No Place Like Hell (28 page)

"Ha! After his smutty novel sold a million copies practically overnight, he turned into a hermit. Wouldn't answer his phone or his door. Had his groceries delivered." She shook her head. "He'd spent years trying to hock his literary masterpiece, but he couldn't sell it to save his soul. So he writes trash, and he's an instant sensation."

Recognition lit her eyes. "Hey, aren't you that officer that saved Mayor Newell's son? The one whose partner died?"

I glanced down at my watch. "Wow, look at the time. Gotta go."

I strode away from the tape. The reporter's flats slapped the asphalt behind me.

"Wait a minute! I want to interview you!"

I bolted for the car. The sound of her footsteps dwindled. Breathless, I started the Corvair and peeled away from the curb.

Sleeth barely noticed my haste. He hummed under his breath and drummed his fingers against his thighs in time to a tune I didn't recognize. Any moment, I expected him to cut loose with an air guitar performance.

Back at the restaurant, Sleeth made an energetic recovery from his food poisoning and gorged on sausage and eggs. I felt tired and grumpy and stuck with tea and toast. He showed no interest in the details I'd learned about Shertleff.

I'd spent most of the night unable to sleep, listening to him moaning and cacking in the bathroom. My eyes were gritty, my head ached. Paying for Sleeth's breakfast didn't help my mood.

Worst of all, I'd soon have to reveal to the hippie that Calderon's place was under surveillance.

After breakfast, I drove to the Mission. Despite its name, there was nothing Spanish about its architecture. It occupied a converted warehouse. One end housed a chapel, the large center section provided space for dining tables where the homeless ate an evening meal, and the other end contained a kitchen and storage rooms.

"Wait here," I said.

I slipped from the car before Sleeth could ask any questions and approached the rear kitchen doors.

The place hummed already. Under Mrs. Hemstreet's supervision, a small army of volunteers prepared food for the evening meal. I ducked unseen into the storage room. It was jammed with canned goods, donated clothing, blankets, and props for the morality and seasonal holiday plays the Mission provided as entertainment.

I scrounged for the items we'd need to sneak into the Luna Azul unrecognized. I piled my loot in an old wheelchair, scurried through the kitchen with my head down, and rolled the chair down the sidewalk to my car.

Sleeth turned a puzzled look on me. He didn't get out to help while I wrestled the chair into the trunk. We headed back to the hotel.

"What's all that junk for?" he asked.

"So we won't be recognized when we go to Calderon's."

A look came over him. It must have been the first time he considered how I knew he worked with Calderon.

"How long have the pigs been watching?"

Heat inched up my face. "I'm just—was—a lowly beat cop. I don't know anything."

The hippie snorted. He wiggled in the seat and went back to humming.

Back at the hotel, I handed him a makeup case and a stack of clothes. His nose wrinkled at their musty smell.

"What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Pretend it's Halloween and you're going dressed as a Mexican peasant. There's coloring for your hair in the case.

He set the garments on the bed and pulled off his tank top. When he reached for the button on his jeans, I fled to the bathroom with my costume.

I stripped to my underwear and started with the padding usually worn under the Santa suit. Over that, I added a flowing orange and red skirt that reached my ankles, and an oversized white blouse. I covered my head with a red scarf and finished the look with black-framed men's glasses.

I cracked the door open and hoped Sleeth was decent. He sat at the desk using the mirror on the wall. He'd changed into the brown work pants and red checkered shirt I'd brought. He'd streaked the dye through his loose hair so skillfully that I could have sworn it was naturally black threaded with gray strands. He pasted a stringy, drooping mustache on his upper lip and turned to face me.

"Whoa, Chiquita, looks like you need to ease back on the tortillas," he said. His fake Mexican accent sounded like something from a cartoon.

We parked three blocks from the Luna Azul. By the time we reached the restaurant, sweat trickled down my ribs under the padding. I hoped I wouldn't drop from heat stroke before we left.

I dragged the wheelchair from the trunk while Sleeth watched but didn't offer to help.

"Get in," I said.

His brows rose. "Why me?"

"It's part of your ensemble." When his face turned belligerent, I sighed. "They know you, your build, your height, your swagger. In the chair, they won't see any of that."

Sleeth grudgingly sat in the chair. He settled a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat low over his eyes, caved in his manly chest, and slumped his shoulders. He curled one hand in his lap as if it were useless.

Too bad he'd gone to the dark side. If he'd kept his nose clean, he might have had a stellar acting career.

We bumped and rattled our way to the restaurant. I was chugging like a freight train and sweating like an ox by the time we arrived.

One of Calderon's men stood outside. He barely glanced at us and held the door open while I pushed the chair in. Sleeth chuckled, and the man gave us a second look.

"To the kitchen, Chiquita," Sleeth said. He gestured to the door at the back.

"Call me Chiquita again and I might accidentally push your chair in front of a bus," I muttered over his head.

Threading around the nearly empty tables was murder. We'd gotten within fifteen feet of our destination when the mobster appeared in the doorway, one hulking goon flanking him, and another approaching us from a nearby booth. I drew in a sharp breath.

Calderon's flat eyes took in the hippie first. The disguise didn't fool him for a moment. Then he regarded me.

A chill came over me despite my stifling outfit. The dining area seemed suddenly darker, as though Calderon sucked away the light. Behind us, the chatter of patrons and the clank of cutlery died.

"My Chiquita has questions," Sleeth said, amusement in his voice.

The damn hippie thought this was funny? I expected us both to be wearing concrete overshoes and swimming with the fishes before noon. I should have let him come alone.

Calderon stared at Sleeth a good thirty seconds. He gave a flick of his hand, and the goons parted like the Red Sea. The mobster spun and walked into the kitchen. Sleeth rolled the chair forward. I scrambled to keep up.

When we reached Calderon's office, Sleeth abandoned the chair and walked inside, leaving me to move the chair to clear the doorway. The mobster stood behind his desk, his face hard. We stood opposite.

"The pigs have eyes on you," Sleeth said.

Calderon's gaze flicked to me before returning to the hippie. "Si, of course. Who is this
señorita
?"

"
Citizen
Demasi," Sleeth said. "Formerly
Officer
Demasi, the… fuzz who found me at the bookstore."

For a split second, Calderon's eyes widened. New caution slowed his speech. "Where is her partner?"

"Perished." Sleeth let the word hang in the air.

The mobster's lips parted. He dropped into his chair. Like the hippie, he glanced up and cocked his head, listening.

"He stumbled into a trap meant for me." Sleeth splayed his hand on his chest as though pleading for sympathy.

Calderon's shock quickly turned to anger. "You brought her here?"

"Alan Mong is dead," I said. "And so is Matthew Shertleff. I'm tired of following Holmes' bread-crumb trail of bodies. I want to get in front of him. You did business with Decker and I'm willing to bet you had a relationship with Haskell and Shertleff. Tell me about your other associates."

Calderon's anger surged to barely controlled rage. He turned it on Sleeth. "What have you said to her?"

Fearless, the hippie stared down the mobster. "Nothing. But little time remains to stop Holmes. If the stakes are as high as you believe, maybe you should explain…"

"Risk the master's wrath if you will," Calderon said, "but
I
want no part of it. What you suggest is forbidden."

"She has power," Sleeth countered. "The Oracle says so. And she's Chosen. How can there be objections?"

Their conversation had shifted into the Twilight Zone. When had Solaris become an asylum for all California's lunatics?

"The victims never fought back," I said. "Decker at least made preparations to either pay off Holmes or to run away. That means he had contact with Holmes before his death. If we can find someone who's heard from Holmes—and is still alive—we can use the information to track Holmes to his hideout. I need to understand why and how Holmes targets his victims and know who he might go after next. I need a list of all your business associates."

"
All?
" Astonishment widened the mobster's eyes.

Sleeth sighed. "Some must be more…
interesting
than others. Those are the names we need."

Calderon tossed the hippie a black look and bared his teeth.

"The master would not be happy if he learned that you impeded the hunt for Holmes," Sleeth said in a pious tone.

The mobster's jaw tightened. Sleeth looked smug. The mobster rubbed his fingers on the edge of the desk, his eyes focused on a closed ledger.

"The killings aren't about business," Calderon said at last. "I belong to a secret organization. Its members sign contracts swearing to silence. Holmes lost faith and left. Now he commits this butchery because he believes it is the only way to loose the others from their vows."

From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of surprise from Sleeth. This wasn't what he expected. The question was, did he know the real truth and this was a lie? Or was what Sleeth thought the lie, and Calderon's revelation the truth? It all made my head hurt.

"I need a list of the other members," I said.

The mobster pulled a pad from the desk drawer and scrawled the list. He handed it to Sleeth, who frowned at it, shook his head, and tucked it in his pocket.

"Sabueso, you will accompany her during questioning," Calderon said, glaring at the hippie. "You will protect our interests—or the master will hear."

Sleeth bristled. "Don't flip your lid, man."

"What do you know about Herman Marks?" I asked.

Calderon leaned back in his chair, his face shuttered. "Why do you ask?"

"He tried to kill the— He tried to kill Citizen Demasi last night," Sleeth said. "But he screwed up and killed himself instead."

The mobster's eyebrows twitched, and he glanced at the ceiling. Sleeth did the same. "He's untrustworthy, an addict. And he's a stooge for the police."

Calderon's revelations didn't seem helpful, but I wasn't going to press. I counted myself lucky to still be alive.

"I need more pesos, compadre." Sleeth held out a hand.

The mobster glared at him.

"Living on the run's expensive, man." Sleeth shot me a look.

Calderon's lip curled. He reached in a desk drawer, pulled out a bundle of cash, and tossed it on the desk.

"Go."

Sleeth grabbed the cash, walked to the office door, and dropped into the wheelchair. "Let's go, Chiquita."

I grumbled a curse under my breath and pushed the hippie through the kitchen. Calderon's shoes clicked on the floor behind me. All the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

"Be careful, sabueso," the mobster said when he stopped at the kitchen door. "You play a dangerous game."

Sleeth sniggered and waved a dismissive hand.

48

Back in the hotel room, Kasker nibbled a fingernail and fought to keep his true skin contained. Anticipation coursed through him. Tonight, he would devour Matthew Shertleff's damned soul. Hiding in Erick Richards' body wouldn't save Shertleff from his fate.

Had Shertleff remained in his own body, who knew how long a life he might have enjoyed before his final demise? Now that he'd separated his soul from his flesh, Shertleff would make an express trip to Hell. Kasker ran his tongue over his lips, sucking back the drool forming in his mouth before it dribbled down his chin.

"Isn't 'sabueso' Spanish for hound?" the ward asked when she emerged from the bathroom. "Why does Calderon call you that?"

"Because I'm a dog with the chicks." He cackled and tossed her a sly look.

The ward scowled. "Give me the list."

Kasker opened the paper Calderon had given them and squinted at the spidery writing. Eight names straggled down the page, each with an address and a note describing their occupation.

"First on the list is Debbie Peck. She's hot. Miss Southern California, 1966." At the ward's deepening displeasure, he added, "Just sayin'."

The ward snatched the list from his hands. She scanned it, and her frown deepened.