No Place Like Hell (22 page)

A car door thunked behind him, footsteps tapped the pavement, and the ward grabbed his arm. He stiffened against her restraint.

"If you want to ditch the detective tailing you, you'll get in the damn car."

Alarmed, Kasker looked toward the corner. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"Fine," she said, dropping his arm. "I'll go after Holmes by myself."

Kasker glowered at her. What did she know of Holmes?
How
did she know of Holmes? For that matter, how had she found him at the warehouse?

She was a determined hunter, he'd give her that. Perhaps he could use her. Nothing else he'd tried seemed to work.

He reached the car in two long strides and slid into the passenger seat. The ward pulled away before he'd closed the door.

"Duck down," she ordered.

Kasker crammed himself low in the too-small seat of her Corvair, pressing against her right arm and shoulder. His hand rested on her thigh. The scent of her soap mingled with the scent of her soul. His nether regions responded. Goats!

She watched the rearview mirror. At the intersection, she took a fast left. Her foot pressed to the floor, and her rattle-trap car spluttered down the next block.

"You can sit up now," she said, voice dry.

He removed his hand from her thigh, straightened in the seat, and spread his senses to check for following souls. Satisfied no one was closing in, he turned his attention to the ward.

She wasn't in uniform. Her legs were clad in blue jeans, and she wore a light blue cotton blouse.

"Why are you helping me escape, Officer Demasi?"

"It's not 'Officer Demasi' now, Sleeth. It's just pissed-off-citizen Demasi—and pissed-off-citizen Demasi wants to catch the person who killed her best friend. Maybe if we trade information, we can both get what we want. Or we can see how you fair when you walk into the next trap."

"You know where Holmes is?" he asked, his interest sharpening.

"What were you doing at the warehouse?" she countered.

The lie came out as smooth as icing on cake. He'd repeated it a hundred times while the pigs questioned him. He'd gladly trade it for her information about Holmes.

"Collecting a debt. Mong owed me money."

"I'm the only person in Solaris who believes you aren't the Slasher," she said. "Cut the bullshit, or I'll drop you back at the station."

Sweat broke on his forehead. If she'd found him there, then Holmes could, too. He needed to disappear, to hunt from the shadows. His stomach rumbled. He needed breakfast.

"Mong was the bait in the trap," she said. "They thought you'd see the light in the office and assume he was there."

Holmes must not be aware of his abilities, Kasker decided. He'd detected that the office was empty moments after stepping in the door. And Mong should have been taken farther away before the kill. If Holmes underestimated him, it gave Kasker an edge.

"But you and your… partner walked into the trap instead," he said.

Her face jerked toward him. Her eyes were unusually red and her skin splotchy. With a smidge more concentration, her expression could have turned him to a pillar of salt.

"Why were you after Mong? He works for Calderon, same as you."

"No," Kasker said, irked by her assumption. "I don't work for Calderon.

She raised an eyebrow. "You and the mobster are just drinking buddies?"

How much should he tell her? Did she know what her partner was? He didn't think so.

Souls were to be kept in the dark about how things really worked. It was a clause demanded by Hell in the peace accords with Heaven. No manifesting demons, no overt miracles. Best to play by the rules.

"Seve's doing my boss a favor by loaning me a pad and some wheels while I'm in town."

For the next minute, they drove in silence.

"While you're in town?" she said. "You've lived here all your life."

Witches and water torture!
The ward was quick. The thought of her status made the hair rise on his arms.

"Mong may have sold information about Seve's business relationships to Holmes. If Mong did, he might have known Holmes' whereabouts." Kasker watched her through narrowed eyes. "Do you know where Holmes is?"

"So Holmes snuffed Mong to keep him quiet." She pursed her lips then asked, "Who knew you were looking for Mong?"

She was inordinately good at avoiding his question. "Seve Calderon, a few people in the bar where I stopped to ask about Mong."

"Warner and Bronski?"

"Who?"

"The two guys you talked to on the sidewalk outside the bar."

Kasker blinked. "You
know
them?"

Perhaps he
wasn't
the greatest hunter in Heaven, Hell, or the universe. Perhaps
she
was. Her extraordinary ability might explain the guardian angel.

"Only by their rap sheets."

She turned another corner and cruised through the retail district, glancing again in her rearview mirror. Traffic was sparse this early. If the pigs knew what to look for, they wouldn't be hard to spot.

"Where can I find them?" he asked.

"With Holmes?" she said. She pulled into a vacant parking lot, taking a spot in the shade of a withered oak. "Tell me about him."

The ward killed the motor and turned to face him. Her eyes were keen and her body tense. She smelled anxious.

"You tell me about Holmes," he said, "since you're so interested in him."

"Well…" Her Adam's apple bobbed, and her face took on a rosy hue. Her eyes slid from his. "It's the name you spoke right before you ran to the back of the warehouse."

"You've been shining me on! You don't know anything." He grabbed the door handle.

"I knew the name of the guys who set you up," she said, reaching across to stay his hand. "And I know where the next killings will be. I can help you find Holmes."

Her arm was warm across his chest and her fingers soft on his hand. The flesh already yammered for a woman. The slow smile formed on his lips, the one that melted female resistance.

No, he reminded himself. She was of the angels. Screwing her would be the mother of all mistakes.

She withdrew her hand, and a curtain of reserve fell over her posture. "Who's Holmes? Why does he want to kill you? Why's he buying information about Calderon's dealings?"

Kasker stared out the windshield. He'd need to watch his tongue. But if she knew where the next kill would be…

"Holmes broke a contract with my boss. I've been sent to collect, which is why he framed me and set the trap."

"Who's your boss?"

Kasker eyed her. "You wouldn't know him. He's not a local."

The corners of her mouth turned down. "What's Holmes look like?"

"No idea," he said. At her disbelieving look, he added, "He's changed his appearance and taken a different name."

"Wonderful." She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "Was Haskell doing business with Calderon, too?"

Kasker started. She knew about the contracts?

"Is Holmes attempting to take over Calderon's turf? Is that why he killed Decker? Decker had business dealings with Calderon?" she asked.

His shoulders relaxed. She was thinking in the context of mob wars, not damned souls. He'd encourage her false assumptions.

"Possibly," Kasker said.

"But why the ritual killings? Is it a scare tactic?"

Kasker shrugged.

"You don't know any more than I do," she muttered. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "Is there anyone besides Warner and Bronski who might know where Holmes is—and who isn't already dead?"

Kasker shifted in the seat and wiped a hand across his damp neck.

"There is someone."

39

Who was Sleeth working for? What kind of 'contract' had Holmes broken with Sleeth's boss? Why did Holmes slice and dice his victims? If he was killing people to send a message to Calderon, what was the message? Why was Robert Haskell a victim?

Sleeth adamantly refused to give me answers despite my continued badgering. Asking the questions kept my mind off Dave.

Sleeth wiggled in the seat like a little kid frantic for a visit to the restroom. His head swiveled constantly, and he seemed incredibly interested in the weather overhead even though it was the same clear blue sky every time he checked. The guy was wacko.

We stopped at a burger joint while we killed time until we could visit his mysterious source. I had no appetite. Sleeth downed two burgers and a mountain of fries. To my embarrassment, he leered at the carhop.

"What did you see when you ran out of the warehouse?" I asked.

Sleeth made sucking noises as he drained his cup. "The flash of a white vehicle turning the corner."

"Make? Model?"

"Couldn't tell."

Another white mystery vehicle. I didn't see how Merkel's death could be connected to the Slasher killings. Had to be coincidence. Lots of white cars in California.

"What about the trap? How was it done?"

The hippie shrugged.

"Why didn't you go to the office in search of Mong?"

He squirmed in his seat, and I was pretty sure a lie was coming.

"I thought I heard someone at the back of the warehouse."

Yep, another lie. I jingled the keys where they dangled in the ignition and thought about ways to torture Sleeth until he told the truth.

When it got to be nine, he directed me to a little shop just north of downtown,
Hawaiian Mike's
Meditation Center.
In my time on the force, I'd never heard of it. It didn't look like the establishment of a well-connected mob source.

"He's a powerful man. He hears things, knows things," Sleeth assured me, worry in his voice. "Be careful what you say."

Sleeth was slow getting out of the car. He trailed me to the door, casting suspicious glances both directions of the street. His caution put me on edge.

A heavy-set Hawaiian wearing a billowing t-shirt emblazoned with a screen-print of a surfer riding a curling wave stood behind the counter. His attention went to Sleeth first, and when it did, the hippie stopped dead.

"I see you found her," the Hawaiian said with a jocular smile.

I glanced at Sleeth, puzzled by the comment. He stared, first at the shopkeeper, and then at me, his eyes going round and his lips parting.

The shopkeeper chuckled and addressed me. "Solaris has a leash law. Maybe you wanna get him a collar and license."

He must have me mistaken for someone else. I didn't know him, and I didn't own a dog.

I examined the merchandise. It was typical occult junk: brass bells, incense burners, and crystals. I didn't see any obvious drug paraphernalia.

"I'm Officer Demasi," I said, advancing to the counter. "Solaris Police Department."

"Are you?" He asked. "Cause that's not what your aura says."

Definitely one of those spiritual nut jobs, the kind who communed with aliens on a different astral plane. Or maybe I had a blazing 'Liar' sign shining over my head.

"Sleeth says you might have information about a man we're seeking."

The big Hawaiian's eyes flicked to Sleeth. "Didn't tell her what she's looking for, huh? Won't matter. It'll find you."

To me he said, "Better keep him on a short leash. Friday's coming fast."

"What's so important about Friday?" I asked, struggling to keep frustration out of my voice.

"Didn't he tell you?" The shopkeeper waved a hand at Sleeth, and Sleeth flinched. "It's the solstice, a time of change. If you're planning big changes, best do it when the energy of the universe is behind you."

The shopkeeper pulled a bag of colorful hard candies from under the counter and poured them into a glass candy jar on the counter. I glared at him and considered walking out. He offered me a candy.

"You don't believe?" he asked with a glint in his eyes. "Wot, you aren't a good Catholic girl?"

"No," I said, heat in my words, and then I wondered why I'd answered. I didn't discuss my religious beliefs—or lack of them—with anyone.

"No Heaven or Hell? No angels or demons?" he asked, but this time, he looked at Sleeth.

Sleeth backpedaled another three steps towards the door. His face paled under his honeyed tan.

"Belief is power," the shopkeeper said.

I snorted.

"When you believe in something you give your power to that thing. Stop believing and you take your power back. You want to be strong, the best place to put your belief is in yourself. Then you can do anything."

"That's a bunch of cosmic hooey," I said.

The Hawaiian raised his eyebrows in surprise. Or maybe it was amusement. "Here, I'll show you."

He stared at Sleeth, his brows lowered, his face serious. His voice took on a deep timbre that seemed to fill the entire room without being loud. "I don't believe in you."