The Hell You Say (21 page)
The Hell You Say
129
We stopped for lunch at Gli Amici off Sunset Boulevard, eating soup and French-style sandwiches at an uncomfortable wrought-iron table on a crowded patio. Overhead, seagulls swooped and sailed, their cries mingling with the crash of the surf a few yards away.
Surprisingly, there was plenty to talk about without once veering off into murder or demonology, but eventually we circled back to what was on both our minds.
“What did you think of Oliver?” Guy asked. He drew his pipe out, then put it away again. Apparently he was still adjusting to the fact that California was not a smoker-friendly state.
“He’s an interesting guy. But I think he knows more than he’s letting on. He avoided answering what significance the sign of Gremory might have at a crime scene.”
“He didn’t avoid it,” Guy objected. “He pointed out that it’s impossible to follow the reasoning of a disturbed intellect.”
“Not so. Profilers do that very thing. If the sigil has symbolic or ritual significance, then that’s an important clue to the killer.”
“Oliver doesn’t believe that’s the case.”
“Maybe he’s wrong. He dismissed the idea of group involvement, and I know that’s wrong. I didn’t imagine my run-in with Betty and Veronica.”
“Who?”
“Sorry. Betty and the Perone girl. Someone painted an inverted pentagram on my threshold. It wasn’t Angus, ipso facto, other people are involved.”
He didn’t reply. I studied his brown profile as he stared out at the beach. The sea breeze stirred the long silver tendrils on his forehead back from his face. His silence, his stillness seemed to shut me out -- and I realized I didn’t like that.
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“You said you spoke to this former student. Whatever he told you led you to infer that others were involved.” Casually, I added, “Granted, whatever he said also led you to believe that the problem had been resolved.”
Once again, I had Guy’s full attention. His face mirrored exasperation. “The point of visiting Oliver was that he’s the expert in this field. If he says there’s no cult involved, there’s no cult.”
I noticed Guy seemed touchy every time I brought up the subject of this mysterious former student. “Garibaldi didn’t say that. He said he had never heard of Blade Sable. I think he was lying.”
“Lying? Why should he lie?”
“Maybe he wanted to know a bit more about me before he revealed trade secrets.” I paused. “Or maybe he’s involved.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Well, you’ve got to admit that for one who professes to be above any form of religion, he’s got an awful lot of expensive religious artifacts lying around.”
Testily, he answered, “The fact that he’s reached a point in his own intellectual and spiritual development where he no longer requires the opiate of religion doesn’t nullify a lifetime spent in exploring and studying these mythologies.”
What was with me? I couldn’t seem to resist needling Guy. By his expression he was thinking the same thing. I said, trying to appease, “I agree. I’m not seriously suggesting he’s involved, just that I think he didn’t spill all he knows.”
The waitress arrived with the bill, forestalling an answer. I reached for it, but Guy was faster.
“Hey, this one’s on me,” I protested.
“I’ve got it.” When I opened my mouth to argue, he repeated, “I’ve got it.”
“Well…thanks, then.”
He nodded curtly, our earlier rapport gone.
Too bad, because I liked Guy, even if I didn’t totally trust him -- although apparently I trusted him enough to coerce him into helping me help Angus.
I sensed he had allegiances to people who might not be as sympathetic to my aims.
Garibaldi was one such person; another was this former student whom Guy had originally suspected of being involved in harassing Angus. Apparently Guy didn’t entirely trust me either, since he wasn’t sharing that person’s name -- or maybe he was demonstrating loyalty to an old friend. Loyalty wasn’t a bad trait in a friend or a lover.
The problem was, I had made a bad mistake once -- a nearly fatal mistake -- and not that long ago. I didn’t intend to repeat history.
The Hell You Say
131
We walked back to the parking lot, folded ourselves into the red Miata, still without speaking. Guy started to pull out of the parking lot, then braked.
“D’you want to take a walk on the beach before we head back?”
I hesitated, thought, why not? “Sure.”
We parked along the highway and walked the steep, curved path to Abalone Cove.
As it was off-season, we had the beach to ourselves except for a pair of seals sunning themselves on rocks. Several yards out in the slate blue water, wet-suited surfers sat on their boards waiting for the next wave. Gulls squawked overhead, hanging motionless in the salty air.
Guy nodded out at the sun-dazzled ocean. “They’re seeing more white sharks along this stretch of coast.”
“Great whites?”
“Juveniles and sub-adults mostly.”
“Juveniles and sub-adults can do a lot of damage.”
“True.”
With his hair pulled back and the loose sleeves of his shirt, Guy had the look of a buccaneer. I admitted to myself that trust or no, I was increasingly attracted to him -- but then, let’s face it, I’ve got a thing for pirates.
“You’re not seeing anyone?” I asked, against my better judgment.
He replied, as though stating it for the record, “I’m not involved in a serious monogamous relationship.”
I was, but it was apparently a solo effort.
I stopped to dump the sand out of my shoe, gripping the hand Guy offered as I balanced there on one foot. The muscles bunched in his forearm as he steadied me, his fingers locking with mine. He didn’t immediately let go when I straightened. We stood there for a moment holding hands; I tried to remember the last time I’d held a guy’s hand.
“It’s funny,” he said. “But the older I get, the more I value the conversation that takes place between the hot sex, as opposed to the hot sex itself.”
I grinned. “You are getting old.”
He laughed and let me go.
We walked and talked a while longer, both of us deliberately avoiding any subject that might disturb our newly-recovered amity. Guy spoke about studying and living in Great Britain, and I talked about the thrilling adventures of running a local bookstore.
We were sitting on the rock wall, still gabbing, when Guy glanced at his watch, said,
“Good God. It’s five o’clock.”
I couldn’t believe it. It felt like we’d been gone an hour or two. “We should get back.”
He nodded, then smiled faintly. “The sun’s bringing out freckles on your nose.”
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“It’s probably sand.”
He reached up to brush a finger along the bridge of my cheek. A gentle touch. “The sand isn’t rubbing off.” Our eyes met -- held.
He was going to kiss me.
I laughed and rubbed my nose, getting to my feet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Guy sitting very still. Then he relaxed and also rose.
We climbed back up the rocks to the highway.
* * * * *
I went into the bathroom and wiped my soap message to Jake off the mirror, shaking my head at my earlier jitters.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a beer, checked the machine for messages.
Nothing.
I headed back downstairs to view my e-mail. Several Internet orders, a couple of e-mail Christmas cards from friends, the usual spam, and the usual offers of spam blockers.
I opened blackster21’s e-mail.
Nothing.
I decided to post another message to Dark Realm.
Los Angeles novice urgently seeking Blade Sable. Any information welcome.
I combed the web for the demon Gremory. There wasn’t much to be found, although a site called Lemegeton listed all seventy-two demons from the Ars Goetia and gave their availability status. Amon, for example, was noted as “currently Bound by Mindspring,” while Gremory aka Gamori was down as “currently available.”
Bored and strangely restless, I signed off and went upstairs.
The answering machine light was blinking. I hit Play.
Guy, sounding unexpectedly self-conscious, had phoned. I called him back.
For once he answered right away. We chatted briefly. He said very casually, “There’s a club in Hollywood called Hell’s Kitchen. Supposedly Betty Sansone and her crowd hang there most Monday nights. Would you like to go?”
I hesitated. Jake generally chose Monday nights to put in an appearance, but I doubted I’d be seeing him anytime soon -- now having attracted the interest of Angus’s defense team and Jake’s own colleagues. I didn’t want to wait by the phone in hopes that he might show, but I didn’t want to have to explain what I was up to on the off chance that he did call.
The Hell You Say
133
From the moment Angus had been arrested, I had considered any promise -- let alone one given under duress -- to stay off Jake’s turf, null and void. If Jake knew anything about me at all, he had to know I wasn’t going to stand by while the cops railroaded Angus into prison or a nuthouse because they hadn’t the imagination to look further than their own noses. That didn’t mean he would be pleased to find out that I was playing detective again.
The situation was dicey enough between us.
“I’m not sure I can get away. Can I let you know?”
“Of course,” he said, disappointed.
I felt a little disappointed myself.
* * * * *
I can just about tolerate college football. Overpaid, steroid-enhanced goons wrecking each other’s joints for a few feet of turf? Thanks, but no thanks. Not for all the beer and spicy wings I can hold.
“It’s San Francisco at Cincinnati,” Lisa parroted, like she had any idea what that meant.
Eyes on a copy of The Pale Egyptian by R.M. Friedlander, I replied, “I’m not from San Francisco. I’m not from Cincinnati. Why would I be interested?”
“Because Bill asked you. He knows you went to school at Stanford. He wants to see more of you.”
“He’s seen plenty this month alone. I’ve had dinner twice with him. How much bonding do I need to do with these people?” I flipped open the book to the copyright page.
Copyright 1989 by Robert M. Friedlander.
Velvet, standing a couple feet away, said, “I can manage. It will be dead today.” Which showed how little she knew. Our customers would not be sitting home chugging beer and cheering on the gladiators. With two weeks to go to Christmas, they would be out on the mean streets, plastic in hand.
In my ear, Lisa’s insect voice persisted, “It’s three weeks to the wedding, Adrien. There remains a lot to do.”
“Well, why would I be doing it?” I protested. “I’m not getting married.”
“Do you not have any interest in this wedding at all?”
Did she want an honest answer?
“Have you read the papers lately? I’m kind of…”
“Kind of what?”
Danger, Will Robinson. I’d nearly strolled right into that crater.
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“Nothing. What time?” I wondered if maybe she and the big guy would take one of those year-long honeymoons like Victorian couples did. Maybe I could get Lauren and Natalie to work on that plan.
Lisa happily relayed the details. I promised Velvet this would be the last time I’d leave her on her own.
“No big thing,” she said.
* * * * *
The house on the left was going for a Dr. Seuss Does Christmas motif. There was a small-scale Whoville encircled by a miniature train track. The train bore a tipsy-looking Cat in the Hat along with the Grinch and his pup, Max. Lights flashing, whistle tooting, the dwarf train whizzed around the miniature Whoville in ceaseless and annoying activity. It appeared that the homeowners had actually hired an armed security guard to keep the onlookers at bay. Was hitching a ride on the toy train punishable by death?
The house on the right aimed for a Nutcracker Suite theme. Candy canes lined the front walk. Fluorescent Sugar Plum Fairies were cunningly placed amidst the bushes and trees. A two-story Nutcracker Prince guarded the front entrance, while a giant inflated Clara bobbed gently in the smoggy night, hissing helium in a never-ending fart.
By contrast, the billions of white lights adorning the roof and trees and bushes of Dauten Manor looked Spartan. I walked up the pseudo-cobblestones to the peacock blue door framed by two topiaries.
I rang the bell, and Lisa answered, which was a jolt.
“Darling, you’re late,” she reproached. “It’s already the first inning.”
“First quarter?”
“Mmm. Possibly.” Then she smiled, reaching for the case of Beers of the World I had picked up at Costco on the way over. “What a lovely job I did of raising you, Adrien.”
Adding under her breath, “He’s in the den.”
“He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Of course! You’re going to bond.”
Dear God.
I followed her through the immaculate and beautifully decorated foyer, into an immaculate and beautifully decorated living room, through an immaculate and beautifully decorated dining room, into a less immaculate, but still beautifully decorated family room, which adjoined a kitchen that was full of girls. It sounded like an aviary. Or possibly a hen house.
The Hell You Say
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Actually it was only Lauren and Natalie.
“Hi, Adrien!” they chorused.
Did they all live here?
“Hey there,” I said. I could not for the life of me figure out why they were all beaming at me with the delight of Aztec priests at the arrival of a well-nourished youth. What did they imagine this bonding ritual entailed?
“For God’s sake,” shrieked Dauten from down the hallway. “The guy’s wide open!”
