No Place Like Hell (6 page)

The shopkeeper stood five foot nine. Dark hair framed a round face with Asian eyes, and a huge belly billowed a tent-sized floral-print shirt. Khaki shorts peeked out below the shirt, and flip-flops finished the attire.

He stretched his hands over his head, surveyed the cloudless sky, and faced Kasker's direction. His dark eyes found Kasker's, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. Kasker slumped in the seat.

The man stepped back inside, turned the Open sign to Closed, but didn't lock the door. He shuffled from view toward the interior of the shop.

Kasker drew a deep breath, got out of the Mustang, and crossed the street. He stood in front of the shop door gazing through the glass.

Light spilled from lava lamps strategically scattered through the space. Black lights illuminated glowing wall posters of fairies, dragons, and fantastical ships sailing starry skies.

Display racks piled with merchandise filled the space between the door and a counter behind them. A beaded curtain hung across an opening to a second room. The shopkeeper-who-was-no-shopkeeper fussed with paperwork at the counter.

Kasker hovered his hand over the door handle, checking for magical emanations. Nothing. He stepped inside to the tinkling of bells.

Cool air washed over him, raising bumps along his flesh. Jasmine, sandalwood, and dozens of other exotic scents filled his nostrils. His empty stomach churned from the sickening mix, and the ache behind his eyes worsened. The closing door bumped his butt.

"You should take better care," the shopkeeper said without looking from his paperwork.

Kasker tensed. Was that a threat? How should he answer? As though he could hear Kasker's thought, the man continued.

"Of your body. All that time in the heat. It's dehydrated."

Kasker glanced over his shoulder. The shopkeeper couldn't see the car from behind the counter. How had he known Kasker waited outside?

A prickling shot up his neck. He wanted to back away, but he pressed against the door already. Cornered, he straightened and thrust out his chest. He was the hunter, not the hunted.

"You're the Oracle."

"Sure. Whatever you say." The shopkeeper's pen tipped to a sign on the counter.

The customer is always right.

Kasker frowned. "I've come for information."

"We only offer
enlightenment
, Angra Mainyu. And it takes a lot of work. Gonna cost ya. You prepared to pay?"

Was
that
a threat? If the Oracle could wield the magicks of the universe and knew one of his names…

Kasker looked over his shoulder again to be sure the Oracle's followers didn't lurk on the street, although his senses told him no souls hovered outside the storefront. Was the man so powerful that he didn't need seconds?

"You won't find any cult followers
here
. Just little old Hawaiian Mike trying to make a living amongst the haoles." The Oracle rubbed his expansive belly and chuckled. "Okay, maybe not so little."

Kasker stared.
Could
the man read his thoughts?

The Oracle placed his hands on the counter and stared back. "I owe you money or wot?"

Kasker looked away and wished he'd never come. But Seve said Decker's escape could be the unmaking of Heaven and Hell. He needed information. He swallowed hard and took a tiny step forward.

"No, you don't plan to stay long enough to find enlightenment. You want to buy something?" the man asked, waving his hands at the merchandise.

So the Oracle demanded payment for information. Kasker understood greed. His mouth was too dry to speak. He nodded, wary about the price.

The Oracle came around the counter and into an aisle between the display racks where he patted his cheek and studied the candles, packets of joss sticks, and brass incense holders.

The closer the man came, the worse Kasker felt. The room seemed to tilt and melt like a bad acid trip.

"Hmm, seems I'm outta wolfbane." A twinkle shone in his dark eyes. "That's a joke."

Kasker's grip on the flesh loosened, only it wasn't his doing. He'd become insubstantial, powerless. His very existence flickered.

When Kasker didn't laugh, the Oracle shrugged and wheeled around to peruse the opposite display. "Maybe some brimstone to make you feel more at home, yeah? Oh, sorry, outta that, too."

The Oracle faced him. The jocular banter dropped away, and a serious intensity filled his voice that penetrated to the center of Kasker's being—what remained of it. "There's a chance I'll have a supply next Friday afternoon, after the solstice."

Kasker put a hand on his throbbing head. He had to get out. Had to get away from the fat Hawaiian and his bad jokes. He backed into the door, snatched it open.

"The winds of change may blow away all that you know. You want to prevent that, Fenrir, you go with the non-believer," the Oracle called as the door swung shut.

Kasker fled.

9

Dave drove along Santa Domingo, eyes flicking left and right. Business hours were over, and it was still too hot for anyone to stroll the deserted sidewalks. Kids in their muscle cars wouldn't start cruising until sunset.

"What do you suppose he was doing here?" Dave asked.

"Who?" I'd been thinking about what I'd wear to lunch. I had that little black dress, but Travo's in the early afternoon in the summer probably wasn't the venue for it. I might have to get up early and buy something new. Or maybe I'd play it safe and stick with my uniform.

"Tad Newell. You know, that guy you're having lunch with? Mostly businesses along here, and they're closed by six. Not even any bars."

Dave was right. I hadn't noticed before. But what did it matter? Pedestrians had the right-of-way, even when they jaywalked, and the Camaro tried to run the light. I had other things to worry about—like how I was going to make detective when the upper echelons thought of me as the token female.

"You think the Solaris Slasher will strike again?" That's what the press had dubbed our killer. The title had Lt. Mack tearing out his hair. I chuckled at the image.

Dave took a left at the light. This wasn't our usual patrol pattern, but maybe he was as bored as me. My social life needed a little excitement. Tad Newell might be just the ticket, but I didn't want to discuss it with Dave.

"Well?" I said when Dave didn't reply.

"What?"

I frowned at him. "The Slasher. Think he'll do it again?"

"Maybe."

Dave made another left.

"Mack'll wish he'd held Sleeth when they find the next body."

Dave glanced sideways at me. "You sound like you want someone to die so you can be right."

"I'm trying to prevent anymore deaths by removing a criminally insane suspect from the streets."

"If we arrest Sleeth when he didn't do it, we're leaving the real killer out there to strike again."

"Not if the 'real killer' is Sleeth's accomplice and works at Sleeth's direction. Sleeth's the type to bargain his sentence down by rolling on his buddy."

"If you want a promotion to detective, you have to follow the rules. Develop the evidence and make the arrest. Prove a connection between Sleeth and whoever wielded the knife—assuming there
is
a connection."

I clamped my jaw shut. At the next left turn, I focused on where we were going. "You're running a search pattern."

Dave slowed as we cruised by a half-empty parking lot. His eyes raked the vehicles. "Newell drives a blue '65 Chevy Impala. If he can't remember where he left it, then it's probably still here somewhere."

"What's with you and Newell?" I folded my arms over my chest. "Is this because he asked me to lunch?"

Dave and I had known one another since first grade. We were best friends and partners, nothing more. He was the kind of guy I ought to date: strong, dependable, almost sensitive. But there was no spark.

No, I had the misfortune to be attracted to altogether the wrong men. In high school, it had been Larry Renfrew. He was doing ten to twenty in San Quentin for armed robbery. Then there'd been Charlie Wilson. We'd dated for a month when he stole my checkbook, cleaned out my bank account, and skipped town.

"I just think we need to find out what happened. Too many things don't add up," Dave said.

I threw my hands in the air. "Don't go all 'big brother' on me. It's not like he and I are dating."

"He's the mayor's son. That makes him a VIP." Dave took the next corner a little too fast. "I don't want you around someone who could get you hurt."

"Listen to you! You'd think I was some helpless female. I wear a gun, remember? I can take care of myself."

"That's not what I meant," Dave protested. "What did you put in your report? You said, 'Newell ran into the street.' You're always careful with your reports, Nicky. You wouldn't write
ran
unless that's what he did."

I chewed my lip. He was right again, damn it. Tad didn't just step off the curb without looking. He jumped in front of the Camaro. Had he been trying to kill himself? Was he messed up from serving in 'Nam?

I'd only spoken to him for a few minutes, but Tad seemed like a nice guy, a man of substance. According to the papers, he'd been working to help other veterans. There were rumors he'd run for city council come the next election. I didn't want to believe he had a death wish.

"VIPs attract the wrong kind of people, especially politician VIPs," Dave said. "Look what happened to Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I don't want you caught in a crossfire."

Last night's tableau replayed in my head, and just like that, I had the answer. He wasn't trying to kill himself—he was running away.

"Those two guys," I said, my voice climbing. "They were chasing him."

"What guys?" Dave asked, taking his eyes from the street long enough to shoot me a perplexed look.

"Two toughs ran to the curb just after he went down. I didn't see where they went. Did you get their names?"

"They must have split. I didn't interview them."

"Take us back to Santa Domingo. I want to see where they came from."

Dave abandoned the search and drove back to the accident site. He pulled to the curb. I got out and strolled the sidewalk to the intersection.

Smeared blood still marked the pavement. I turned my back on it, took a deep breath, and started the previous day's scenario playing in my head.

The Camaro roared. Tad jumped in front of it. I ran up the street towards him. The two men had come from…

The Carlisle Hotel. It was a seedy brick affair on the corner, rising six stories, home to strapped pensioners, destitute widows, and newly released convicts.

I walked back to the car, my gut churning. If that's where Newell came from, what was he doing there? Why were the men chasing him? My mind shied away from the possible answers, all of them involving criminal activities.

"Well?" Dave asked.

"The hotel."

Dave craned his neck to see its façade through the windshield. Then he looked at me. "Maybe he has friends living there. You can ask him when you have lunch. He should be able to remember that much."

Good ol' Dave, always thinking the best of people.

"If they were his friends, he needs to keep better company," I said.

"If those hoods were after him, he could be in big trouble. Keep your distance until you know what's up, okay?"

"All right already with the warnings. He might need our help."

Dave returned to the search for Newell's car. We meandered through the business district into the commercial district where the streets were lined with a mix of big department stores and small boutique shops. Most of them stayed open late on Friday, and shoppers ambled through the heat picking up last-minute bargains.

"There it is."

Newell's car sat among a dozen others in a pay-by-the-hour lot, a boot on the back tire, and a yellow notice jammed under a wiper blade. We'd driven a good twelve blocks from the accident site. Three movie theaters and a dozen restaurants or bars were scattered in a six-block radius.

Dave surveyed the neighborhood. "Funny place to park if he was going to the Carlisle."

"Let's ask around, see if anyone remembers him," I said.

A fuzz of static came from the radio, followed by a dispatcher's voice. "Unit five, respond to a 10-37 shoplifter at the Stop 'n Go, 2212 Maple."

I ground my teeth and vowed that I'd come back. I'd find out what Newell had been doing before he'd been mowed down by the Camaro—and why he was of interest to two thugs.

10

An unmarked cop car stood in the cracked asphalt parking lot outside Decker Industries. Kasker assumed they were here to interview Decker's staff. He eased the Mustang past and parked around the corner. Then he walked back to the intersection and stood in the shade of a building, watching.

The grubby neighborhood didn't provide much cover. The shining six stories of Decker's flagship rose in the midst of grungy warehouses, import companies, and vacant lots. No coffee shops, bars, or other businesses in which to loiter unobserved.