Authors: Katharine Kerr
Water to Burn (7 page)
He looked relieved. “I’ll call Sanchez,” he said, “and see if I can get authorization to question this fellow.”
Ari wandered into the kitchen and called Sanchez from his cell phone. I heard him speaking; then he appeared in the doorway.
“Sanchez needs a secure e-mail address,” he said. “He’s got some scanned paperwork to send through. Do you have one that doesn’t rely on your agency’s encryption system?”
“Yeah, actually I do.”
I wrote the address down on a sticky note and handed it to him. He relayed it to the inspector, then signed off and rejoined me.
“Sanchez has no objection to our following up this lead,” he said.
“Did Sanchez ever question this guy himself?” I asked.
“No,” Ari said. “He did read the patrol officer’s report on the theft, of course, once the car turned up at the funeral.”
That official form and a couple of others appeared promptly in the queue for the particular e-mail address I’d given. I printed them out and read through the patrol officer’s first report on what appeared to be an ordinary case of a car theft—or almost ordinary. Once the police found the car, the second report recorded two incriminating details.
“It says here that the car alarm hadn’t been disabled.” I handed Ari the printout so he could read the rest for himself.
“So you were right to wonder about that. Odd of Sanchez to not follow that up.”
“I wonder if following it was going to lead him to some politically important people.”
Ari looked at the report, quirked both eyebrows in surprise, then considered. “I’d hate to think that of Sanchez,” he said eventually, “but you never know. I’ll have to report back to him, and perhaps I’ll find out then.”
CHAPTER 3
W
E DECIDED TO QUESTION WILLIAM FROST EVERS, the owner of the black Jaguar, that afternoon. We spent some time first discussing our strategy. For this interview, I’d play the assistant. Ari put on his navy-blue pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a red-and-gray–striped tie. I wore a dark gray pantsuit with a navy-blue silk blouse and a big black shoulder bag, all of which looked official as well. Before we left, Ari opened his sample case and put a casual handful of small devices into my bag. The case itself he locked into the trunk of the car.
E DECIDED TO QUESTION WILLIAM FROST EVERS, the owner of the black Jaguar, that afternoon. We spent some time first discussing our strategy. For this interview, I’d play the assistant. Ari put on his navy-blue pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a red-and-gray–striped tie. I wore a dark gray pantsuit with a navy-blue silk blouse and a big black shoulder bag, all of which looked official as well. Before we left, Ari opened his sample case and put a casual handful of small devices into my bag. The case itself he locked into the trunk of the car.
Evers, a lawyer, specialized in divorce cases. He had an office in Embarcadero Center, a cluster of pale concrete blocks dwarfed by a nearby hotel, one apparently inspired by Babylonian ziggurats. These commercial towers stood down at the end of California Street, right close to the Bay itself. From the outside, the Center buildings looked bleak, but once you got inside, the spaces opened up into terraces and shops, escalators and little flower beds. Here and there hung massive modern tapestries to add warmth to the efficiency.
Evers’ office sat on the fourth floor, toward the end of a narrow corridor right by an elevator, providing his clients a quick escape should they see someone they knew prowling around. The wood veneer door opened into a small reception room, carpeted and painted in pale gold and guarded by a pretty blonde secretary behind a formidable dark wood desk. A nameplate identified her as Miss Kowalski. She looked up from her computer monitor and gave us a bland smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “May I have your name and the time of your appointment?”
“We don’t have an appointment.” Ari took out his Interpol ID and held it out. “We want to talk with Mr. Evers.”
“I’m afraid you’ll need an appointment—” The secretary glanced at the ID and stiffened. “Well, I’ll tell him you’re here, Inspector Nathan. May I ask what you’d like to talk to him about?”
“Just clearing up some routine odds and ends about the car he reported stolen.” Ari paused for effect. “At the time of the Sea Cliff murder case.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” She started to reach for the elaborate phone next to her computer, then stood up instead. “I’ll just tell him.”
She beetled through the door behind her desk. I caught a glimpse of an inner office—wood paneling and a Persian carpet—before she shut the door behind her. Not more than a minute later she beetled out again, but this time she left the door open.
“Mr. Evers will see you, sir,” she said.
“Thank you.” Ari nodded at me to follow.
We walked around the desk and into Evers’ office, spacious and bright from the rank of windows at one side, even though dark wood paneling covered the other three walls. A heavy desk and brown leather chairs sat near the back wall. Opposite the windows stood a rank of glassed-in bookshelves filled with clothbound volumes of the state and federal legal codes. Evers himself was standing in front of the desk, a man of medium height, beefy around the middle, wearing a soft gray suit that fit him perfectly and a violet-and-blue–striped button-down shirt, open at the throat. Compared to his fleshy face and the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, his smooth reddish-brown hair looked suspiciously thick and evenly colored.
Evers gave Ari a fixed smile, started to speak, then noticed me. The smile disappeared and his thin lips parted, just briefly before he pasted the smile on again. He’d recognized me. I felt a slight familiar vibration from him, but I knew I’d never seen him before.
“Do sit down, Inspector.” Evers had a soft, dark voice. “And Miss—er, or is it Inspector, too?”
I handed him my cross-agency government ID. When he glanced at it, a vein started throbbing at his right temple. He handed it back with a shaking hand.
“This case,” Ari said, “has ramifications.”
“So I see.” Evers swallowed heavily. “Well, uh, have a seat.”
Ari settled himself in one of the leather chairs. I perched on the edge of mine. Evers took refuge in the executive chair behind his desk and fixed his attention on Ari.
“As you may know,” Ari began, “Interpol officers generally assist in cases as consultants and information facilitators. I came over to the States because the Silver Bullet Killer had committed two murders in Israel. Unfortunately, I became more involved than, perhaps, I should have.”
“Er, yes,” Evers said. “I remember the TV news.”
“Good.” Ari gave him a thin sliver of a smile. “Now, I’m here today because at one point the Silver Bullet Killer seemed to have stolen your car. I’ve read the police reports, and I’m wondering why the car alarm never sounded.”
“It, uh, well, I must have forgotten to turn it on. Stupid, huh?”
“When the police recovered the vehicle, they found the keys lying on the back seat. Someone was stupid, yes, and careless as well.”
Evers wilted, sagging against the tall black leather back of his chair. His SPP stank of a terror greater than a simple fear of the cops.
“What I wonder,” Ari said, “is why you loaned your car to Johnson and Doyle. Who exactly did you think they were?”
“Just friends.” His voice cracked on the implicit confession. “I had no idea what—they said they wanted to impress a client—I swear to God, I had nothing to do with the murders.”
Ari glanced my way.
Since his SPP indicated that Evers was telling the truth, I nodded an okay.
“No one is accusing you of anything—” Ari began again.
Evers leaned forward and interrupted him. “If I’d known, I never would have had anything to do with them. I’d have gone to the police right away.” Cold sweat ran down his jowls. “Poor little Elaine, strangled like that! Oh, my God, I’ve had nightmares for weeks!”
“I can well believe that,” Ari said. “Now, could you—”
“Don’t you see?” By then, the sweat was soaking the striped collar of his shirt. “Johnson gave me the creeps—always. Doyle was a smooth character, sure, but Johnson—scum, I knew he was scum, but—” He caught himself and gasped for breath.
Ari was considering him with a mild look of surprise, probably at this sudden outrush of the truth. The obvious occurred to me.
“You haven’t found another source for the Persian white, have you?” I said. “How long had you been snorting it? Long enough, I bet, to really miss it now.”
Evers jerked back into his chair. He leaned his head against the backrest and closed his eyes. He’d gone pale so fast and so thoroughly that it reminded me of those latenight TV ads where the demonstrator pours the miracle product into bright red water and turns it white.
“It’s the ultimate middle-class high, isn’t it?” I went on. “No needles, no mess, like snorting coke except it calms you down after a high-stress day. No wonder you handed over your car keys when they asked. Exposure would have ruined you.”
Evers nodded.
“And now you have a medical problem,” Ari said. “I suggest you consult your physician. No doubt it can be kept confidential if, of course, you cooperate.”
“What do you want to know?” Evers was speaking so softly that I could barely hear him.
“Were you involved in Doyle and Johnson’s occult activities?” Ari said.
Evers opened his eyes and nodded a yes. At that point, I realized why he recognized me.
“Does the phrase ‘adest daemona’ mean anything to you?” I said.
His eyes snapped open wide. “Who are you?” he said. “You’re not a government agent. You’re not really shaped like that, are you?” He swiveled his head toward Ari. “Are you real? Or are you another one? The chief of them all?”
“I beg your pardon!” Ari said in his best frosty British voice.
“Doyle warned me about this.” Evers’ voice shook on every word. “They come when you expect them not. They slither into your life like poisonous serpents. They—”
“That’s quite enough.” Ari slid to the edge of his chair, ready to spring. “Have you gone mad?”
“He’s asking if we’re demons.” I broke into the exchange. “He thinks we might be tourists from Hell.”
“Do you really?” Ari was staring at Evers.
Evers tried to speak but only gabbled. He turned toward me and held out both hands. I tried a reassuring smile.
“You’re just having a hard time with withdrawal,” I said. “We’re real human beings, not satanic underlings. Look.” I made the sign of the cross. “In the name of Jesus Christ. I couldn’t do that if I were a demon.”
Evers relaxed, although he continued sweating. “But you mentioned the daemona—how could you know?”
“It’s a common phrase when people fool around with this kind of thing. Does it mean something special to you?”
He shook his head no, a lie of course, but then, I’d lied, too.
“Now,” I continued, “was it Doyle or Johnson who was the leader of your coven?”
“Neither. It was the hooded man. He had another hood over his head under the robe’s hood, I mean. I think it was just a piece of pantyhose, but, anyway, we never saw his face.” Evers kept staring at me. It took him so long to blink that my own eyes ached. “We never knew his name. We called him Brother Belial. Please, I—”
“I believe you.” I’d been anticipating that the real leader would mask his identity. “His voice, what was it like?”
“Deep, and he spoke real slowly, one word at a time. I thought at the time that he must have been loaded to talk like that. He was tall and skinny as a rail, even in the robes. I can tell you that much.”
“All right. So you never heard his real name?”
“Never. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him, either. He insisted that our vibrations would grate on him, because he was so attuned to the etheric somethings or other. Doyle said he was just paranoid about germs, but he only said that behind Brother Belial’s back.”
“I see.” What I could see was that the leader was neurotic as hell, a poseur, or both. I suspected both. “So in this group we have you,” I said aloud, “Johnson, Doyle, Politt, the hooded man—who were the others?”
“What others?” Evers forced out a brittle smile. “It was just the five of us.”
“This kind of group generally has seven or eight members.”
“Ours didn’t. Just five.” He spoke firmly, but with an odd querulous overtone to his voice, as if he were thinking, “Why don’t you believe me, dammit!”
“Okay,” I said and glanced at Ari to signal “over to you.”
Other books
Walking Across Egypt by Clyde Edgerton
With a Tangled Skein by Piers Anthony
Dangerous Sanctuary by Michelle Diener
The Princes Bound [The Princes Book 1] by Robin Danner
Sara Morningsky by Lee Driver
Working Wonders by Jenny Colgan
Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues by Chris LeGrow
Less Than Human by Maxine McArthur
El político y el científico by Max Weber
Foundation for Three by Vella Day