No Place Like Hell (16 page)

"And did you write Mr. Sleeth a ticket for this erratic driving?" Mack asked.

"No, sir," I said. "I issued a warning."

"We didn't want to give Mr. Sleeth grounds to file a police harassment suit," Dave put in. I could have kissed him.

Mack and Greene exchanged another look. The undercurrents were clear—they were thinking that only the four of us in the room knew Dave and I had seen Sleeth. And if Sleeth didn't kill Haskell, then what was his tire iron doing at the scene? How had he gotten the blood on his shirt? We had a conundrum.

Greene was first to test the waters.

"Maybe you were wrong about the time when you saw Sleeth. Maybe it was earlier. Or later."

I had to give it to Dave. He had balls. He squared his shoulders and stared Greene in the eye.

"No, sir, I'm sure about the time. I made note of it when we found a vandalized vehicle at eleven-fifteen. We saw Sleeth just before that but couldn't catch him. Nicky spotted him again just afterward."

Dave had spoken the magic words.
Notebook. Written evidence
. Greene dropped into his chair and put his head in his hands. "What a cluster fuck. I hope the mayor hasn't held a press conference yet."

"I'm not letting Sleeth go," Mack said. "We have evidence—"

"He has two of our officers as his alibi!" Greene shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.

"He's deliberately making us look like chumps," Mack said.

Greene waved a hand at the door. "Turn him loose before he gets it into his head to sue us. Then find a way to nail the bastard—one that will stand up in court."

"And you, Demasi." Greene punctuated my name with a finger pointed my direction. "If you go near this case again, you'll be suspended. Is that clear?"

26

Seve's high-priced mouthpiece hadn't arrived at the station yet, and already the police had turned Kasker loose without so much as a warning not to leave town. He wondered what happened.

The bloody shirt wasn't his, but it didn't matter. His fingerprints on the tire iron should have sealed his fate. Who could have found it at Decker Industries and known it was his?

Susie.

He stood on the steps of the police station and breathed in cool pre-dawn air. He was the hunter. But Holmes had turned the tables. Was Susie in league with Holmes? The hair rose on the back of Kasker's neck, and his suspicious gaze swept the deserted street.

The bookstore had to be a trap to draw Kasker out so Holmes could identify his flesh, even though Kasker hadn't detected Holmes in the vicinity. To set the trap, Holmes must have known the exact date and time of Decker's death, and that was impossible. Only Seve had that knowledge. But how did Seve know?

What was the point of recognizing Kasker's flesh? If Holmes caused it some harm, Kasker would simply find a different cloak of flesh to wear while he hunted. It wouldn't stop his pursuit. It would only cause delay. So time was important to Holmes' plans.

Kasker strode away toward the commercial district. He'd find a cab, go to his apartment, and get his car. He'd pay Seve a visit. Then he'd find out about Haskell—whoever he was. Perhaps he'd order the demon to procure him new flesh. That should throw both the police and Holmes off his trail.

He'd gone three blocks when he encountered a man loading the early edition of the newspaper into a paper box. The headline caught his eye.
Slasher Captured
. Below it, the subhead read
Robert Haskell Second Victim
. When the newspaper van pulled away, Kasker jimmied the lock.

According to the article, Haskell died at an eastside construction site between eleven and half past. He chuckled as a small puzzle piece clicked into place. So that's why he'd been released—the tenacious Officer Demasi and her powerless guardian angel had come forward to alibi him.

His delight at the irony faded. It was too much of a coincidence that Haskell would be killed at the same time Kasker was occupied harvesting Renquist's soul—a time for which, if not for the infuriating ward, he couldn't provide an alibi. And, according to the paper, Haskell's death had been another ritual killing like Decker's, not the bludgeoning murder Kasker expected.

His hands crumpled the paper. Goats! Did Seve own Haskell's soul? The demon would be furious if he'd lost another one. When he couldn't find a cab, he jogged to the construction site, all three miles. Sweat poured down his face and soaked his shirt. His feet blistered where his sandals rubbed.

Steel girders rose into the sunrise above a six-foot plywood fence that blocked access to the site. Two dozen construction workers crowded around a gate decked in yellow police tape. They argued with an officer who prevented their entrance.

Kasker watched from across the street. No souls—attached to a body or otherwise—remained inside the site. If Seve was right about the ritual, then somewhere nearby, another soul had been sacrificed to the universe so that Haskell's essence could occupy its discarded body.

Seven hours had passed between the ritual and Kasker's arrival. It would take a tenacious soul to remain untethered so long. But even a slim chance of finding a lead was better than returning to Seve empty-handed.

Kasker paced away, senses pushed to their limits. Without flesh, he couldn't remain in this realm more than the few minutes needed to collect a damned soul. Clothed in it, he could stay as long as he wanted—half blind and muzzled. Detecting a departed soul was like swimming the ocean wearing concrete overshoes.

Already the buildings adjacent to the construction site sparkled with people starting their working day. Their blazing souls would obscure one fading remnant. He cursed Holmes for his skullduggery.

Kasker searched one block after another. More curses fell from his lips, and more blisters rose on his feet. Seve said the second sacrifice should be waiting right outside the door. He was wasting his time, but he plodded on anyway, desperate for a clue.

There! Faint essence clung to a patch of asphalt in the middle of the street where the occasional car whizzed past. Kasker couldn't feel power from any dark magic, and there weren't any runes drawn on the pavement. Why this place to obliterate a soul?

Regardless, the important thing was to identify the human. Then he would know what flesh to hunt. He'd need a moment in his true form.

He squatted in the doorway of a dress shop pretending to adjust the buckle on his sandal. His true form would blend with the shadows of the recess. The few pedestrians who passed paid no attention to him. When none were close, he loosened his grip on the flesh.

His body lurched back and thumped against the door. Kasker had a dim awareness of a crack on the skull.

His vision sharpened. His nose detected the soul scent of the hundreds of humans occupying the buildings around him. His ears pricked, listening to the agonized screams of the damned trapped beyond this realm.

Before him, the soul thinned with each passing second. Kasker wanted to clamp his jaws on it and suck it down. But this one wasn't damned. To taste it was forbidden. Still, his mouth watered at the thought.

The soul was no more than a bright spot, a swirling fog. Kasker raised his heavy muzzle and sniffed. A tendril of essence wafted from the disappearing mass to tickle his nostrils.

Merkel. The dispossessed soul's name was Emmett Merkel.

The last vestige of the soul faded. Kasker bayed his excitement and reached for the flesh.

27

I wasn't speaking to Dave. No one on the force was speaking to Dave. Consensus was that while Sleeth set up his alibi by nearly ramming Dave and me, his accomplice was busy murdering Haskell—the same accomplice who'd helped him kill Decker. An accomplice explained his pristine clothes. He was playing us for fools.

I'd gone home for a few hours' sleep. My boiling anger made it anything but restful. The irony that I, of all people, should be Sleeth's alibi wasn't lost on me. When the sun rose, so did I.

I'd done my job when I'd chased Sleeth. Driving under the influence made him a menace to the good citizens of Solaris. Instead of winning accolades for my persistence, I'd earned another black mark and become the poster child for feminine bad judgment and the inability to follow orders.

Nervous energy kept me pacing my kitchen. I had to do something. I needed to solve a case big enough to turn around Lenny Greene's perceptions, but the Slasher case was off limits now. I drove to the station and spent the morning leafing through mug books.

I found one of Tad's pursuers quickly. The white guy with a cross tattoo on his neck was Jake Bronski. He'd done time for robbery and assault. His information included a list of known associates.

When I checked the associates, there was his buddy, Harold Warner, the acne-scarred Negro. Warner had been dishonorably discharged from the US Army, where he'd been a medic caught dipping into the drug supply. After the military, he'd been incarcerated for a year on drug possession charges.

When they weren't working scams, they were beating their girlfriends. But they didn't seem like big enough fish to engage in kidnapping or murder. Unless they were trying to mug Tad in front of hundreds of witnesses, the likelihood of them chasing him seemed remote.

I slumped in my chair. Perhaps in my eagerness to make a difference, I was seeing crimes where none existed. I wondered whether Dave had encouraged me to look into the thugs as a way to distract me from the Slasher case. I hated to think that might be true.

A sense of dissatisfaction and impatience swirled in me. I still had hours before my lunch date with Tad and nothing to focus on. In a last-ditch attempt at redemption, I decided to throw my frustration at Emmett Merkel's untimely death.

My first stop was the medical examiner. According to a preliminary report, Merkel suffered from coronary heart disease and had for several years. His doctor said he managed it with a prescription for nitroglycerin and avoidance of hard physical strain. The ME hadn't found Merkel's nitro—or the missing cufflink.

Given the warm evening temperatures, Merkel's medical condition, and the stress of changing a tire, the medical examiner ruled the death a heart attack brought on by over-exertion. A drug screen was pending to see if Merkel had taken his nitro.

Over-exertion? Merkel hadn't even removed the hubcaps on the Lincoln, never mind straining on the lug nuts. Surely getting out the equipment to change the flat and unfastening one sleeve wasn't
that
much stress.

And the finding of death by heart attack didn't explain the missing jacket or the van that had pulled into the parking lot and out again without reporting a body on the pavement. But without the ME's backing, I'd have a hard time convincing Greene to investigate.

If I didn't have the ME on my side, perhaps I could convince Merkel's widow to raise a stink. I made her my next stop.

The Merkels lived in a neighborhood of older exclusive homes on the south side of Solaris. I rolled along their street and checked for addresses.

Three blocks ahead, a maroon Mustang slipped around the corner and disappeared. My foot came off the gas. Was it Sleeth? I plunged my foot to the floor.

By the time I reached the corner where the Mustang had turned, it was gone. Streets in this neighborhood meandered like a sidewinder through the desert. I drove a few of them, but the Mustang had vanished.

I returned to the Merkel house and chided myself for imagining it might have been the murdering hippie. After all, he wasn't the only person in California who owned a maroon Mustang.

The Merkel house made me feel like I'd walked into
Gone with the Wind
. A butler answered the door of the white-pillared pile and made me ever so glad I'd worn my uniform instead of arriving in civvies even if I wasn't officially on duty. Merkel must be worth millions, which was a great motive for murder.

A huge wreath of yellow roses draped with a black ribbon stood in the foyer. The scent of the flowers overwhelmed the space. A crystal chandelier winked overhead. I asked to see Mrs. Merkel and informed the black-liveried servant that it was official business.

I waited ten minutes before Mrs. Merkel swept in. She was in her fifties. Her dyed-black hair was cut shoulder length, smooth on top and curly on the bottom. Her deep crimson lipstick slopped above her upper lip on the right side. Her face powder was applied unevenly.

Red rimmed her eyes, but I didn't think it was from crying for her dead husband. The face powder didn't quite hide the spidery nose and cheek veins of a heavy drinker. She wore a sleeveless peach satin jumpsuit that clashed with her lipstick. Over it, she had a sheer peach and green print robe that reached to her knees and swirled behind her like Batman's cape.

One hand held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, the other a cigarette. She swayed a little as she stopped before me. I wondered if she always imbibed this early.

"You're Officer Demasi?" she asked. Her critical eyes looked me up and down. Then she seemed to realize she was staring. "Henry didn't mention you were a woman."

I assumed Henry was the butler. I murmured, "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Merkel."