Tarnished and Torn (19 page)

Carmen had also mentioned performing fire dances to placate the demon. So maybe Gene was doing what he could to appease Xolotl. And Clem and Zeke, presumably, were searching for the ring so they could destroy the magical stone so no one would be able to control Xolotl. And if I was correct when I felt their vibrations connected to those of my father’s, that would mean he was doing the same.

And, quite frankly, I thought San Francisco already had its fair share of disease and bad luck. I couldn’t imagine what it would mean if Xolotl were allowed to act freely.

If the ring really had been passed down through the ages, it held not only its own power but a little of each practitioner that had worn it.

It was unique; irreplaceable.

It was up to me to find it. I refused to give over my adopted city to a fire demon and his sharp-dressed underling.

•   •   •

I dropped Maya off at her house, then returned to Aunt Cora’s Closet to find Bronwyn’s granddaughter, Imogen, was visiting with Beowulf the cat. In the beginning Oscar hated Beowulf, so the black cat would follow him around. Once Oscar decided he liked the feline, though, she disdained him and would walk away, tail held high and twitching. At the moment in his piggy guise, Oscar was trotting after her like a lovesick, well . . . piglet.

I said hello to the pure black, silky cat by petting her, then sneezed. I’m allergic. Which, I supposed, was part of the reason I got stuck with a miniature potbellied pig in the first place.

Imogen was putting together a project for the science fair, with Bronwyn’s help, about herbal medicines. She was working on a big poster board to set behind the actual samples of herbs and plants. After telling me all about it and asking me a few detailed questions, she got back to work. Lying on her stomach in a quiet corner of the store, markers scattered around her, she drew while Beowulf and Oscar vied for her attention.

Bronwyn went to check on Imogen’s progress, and I helped a young woman looking for a dress for a swing-dancing competition. As I was ringing her up, I looked up to see a well-groomed, nice-looking man in his twenties walk into the store. He was carrying a briefcase and wore a gray suit and red tie. Alarm bells went off.

A suit and tie in this part of the city? Could he be working with Gene?

I kept an eye on him while I wrapped the full-skirted dress in tissue paper and put it in a recycled paper bag with A
UNT
C
ORA’S
C
LOSET
written on the side along with our slogan: I
T’S
N
OT
O
LD;
I
T’S
V
INTAGE!

As the customer turned to leave, the man approached the counter.

“Hi. I’m Spade.” He handed me his card. “Sam Spade.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I received a note saying you wanted to speak with me? I’m a private detective, er, investigator. I’m a private investigator.”

“You
guys . . .
” I smiled and glanced over at Bronwyn and Imogen. Bronwyn was now lying on the floor next to her granddaughter, kicking her feet in the air. She was the best grandma ever. “Very funny. You called
Sam Spade
to consult with me about a case?”

They looked puzzled, and it dawned on me: Oscar never transformed in front of Bronwyn and Maya. They couldn’t have spoken about it and worked out the gag.

“You mean this isn’t a joke?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

Oscar
. How had he managed to track down a man named Sam Spade? I was going to kill me one gobgoyle pig.

The man looked pained. “It’s that movie, right?
The Maltese
whatever?”

“
The
Maltese Falcon
, based on the novel by Dashiell Hammett. Featuring Sam Spade.”

“Hardly anybody remembers that film anymore.”

I couldn’t have been more than five years this guy’s senior. But, then, I’d always been out of step when it came to popular culture. Or any culture, for that matter.

“Anyway, my father named me Sam. Not even Samuel or Samson . . . just Sam.”

“So you grew up as Sam Spade, and then you decided to become a private investigator?”

“Actually . . .” A pretty blush came over his face, staining his cheeks and making him look like he was still in high school. “I’m a stockbroker. I got laid off. I figured, how hard could it be?”

He reached into his suit breast pocket and brought out his wallet, then flipped it open to show me his private-investigation license.

“I didn’t even realize you needed certification.”

“Oh, sure. You have to pass a test. There’s even a handbook. And if you want to carry a gun, that’s a whole other process. Anyway, I’m good with computers, and I figure there’s always the advanced-search button on Google.”

I was embarrassed to admit it, but he was probably right; even with such rudimentary investigative skills, he could probably find out more than I did without ever leaving his office. After all, all I accomplished by running around, trying to talk to people, was to stumble into dangerous situations without preparation.

“I received a message that you’re looking for help,” Sam said.

“I . . .” This poor man was here under false pretenses.
Unless . . .
“How much would it cost me to have you track someone down?”

“It’s . . . just one second.” He put his briefcase on the counter, opened it, pulled out a book, flipped through a few pages, ran his finger along one entry, then finally nodded and snapped the book closed.

“Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

“Two hundred? Gee . . . that sounds like a lot. Especially since I’m your first case and all.”

“How did you know that?”

“Wild guess. Anyway, seems a little high to me.”

“Does it?” He seemed to be calculating something in his head. “How about one-fifty?”

What could it hurt?

Besides,
I thought as Oscar started trotting in circles around my legs . . .
I promised my pet pig.

I agreed to two days of looking for the young Johannes—I figured that was plenty of time to figure out whether he’d already fled the country or, heaven forbid, been killed in some sort of witchy pogrom.

“So,” said Sam. “This Johannes character—is he your philandering husband?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Boyfriend gone astray? He owe you money?”

“No, nothing like that.”

There was a pause. I got the sense that Sam Spade was mentally going through his handbook. Perhaps there was a List of Reasons for Pursuit noted on page 7.

“Did he get your daughter pregnant?”

“Just how old do you think I am?” I demanded. I wasn’t all that much older than he was. But maybe my lifestyle—lack of sleep, too much worry—was beginning to show on my face.

“Sorry. Just a guess.”

“Is it part of your professional code that you have to know why I’m looking for someone? Or could I just hire you without a reason?”

“I suppose.” He shuffled around in his briefcase for a moment and pulled out a contract.

“Seriously? In
The Maltese Falcon
it was more of a handshake-type deal.”

“I’m more a paperwork guy.”

“You really should check out the movie. It could give you some ideas. For instance, you should get yourself a fedora. We have several, right over on the hat rack.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that,” he said, as I signed the agreement.

Two days, three hundred dollars. If this character actually tracked down Johannes, and Johannes could shed light on what was going on—or even had the ring—it would be money well spent.

After he left, I gave Bronwyn a very abbreviated rundown of what was going on, and in order not to out her “Oscaroo,” I suggested perhaps Carlos, knowing I was looking for Johannes, had sent the note to Sam Spade. Which didn’t make much sense, but Bronwyn wasn’t pushy that way.

And then I excused myself to go grocery shopping. That night, as per my agreement with Oscar, I would be called upon to make mashed potatoes, Tater Tots, and mac and cheese for dinner. I hadn’t been specific enough about which Sam Spade we were talking about, after all.

And I should know to mind my p’s and q’s when striking deals with a smarty-pants gobgoyle familiar.

The next morning I decided I should go to see Zeke while he was still in really bad shape. I might be able to learn more from him in his prone position, and if I were lucky I would run into Clem at the same time.

As I was approaching the main entrance for the San Francisco Medical Center I realized that for the life of me I could not remember Zeke’s last name. Carlos had used it when he asked me about my connection to him after the mugging, but I couldn’t remember. Which was odd for me; usually I had a very good memory. I imagined that my protection spells on the shop and my apartment were tamping down on my natural abilities, too.

It turned out to be a moot point: Zeke had been checked in as a John Doe. The details of the accident and a chatty nurse were enough to discover that he was in serious condition and in room 312.

To my surprise, 312 was a private room. That was good; we could speak without being overheard.

Zeke was asleep. The curtains were drawn and the lights were off, making it dim inside the room, lit only by the lights on the beeping machines and the little sunlight that managed to squeeze through the borders of the blackout shades.

I started snooping.

In the bedside table I found a ziplock bag containing a plastic card key from the Hyatt, a cell phone, and a tiny notebook. I had just started to look through it when I heard Zeke stir.

Upon seeing me, he pulled back in fear and I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help you, Zeke.”

“You don’t care about me.”

“You’re right about that.”

He stilled and studied me, as though surprised at my frankness.

“You broke into my shop and then attacked me,” I said. “Don’t expect a lot of sympathy from the likes of me. But I can still help you.”

He looked away, toward the window. “Cain’t see anything here . . . there’s always lights, even at night. Cain’t hardly see the stars, even.”

I opened the curtains, but he squinted and turned away.

“I like ’em closed. The light hurts my eyes.”

I drew the curtains back over the window, leaving the room shrouded in dark.

“Where you from?” I asked in a soft voice, pulling the room’s single chair over to the side of the bed and taking a seat.

“Gunston, West Virginia. Little town no one’s ever heared of.”

“I’m from a small town in West Texas, myself. I like it here, but sometimes . . .” I let my voice take on a wistful note, confessing something to this near stranger that I’d not told anyone. “Sometimes I miss things. Like the dirt—it was red. It would sink into your fingers, under your nails. . . . I don’t know why, but I think a lot about that dirt. Also, the dust made for the prettiest sunsets you’d ever like to see.”

“We’re from hill country. I don’t much like the flats.”

“I reckon whatever we’re raised with feels like home.”

“I reckon,” he agreed with a nod.

I let silence reign for several minutes. The only sounds were muted
boop
s and
bleep
s, and occasional calls over the loudspeakers out in the hall. I let myself think about Jarod, Texas. My grandmother Graciela was still there, and my mother. Sometimes I missed them with a bone-deep sense of loss. But as for the town. . . . usually I thought of Jarod with dread, as it was all mixed up with pain and fear and memories I’d rather erase from my mind. But it was my hometown, after all, and I wasn’t lying: There were parts of it that were sunk so deep in my consciousness that I would always miss them. Not that I would ever consider moving back; far from it. I loved my adopted city for a great many reasons, not least of which was that I was much less likely to be exorcised and killed by my neighbors.

“Why can’t you go back home?” I asked Zeke.

He shook his head.

“Who are you beholden to?”

Silence.

“I’m not kidding you, Zeke. I’m pretty powerful myself. I can help you.” I leaned forward and put my hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. I could feel weedy vibrations of healing . . . subtle but present. But he was weak. The more vulnerable we are, the easier to influence. In his condition, Zeke would be pretty easy to maneuver. Besides, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with. I concentrated on helping him to trust my words.

“Do you believe me?”

He nodded. “I . . . I don’t think you can help me. But . . . please, if you can, please help my little brother. Clem don’t know no better. It’s all my fault he got caught up in this mess. . . . I got too big for my britches and got us into trouble. He just followed me is all. Clem’s got a sweetheart back home in Gunston. He should go back there, set up a family. He’s a good boy.”

“I will, Zeke. I promise I’ll do whatever’s in my power to help him. Tell me how to find him. Does he come here to visit you?”

“No. We mostly go out at night; stay in during the day. The light hurts our eyes . . .” He coughed, wincing in pain. He glanced toward the window again.

“You’re staying at the Hyatt?” I asked, thinking of the card in his possession. I would have expected them to be in a flophouse somewhere. I guess that would teach me to make assumptions.

“How’d you know that?” he asked, his eyes fearful again.

“I know things. Is it the one over near the Embarcadero? That’s a mite pricey.”

“Gene likes room service.”

“Ah, that makes sense, then. Tell me about Gene. Is he a witch?”

“’Course not! You think I’d be workin’ for a witch?” Zeke cast a look over at me, as though he’d forgotten exactly who he was talking to. “Don’t mean nothin’ by that. I’m jest sayin’ . . .”

Gene was his boss? Did that mean Zeke wasn’t working for my father after all? I felt a brief second of relief, until I realized that the only thing that would explain their shared vibrations with the cuff link, then, was that they were held in sway by the same demon. That was bad.

Though, admittedly, thinking of my father
working
for a demon seemed slightly better than him actually being a demon himself.

But, boy, my standards were low.

“Tell me about Gene.”

“Look, lady. I know you think you’re ’bout as fancy as they come, but Gene . . . his boss is more powerful than you can imagine. He don’t need to be no witch; he can make things happen.”

“Who’s Gene’s boss, then?”

Zeke coughed again, raised his hand, and wagged his pointer finger in the universal sign for “no.” I decided to take another tack.

“Tell me about the ring you’re looking for.”

“Some kind o’ ring with a fire opal.” His eyes widened as though staring at something invisible and fearsome.
“Whosoever holds the ring, shall exercise dominion over . . .”

I sat forward, eager to know, but he trailed off.

“Over who . . . or what?” I urged.

Zeke started coughing again. But this time it didn’t seem he could stop. In the dark, it took me a moment to realize that what looked like ink spots on the sheets were blood—he was coughing and spewing droplets of blood.

“Zeke?” I leaned forward, put my hand on his arm. Gone were the healing vibrations . . . suddenly I feared he was dying.

I hit the nurses’ call button repeatedly, then jumped up and ran out into the brightly lit hallway.

“
Help!
We need help!”

A nurse came running. I stood back, lingering in the doorway and feeling helpless while she worked on Zeke.

Other staff arrived and surrounded his bed. I slipped out to give them room; a nurse was running down the hall toward us, pushing a crash cart. I wished there was something I could do . . . but this was best left in the hands of medical science. As I stood waiting for the elevator, I caught of whiff of smoke. I looked back to see a nurse running out of Zeke’s room, and the fire alarm screamed. The sprinklers were triggered.

Overhead I heard “Code blue” and a call for fire. Several hospital personnel ran past me, toward the ward.

I stood for a moment, indecisive and overwhelmed with guilt. Should I go back? Was there any way to help? Could it be . . . demon’s fire? I couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that all of these recent fires must be tied to a fire demon in San Francisco. And if Zeke was beholden to a demon powerful enough to know from afar that an underling was speaking to me and to punish him for it, there was no way I could help Zeke. He was already too vulnerable, too sick.

But maybe I could save his brother. I had made Zeke a promise, and I intended to keep it.

Besides . . . it was the only lead I had.

I hurried down the stairs and out of the hospital, dodging the hustling staff and near-panicked visitors.

Back at my Mustang, I flipped through Zeke’s notebook until I came across a sigil, a demon’s sign. A complicated one. Part of it almost looked like Aztec glyphs. I was going to make the assumption this was Xolotl’s sigil.

Also in the notebook was a tiny piece of paper with a list of names written in a pretty handwriting that looked both feminine and foreign—it had the distinctive slant and lettering I remembered from my time in Europe. It was hard to imagine either of the Ballcap boys writing like this. Of all the names I recognized only three: Aidan Rhodes, Renna Sandino, and Lily Ivory. Three powerful Bay Area practitioners.

If the ring could only be carried safely by someone powerful, it would make sense we were all on that list. Those looking for the ring must have assumed Griselda had passed it to one of us.

I thought again about my encounter with Griselda at the Gem Faire. She mentioned wanting to meet me later, but kept looking over my shoulder at someone—or some
thing
—behind me. And then she sold me the opal pendant and the box of junk jewelry. Could that have been a decoy? Perhaps she was making sure they saw that I was taking something from her, sending them on a goose chase after me?

Which didn’t seem particularly sisterly of a fellow witch, but if this ring really enabled a sorcerer to control something demonic, it was worth putting a few of us at risk.

Perhaps this was the real reason Aidan was nowhere to be found—maybe he was keeping himself safe somewhere. And if the likes of Clem and Zeke paid Renna a visit, I didn’t suppose they’d get very far. She was talented and could take care of herself. Still, just in case, I should warn her, at the very least.

After all, I couldn’t forget poor Griselda. As I thought back on the sight of her body pressed between boards . . . it seemed too vicious to be Clem and Zeke. Not that I knew for sure, and of course they could have made a mistake; the pressing might have been their boss Gene’s idea and it got out of hand. Still . . . I wish I had thought to ask Zeke about it before . . .

A wave of sadness and guilt came over me. I had enticed Zeke into talking and then abandoned him to his fate.

I used Zeke’s cell phone to call Renna, but once again got voice mail. I left a vague warning. That would have to do for now. I would go talk to her in person, but first I would tackle Clem and Gene.

•   •   •

The Hyatt sat at the bottom of Market Street, not far from the Ferry Building. Its central downtown location made it attractive to tourists and business travelers alike. It had been built sometime in the seventies and featured a central atrium that soared seventeen stories high, a huge water feature that reminded me of a dandelion puff, and glass elevators that whooshed patrons up to their rooms at a steady clip.

I had a key card but didn’t know the room number or even a last name.
Dang it all.

I watched the man behind the reception counter for a moment. Young, friendly. His gaze lingered a little too long on the low-cut dress of the pretty woman he was checking in. I could probably finagle a way to shake his hand, and if I concentrated enough I might be able to convince him to trust me. People in the hospitality industry were usually open and happy to please.

However, though I hated to admit it, last night’s brewing and spell casting—and then the interview with Zeke and its traumatic aftermath—had left me drained. I wasn’t sure what I would find upstairs, and I really didn’t want to spend any more of my magical energy on convincing the desk clerk to give me information.

Instead I fixed on a decidedly nonmagical way of getting what I wanted.

I slipped into the women’s room, stuffed my bra with tissue, and pulled down the neckline of today’s teal cotton sundress. Taking my hair out of its customary ponytail, I flipped my head and combed it upside down. Practicing my come-hither look in the mirror, I dabbed on a little frosted lip gloss and applied extra mascara.

As Maya had pointed out, I sort of sucked at flirting. But what the heck? Time to stretch a little.

When it was my turn at the counter, I leaned forward a little.

“I am
so
sorry, but my little old card’s not working . . . I think it got too close to my cell phone.” I forced a breathy quality into my voice and let my accent fly. “And you’re not going to believe this, but I can’t remember my own room number. This hotel is so bi-ig!”

“No problem, ma’am,” he said, glancing at the view I was affording him. “Last name?”

“Here’s another problem. I don’t know if it was under
my
name or my
boss’s
name or my first
husband’s
name.” I leaned even farther over the counter to give him a really good peek down my shirt. He glanced up at my face and I held his gaze, half closing my eyes “Or maybe my second husband’s . . .”

He looked back at his monitor and frowned slightly. “Looks like the information is still on the card . . . maybe you swiped it too fast?”

“You know, I might have. I just lose patience sometimes. It’s a fault. Like being . . . impulsive.”

He glanced down again, first at my chest, then at his monitor.

“Jones?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Is one of your names Jones?”

Jones. Of course. It was either that or Smith.

“Why, of course it is! Aren’t you just the smartest thing!”

“Room 1102?”

“Oh, that’s it! Thanks
ever
so much! Y’all San Franciscans are just
peaches
, that’s what you are.”