No Humans Involved (14 page)

"Still sounds like something we need to check out."

Disciples Of Asmodai

HOPE FOUND WORK AND HOME ADDRESSES for Botnick. Jeremy, with his new prepaid cell, headed out on a tracking expedition. He invited me along, but I figured I'd only get in the way. Hunting was his area. I'd stay behind with Hope as she dug up details on the contact names the Ehrich Weiss Society had provided us.

We went to her office. No need to worry about being caught researching S and M cults on an office computer—in Hope's line of work, she'd get commended for putting in the extra effort.

No one else was working overtime. The office was barely larger than her apartment, and not nearly as clean. It stank of burned coffee, stale burritos and overflowing ashtrays that shot a middle finger to the state's workplace smoking ban.

There was one semiprivate room, presumably for the editor. In the main area, a central table was covered with papers, printers and fax machines. Four to six desks were crammed along the walls—it was tough to tell the exact number, the way papers spilled from one surface to the next, and cables snaked everywhere.

As we picked our way through the cable jungle, Hope explained that few of the staff worked from the office. Most spent their days on the streets, tracking down the latest celebrity infidelity or plastic surgery rumor.

We'd just settled in when Jeremy called to say he'd found Botnick closing down his shop. He'd follow him and see where he went.

When I hung up, Hope was tapping away at the keyboard. I glanced at a stack of papers. The top one looked like an edited printout of an article with her byline.

"Mind if I… ?" I waved at the article.

"Enjoy. Oh, and I think we need to bring that particular case to the attention of the council right away. Definitely threat potential."

"Demon transmitters in breast implants?"

"Hey, at least it's not alien transmitters. You have no idea how sick I am of aliens—sightings, implants, abductions… it never ends. But demons? That's a lot rarer. Obviously the whole 'impregnating human women and creating a master race to take over the world' thing isn't working out for them. If I'm the best they can do, the apocalypse is in serious trouble. As a backup plan, controlling large-breasted women isn't too shabby."

"Start with subliminal messages in
Hustler
. Work your way up to
Playboy
… I can see it."

"If anyone can bring down the politicians in this country, it's hot women with breast implants."

I laughed. "Any more tips for the council in here?" I asked, pointing to the stack.

"Nah. There's a piece on a body found with fang marks. Cassandra and Aaron suspect it's a vampire's annual kill. They're investigating, and will give the careless vamp a slap on the wrist, but they told me not to bother killing the story. Corpses with fang marks? Passe. And even if my editor had wanted me to investigate it for a full-blown article, I could convince him it wasn't worth the inches. That's mostly what I do—not so much suppressing real supernatural stories as downplaying them and, in most cases, like this one, even that isn't necessary."

"Must be an… interesting job."

She grinned. "Oh, come on. Say it. Cheesy is the word."

"You're talking to a woman who pretends to contact the dead and returns the same message every time. Cheesy is my life."

"Fun, isn't it?"

I smiled. "Yes. Yes, it is."

We talked about her job as she continued to search for informa-tion, multitasking like a pro. After a half-hour, Jeremy called again to say he was outside Botnick's home. He'd keep watch for another hour or so, see whether this was just a pit stop or if the man was settling in for the night.

At nine-thirty, Jeremy checked in. Botnick—who lived alone—had eaten, and was now in front of the television. As it looked likely he was home for the duration, Jeremy decided it was a good opportunity to take a closer look at his store. He asked me to pass him to Hope.

At his request, she zoomed in on an aerial photograph of Botnick's shop, then relayed its layout and potential entry points.

"So you're doing a little B and E?" she said. "Too bad Karl's in Massachusetts."

She paused.

"Ah, Arizona this week, is it? Glad someone knows where that man is. If you need him, though, you tell him to haul his ass over here. Whatever job he's pulling, he doesn't need the money and this is more important." She tapped at her keyboard. "Speaking of help, could you use ours ? We can be there in—"

She paused. "No, I understand, but I could help. Karl's taught me a few things about casing a place—strictly for information, of course—and I'm sure the extra eyes would come in handy."

Another pause. She nibbled her lip, eyes down as she listened.

"I know, but I'd love to help, risks or no risks. Hey, if things do go wrong, I'll even take the fall for you. I'm an ambitious tabloid reporter—no one's going to question why I'm breaking into a place like that. Plus, it's experience, right? If I'm helping the council, I need to build up my arsenal of skills, legal and otherwise."

There was a note of puppyish pleading in her voice. She reminded me of Paige—always in the thick of things, taking any risk to help others. Frustrated from hours of research, I found myself sharing her enthusiasm, even seconding it loud enough for Jeremy to overhear.

After a moment, she grinned at me, flashed a thumbs-up, then handed back my phone. "He wants us to meet him in the lot behind the shop in ninety minutes. That'll give him time to find a way in first."

She turned back to her computer, continuing down the list.

"So Karl Marsten is giving you break-and-enter tips?"

"Against his will. He doesn't like me doing stuff like that. But we have an agreement. He teaches me B and E and I cook for him. You know werewolves." She grinned. "Feed them well and feed them often, and you can win any argument."

I wished it was that easy with Jeremy. For him, food was just fuel. Which was okay with me, because cooking—like most domestic skills—wasn't one of my strong points.

"So I guess you and Karl are together?"

"Nah. Just friends." She printed off a page. "That's strange enough. I'm a half-demon with delusions of crime fighting. He's a werewolf jewel thief. Logically, we shouldn't be able to stand one another. But as a friendship, it works." She hit print again, then pushed back her chair. "Okay, let's see what we've got."

WE WERE eying the clock when Hope's cell phone rang. As she glanced at the display, she cursed under her breath, hesitated, then seemed to think better of it and answered. A string of "uh-huhs" followed, her shoulders slumping with each one.

After listening to the caller for at least thirty seconds, she said, "Could this wait until morning? I'm hot on a trail tonight—"

Pause.

"It's still in the early stages, but it's about ritual magic—"

Pause.

"I know we covered that new Voodoo club opening last month, but this is different—"

Pause. She closed her eyes, sighing softly.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure a 'Bigfoot in L.A.' story doesn't come along all that often but—"

Pause. A deeper sigh.

"Okay, I'm on it."

When she hung up, I said, "Bigfoot?"

"Apparently he's been spotted cutting through an alley near a nightclub."

I paused. "I hate to break it to you, but it's probably—"

"A guy promoting a new movie? Or 'Monster Pizza'? I know. So does my editor. It doesn't matter. The point is that multiple witnesses claimed to have seen Bigfoot. That's indisputable. So I go out, interview some stoned clubbers, collect grainy cell-phone pic-tures of the monster and write it up under the headline 'Bigfoot Spotted in L. A.?'"

"I see."

"It's the question mark that makes the difference. We're not saying he
was
in L.A. just that the claim was made."

"Uh-huh."

"Tabloid journalism: where the truth comes with many loopholes, and we know how to exploit every one of them."

She turned off her computer. "The club is on the way to Botnick's place. We can share a cab. I'm going to whip through this monster story, then fly back to help you guys."

I HAD the taxi driver drop me off a block from the shop, just in case Botnick reported the break-in later. As I scanned the road, lined with pawn shops and massage parlors, I realized I was being overcautious. Break-ins in this neighborhood wouldn't warrant more than a police drop-in. Even if someone did canvas the taxi companies' drop-offs, I looked suspicious only in that I didn't seem like someone seeking a late-night body rub. Giving them maybe.

My clicking heels echoed like a siren's call to would-be muggers. I walked slower, trying to muffle the sound. Rather than fret over being dropped off too close to the scene, I should have been considering the wisdom of wearing high heels to a break-and-enter.

Behind me, a car rounded the corner, engine revving. I walked faster. The entrance to the shop parking lot was less than a store length away. Better to get there before the oncoming car reached me or I might suffer the humiliation of being mistaken for a hooker within earshot of Jeremy. I did up a button and walked faster.

"Jaime?"

I jumped. Jeremy stepped from an alcove, hand going to my arm to steady me. I rapped him with my knuckles.

"We're belling you. I swear it."

He smiled, then scanned the street. "Is Hope coming?"

"Bigfoot took her away." I explained. "But she'll phone if she finishes in the next hour or so."

I let him guide me down the sidewalk. "Did you get inside already?"

He nodded. "Botnick seems the type who relies more on steel doors and bars than alarms. Probably wise in a neighborhood like this."

"But not so smart if your break-in artist has superhuman strength."

"Hmm. Still not easy, but I found a way."

He steered me into a gravel parking lot boxed in by buildings, each wall peppered with more No Parking signs than there were spots to park. It looked barely big enough to fit a couple of cars and a delivery truck—a small one.

The full moon shone from a multitude of rut puddles. A bright yellow orb with not so much as a wisp of cloud over it. I looked at Jeremy, but knew the full moon meant little to him. Real werewolves need to change form more than once a month, and they do so on demand, not with the phases of the moon. He'd said once that they often did take advantage of full moons for hunts, but only because it was easier to see.

I caught a movement in the shadows. Jeremy's head swung toward it, hand gripping my arm tighter, pulling me back as if shielding me. A cat slunk between trash bins. Seeing us, it froze. Its orange fur puffed up as it spit and hissed, a feline fireball, bright against the gloom. Jeremy made a noise deep in his throat. The cat tore off, its paws scrabbling against the gravel, a fiery streak racing for cover.

I twisted to say something, but Jeremy was scanning the lot, eyes narrowed, making sure that the cat was the only intruder. His hand still gripped my arm and he kept me so close I could feel the thump of his heart against my shoulder. His face was taut and wary, mouth a thin line, the pulse in his neck throbbing. When I shifted, he loosened his grip and rubbed my arm, as if reflexively reassuring me, his gaze and mind still busy checking for danger.

One last scan, then his hand slid to squeeze mine as he passed me a crooked smile, as if he didn't like being caught doing something that came naturally to a werewolf, but might look odd to me.

He led me to the farthest door. It was solid metal, and I could see no sign that it had been pried open, yet the plastic Deliveries plaque over the bell confirmed it was Atrum Arcana, Botnick's store.

"How did you get—"

He was already gliding alongside the building and came to a stop at a wooden box with a hinged lid. A garbage bin, judging by the stink and the oozing puddles beneath. He bent, getting a grip on the box, and heaved it away from the wall. Behind it was a window with a rack of bars propped beside it.

"I don't suppose those were already conveniently removed," I whispered.

He shook his head.

"Impressive."

A graceful shrug. "They weren't affixed very well. More for show, I'd wager. He probably thinks hiding the window is security enough. Not much of a challenge."

"You sound disappointed."

A soft laugh. He motioned me closer to the open window. As he handed me a flashlight, I noticed he was wearing gloves.

"Only brought one pair, I'm afraid," he whispered. "Not very well prepared."

"You bought gloves and a flashlight. I showed up in a skirt and heels. Who's not prepared?"

"Breaking and entering was hardly on our minds when I picked you up at the house."

"Maybe so, but next time, I'm packing a bag."

He helped me through. With the moonlight blocked by the trash bin, the room was pitch black. Even the flashlight only illuminated a basketball-size circle. I cast it around as he crawled in behind me.

It looked like a storage closet. In front of me, a shelf held mailorder supplies—stacks of folded boxes and bags of packing material. To my left, there was a narrow shelf tower with floor cleaner, bleach, rags, drain opener, rat poison and cat food. On first seeing the cat food, the optimist in me wanted to say, "See, the guy may run a hardcore sex cult, but he still feeds the neighborhood strays." Seeing the food next to the rat poison, though, I had to suspect it was more a lure than a handout. You can't run a decent black magic cult without sacrificing a cat now and then.

Jeremy was leaning out the window, pulling the trash bin back into place. As I turned, I saw that the storage closet also doubled as the shop bathroom. No sign of a sink. Very sanitary.

There was a stack of reading material by the toilet. Magazines. The top one showed a woman bound and gagged, her eyes rolling in helpless terror. Judging by the size of her breasts, though, she wasn't
completely
helpless—swing one of those at the right angle and you could knock a guy out.

Jeremy stepped up beside me. His gaze followed the flashlight beam.

I whispered, "Something tells me the Disciples get more inspiration from those than from Asmodai."