City of Ghosts (12 page)

The inside was pretty bare. But not totally. Chess figured it was possible for a man to live there with so few possessions; hell, she didn’t own a lot of stuff herself. And it wasn’t like she’d spent a lot of time putting personal touches all over her place, either. Most of her stuff came from thrift stores. Who was she to judge how other people kept their homes?

But even to her this seemed like subsistence living, like a front. It reminded her of the bedroom one of her foster parents had claimed was hers; everything in its place, but the layer of dust and general air of neglect, the stale musty odor permeating the walls, the unmarked, stiff couch cushions, told another story.

But the neighbor, what’s-his-name, had seen Erik. Had invited him over for football and beer. So what had he done in here?

Not cooked. The fridge was full of moldy takeout containers. Maybe he slept; the bed was neatly made but at least looked as though it might have been used. He’d kept a few changes of clothing in the closet.

Chess glanced at Lauren, who was digging through the almost empty drawers in the pressboard dresser against the wall. Either the clothes in there had a different purpose, or Lauren didn’t notice it; but Chess did. The closet smelled of herbs—the kind of herbs she’d found in that horrible fetish earlier.

For the fourth or fifth time she tried to think of a way to tell Lauren what had happened, and for the fourth or fifth time she discarded the idea. There was no way, especially not after the We-do-this-the-way-I-say-and-that’s-final-so-shut-the-hell-up discussion they’d had outside. Not that “discussion” was really the word for it, but the point was the same. Lauren didn’t know who Ratchet or the other dead people were, or that they existed; Chess had no reasonable explanation for why she hadn’t contacted Lauren immediately to share the information. Besides, Lauren already knew the Lamaru were around and planning something.

The only new clue Chess really had for her was the fetish, and she could surely think of another way to introduce that. In fact, it went against every instinct she had, every last smattering of integrity, but for a moment she wished she hadn’t bagged and salted the thing so carefully. Vanhelm’s apartment would be the perfect place to plant it. Technically it wasn’t even planting evidence; it was real evidence, she’d just be fudging the location and circumstances a bit.

But no, she couldn’t. She’d have to find some other way. So she glanced back at Lauren again, now moving into the small bathroom, and started poking around in the pockets of the hanging clothes.

She’d reached the last shirt when her fingers closed around something small and stiff, a square piece of card about two inches on each side. Its edges rasped against the fabric as she pulled it out of its pocket.

Oh, shit. The room darkened around her; for a moment she thought she was falling, tumbling into a black tunnel so deep she’d never hit bottom.

Then the world righted itself. What was she, surprised? She’d known the Lamaru knew who she was, known they were after her.

But the superstitious shiver running up and down her spine didn’t stop until she’d tucked the picture into her own pocket.
Her
picture—her official Church employee portrait, updated yearly and kept—supposedly—in her confidential Church file.

Erik Vanhelm had been carrying it over his heart.

Chapter Twelve

Of course, no home is complete without a copy of
The Book of Truth
, and the Church provides these in colors to match any decor.

—
Your Home, Your Sanctuary
, by Delilah Ross

Randy Duncan could have given him the picture before he died. Chess had never seen her confidential file; she supposed she could ask Elder Griffin about it—if she wanted him to panic and order her back on the grounds. Hell, she could ask Lauren. The Black Squad could access any fucking thing they wanted.

If only Lauren weren’t so damned offputting. Not a surprise, really; most of the Squad members Chess had worked with were fairly irritating, in an anal, law-abiding kind of way. But Lauren had in addition the arrogance of birth and her father’s position, which took her beyond annoying. Bottom line: Chess didn’t trust her. Couldn’t bring herself to trust her. They were opposites, natural enemies. The haves versus the have-nots.

And again, it didn’t matter anyway. The Lamaru knew who she was, so what. They had for months. Of course, without Terrible’s protection … yeah, that sucked. Funny how she hadn’t realized how much she depended on that until it was gone—how much she depended on
him
until he was gone.

But she’d been over that ground too many times lately, and she had other things to focus on at the moment. Like the fact that what she was doing right now could get her fired. Well, a lot of what she did could get her fired, but this was different.

She hid in the shadows behind the executioner’s house, with her lube syringe and her lockpicks, and prepared to use them.

It wasn’t violating a direct order. Lauren hadn’t forbidden her to search the place. Nor had Elder Griffin or any of the other Elders. But as Lauren kept reminding her, it wasn’t technically part of her investigation. Which meant that what it was, technically, was trespassing. Trespassing in a dead man’s house. If she got caught, and if they wanted to be hard on her, they could call it looting and she could do time for it.

But she wasn’t going to get caught. She’d parked two blocks away. She’d watched the house for almost three hours, while the neighbors returned to spend their cookie-cutter evenings in their cookie-cutter homes. Not a soul had moved on the street for the last hour, and windows were starting to darken, lights popping off like spent bullets.

The executioner’s house was dark, and had been dark. Empty. No family, no friends. Time to go.

She tossed another couple of Cepts into her mouth and crept toward the door. A quick squeeze of the syringe plunger—she used to use a spray, but after a major leak in her bag she’d switched to the syringe, which she’d discovered one night had the additional advantage of being an excellent murder weapon—and a few seconds with her lockpick, and the door swung silently open.

Enough light seeped through the half-open blinds and the open door to let her see. Her flashlight rested in her hand, warm from her body heat, but using it might alert the neighbors. Best to wait until she really needed it.

The back door brought her into the kitchen. Debunker protocol demanded she search all the cabinets, left to right, then the fridge and freezer and other electronics, but technically this wasn’t a Debunking case. And even if it was, it wasn’t hers. And even if it was, the kitchen was a veritable soup of gross bits of food and empty containers and grime on every surface. Even with gloves on, plunging into the mess didn’t appeal.

So instead she shut the door behind her and wandered around for a few minutes, avoiding furniture and stacks of porn magazines and dirty clothes, opening her senses. If he’d been making psychopomps in there he would have left traces of magic. Hell, the Psychopomp Division in the Church building set every hair on her body on edge when she just walked near it. So surely experiments like creating wolf psychopomps would leave traces.

But she felt nothing.

Okay, then, shit. Start searching, just as she’d been trained to do. Under the furniture, along the shelves on the wall. Plow through miscellaneous papers, most of which related to various dating services and not to magic of any kind. Pity twinged in her chest, pity and shame. The first because lonely people deserved pity; the second because she’d become one of them, hadn’t she?

Into the kitchen, placing her feet carefully on the tile floor. Unused cleaning supplies under the sink, canned food in the cupboards, vodka in the freezer. His possessions told her nothing.

But what he did not possess interested her as well. No bare marks in the dust indicated anything had been removed. Clearly he kept his supplies elsewhere.

The stairs didn’t protest as she crept up them. Here the sour, unused smell of the house grew stronger; here the light from the windows did not penetrate. Her gloves skittered along the banister, sticking intermittently; she switched the flashlight on just long enough to see the staircase walls were bare.

Nothing in the bedroom. Nothing in the spare room. Frustration rose in her chest, almost stronger than her high just starting to set in.

No empty spaces. No herb-scented drawers or cabinets. No animal fur, no traces of blood. She supposed the Squad might have removed such things, but given the outrageous mess, how would she know?

What a waste of time. The idea that the executioner was innocent, that the Lamaru were involved up to their slimy necks in whatever was happening with the psychopomps, still throbbed in the back of her head, but no proof awaited her in this house. Fuck. Much as she hated on principle to believe Lauren, maybe she’d have to. Working with the Squad wouldn’t give her access to their evidence rooms or files unrelated to her own case; the house was her only hope. So much for hope. Like she didn’t know that already.

She’d just managed to shove the door of an overstuffed closet closed when a man’s voice drifted up the stairwell.

“This place is disgusting.”

Something about it—aside from the mere fact of it—stopped her in her tracks. Familiar, but not overly so.

Someone else spoke—a woman. “Yes, but it’s practically the only place in the city we can guarantee no one will be looking for you. You have too many neighbors.”

“Anywhere in Downside—”

“Anywhere in Downside one of that creepy bastard’s horde could find you. They see everything. We’ve been over this again and again. Besides, it’s not up to me. Or you.”

Fuck! How the hell was she going to get out of this one? She could take the stairs in a leap and run for it. But the front door was double-locked, and flipping the bolts would cost her a few precious seconds. The kitchen wasn’t that big. They’d be on her before she managed to hit the street.

“I don’t know why we can’t just kill him. After what he did to—”

“You can find him, you can kill him.”

“He’s easy to find. He puts on those silly shows to sell his stupid potions that don’t even work. It’s—”

The woman interrupted him again, but Chess wasn’t listening. Maguinness. They were talking about Maguinness.

What the hell? Who were these people, that man with his fucking familiar voice and the woman? Had Maguinness known the executioner?

Damn. She’d missed something. They’d stopped discussing Maguinness, at least so she assumed.

“Just trust him. He knows what he’s doing,” the woman said. “Hasn’t he already proven that? We just do what he says, and keep him informed, and we’ll—”

“I don’t want to be here long.”

“And you won’t be. One night, Erik. Maybe two.”

Erik? Erik Vanhelm? Chess hesitated, then took a chance and peeked down the stairs into the kitchen.

Yes. Erik Vanhelm, talking to a woman whose back was to Chess. Long hair fell to just past her shoulders; where the moonlight caught it, it gleamed silvery. Dark blond, maybe, or light brown? Whatever. Figuring it out didn’t feel worth getting caught for, so Chess slipped back into the darkness.

“Why don’t you stay here with me?”

“You know why. I have to go, and you need to get some sleep.”

Vanhelm sighed. “I know, I know. But tomorrow—”

“I’ll see you there, yes. And after you can spend the night.”

Fabric rubbed against fabric; a faint change in the atmosphere told Chess the pair’s mouths were busy with other things for the moment.

She could duck down the staircase, hide in the living room until Vanhelm went upstairs.
If
he went upstairs, and didn’t decide to watch TV or crash on the couch. TV was probably out; they wouldn’t want to chance a neighbor noticing the telltale light, but who knew for sure with the Lamaru?

Or she could make her way back upstairs, assuming Vanhelm would take the master bedroom. Once he fell asleep she could sneak out. She had her Hand of Glory with her.

She needed to make a decision, and she needed to make it immediately. Up or down? Up or down? Fuck!

Up. Probably the wrong choice, but a choice at least. Better to be stuck there until Vanhelm slept and have a shot at escaping than to try to duck into the living room and be discovered by both of them.

The smaller front bedroom was probably the better place to hide. Its closet had some room available, at least. Or …

Not just a closet. A side window, dingy curtains hanging limp over it. The executioner’s house wasn’t new, so it didn’t have the soaring ceilings and lofty heights of newer buildings, and the window sat low in the wall; she figured from the sill to the ground below couldn’t be more then ten feet or so. She’d dropped larger distances than that before.

No sounds rose from the kitchen below. Either they were still kissing, or they’d started disrobing and just weren’t making any noise. Wow. Exciting.

Either way, they probably wouldn’t notice if she slid the window open and dropped out of it. Assuming the window opened, and that it didn’t squeak as it did so.

But it wouldn’t open. She pushed as long as she dared, until their voices rose in farewell and the back door opened. No escape, then. Not for a while, assuming it was possible at all. She tucked herself into the closet and listened to Vanhelm’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Her legs ached from crouching when she made it back to her car an hour later. Vanhelm had finally fallen into the deep sleep of the wicked after about half an hour, and she’d waited another fifteen minutes or so just to be sure. It was after midnight, and she was more lost than ever.

Maguinness and Lupita had known each other. Maguinness and the Lamaru were involved in something, some kind of war. But Maguinness obviously made them nervous. She’d never heard of anyone making the Lamaru nervous, so her feeling about his power was correct.

But why hide that power? Especially when doing a job like his. He could have forced the residents of Downside to empty their pockets for him with a few well-chosen spells; why not do so?

The idea that honesty prevented him from doing it never even entered her mind. Honesty was for those who could afford it, like heating or electricity or a conscience. To be honest in Downside was to be a victim in Downside.

At least having overheard what she’d overheard gave her something else to do, some other place to go, although her welcome wouldn’t be remotely welcoming. She circled Trickster’s, then headed for Chuck’s, looking for the Chevelle. If he wasn’t at one of those places she’d try the Market, or his apartment. No point in calling. He wouldn’t answer if he saw it was her, as she well knew. Even working this together at Bump’s behest probably wouldn’t change that, and she didn’t want to give him any warning she was looking for him.

The Chevelle sat in its usual place across the street from Chuck’s; she slid into a spot another block down and headed for the bar, shivering in the chilly air. At least, that’s why she told herself she was shivering.

Muggy heat blasted her face when she passed through the dingy entrance—heat, and Richard Hell’s “Blank Generation.” It took her tired eyes a second to adjust; when they did she saw him at the back of the room, caught his scowl as he turned and headed for the rear exit. Shit.

Luckily for her, midnight in Downside counted as early so the place hadn’t filled up yet, but she still had to practically shove a gang of drunken teenagers out of her way in order to catch up with him. Her hand brushed his arm; he yanked it away.

“I need to talk to you. About work.”

His cold stare turned her into a smudge on the floor, something filthy and worthless. Which she pretty much was. “What?”

Several interested people watched them. Chess glanced at them, looked back at Terrible. “Outside, okay?”

For a second she thought he would say no, and then she’d really be fucked. Going to Bump to tell him Terrible was refusing to help wasn’t even close to an option; even if she didn’t know that snitching on him would infuriate him further, she wouldn’t consider it. If he said no she’d have to figure out some way to get the information. Maybe she could go talk to Maguinness himself, but something told her he wouldn’t be any more pleased to find her on his doorstep than Terrible was, and he had no reason at all to talk to her even if she could tell him why she was there.

But Terrible nodded and pushed his way out the exit. Chess managed to catch the door before it hit her and followed him into the narrow alley. Someone had left a lamp burning on the second floor of the building behind; it cast a square of pale light across broken crates and rolls of chicken wire leaning against the rusty fence. Rotted leaves mixed with dirty bits of paper and garbage on the cracked cement. The bottoms of her boots made faint sucking noises when she lifted them.

“What,” he said again.

Right. Obviously he didn’t plan to make this any easier on her. She couldn’t really blame him. “That guy, Maguinness. The potion guy we saw today. Did—”

“Ain’t—”

“No, just listen. Did he get permission from Bump to set up in the Market? Did he talk to him, I mean?”

His head tilted; his gaze didn’t leave her as he lifted the beer in his hand and took a long swallow, emptying it. The scrapes decorating his knuckles hadn’t been there when she’d left him that afternoon.