Carlos’s dark gaze fixed on me for a long moment. I blushed some more under the scrutiny. Time to change the subject.
“Did Zazi’s autopsy show anything unusual?”
“Actually”—Carlos’s eyes shifted around the bar—“there was no autopsy.”
“Why not?” I stuffed another chip in my mouth.
“Because there’s no body.”
I froze midbite.
“No body?” I said around the chip. “What do you mean, ‘no body’?”
He cleared his throat, took another sip of his iced tea before speaking. “It disappeared sometime last night. It was signed in, and the autopsy was scheduled for this morning. But it wasn’t there when folks showed up for work this a.m.”
“They lost the body?”
He nodded.
I remembered the horseshoe falling in Malachi Zazi’s apartment, and thoughts of bad luck washed over me. Don’t be superstitious, Lily. You know that bad luck doesn’t work that way. I took a deep breath and finished off my drink.
“How did they lose the body?”
“Very hard to say.”
But Carlos’s vibrations, usually hard to read, shielded and coplike, were worried. Humming at a high pitch, not unlike the rattle of the snake. Defensive and on guard.
“Were there cameras in the medical examination room? Videotape?”
“There were. But the tapes were erased somehow. The cameras from the parking lot across the street might have something; we’re working on it. So, you don’t think . . . you mentioned from the start that Zazi might not be entirely . . .” He dropped his voice. “Human. With his sun allergy, and then the blackout shades, I know he didn’t sleep in a coffin, but . . .”
“No.”
He seemed to relax, digging back into the nachos.
“Someone must have stolen the body,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s the only logical explanation. Maybe his old cronies wanted it for some weird celebration of the moon goddess or something. Probably we’ll find his burnt remains in some isolated section of Golden Gate Park. Isn’t the solstice coming up soon? This is precisely the sort of thing I was hoping you could help me with.”
So much for my warm and fuzzy feelings toward this particular homicide inspector. Not long ago Carlos had seen and heard some things that made him believe I was in touch with another dimension. Like a scientist, he was open to things he didn’t understand if he saw that they were based in something real. I had been so flattered when he asked me to weigh in on Malachi Zazi’s crime scene, but now . . . he asked for my help in one breath, and disdained me in the next. He was distorting the practice of witchcraft, and by extension, disparaging me and those I loved.
“Witchcraft has nothing to do with making human sacrifices to the moon goddess, or any other god,” I said, my tone sounding flat to my own ears.
“Oh, right,” Carlos said, picking up on my mood shift. The man was no psychic, but he was a good cop—he could read people. “I didn’t mean any of your . . . type . . . witches. I mean that you—”
He blew out a frustrated breath, took a drink, met my eyes, and tried again.
“I apologize. I did not mean to imply that you, or any of the witches you know, in any way endorse human sacrifice.”
I nodded.
“I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.”
“Why don’t I see if the film from the parking lot cameras shows anything, while you try to figure out why someone would want to steal a body.”
I nodded again. “Oh, by the way, what do you think of Senator Huffman?”
“Senator Huffman?”
“Oliver Huffman’s father. I spoke to him yesterday.”
“You spoke to him? How? And more important, why?”
“I went to his house. Gregory said Oliver was the one who told you about the argument with Zazi.”
Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. “You’re not a cop, Lily. I asked for your opinion on a case, not to pursue witnesses.”
“I understand that, but once I realized that Bronwyn’s son-in-law might be in trouble, this case became a little more personal.”
He sighed, but nodded. “We spoke with Oliver Huffman—in fact, with everyone who was there that night.”
“Did you speak to a woman named Doura? Lots of blond curly hair, about fifty?”
He shook his head. “There was no one by that name on the official guest list.”
“I think she was a stand-in for Ellen Chambers.”
“The woman in the hospital.”
“Right.”
Carlos let out an exasperated breath. “No, we didn’t. I guess we missed one. No one mentioned her, interestingly enough. Though I have to say, there must have been a lot of drinking going on. No one really remembers the end of the evening with any clarity. Most of them seem to have left on the early side, at least according to their spouses and whatnot.”
“There should have been six men and six women at the dinner besides Malachi.”
Carlos pulled out a small notebook that was molded to the contour of his hip pocket. He flipped through and swore under his breath.
“What’s this woman’s name?”
“Doura. I have no idea what the last name is. But I saw her with Malachi’s father, at the black abode.”
Carlos stared at me for a long moment. “You spoke with Malachi’s father. And the Huffmans. Anyone else?”
“That’s about it. And Gregory, obviously. Speaking of whom, do you have anything on him? Am I allowed to ask that?”
“He’s not off the hook entirely, but nothing’s pointing in his direction except for that scuffle. And that’s not enough to convict someone with. He’s cooperated, given us a DNA sample, and even offered to take a lie detector test.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Did your conversations turn up anything unusual, anything you think might be pertinent, no matter how trivial it might seem?”
I gave him a brief rundown of my visits to the Huffman family compound, and then the black abode. “All I can say is Senator Huffman seemed extremely upset about his children’s association with Malachi Zazi, but he also seemed genuinely shocked to hear of the death. Nichol struck me as a little odd.”
“In what way?”
“She shoplifted something from my store the other day, but I didn’t sense any kind of remorse or guilt.”
“Shoplifting’s a ways from murder.”
“I know that. It just struck me as odd. And she and Atticus were both protective of Oliver, but I guess that’s normal under the circumstances. I didn’t get much chance to speak with him.”
“I have, several times. His story is consistent, and he left that night with Nichol, and according to their own security detail they went straight home, got there on the early side. I suppose it could be fudged, but I don’t see much there. So what about with Malachi’s father. Anything odd . . . besides the obvious?”
“Just, as I mentioned, the woman Doura. I . . . know this is strange, but I believe she’s some kind of witch.”
There was a long pause.
“You think Malachi was killed by a witch?”
“No, I didn’t say that. But I think it would be worth talking to her. It feels as though the apartment has a spell cast on it. There was something over the front door—I think maybe she, or someone else with special talents, altered things. And I found Goofer Balls in the corners tonight.”
“What are Goofer Balls?”
“Hexes.”
“But you don’t know what all this might add up to?”
I shook my head. Then I thought about what Nigel said the other day—that murder was more likely caused by greed.
“Who inherits Malachi Zazi’s money?”
“Half of it goes to an arts foundation, and the other half to the animal shelter. Speaking of which—how’s the cat?”
“Still officially homeless, but bunking at my place. I can’t believe y
ou suckered me in.”
He grinned and gestured to the bartender for the bill, handing her a twenty.
“Lily, I want to be absolutely clear on one point: I know I started this by asking for your opinion on Malachi Zazi’s murder, but you’re not anything like a cop. You cannot go around acting like one, get me? You’ll get us both into serious trouble.”
I nodded.
“That being said . . . I need to ask you for another favor.”
“Does this have to do with vintage clothing or police work?”
“I’d like you to go with me to talk with Mike Perkins.”
“The pharmaceuticals guy? Would that help?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a long shot at best. But there’s something . . . off about the guy. I don’t know what to tell you other than my cop’s intuition tells me something’s going on. The interviews with him have been less than satisfactory. I’d be interested to see what you think—what with Malachi’s father investing with him, and several of the dinner guests working for him, and him coming to the dinners himself . . . I’d just be interested to see what you pick up, if anything.”
“I’m not psychic, you know.”
“I know that. But among other things, he’s got some stuff in his office—like carnivorous plants. That’s odd, right?”
“A little.”
“There are other things, too. Like, for instance, a lot of snakeskins, serpent motifs.”
Our eyes held for a long moment. “I guess there’s a lot of that going around lately.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“When did you want to go?”
“How about now? I’ll make a call.”
One more meeting. One more interview. I didn’t know how Carlos did it; it took so much psychic energy, putting yourself out there, doubting everyone you meet and speak with, taking mental notes and comparing. But I was awfully curious to talk to Gregory’s boss. The man who, apparently, thought he could find the secret to eternal youth.
Under the circumstances, I figured Sailor could find his own way home. He was a resourceful fellow. And since he’d driven us earlier, he still had my car keys in his pocket. I’d be lucky if he hadn’t already taken off to Vegas in my beautiful vintage Mustang, happy to be rid of me and Aidan once and for all.
Chapter 18
Mike Perkins’s office was located in the Presidio, across town. Not far from Malachi Zazi’s apartment.
The Presidio is a graceful collection of red-roofed white-stucco buildings that used to be part of an old military base, surrounded on all sides by forest and the bay. Golden Gate Park is spectacular, but I prefer the Presidio because of the historic buildings. It must have been the army’s version of Club Med: soaring eucalyptus trees, meandering paths through the wooded grounds, rolling lawns, all looking over the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. The buildings were, by turns, either elegant or charming. I had been told that the only truly ugly building on the grounds was the old naval hospital, but that concrete monstrosity was razed a few years ago and replaced by new Lucasfilm studios, built in a style that fit in with the traditional architecture.
Perkins Laboratories occupied an older clutch of buildings. One former residence had been made into administrative offices, while an old health care facility was used for the research laboratories and production. By the time we arrived the late-afternoon sun barely made its orangey way through the multipaned windows. The aged structure gave the entire enterprise a homey, friendly feel. That sense was mitigated, however, as soon as I met Mike Perkins eye to eye.
Perkins had thinning blond hair and glasses, and was slightly bucktoothed. But there the nerdiness ended. There was a hard glint of intelligence in his gaze, a careful, guarded sense to his aura. He was cold. Calculating. Self-satisfied, self-assured, self-centered. And focused, but I wasn’t sure on what, exactly.
“So nice to see you again so soon, Inspector.”
“I appreciate you making the time, Mr. Perkins,” said Carlos. “This is a special consultant working with us on this case, Lily Ivory.”
He nodded at me, and we assessed one another. Perkins was so cold that I was feeling a chill enter my own body. In that moment I was thankful that I’m not able to read minds.
Carlos started going over the statement Perkins had given previously, asking a few clarifying questions. While he did so, I glanced around the office, noting the snake motif Carlos had mentioned: There were several snake sheds, a rattle, an entire serpentine skeleton in the shape of a giant “S.” And if I wasn’t mistaken, this corporate mogul was wearing a snakeskin belt.
What bothered me more, though, were the signs of spell work: protective charms here and there, the barely discernible signs written over the doorway, much like what I had noticed in Malachi’s apartment.
“So you arrived around when?” Carlos was asking. “And left when?”
“I arrived about eleven, and left about two in the morning. Those were the usual hours for one of Malachi’s events, and Saturday was no different,” said Perkins. Though he spoke to Carlos, his eyes followed me.
I noticed the plants that Carlos had mentioned. Venus flytraps and a few others that I didn’t recognize. The oddest thing about them was their setting: Other than the carnivorous plants, Perkins’s office had been decorated in a Zen garden theme, with bonsai trees, a little tabletop fountain, and one corner of raked gravel. Somehow Zen philosophy and carnivorous plants just didn’t gel in my mind. I remembered a friend of mine telling me about a Zen retreat she stayed at, in which every guest room was equipped with a “bugzooka,” a device that allowed you to suck up an insect so you could release it, alive, outside. I doubted a place like that would have a whole lot of Venus flytraps adorning the window boxes.
A fly buzzed, coming perilously near to the hungry plants. Attracted by their scent.
“I was wondering,” said Carlos. “The other folks I’ve met who were at the dinner, they all seem younger than you. I’m surprised to see someone of your maturity and stature at such an event.”
“Maybe I believed in the cause of rationalism. Ever think of that?”
“Is that why you attended?”
He smiled, seeming genuinely amused. “No. I was there for the publicity. Malachi Zazi was becoming something of a media darling, and I’m not too big to ride on his coattails.”
“Forgive me,” I interrupted. “I’m not from here, and I don’t watch TV or do much of anything to keep up with the news. Was there some reason in particular you or your company needed good publicity?”
Now he laughed. As was rather typical in my life, especially with the male of the species, I seemed to cause an inordinate amount of amusement. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out why. But since I was never much of one to fit in, I tried not to take it too personally. Maybe they didn’t get out much. . . . One thing was sure: They didn’t come across witches like me very often.
“My company is very high-profile. It’s the nature of the business—I peddle beauty, not to put too fine a point on it. It’s good for me to be pictured, in costume no less, with youthful, good-looking people. Lovely women, handsome, virile men.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you?”
“Let’s get back to my questions,” Carlos said, giving me a look. He started to go over a few other items regarding past dinners. Then he asked about Doura.
“I don’t recall the name,” Perkins said, now blatantly staring at me.
“I guess she has a lot of curly blond hair—ring a bell?” Carlos said.
“I’m not great with faces,” Perkins said, tapping his temple. “I’m more about the mind.”
“What kind of research do you do here, may I ask?” I butted in again.
“You’re unfamiliar with Perkins Laboratories?”
“I’ve heard you’re quite a big name, but as I said, I’m from out of town. I don’t know much.”
“Huh.” He remained unconvinced. “We do a lot of different kinds of research
—we’re invested in projects all over the world.”
“But here on this site . . . ? Your focus is on antiaging products?”
“Yes, we have the Ever Young skin care program, and the Re-Juve line of products as well. What’s different about our products is that they’re part of an entire regimen including vitamins and hormones, which will keep you young just about forever,” he said, launching into his practiced sales speech. Then he sat back and smiled. “I imagine we’ll be on your mind more in the next few years, as you find the elasticity of your skin diminishing in your later thirties. Crow’s-feet at the corner of your eyes, laugh lines . . .”
I blushed under his scrutiny.
He came around the desk, looking at me under the harsh fluorescent light. He put his finger under my chin and raised it, as though to study my face.
I could hear the fly buzzing louder, as though struggling.
Perkins gave a muted tsk, lightly touching the corner of my eye, then the corner of my mouth. He had a surprising sensuality for such a nerdy fellow. Talk about creepy.
Carlos came over to stand next to us, edging his shoulder between me and Perkins.
“No need to make this personal,” Carlos put in.
“I’m proud of my laugh lines,” I said, pulling away.
“That’s what they all say. Wait until they start compounding, working with an overall sagging of the flesh on the cheeks.”
Perkins was not exactly the finest specimen of male pulchritude, either, I thought, but it seemed petty to point it out. Just that moment, the inevitable began to unfold: The fly landed on the sticky interior surface of the carnivorous plant, buzzing loudly in its struggle to escape. The clamshell began to close.
Perkins’s eyes were on me, observing me as I watched the doomed insect.
“I understand Malachi Zazi’s father is an investor in your company, is that correct?” Carlos said, trying to keep us focused on business.
Perkins nodded.
“Was there any connection between that fact and your attending his son’s dinner parties?”
Hexes and Hemlines Page 17