Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons (2 page)

Unloading Royal’s truck meant toting the cooler, pillows and other assorted necessities across the street and up the s
taircase to his apartment. A
few pedestrians stopped
walking
to watch him carry the mattress across, probably because he
i
s six-six, stunning to look at and gripped the mattress
with one hand as if it weighed nothing.

I unloaded the cooler of leftovers and put the trash in
the
can
while he stowed the mattress in the storage room behind his kitchen.

He came back and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Want to stay for a while? I can make pizza?”

Oh, th
e devil. He knows my weaknesses
and pizza is one of them. I
relaxed
back in his arms and
gently beat his s
houlder. “Not fair!
I need
to get home and take
a shower.” I always returned from La Plata feeling as if dust and I had become intimate.

He pulled me back in
to his rock-hard body
. “You can use my shower.”

“I don’t have my stuff here. And I’m not getting back into dirty clothes.”

“I’ve said before, Sweetheart,” he
smoothed
a wisp of hair away from my face, “my bathroom cabinet is half empty and so is my closet.”

My body tightened
a little
, but I kept my tone relaxed
.
“
Yeah
.
The
time
we spend in each other’s home, I should keep a few things here.”

His smile almost changed my mind about leaving. Apparently satisfied with my response, he said,
“I’ll take you home after I’ve showered.”

“Okay.”

I rocked on my heels as h
e used a smidgen of demon speed
to whip through the living room,
through
the
front
door and up to the next floor.

Royal’s voice cooled with censure
as we stood in my small hall
.
”Tiff, you did not activate the alarm when you left.”

I bit my lip.
“I usually do, don’t I
,
Jack?”

“No,” Jack said.

Hand cupped behind one ear, I pretended to listen
.
“See, Jack said
‘
sure
she does’.”

Royal’s
lips
twisted. “But you did not this time.”

Royal was a little paranoid about my safety. No, let me amend that statement. The number of times we had been targeted
made
Royal a
lot
paranoid. H
is attitude made me bridle.
I refused to let fear ride my shoulders and control my life. And as far as I k
new
no one
wanted to kill us at the moment
.

I rolled my eyes as I heaved an almighty sigh and turned away. “Just once, and you have to make a big deal out
of
it. You are such an old woman sometimes.”

I let out a shriek as his arms
snaked
around my waist from behind and lifted me off the floor. “Old woman! I’ll show you old woman.” He toted me toward the stairs.

“No, Royal! I’m all gritty. I need a shower.”

“Sound
s
interesting.”

We were halfway up the stairs
. I
lolled
limp
ly
in his arms
, giving him all my weight
. “You already showered.”

“I’m feeling hot and sweaty already. Another shower sounds good.”

As we reached the top of the staircase and Royal swung me around to maneuver me through the bathroom door,
MacKlutzy stared
up accusingly
from the bottom of the stairs
.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.
” I lifted my face for a farewell kiss.

Two minutes later, rather weak in the knees,
I
went in
the kitchen. Mac lay facing the pantry door
with
head on his front feet. As I walked
over
to him, he lifted his head, gave me a look and rested his muzzle on his paws again, but facing away from me.

“I know, I know, I’m a bad mommy.” I eased the pantry door open so as not to hit him with it. “But I didn’t have a choice, babe. That big, nasty man took me away against my will.”

Mel snorted.

“How’s Pete?”
she
asked as I
put a full bowl of kibble on the floor
.
His disgust with me forgotten, Mac got to his feet and buried his muzzle in the bowl.

“Same as always.” I shut the
pantry
door and opened the
backdoor, knowing Mac would inhale his food in under
a minute and want to go out
.

I looked in the
refrigerator
for something to nibble
and Mac went outside
. After s
hutting the
back
door behind him, I slid up the hatch of the
n
ewly installed pet door. Mac had
no problem pushing his way back inside, but
refused
to use the pet door to g
o outside, which kind of defeated
its purpose
. Correction – he did
use
it if he heard
an interesting noise
in the backyard, so did
know how. Dogs can be weird at times
and Mac can be perverse
.

Royal
didn’t like me leaving the backdoor ajar so Mac could push back inside
, hence the pet door
.

Mel sounded grumpy. “At least
Pete
has a whole valley to play in.”

“Oh, sure, must be fun.
” I waved a slice of processed cheese.
“
Especially when snow covers everything, and all those days he doesn’t see a soul, which is most of the year.”

“I bet he sees wild animals, and the leaves
changing
clos
e
up, and flowers growing.
And campers like to look around that old town.
”

What was with her today? “And all you have is this house, and the TV, and me.”

“Exactly.”

I leaned on the door. “How about we try an experiment? I pretend you’re not here.”

Her chin came up. “Go ahead. See if I care.”

The sooner I went to bed, the better.

“
Poor Boyd
,” Mel
said, followed by a sigh.
“All those years in prison.”

“Poor B
oy
d
!” Jack scoffed. “He killed Pete!”

“He didn’t mean to,” said Mel.

“
You don’t accidentally cave in your pal’s skull with a hunking great rock
,” I told her. “
Anyway,
I doubt he’ll serve the full term
.”

Mel fanned her face. “I’m glad
.
I saw a show on prison life. It didn’t look pleasant.
”

“That’s the idea, Mel.”

“I was thinking,” Jack began.

I flung up my hand. “Just a sec.” Going to the
refrigerator
, I detached the
pen from the magnetic calendar
. “When was that? I want to make a note of it:
Jack was thinking
.”

He
went through the motions of flipping
his shoulder-length brown hair
away
from his face
and
presented his back.
His hair
didn’t move an inch. Shades often act as if they still possess physical bodies, but their appearance never changes.

I rolled my eyes
. “What were you thinking, Jack?
I
do
want to know.”

He didn’t turn. “It was easier back in, what, until the
late 18
00s? You killed someone, they caught you and
strung
you
up
on the spot. Not like nowadays.
P
eople stay in prison for decades.”

“The world
is
crammed with victims
waiting for their killers to die
,” Mel agreed.

“
But they also killed innocent people back then
.” I
opened the refrigerator and took out a half-gallon of milk
. Hot chocolate
made
with whole—
milk, dusted with sugar and cinnamon
. Mm,
sounded good.

“
Well that still happens,” from Mel. “Think of all the times someone’s sentence is overturned after
years
in prison for a crime they didn’t commit.”

“Yeah, and i
t happens
more than the public realizes,
”
I agreed.

I turned off
the TV
which sat on a kitchen counter near the big west windows
.
Jack and Mel groaned in unison, though they hadn’t watched it since I came home.

Mac shoved his barrel
-shaped
body through the pet door. I decided to forego
hot chocolate.

“Come on, little buddy.
” With Mac following
, I went upstairs to get ready for bed.

T
he phone
woke me the next morning
.
I groggily grabbed my cell from th
e bedside table and peered at the blank screen.
It continued to jangle, until I realized the din came from
the house phone.
Duh.

I checked Caller ID, then plucked the receiver from the cradle.
“
Hi Mike
.”

“Tiff, can you come down here?” Mike Warren asked solemnly.

“Right now?”
I followed with a long yawn into the phone.

I heard papers shuffling.
“Right now.”

Mike
usually
sounds
abrupt and
grouchy
, that’s his way, but
his tone
this morning
bothered me
. “What’s going on, Mike?”

“
We’ll talk
here.”

“Not a hint?”

“I need you here
now
.”
What sounded
like
a mug thumped
the desk
to emphasize
the last word.

I eyed the phone, inclined to argue, but
his temper obviously
ran
on a short leash
.
“Okay. I’
ll head out
.”

Apprehensive,
I slowly replaced the receiver
.
Mike had something seriously heavy on his mind.

Hauling my body out of bed seemed harder than usual.
My duvet and pillo
ws didn’t want to let me go.
W
hy
did Mike want
m
e at the precinct on a Saturday?
I
grumpily
slogged downstair
s. Mac already waited in the hall.

Passing Jack and Mel where they sat at the kitchen table, I automatically
used the remote to flick
on the television
, then
filled Mac’s bowl with kibble from the pantry.

Thankful my roommates were immediately immersed in a show, I poured water
in
the coffeemaker, filled the filter with French Roast and flipped on the machine. I held a mug under the drip until it filled, then
exchanged it for the carafe with unusual sleight of hand
. Only a few drops escaped
to sizzle on the hot
plate.

I
took a deep gulp of coffee
before
letting Mac out of the backdoor and
sitting at the kitchen table. I took my time sipping the rest; a good cup of coffee can’t be hurried. Another full mug accompanied me upstairs to my bedroom where I dressed in the first T-shirt and pair of Levis
my hand found in the closet. I sat on the bed to
t
ug
on socks and sn
eakers.

Mac
still
explored the
outside
world
, which gave me an excuse to drink my third mug of coffee while I waited for him to finish his b
usiness.
With
perfect
timing,
he came inside as I drained the last drop.

“I have to go
out
.
Won’t be long,
”
I said as I rinsed the mug and put it in the sink.

I took a moment to slide the cover
down
on the pet door and say bye to Mac. He paid as much attention to me as my roommates did. All
three
ignored me.

Oh well. I snatched my keys from the table in the hall,
my green cord jacket from the hook,
activated the
house alarm
and headed for my car.

Saturday is Farmer’s Market day
and today
’s event
the last of the season
.
Shoppers already packed the area
.

Twenty-Second was closed to traffic.
As my car idled at a light
, I
looked past the barriers and
saw a stagecoach guided by a cowboy clip-clopping
along; inside, a
woman restrained a
little
girl who
tried to climb
out
through
the window.
P
e
ople in period clothing mingled
with the crowds. I
grinned at two
pr
ostitutes in their fancy dresses
, garters and feathers
as they paraded along the sidewalk
.
Cowboys on horseback
cantered
up and
down the street.
The afternoon promised
mock
gunfights
and
exh
ibition marksmanship with rifle, bow and axe
in the park
.
Entertainment would continue into the evening.

F
inding
somewhere to park
meant circling several blocks, hoping someone would pull out.
I got lucky wh
en a Dodge van vacated a spot behind
the
Clarion Hilton Hotel
. Zipping in before
another
auto
got there before me
,
I exited my Jeep, locked it and
walked through the nearest alley to Twenty-Second
.

A
romas from
a variety of
food
s
, fresh-cut flowers, produce and perfume
drifted
down the street
.
M
arket
stalls and pedestrians crammed the sidewalks.
Merchants had positioned
tables outside their store
s to display a variety of wares, including
small antique pieces
,
jewelry, local art, knickknacks and
baked goods
.
Children screamed as they took advantage of giant
blow-up playgrounds with
slides and other fun stuff
in
the center of the street. A guitarist sat on a small stage surrounded by fold-up chairs with an audience of ten people.

Do no
t go to Farmer’s Market if you are hungry, unless you intend to eat
your way along the street
. I gave
in to
temptation and
stopped to buy a donut. The
vendor
dropped dough
in
a vat of b
ubbling
oil, scooped out
the bloated donut
three minutes later
and rolled it
in a pan of granulated sugar
. It
tasted
del
ici
ous;
hot, slightly crisp and
crusted with sugar on the outside and soft inside.

I ate as I walked, then licked my fingers clean.

Vorhoff German Bakery’s stall tempted me but I
went
on by. Getting past the booth where a guy fried onions and sausage
took willpower
.

The courthouse is
closed on
weekends
, so the handful of peo
ple in the gigantic foyer wanted
Clarion PD
and would
sooner
wait out here until called
than sit outside the various departments
. I crossed the marble floor to the desk sergeant’s cubicle. Not that you often see a s
ergeant
at the desk
; a lower-ranking
officer usuall
y mans the post. Office
r
Maurer
told me to head on up.

I took the escalator to the next floor and headed down the corridor to Homicide.
The squad room looked as busy as on a weekday, with guys and gals at
their stations or
moving
between them
.
Sunlight streamed through the windows in the north wall
to wash pale-gold streaks
over dusty, seldom used
cabinets and
desks
covered
with paperwork
,
and
made
sticky
coffee cup rings
shine
.
Trash overflowed wastepaper baskets.

Captain Mike Warren
stood
in his office
talking to
two
guy
s I didn’t r
ecognize. Both were
in the six to six-five range
, wore light-gray suits
,
and obviously
were cops.

Mike came
from
the office and shut the door behind him as
I walked the aisle between desks.
I smiled. He didn’t. Then he growled in a low voice, “You took your time.”

I shifted my shoulders. “Much as I wanted to rush out the house
immediately, I didn’t think the good folks of Clarion would appreciate me walking through town in
my ni
ght clothes. And yeah, I
had
a cup of coffee.”

“You had a pot.” He grabbed the door handle. “And you got sugar all ‘round your mouth.”

Oops. If anyone can tell the sugar on your mouth came from a donut, it’s a cop.

I wiped the corners of my mouth with my index finger. Mike opened the door and ushered
me inside.

I stopped in the doorway and gaped
.
Tidy and
dust-free
,
this didn’t look at all like Mike’s
office. Gone were the stacks of folders and papers on the floor, the
tilting towers of file boxes. Only
a
few folders sat atop his fil
e cabinets. The old
fax machine
did
not
hide
behind mounds of paperwork.
The folders on his desk were in
neat piles
,
and
pens and pencils in
a proper holder instead of scattered over the desk. And - hotdamn! - his coffee mug sat on a
cork coaster
.

M
y forehead
fur
r
owed
. “I’m sorry, I must be in the wrong place.”

Mike scowled.

I made a production of looking
at
the office. “What did you do, Mike, get a maid?”

With his customary
cur
tness, Mike
jerked his chin at the two guys and
said, “Detectiv
es Haney and Stirland, Provo PD
.”

They didn’t react to my appearance.
I usually get something, if only a gaze
sliding
up my six-four height to my silver-white hair, ice-blue eyes and pale skin.
Perhaps Mike described me, or they had heard about me.
They stared
, expressionless.

Then o
ne guy stepped forward and presented his hand. Portly, with thinning brown hair,
hazel
eyes and belly-bulge
over his waistband,
he’d
have appreciated the donut I still tasted in my mouth. “Jerry Stirland. Thank you for coming in, Miss Banks.”

We clasped hands for a firm
shake.

T
hinner, although not thin
,
Haney
stood a few inches taller than his partner
.
B
lack hair stubbl
ed his scalp
and chin, his washed-out blue eyes looked tired
in his olive skin
, with dark bags underneath
,
and
grooves
c
arved arcs
at the sides of
his mouth.

He held out his hand.
“
John
Haney.”

Another firm shake.

“Take a seat, Tiff,” Mike instructed.

I obediently sat. Mike lowered his
bulk
to his
chair on the other side of
the
desk.

His
hard, stern
expression made my stomach flutter.
“What
’s
this about, Mike?”