Secrets of the Demon (14 page)

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Authors: Diana Rowland

BOOK: Secrets of the Demon
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I took a deep breath. “Sir, I appreciate that.” I paused, unable to keep from smiling. “But the mayor and Mr. Moran are forgetting a fairly crucial detail.”
Chief Turnham gave me a questioning look.
“She was attacked in
New Orleans,
sir.”
A broad smile spread across his face and he began to chuckle. “And I take it you had a member of the NOPD on your task force?”
I matched his smile. “Yes, sir. Detective Marco Knight took the report, which means that Mr. Moran and the mayor will have a much harder time getting the whole thing dropped.” I inclined my head to him slightly. “But, as far as this department is concerned, I think you can honestly state that the Beaulac Police Department has no active cases concerning an attack on Lida Moran.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Detective Gillian, what I want to say at this moment would no doubt be considered extremely inappropriate and unprofessional, even though it would be meant as a compliment to you.” Then he surprised me by laughing. “Screw it. You’re a devious, clever bitch, and I’m glad you work for me.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said with a grin. “I think.”
“Though I have to admit that I did wonder why a financial crimes task force was looking into a singer receiving death threats in the first place.” He gave me a penetrating gaze, and I was reminded that he was quite shrewd, and I would be a fool to underestimate him.
“Well, sir, its primary focus is financial crimes, but it also deals with anything that doesn’t quite fit anywhere else.” Including anything related to the arcane or “magic” or strange creatures or ritual murders ... but I had no plans to explain all of that to him. “The whole thing is under the Homeland Security umbrella, which makes it kind of a catchall. When the complaint came in, our group was the one that was available.”
“All right, well keep in mind that there’s a lot of attention on you and that task force now. Make sure that you have justification for whatever you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave me a wave of dismissal and I made my exit, mulling over what he’d said. I’d been a cop long enough to be unsurprised that someone with social or political clout would try to influence an ongoing investigation. Yet I could understand why Lida’s uncle would try and do so. If his niece truly had participated in something as boneheaded as a publicity stunt—and, to make matters worse, one that got out of control—it was no surprise that he’d want to shield her from repercussions that would no doubt destroy her career and affect her future.
I’d also been a cop long enough to know that the world was
not
fair and just, and that people with money and influence often did not have to suffer the same tribulations that the “common” folk did. I still vividly remembered an incident from my days as a road cop. My sergeant had asked me to stay after roll call, and after everyone else had left, he’d handed me a speeding ticket that I’d written the day before. With a tight expression, he’d then asked me to please change it to a ticket for not wearing a seat belt.
“So, who is it?” I’d asked.
He’d sighed and shrugged. “Who knows. It came down from someone in the upper ranks. Someone they don’t want to piss off.”
And, I’d dutifully crossed out the speeding charge and written in the one for seat belt use. Sure, I could have made a stand against influence and the good ol’ boy network. But I also knew you had to pick your battles, and I didn’t want to stay a road cop forever.
The chief’s comment about the task force bothered me, though. What if he was pressured to take me off it? A pang went through me at the thought. Even though I had no desire to leave Beaulac PD, working with the task force gave me—and my abilities—a feeling of legitimacy that I’d never had before. Now I summoned demons for good reasons—to find missing people and stop killers and protect potential victims. I liked that. A lot.
But he’s not the type to bow to political pressure, right?
The chief was good people. I had a huge amount of respect for him.
But the chief of police is an appointed position,
I reminded myself. If push came to shove, I doubted he’d be willing to sacrifice his job so that I could stay on the task force.
My gut was churning at the direction my thoughts were taking. And when I returned to my office there was yet another note on the door, though this one told me to go see my sergeant, Cory Crawford. Continuing down the hall to where his door stood open, I looked in to see him reading what looked like a report, a baffled expression on his face. Crawford was a stout man engaged in a constant battle with a midsection that wanted to be more than stout. His hair had gone gray long ago, but he continued to dye it a dull brown—an almost perfect match to the color of his eyes. He was similarly unimaginative in his wardrobe—brown, brown, and more brown—except when it came to his ties. Those were always wild and psychedelic, in eye-bleeding colors and patterns. He’d recently grown his mustache back—which was, of course, also dyed. I’d never tell him, but I actually thought he looked better with the mustache. There weren’t too many men who could pull it off, but he was definitely one of them.
I tapped on his door frame. “You wanted to see me? I can come back if you’re in the middle of something.”
He glanced up, then waved me in. “Nah, come on in. Glad for the break. I’m trying to decipher Pellini’s report. Makes me wonder if English is really his first language.”
I resisted the urge to snicker or make any other sort of commentary and dropped into the chair in front of the desk.
Crawford rubbed his eyes. “God, his reports give me headaches. You already went to see the chief?”
“Yes, he’s recognized my innate brilliance and intends to promote me to deputy chief.”
“Good, then you can approve my vacation time,” Crawford said without missing a beat. I laughed and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Funny, I figured it had more to do with the whole Lida Moran thing.”
“Yeah, well, that might have come up too,” I said with a casual shrug. Then I made a face. “You know how it is. People with pull will pull.”
Crawford’s expression soured. “At least you understand. It sucks, but you’re usually pretty good at keeping your head out of your ass.” He turned and shuffled through papers on his desk. “Anyway, I need you to take some cases. I hate to throw you the boring shit, but it’s your own damn fault for not being an incompetent fucktard.”
“Sorry, Sarge. I’ll have to work on that.”
Crawford scowled as he handed two folders to me. “Spare me that, please. We already have our quota in this department. Now get out.”
I gave him a sarcastic salute, then retreated to my own office with the folders.
I skimmed them quickly—one was a supposed burglary, but on closer reading it became clear that it was a property dispute related to a divorce and that the “burgling” wife still had legal access to the residence in question. That one was easily resolved—at least for now—with a few phone calls to the respective lawyers of the divorcing couple.
The other was a missing person report that had come in only about an hour ago. Victor Kerry, white male, fifty-six years old, hadn’t shown up for his regular training session at his gym last Friday or this morning.
“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I muttered. I started to toss the report back onto the desk, then paused as the name of the reporting person caught my attention.
Roger Peeler? That’s the drummer from Lida’s band.
I vaguely remembered Lida’s comment about him being a personal trainer. I went back and read through his statement more carefully, though still with an admittedly jaundiced eye. Personally I saw absolutely nothing strange or suspicious about skipping out on a session with a personal trainer.
I finished reading the report, still far from convinced that there was anything to justify the complaint. From what I could determine, Victor Kerry was a financial planner and CPA with no family in the area. Roger Peeler had stated that Mr. Kerry was extraordinarily diligent about his workouts, and when he’d failed to show up for two sessions in a row Mr. Peeler had gone to Mr. Kerry’s residence and his office, but had failed to locate him at either place.
“Wow, talk about your stalkers,” I muttered. It seemed far more likely to me that Mr. Kerry had gone away for the weekend and had seen no reason to notify his personal trainer.
In other words, the probability is high that this is a bullshit case.
On the other hand, the universe was gifting me with an opportunity to question one of the members of Ether Madhouse. I wasn’t about to let that pass that by. Even if it did mean going to a gym.
Chapter 11
Magnolia Fitness Center was the largest gym in St. Long parish, and the only one of any decent quality in Beaulac. I was a member there, though calling my attendance “sporadic” would have been generous. I tended to go through spasms of desire to get fit that usually lasted about two weeks and would then die down for several months. I was quite sure that Magnolia Fitness absolutely loved me, since I was kind enough to allow them to deduct the dues from my checking account every month, and I avoided adding any wear or tear to their equipment by the clever technique of remaining on my couch at home.
The front of the fitness center resembled a plantation, complete with a broad stairway, absurd columns, and rocking chairs on the “porch.” However, the interior was more in line with what one would expect a fitness center to look like: shiny and chromey, with signs indicating directions to the spa, the hair salon, child care, or—amazingly—the weight room.
I’d called Roger and arranged to meet with him during a break in his training schedule. I had to ask for directions to the trainer offices, though, since I’d never had any desire to go there. The thought of paying someone to make me exercise made me whimper, both at the hit it would make on my budget and at the thought of being harassed and goaded to work and push and sweat.
It felt odd for me to walk through the gym in my detective-attire, and I found myself sucking my stomach in as I walked past the banks of mirrors. A couple of months ago I’d been accused of being too skinny—a result of being too stressed to eat properly because of worrying about my aunt. It hadn’t taken long for my usual bad habits to assert themselves and for the “fleshy curves” to return. The running with Jill helped, but my fondness for ice cream before bed did not.
Roger was in the office when I arrived. He stood and shook my hand in a firm grip with no recognition in his eyes, not surprising since I was no longer dressed in go-thy undercover garb. As Lida had said, Roger was definitely a ball of muscle. A damn good-looking one too, with dark blond hair and green eyes and a sharp little cleft in the middle of his chin. I had a feeling those good looks accounted for a fair number of the band’s female fan base.
I debated briefly about
not
telling him that we’d met before when I’d taken his witness statement after the attack, then decided it would probably be more than a little awkward if he figured it out later.
“Oh, right!” he exclaimed after I mentioned the task force. He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Man, that was some crazy shit, huh!”
“Yeah, sure was,” I said as I settled myself carefully into one of the plastic chairs. Maybe they made the chairs deliberately uncomfortable so that people wouldn’t want to sit for long and instead would eagerly rush out to exercise? “Seems kinda strange that Lida doesn’t seem to be worried that it could happen again.”
He shrugged. “Lida’s a strange girl. I mean, she’s cool and all, and super tough and driven, but at the same time she kinda does whatever her uncle and Adam say.”
I desperately wanted to pursue that, but Roger didn’t give me a chance. He plopped a chart down in front of me.
“So, I know that I’m not a family member or anything of Vic’s,” he began, expression earnest, “and I know he hasn’t been missing very long, but if there’s one thing he was super committed about it was his workouts. In the past three years he’s only missed three appointments, and each time he made sure to let me know way in advance.”
I obediently perused the chart, more than a little intimidated at the number of training sessions that Vic had scheduled. The man worked out five days a week—and that was just the sessions with Roger. I could also see that he was expected to do a fair amount of cardio on his own. “Wow, he must really be in shape,” I said.
Roger gave a proud smile. “He’s my star client. Three years ago he was close to four hundred pounds. Then he had a scare during a Christmas party—thought he was having a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. Turned out it was only gastritis, but when they ran all the tests they found out that he was inches away from having a real one. He had a couple of stents put in, and as soon as he recovered, he decided he was going to change his life. He came here and signed up, and got serious.” Roger pulled out two pictures and set them side by side for me to see—before and after pictures. I barely recognized that it was the same man in both pictures, and if Roger hadn’t told me so, I might not have at all. The picture on the left showed a man dressed only in gray shorts—balding, morbidly obese, skin pasty and pale, and a deeply fatigued expression on a round and almost babyish face. The picture on the right had him in a white T-shirt and black shorts, and clearly about two hundred pounds lighter, but the differences went beyond the weight loss and the clothing. Vic Kerry was smiling, standing straighter with obvious muscle tone in his arms and legs. He’d gone and shaved his head and even though he still had a faintly cherubic roundness to his face, it was possible to see that he had cheekbones, and he no longer looked as if he never saw the light of day.

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