Silent Doll (16 page)

“I dunno, whistle or something.” I waited patiently, then heard the distinct sound of the theme tune from
Magnum, P.I.
“Great.”

I wished sewers could just be one straight line. It was eerie in the darkness with just the flashlight beam to guide me, especially when the whistling cut off. Hamilton had probably run out of breath. Fortunately, I was close enough by then that it didn’t matter.

Just below the storm drain grate and just above a pool of stagnant water, a black, imitation snakeskin purse hung from a broken piece of pipe. I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. A single solitary goblin stood under it, jumping in an attempt to reach it. I shone the torch in its face; it hissed at me.

“Back off,” I warned it. “The bag is mine.”

“I saw it first,” its raspy little voice chided me.

I held the torch up so that it illuminated my face. “Do I look like I’m playing finders keepers with you? I say it’s mine. Back off.”

It took a step back, its legs rustling and I looked down at its ugly little body. “You’s…you’s is the fire lady…”

I looked at the little creature’s face. He seemed terrified of me. I was taken aback. “Fire lady?”

“You bring death.” He pressed a dent in his forehead; it looked like a little like a hole. I remembered the last time I had seen a goblin this close up. We’d questioned it about a demon, then Rourke had shot it. I’d never seen where, but now I was guessing it was the head.

“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was the big mean police lady. I can call her down here if you want.”

Its head whipped around, as if looking for Rourke to suddenly appear. It put its hands in its pockets and glared at me.

“Youse will get yours, fire lady, cause the dark one wants.”

I took a step forward and it took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“He wants.”

“Who? What?”

It raised one slender, needle-clawed finger to point at me. I raised my hand to make a grab for the little pest and make it tell me what it was on about, but it scuttled away.

“Farbanks? You found it yet?”

I looked up at the gap in the street above. “Yeah, I found it. Shunt me down a pair of gloves and I’ll bring up what I found.” A box of gloves bounced down along the wall beside me.

“I said a pair. The entire box was unnecessary.” I pulled on a pair of the latex gloves, wincing as the elastic snapped back against my skin. I lifted the bag down and, juggling gloves, flashlight, and purse, headed back to the manhole. I threw the box up through the hole, tucked the purse under my arm, turned off the torch, pushing it into my pocket, and began my journey up.

As I reached the top and climbed to my feet, Rourke moved over to join me. “A purse? How did you know it was down there?” Rourke asked.

“Now, that was magic.”

“Who were you talking to down there?” Hamilton asked. “We heard something going on.”

“I just met a really weird goblin.”

“What’s weird about a goblin? I mean more than usual.”

“Well, to start with, he was wearing pants.” In truth, they’d been more like baggy shorts made out of some kind of burlap. An old potato sack maybe. I’d never known a goblin to wear clothes. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, at the Soul Market I’d seen one wearing a bow tie; but that was hardly on the scale of pants.

“That does sound odd,” said Hamilton, his face screwed up as though he was trying to imagine it. He seemed amused by whatever his imagination conjured up. I lifted the purse to my lap. The chain that had snagged on the pipe was gold plated metal links, and a small matching clasp held it closed. I unsnapped it and looked inside. There were a couple of bills, some change, a stick of gum, a Blackberry, a set of house keys, and a driver’s license. I lifted that out carefully, recognizing the dead girl’s face in the photo ID.

“Bridget Kelly. There you go, one ID and a purse with possible fingerprints.”

“I’ll get a baggie.” Hamilton vanished back into the alley and we waited but he didn’t come back immediately. I pushed against the manhole cover and it fell back into place with a deafening clang. We followed after Hamilton, only to bump into Ro.

“What’s going on?” I asked her, depositing the purse and ID into the baggie she had ready, while Rourke marched off down the other end of the alley.

“A uniform found some girl skulking around. She’s kicking up a fuss and Hamilton went to calm the situation down.”

“I’m sure he can handle it. I have plans now to have a secret rendezvous with my bed.”

“I wouldn’t count on that just yet. The girl started asking for you.”

Chapter Seventeen

I didn’t know what kind of expression to wear as I walked around the corner, wondering what kind of trouble had found me now. The girl leaning against the trunk of Hamilton’s car was not a girl at all. It was Trinket. The living doll. She looked tiny next to Hamilton, but defiant, her arms crossed over her chest as he loomed over her, asking questions. I was still surprised by the emotional range of her face; at the moment she looked sullen.

She was wearing a dress that could have come straight from some strange Japanese anime. It was a corset of white trimmed with gold ruffles, with straps crossing the front in three places and shoulder pieces attached with little pearl buttons. The dress under that was purple with three lines of lace up the chest to a lacy high collar. The skirt split in front to reveal a chocolate colored underskirt with a touch of crimson running through the fabric. Belt-like straps circled her upper arms, and a bow in her hair matched the corset.

Trinket was not a girl, it appeared, that could dress down. I looked at her feet; the brown boots were at least more sensible, but even they burst at the brim with lacy material.

I took a deep breath and stepped pointedly into Trinket’s line of sight. Trinket slid out from under Hamilton’s arm and threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist and nearly bowling me over.

“Miss Cassandra,” she shrieked.

“You know this young lady?” Hamilton asked.

I nodded my head and I watched with fascination as a perfectly pink little tongue protruded from her lips. I wonder if it was bad that I was dying to know how she worked—a schematic, a recipe or an autopsy would be helpful. I chided myself. I knew it was wrong to think of taking her apart just to satisfy my curiosity. Trinket buried her face against my side; the top of her hair just about brushed my breasts. God, she really was tiny, like a child almost. I looked down at her.

“Trinket. What are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”

“I knew you’d be here.”

Her arms tightened around me. I lifted my hand to pat the top of her head.

“Cassandra, you can’t let your friends go skulking about over murder scenes,” Hamilton interrupted.

I gave him an arch look. “Unless they have a useful supernatural talent?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “What I mean is that it’s not safe out here, not for a young girl when there’s a murderer roaming around.”

Trinket flinched at the word
murderer
. I stroked her wiry curls.

“I know that. I didn’t invite her here.” I looked down; Trinket was peeking up at me. “I was very
surprised
to see her here.” She ducked her head back down.

Hamilton scratched the back of his head. “All right, but take her home, Cassandra, she shouldn’t be out here this late.”

He looked her up and down again, as if he also wanted to comment on what she was wearing, but held his tongue. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders.

“I’ll take care of her,” I said, and led her toward my bike. Trinket looked at it with an expression that was probably about as close to shock as she got.

“I have to get on that?”

I straddled the bike and lifted the helmet up. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t have another helmet, but your head’s hard enough if you fall off right.”

She stomped her foot; I stifled a giggle.

“Don’t be mean.”

“Sorry. Come on—” I had to pull her on behind me as she had trouble getting her leg over the bike. Her slender arms wrapped around my waist as I slipped my helmet on. I gunned the engine and just barely heard her squeal. I drove carefully, never having had a passenger before, and pulled up in the back parking lot of my building

Trinket released her grip and slid back, tumbling awkwardly to the ground. I laughed and helped her up. She dusted off her bottom, scowling.

“So,” I said, leading her around to the front of the building, “what did you want to see me about?”

Trinket almost had to skip to keep up with my long strides. “I wanted to know if you’d done it yet. Found a way to help me.”

I sighed, pinching my forehead between my thumb and forefinger. I motioned to the steps at the entrance of the building and took a seat next to Trinket.

“I promised I would do what I could to help you. Did you do what I asked? Did you sit down with them and try to talk?”

“You don’t understand,” she said. Once again her voice cut off; she couldn’t finish whatever sentence she was trying to impart. She bashed her fists against her skirt. I put my hand over hers.

“I understand that you’re frustrated, but you have to be patient. You can’t come charging into a crime scene looking for me.”

She pushed my hand away and stood up. “It’s important. I, I need to be free.” Her voice sounded choked, as though she wanted to cry but she just wasn’t able to.

I sighed. I could understand why her family situation bothered her. I wouldn’t have been happy if a specific order from my mother had made me mute on an issue that I thought was vitally important. Then again, I remember as a pre-teen and even as a young teen thinking that every little thing was so direly important that the world should stop and help me.

“Trinket, I understand families are difficult…”

“No! No you don’t, you just don’t see…”

“Trinket?” A male voice cut her off. Trinket froze and her face went completely blank for the first time since I’d met her. I saw the man across the street who’d called her name. It was the same tattooed doorman from the club who’d called me
sweets
. He walked across the street and took her by the shoulders. “There you are. You can’t just keep disappearing like this. You’re worrying your poor mother so much.”

I rose to my feet and he stopped to stare me up and down, his gaze very nearly offensive.

“Sorry, miss, was she bothering you?”

“Not at all. We were just talking.” He looked at me again, surveyed the building briefly, and then focused back on Trinket’s face.

“Trinks, sweetheart, you have to stop doing this. You and I are going home right now, before your Momma has a heart attack.”

“Okay, Louis, I’m sorry. Can I just say goodbye first?”

He looked at me again. I gave him a sweet innocent smile, but as his gaze raked me over again my fingers twitched. I wanted to flip him off so badly it was almost criminal not to.

“Sure, babe, sure. But be quick. We have to get back.”

Trinket turned and wrapped her arms around my waist, squeezing me. I felt sad for her all over again, and guilty that I was pushing her problem off to one side.

“Goodbye, Miss Cassandra. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

“It’s okay, Trinket. Take care.” I was trying to be subtle because I was positive that Louis, although he looked bored and inattentive, was listening. She gave me a sad nod, returning to Louis. He put his arm around her delicate shoulders and led her away while she darted glances back over his arm at me.

I was so tired that when I got home, I fell into my bed, pulled the covers up around me, and couldn’t sleep a wink. Trinket’s last furtive glances at me over the bouncer’s arm filled me with gut wrenching guilt. I rolled over to look at my alarm clock. Five a.m.

I was letting Trinket down. I’d taken my job because I wanted to help people. If I helped just one person, that was worth it, right? If I saved just one. I couldn’t help those that were already dead, and the police hadn’t been calling me until it was too late for them anyway.

I sighed and got out of bed. I had to do something if I was going to get any rest. Luckily, I had one of the greatest magical resources in the world open to me—but I only had an hour left to access it.

Chapter Eighteen

Virginia’s house always reminded me of something out of a scary old fairy tale. It
looked
like a witch’s house; and as it
was
the home of a witch, I thought it suited her very well.

The porch boasted white-washed columns supporting a sloping purple slate roof. Grey slat cladding ran all the way up the house to the tower on the left, which had a circular window and wrought iron spiked railings around the edge of its flat roof. Come to think of it, this house could also have belonged to the Munsters.

On the right side of the house, a half dome of glass stuck out from the house like a bubble, inside which was a forest of greenery and herb trays. I walked up the steps, crossed the porch and stood in front of the big oak door. I’d always liked her wooden door knocker, carved to look like the face of an old man with a brass ring that ran from each of his ears. Virginia had told me once that the door knocker depicted a wood spirit, and that having one in your house was supposed to be good luck. She’d smacked me around the head when I told her that “on the door” wasn’t technically “in the house”, and could explain that run of bad luck she was having.