda how she put it. Then she’d move on to talk about the film and how the water was so cold that her nipples puckered right up but that she didn’t know how anyone would ever tell them from the goose bumps. Sierra was a chatterer. I’d perk up at words like guy and nipples, weird stuff like that, though mostly—” she shrugged. “You know.”

She said that a lot. Verbal shorthand willing me to agree so she could commute her words. Not a talker like her roommate.

“What about her decision to leave? Did she talk about that?”

Tracy sat up from her slump to wrap her hands around her sweating glass of tea and bring it to her lips. Once she set it down again, she practically burst from her chair to prowl the apartment. I wondered if it was nerves or if she wasn’t a sitter either. More like a perpetual motion machine.

“She did, but she was pretty vague, you know, like a newspaper horoscope. She just kept saying that something bad was going to happen and that we had to get out. L.A. was a death trap. I asked her what she’d been smoking.” She whipped around to me. “She didn’t, by the way. Sierra was as clean-cut as they come. One of those—oh, what do they call themselves?—straight-edge people. My body is my temple and all that.”

“Go on,” I prodded when she came to an abrupt halt, the suspicion of tears glimmering in her eyes.

“Well, that’s the strange thing. Sierra wasn’t exactly the credulous type, you know. All these statues, she just liked the look of them. It wasn’t a religious thing, but she ranted about the end of L.A. like she’d just seen the four horsemen of the apocalypse with her own eyes. She even had me spooked. Not that I have anywhere else to go.”

Tracy rubbed her arms vigorously. “I’m going to close that window again.”

She stayed at the window even after it was secured, staring out.

I had the feeling she was pulling herself together, but I had to plow on.

“She wasn’t suicidal?”

A choked laugh escaped her. “Scared yes, crazy maybe, but not suicidal. She was talking about heading to New York, taking a run at Broadway.”

Tracy’s head fell against the window to rest. A second later her stillness changed, set.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Damn freaks.”

Holy non sequitur. “Um, come again?”

“Those smarmy ‘Death Site’ tours. A week dead and they’ve already added Sierra to the route. Some of the freaks come back on their own.”

I joined Tracy at the window and followed her gaze to the man on the street. Fedora pulled low, collar high. A tingle shivered over me; goose bumps raised the hair on my arms. I somehow doubted that was Sam Spade down there keeping the place under surveillance.

“I’ll talk to him,” I promised. In fact, I looked forward to the confrontation now that we were on my turf, terra firma, rather than his. On my way to the door I dropped a card on Tracy’s coffee table. “Call me if you remember anything or if he shows again.”

Adrenaline coursing through my system, I took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. I still hadn’t practiced my damned stare, so I did what I could in the rush down to focus and hone my anger, the better to whammy him the second our eyes met. I hit the street with a full head of steam, flying at Circe’s killer like a Fury on speed—until his head snapped up and he and his mirrored sunglasses met me head-on.

Instantly, my limbs petrified. The very blood in my veins crystallized; my muscles hardened, going brittle like molten glass cooled too quickly. I fought to keep moving, but my own body had turned against me. The struggle only made me wobble precariously, and the way my body felt I was sure if I hit the ground I’d shatter into a million pieces.