I stood in the center of the room and concentrated. Sailor did the same.
“Anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not right off the bat. It feels as though someone performed a cleansing.”
“Why would they bother?” I asked. “It’s not as though the average homicide investigator can feel such things. How could they have known a witch like me would be involved in the investigation?”
A horseshoe, hung upside down over the front door, fell. It clanged against the aluminum ladder as it went down.
I jumped, letting out a squeak.
“Don’t faint, Lily,” said Sailor. “It’s a stupid horseshoe. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I swallowed hard, and nodded. He was right. I was jumpy, on edge.
I went into the kitchen and looked through the cupboards and refrigerator. There was nothing, no food at all. That last Serpentarian supper must have been catered. Would the police have cleaned things out for some reason, or did Malachi simply not eat? In the closet, I found a whole collection of sunglasses, and lots of wide-brimmed hats. Did the man really have a sun allergy? Was that why all the windows were closed, and so thoroughly?
Gregory said he thought he saw Malachi walking around, as though risen from the dead. And now the doorman. The very idea was ridiculous . . . but then again, what did I know? I hadn’t gotten to the “vampire” section of Aidan’s library.
“Sailor, you don’t believe in . . . in vampires, do you?”
“Is this a joke of some sort?”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.
I shook my head. “Sorry. Never mind.”
A door led off the back of the kitchen. I unlocked it, then eased it open.
It led to a back utility stairwell. The little landing held a mop, a broom, a bucket. Wooden stairs led both down . . . and up. I peered into the darkness above.
Chapter 16
“Go on up,” said Sailor from right behind me.
I startled again. “Stop scaring me.”
“So stop being so jumpy. Some witch you are. C’mon, let’s check out the roof.”
“Do you sense something?”
“Not particularly. But it’s suffocating in here, and I like rooftops, ever since I was a kid.” He glanced down at me. “I’ll bet you’re going to tell me you never snuck up to a roof and drank cheap wine from the bottle when you were a teenager.”
I shrugged. He shook his head.
“Your folks have a lot to answer for.”
“Don’t I know it.”
He led the way up the dark stairs to the door at the top. Light came through the bottom crack in a bright beam. When he opened the door, light streamed in to show the stairs were just what they were supposed to be, nothing sinister about them at all. A cobweb-strewn access route to the roof.
The flat roof was made of tar and gravel, with a series of air vents and aluminum pipes sticking out, seemingly willy-nilly. One huge old antenna, a holdover from the days of broadcast TV, lay on its side in one corner. The building was asymmetrical, the roof shape irregular. A few beer cans in one corner gave silent testimony to an earlier party, like one of Sailor’s younger trespasses, no doubt. Other than being litterbugs, I could hardly blame them—if I were Malachi Zazi, I would have spent a lot of time up on this roof.
And not just for the incredible view. But the gargoyles.
They were perched at the corners, and upon approaching the edge you could see several more, marching down the odd roof angles. Approaching one from the rear, I could have sworn it shifted a little to look back at me. I paused, then continued toward it, reaching out—
“Check this out,” said Sailor.
I looked around. In an opposite corner, there was a small planter box filled with flowering shrubs and surrounded by a bench. And smack-dab in the center, as though in the place of honor, was a large stone sculpture of a man wrestling with a giant snake.
“Why would someone with a supposed sun allergy set up a little outdoor garden?”
“Maybe it was some other tenant’s weekend project.”
“I doubt it. That sculpture is Serpentarius. Malachi named his whole dinner society after him.”
“I take it he’s a snake guy?”
“He’s the snake guy.”
“I don’t like snakes.”
“I don’t mind them.”
“It figures. You’re an odd one—you know that?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I know that. Anyway, Malachi Zazi clearly had a little Serpentarius fetish. So here’s the question: Did this statue give him the idea, or did he put up the statue himself?”
“Looks like it’s been here a while.”
“So has—had—Malachi. It’s tough to tell with stone.” True, there was dirt in the carved recesses, and signs of weather. But I imagined that San Francisco’s climate, subject as it was to salt air off the ocean and bay, fog, and temperature swings, could be hard on a hunk of stone.
“Why would anyone develop a fetish for a Roman god?”
“Not sure. But he’s not all that obscure—the American Medical Association uses him as their symbol.”
“What’s the association with snakes?”
“I think it’s that they shed their skin and are reborn. As though they are eternally young, never to die.”
“But they do die.”
“We all do.”
“Except for vampires.”
“Very funny.” I looked back at the gargoyle, the one I could have sworn shifted just a little. It now sat, glowering and unmoving, watching over the city. Backlit by the harsh afternoon sun, its silhouette was dark and hulking. “What do you know about gargoyles?”
“True gargoyles are just downspouts.”
“Downspouts?”
“They were just decorations put on rain gutters and downspouts. The water usually came out their mouths, hence the name, ‘gargoyles,’ which comes from the French word for ‘throat.’ Like ‘gargle.’ ”
“Are you serious?”
“Now it’s my turn for arcane knowledge, I guess. I have a background in architecture.”
“Really? You mean before . . .”
He nodded. “Before.”
“You should get back into it. What with your abilities, you could read a building’s aura and really keep your clients happy.”
“Yeah, thanks for the career advice I didn’t ask for and don’t need. Besides, how could I give up on the opportunity to trespass in dead guys’ apartments with you?”
“Thank you for coming, Sailor. Are you going to tell Aidan about this?”
He shrugged. I didn’t suppose it mattered that much. If I were overly worried about being spied on, I wouldn’t keep Oscar around.
“I remember seeing gargoyles in France,” I said, thinking of them on the Notre Dame, as well as just about every remote country chapel one came across. “I always thought they were believed to be guardians of some sort, not just downspout decorations.”
“Oh, they are. They’re both, really. They were meant to scare off the evil spirits in the same way that traditional Chinese put up mirrors to confuse and scare off bad luck.”
“You think that’s what they’re doing here on this building?”
“I think they’re here as decoration. You can see them plainly from the street; this whole building is a pretty unusual construction. The metal bars emerging from the four corners is a traditional device as well, used to confuse the magnetic poles.”
“To what purpose?”
“To keep the ghosts away.”
I looked over at him, startled. He laughed.
“I’m kidding. They were probably used to enhance television reception, back in the days of antennas and broadcast signals. They might do double duty as lightning rods.”
“Oh.” I took another moment to feel for sensations. Nothing but a pleasant, contented hum near the garden. Nothing untoward or evil. I headed back toward the stairwell.
When we reentered Malachi’s apartment, I felt something.
A curse.
I hadn’t noticed it before. Was it new, or was the other entrance confusing us somehow?
Whatever it was, it was fully charged. I could feel it from where I was standing. It was low, below eye level.
I got to my hands and knees and started looking under furniture.
There they were: little wax balls in the corner.
Goofer Balls. Powerful Goofer Balls.
I scrambled back, crablike.
Sailor caught me as I backed into him and helped me to my feet.
“What is it?”
I blew out a breath. Got my bearings. It wasn’t like me to walk up on something like that. I usually felt vibrational warnings. Everything was off-kilter in this place.
“Goofer Balls,” I said. “They—”
“I know what Goofer Balls are,” he said, a grim quality to his voice.
“I—”
Suddenly Sailor put his finger to his lips to silence me, gesturing toward the front door. He ducked into the bedroom.
Before I could follow him, the door banged opened.
Backlit by the strong light from the hallway, I couldn’t make out the silhouette at first. But then SFPD inspector Carlos Romero came into focus, a furious expression on his face.
“Dammit, Lily—”
He cut himself off in midsentence. His eyes shifted to a spot beyond me.
“Don’t walk under the ladder. I can explain. . . .” I noticed something glinting above the door. Marks. As though something had been written, or drawn, in a clear but slightly shiny liquid. And there were dirt smudges. Someone had cast a spell on the door. Would that explain why it was so hard to feel anything in here, while I felt it when coming in the other entrance?
Carlos unholstered his service revolver.
“Don’t pull your gun, Carlos. He’s okay,” I said, glancing behind me and expecting to see Sailor.
But no one was there. Sailor was still hiding in the bedroom.
Then I heard something. A buzzing, shaking sound. Almost like the hum of the cicadas that filled the still summer air in my hometown.
“Don’t move!” Carlos barked from right behind me.
I froze.
Carlos aimed, holding the revolver with both hands. He gestured, ever so slightly, with his head, to the floor near the fireplace.
A snake. Its fat brown-splotched body was coiled, the tip of its tail pointing up and shaking madly.
Poised to strike. At me.
“Rattler.”
Chapter 17
“Back away very, very slowly,” Carlos said in a restrained voice.
“It’s all right,” I said, holding my hand out to Carlos. “Wait.”
I inched my hand to my medicine bag, stroked it, met the serpent’s shiny flat eyes, and started to chant.
“Lily . . .”
I held the creature’s gaze, continuing to murmur. After a long moment, the furious rattle subsided. The snake uncoiled, its body landing with a thud onto the polished wood floor. It scurried away, whispering along the polished wood floor, disappearing into the bedroom.
“Out of this apartment. Now,” Carlos demanded.
“But—”
“Now. I’ll call in the exterminators. Dammit. How could we have overlooked something like that?”
“It was probably hidden. Asleep.”
“Maybe.” He locked up, making a series of phone calls before we even got into the clanky elevator. Down in the lobby, he nodded at the doorman as we walked past, steering me by the elbow out the front door.
“You and I need to have a chat,” said Carlos. “Either informally here and now, just you and me, or I take you to the station for an official interrogation. Your choice.”
“Um . . . informally?” I answered, wondering whether this was a trick question.
He led the way to a dim old-time bar two blocks down on the corner. Two old men nursed their drinks and a petite fiftyish woman was tending bar, but otherwise we had the place to ourselves. We slid into a booth with scarred wooden benches that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer.
When the waitress arrived, Carlos ordered iced tea and a plate of nachos con todo. I asked for a gin and tonic. It was still early, but I wasn’t above a little liquid relaxation.
Carlos was good at his job. Simply sitting under his demanding stare made me want to come clean, to spill all my secrets just to make him go away. He remained silent and brooding until the drinks arrived, which, happily for me, was not a long interlude. I was starting to squirm.
Finally, after a long pull on his iced tea, he started in.
“What were you doing in Malachi Zazi’s apartment?”
“I needed to take another look.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card with his name, official status, and phone number. He plunked it down onto the table between us with a bang. Then tapped on it.
“You need to get into an active crime scene, you call your old buddy Carlos. Homicide inspector Carlos Romero. Hear me?”
“I’ve been calling you, old buddy, twice today.”
“I’ve been a tad busy, trying to solve a homicide.”
“How’s it going?”
He gave me a noncommittal shake of his head.
“You’re right that I shouldn’t have broken into Malachi Zazi’s apartment.”
“Damn right.”
“But I have a gripe of my own I want to address. Did you know of my connection to Gregory Petrovic when you asked me to come look at the crime scene?”
His gaze shifted away from me. “Not at first. When I asked you to come originally, it was because of all the bad luck charms we found at the scene. It was only later that we took Oliver’s statement, and brought Gregory in for questioning.”
“And that’s when you realized he was connected to me?”
“Is he connected? I thought I sensed some distance between him and his mother-in-law.”
“Some, yes.”
He looked at me for a long time. These were the moments when I thought this by-the-book homicide inspector was doing his darnedest to read my mind, or my aura . . . or both.
“The point is that no, I did not ask you to look at the crime scene in order to get the inside scoop on your employee’s son-in-law. Is that what you’re worried about?”
That was precisely what had worried me. I hadn’t realized until now how much it meant to me that Carlos had asked me for help, to weigh in on the crime. I watched him for a moment before deciding to believe him. I felt relieved, as though a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. For some reason, Carlos’s opinion mattered to me. A lot.
The waitress arrived at the table with a platter piled high with enough nachos to satisfy a football team: chips glistening with bright orange cheese, small chunks of grilled chicken, jalapeño rings, black beans, and a little bowl of salsa on the side. I had been so distracted by Sailor earlier that I hadn’t eaten all that much gumbo. Now that the adrenaline from our Goofer Ball and serpentine encounter in the apartment was subsiding, I felt ravenous.
“First time I tried what y’all call nachos here in California, I didn’t quite know what to make of them,” I said, biting into a jalapeño. “Back home our ‘nachos’ were just chips with a little queso cheese—you know, the melty cheese product stuff?”
“‘Queso cheese’ is redundant,” Carlos said, picking up a bean-laden chip and dipping it in the salsa.
“Yeah, I get that. I even speak Spanish. I guess back home we never really thought about how odd that was. It’s just one of those words, like ‘nekked.’ ”
“‘Nekked’?” Carlos looked at me with that mix of irritation and amusement I was coming to expect from him.
“I was raised saying ‘nekked,’ meaning someone without clothes. When I read the word ‘naked,’ I thought it meant something different. I assumed it rhymed with ‘baked
,’ or . . . ‘raked,’ or . . .”
“ ‘Snaked,’ ” Carlos said. His voice dropped. “You want to fill me in on what in the hell just happened up in Zazi’s apartment?”
“I really don’t know. I know the god Serpentarius is always shown with serpents; given the name of Zazi’s dinner club and all, do you think he might have kept snakes as pets?”
“I went through every inch of that place; there was no aquarium, no place to keep such a thing. And I don’t care how much you like snakes, you’re not going to let a rattler roam around free in your apartment unless you’ve got a death wish.”
“Rattlers aren’t actually aggressive,” I pointed out. “They avoid humans whenever possible.”
“Uh-huh,” he said and eyed me.
“Were you really going to shoot it?” I asked with a half smile. “You must be a good shot.”
“Good thing I wasn’t forced to test my skills. What was that mumbling you were doing when the snake was poised to strike?”
“Just a little . . . prayer. Sort of.”
“‘Sort of.’ ” He nodded absentmindedly, studying me. Finally, he gave a little shiver, hiking his shoulders to his ears. “I hate snakes. They give me the willies.”
“A big strong homicide cop intimidated by a little reptile?”
“It’s the way they slither. Creeps me out.” He bit into another cheesy chip. “I notice you didn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest, though it was ready to strike you.”
“Snakes never scared me much. Don’t rightly know why,” I lied, thinking of another close encounter with the creatures, so many years ago in my dusty hometown. “The sight of you bursting in through the door with a gun at the ready, though, that gave me a fright.”
“Uh-huh. We haven’t yet talked about what you were doing breaking into a crime scene.”
“I needed to see it again. I was hoping I might sense something without all the other folks there, mucking things up.”
“What about the man who came with you?”
“Man?”
“The doorman said a man arrived with you, and you two went up together in the elevator.”
“He was just helping me get in,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn. I’m really not great at lying. “On account of me not having the key. And then he went away.”
Hexes and Hemlines Page 16