He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. Vic said he’d loan me the money and would take care of all the investment stuff. He had me sign some papers for him so that he could take care of everything.”
I blinked. Was he truly this naive? “You mean a power of attorney?”
An expression of chagrin crossed his face. “Um, well, I guess it was kinda like that. I totally trusted Vic, though. And since it was his own money, it wasn’t like I was worried about him taking it, y’know?”
“Did you ever get the feeling that anything about the situation wasn’t completely legit?” I asked, doing my best to keep the dubious note out of my voice. It shrieked not legit to me, but then I was more cynical than most when it came to this sort of thing. Probably because I’d seen so many cases of fraud.
He shook his head firmly. “Never. Vic’s known about my plans for the gym for close to a year now, and has always said he’d support me any way he could.”
It was possible that there was nothing hinky about the whole deal, but now I was itching to find out more about these investments. “Roger, did Vic ever give you any paperwork showing you how he invested the money?”
The first shadow of doubt briefly clouded his face. “Well, no. But maybe he hadn’t had a chance to do anything with the money yet. I mean, it was only a couple of weeks ago.”
I nodded to let him think I accepted that as a possibility, even though I most certainly did not. “All right. One more question: Did you ask to borrow the money, or did he offer to loan it to you?”
“He ... offered,” Roger said slowly, then his face abruptly paled. He clearly wasn’t stupid—simply completely unwilling to consider that Vic might have had anything but his best interests at heart. “Shit,” he whispered. His eyes snapped up to mine in desperation. “Am I in trouble? Did Vic do something illegal in my name?” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my god. I trusted him.”
He’s not worried about being accused of murder, I noted. “I don’t know, Roger. I’m looking into it.” I paused. “But every bit of information you can give me will help me find his killer.”
He gave a vigorous nod. “Anything. God. Just ask. I swear, I have nothing to hide.”
“Would you be willing to allow me access to your bank and investment accounts?” I wasn’t surprised to see him nod again. Good, that saved me the trouble of getting a subpoena.
“What do I need to do?”
I glanced at my watch. Where the hell had the day gone? “It would be easiest for me if you could go down to your bank and arrange for me to have full access. Then I can simply swing by and pick it all up when it’s ready.”
“I’ll go down there right now.” He paused, swallowed hard. “Am I a suspect?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
I knew what I was supposed to say. I knew I should say that I hadn’t ruled anyone out and that the investigation was ongoing.
“No,” I said instead. The look of relief on his face was almost painful to see. I hated that I had to prick that bubble of relief. “Roger, I should tell you that I also haven’t ruled out that Vic wasn’t the intended victim.”
Fear flickered in his eyes. “Oh, god. Because I work out there sometimes. And if he did something illegal in my name ...” He ran a shaking hand through his hair.
I touched his arm. “Look, I’m not trying to spook you. But be careful, all right? Try to be with someone else at all times until I can find out more.”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay. Watch my back.” He still looked spooked, but I hoped that was better than him being oblivious.
“How well did Adam Taylor know Vic?” I asked, as much to distract him as to dig for more information.
He blinked, clearly surprised at the question. “I wasn’t aware that they knew each other at all.” Then his eyes dropped to the paper. “Ooohh, you think ‘A. T.’ is Adam Taylor.”
I shrugged. “It’s only a theory at this point.” This was why I’d made a copy. I didn’t want to have his answer influenced by seeing the copies of the returned checks that had been on the other side of the original.
Roger pursed his lips into a thoughtful frown. “Actually, that would make a lot of sense. Adam’s been having a lot of financial problems. He owns the studio where we rehearse, and his business has kinda been sucking ass. I know he’s been wanting to find someone to invest in it so that he can upgrade and attract more business.”
Well, it looked like I was going to have a very interesting talk with Adam Taylor later today. I stood. “Roger, I appreciate you talking to me. You’ve been a huge help.” I handed him my card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be of use.”
He nodded as he took my card. I was pleased to see that he didn’t look as freaked as he had before. He was tough and smart, even if he was more than a little naive. “I will. Thank you.”
I gave him another reassuring smile and departed, thoughts churning as I returned to my car. Vic Kerry had been up to something dicey, and it had earned him a flight out the window.
Now I merely had to figure out what his scheme could have been. And how it could be connected to the attack on Lida Moran. And what the hell the creature was.
And while I was at it, I could go ahead and bring about world peace and end world hunger.
I returned to the station and headed straight to my office. After locking the door behind me, I plopped into my chair then winced as the damn spring poked my backside again. You’d think my backside would have enough padding for that not to hurt, I grumbled to myself as I logged on to my computer.
Google was going to be my best friend for a while I decided as I plugged in searches on Ether Madhouse, the band members, Adam Taylor, and Vic Kerry. As expected, the searches on the band and the members turned up a zillion results, with about half being websites with general information about the band, and the rest articles and blog entries about the incident at the concert. I skimmed a few of the blog entries, but the opinions and analysis of what had happened ran the gamut from “people are stupid and it was a crazy stalker fan” to “what a lame-ass and dangerous publicity stunt.” There was nothing that even suggested that it might have actually been something demonic or arcane, which actually surprised me considering the level of Crazy that usually existed on the Internet.
The search on Adam Taylor pulled up some old biographical information. I was surprised to see that he’d once been a major player in the New Orleans music scene as musician, producer, and songwriter, and had even been appointed to the Louisiana Music Commission back in the nineties. But apparently he’d had a run of ventures gone sour, and then had lost his home and studio during Katrina. He’d dropped out of sight until about a year ago when he began promoting Ether Madhouse and had opened a studio in Beaulac.
He probably has everything pinned on this band making it, I realized. Sank all his money into the studio in the hopes of recapturing his former success.
I sent the page to the printer, then searched on Victor Kerry’s name with meager results. A few scattered name mentions—usually connected to local social functions. Nothing that leaped out about financial misconduct or fraud. Oh, well. I couldn’t have everything handed to me.
After making certain that my door was locked, I started searches on anything I could find related to golems or arcane constructs. I found a number of excellent websites with information about the golems of Jewish legend, but the more I read, the less I felt that the creature I’d encountered was that sort of golem. In the Jewish legend the creature was inscribed with magic or religious words to keep it animated—either with a holy word or name written on its forehead, or a word or incantation written on paper and placed in the creature’s mouth. I’d only seen the face of the thing that attacked Lida for a few seconds, but I was fairly positive that there’d been nothing written on it, and there’d been nothing in its mouth. But more than that, the golems of legend were said to be clumsy and slow, and the one I’d encountered had been
anything but.
I spent close to an hour doing more searches and poring over websites. Oddly, it was a site catering to fantasy role-playing games that gave me the first ping of possible recognition. A golem was listed in the pantheon of monsters, but instead of being animated by religious ritual, it was basically a statue of clay “possessed” by an earth elemental.
I sat up straighter. There’d been something about earth elementals in one of the books I’d taken from my aunt’s house, but I’d skimmed right over it since there’d been no accompanying reference to golems or constructs. My knowledge of elementals was rudimentary at best. I’d always assumed that such things didn’t really exist anymore, or if they did, there was no one left who knew how to control them. Kind of a boneheaded assumption, now that I thought about it.
For over a decade I’ve been operating under the concept that the only “magic” in the world was the kind I dealt with—using the natural power of the world to summon otherworldly creatures. And that’s stupid. I scowled at my own rigid thinking. I was too used to automatically assuming that the majority of the people who claimed to have “powers” of some sort or another were full of shit. And how was that attitude any different from someone assuming that my skills and abilities were bullshit, or, worse, due to some sort of evil pact with Satan?
And what about the essence eater? I reminded myself. A few months ago I’d tracked down a murderer who’d been consuming people’s souls, or essences. In fact the reason I was now sworn to Rhyzkahl was a direct result of the confrontation with the killer—the only way I’d known to save Ryan’s essence from being consumed as well. That killer was hardly the sort of arcane practitioner I was used to.
I frowned, the memory of a conversation with Rhyzkahl suddenly bubbling to the surface.
“There are many humans with the ability to shape and manipulate potency,” Rhyzkahl had told me. “Some can open portals. Some can draw power from essence. A rare few are little more than parasites. You are all descended from the same source.”
There’d been no time to press him for more details, and then I’d forgotten all about it in the aftermath of everything that had happened.
So, perhaps calling and controlling an earth elemental was simply another way of manipulating potency. And what had Rhyzkahl meant about “the same source?”
The buzzing of the phone on my desk sent my train of thought crashing into a deep ravine and I barely managed to resist the urge to snatch up the receiver and yell, “What?” Instead, I took a deep breath and gently picked up the receiver.
“Detective Gillian,” I said, tone nicely crisp and professional.
“This is Mayor Fussell, Detective Gillian. If you have a few minutes, could you come by my office? I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Nonplussed, I actually stared at the phone for several heartbeats before returning it to my ear. “Mayor Fussell, I’m sure I can make time to meet with you. May I ask what this is about?”
“We can discuss that when you get here, Detective,” was the curt reply.
I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. “Certainly, sir. I’ll be right on my way.”
I hung up, fighting down anger by running through a few mental calming exercises. I had a damn good feeling I knew what this was about.
I shut down my computer and exited my office, then headed straight for my sergeant’s. He looked up from his computer as I swung into his doorway, his eyes narrowing at the expression on my face. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t controlling my anger as much as I’d hoped.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
I took another deep breath. “I’ve been called to the mayor’s office,” I said. “Is the chief here?”
Crawford scowled blackly. “No, he’s in Baton Rouge for a meeting.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And I’m sure the mayor knows it. Did he say why he wanted to meet with you?”
I shook my head. “No, but he didn’t sound as if he wanted to give me a puppy and flowers. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about.”
“Ben Moran,” Crawford said, yanking his jacket on. “And yes, I’m coming with you. What a complete crock of shit.” He glanced at me. “You have a voice recorder on your phone?”
I blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. I do.”
He gave a curt nod. “Good, and I have one too. We’re gonna nip this shit in the bud.”
Chapter 16
The mayor’s office was across the street from the station, and I had to resist the urge to skip and bounce on the way over. Funny how knowing that someone has your back makes all the difference in the world. But more than that, it was a relief to know that Crawford wasn’t going to let the weirdness of the other day influence his support of me as one of his detectives. I could accept that he wanted to keep his head in the sand with regards to the bizarre stuff I was involved in. It was unrealistic for me to expect—or even hope—that everyone could be as readily accepting of the arcane as Jill was.
But my gut was still tight with nerves as we crossed the street. My job was not civil service, which meant that the mayor definitely had the pull to get me fired if he saw fit. And my days with the task force might definitely be numbered, I thought grimly.
On the way over I gave Crawford a summary of what was going on with my investigation—though I carefully censored out the not-so-normal aspects. An oddly pained expression crossed his face briefly after I finished, as if he knew I was holding something back, and I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for the man. He truly did his best to be a good cop and an effective sergeant, and I’d unintentionally created a harsh dilemma for him. And no way to take it all back now. I wonder if he regrets stopping to help me? A whisper of remembered fear curled through me at the thought. If he hadn’t helped me, something bad would have happened. I knew that. Probably he did too. But I couldn’t really blame him if he did harbor a measure of regret.
Entering the city administration building, I forced myself back to the here and now. Crawford and I rode the elevator in silence to the third floor where the mayor had his office. I gave the receptionist my name and advised her that the mayor was expecting me, and was completely not surprised when she replied that the mayor was on an important phone call and that it would be a few minutes.
“Keep me waiting,” I murmured to Crawford as I took a seat in the waiting area. “Establish his control over the situation. I’m betting a beer that it’ll be at least ten minutes.”
He muttered something rude under his breath and dropped his eyes to his watch. “Fifteen.”
“That’s a bet.”
At the ten minute mark he tipped his watch to me and tapped it, expression turning smug. Thirty seconds later the receptionist told us we could go in, and I had to bite back a laugh. “Beer’s on you, Sarge,” I whispered.
But I carefully wiped all traces of humor from my face as I entered, though I took a small amount of pleasure in the annoyance that flicked across the mayor’s face at the sight of Crawford entering with me. Mayor Peter Fussell was a relative newcomer to the political game. The owner of a local chain of grocery stores, he’d made a run for mayor when the previous officeholder had to step down because of term limits and had won mostly because he’d poured a staggering amount of money into the campaign. In his late forties or so, with a trim build, brown hair, and blue eyes, he had the combination of looks and charm that had most assuming that Peter Fussell would be running for a higher office in the not-so-distant future.
“I requested to meet only with you, Detective Gillian,” he said, gruffly. “There’s no need to waste Sergeant Crawford’s time.”
“As her supervisor I’m electing to accompany her to any meeting where ongoing cases might be discussed,” Crawford replied, just as gruffly. “Unless, of course, this has nothing to do with anything police related, in which case I’ll excuse myself.”
The mayor’s expression hardened. “Fine. Have a seat then,” he said. He paused as we did so, and I had a feeling he was mentally shifting wh
at he’d been planning to say. When he turned the warm smile on me I knew that he’d decided to shift from hard-ass to benevolent leader who merely needs your assistance to make the world a better place.
“Detective Gillian,” he began in tones laden with pure politician, “as I’m sure you’re aware, we don’t live in a perfect utopia where the good guys always win and the bad guys always pay for their misdeeds. Hence the need for fine officers such as you and Sergeant Crawford here.” He paused, waiting for me to do my part and agree with him or nod or something. But I knew this was a game, and I had no desire to play it.
“Sir,” I said, “does this have anything to do with the investigation into the attack on Lida Moran, the fact that Ben Moran is her uncle, and the fact that Lake Pearl Bank—of which he is a board member—holds the majority of the loans for the city of Beaulac?” I allowed a hint of impatience to creep into my voice, though I did my best to maintain a polite and pleasant smile.
His warm smile turned tight. “I see you’re more into the direct approach, Detective. Very well. To answer your question, yes. Ben Moran has already expressed worry that his niece will suffer consequences for what is clearly a harmless prank that got out of hand. I’d already spoken to the chief about this matter and had thought it settled, but now I’m hearing that you’re continuing to harass and annoy members of the band.”
Harass and annoy? I resisted the urge to snort in derision and instead merely raised an eyebrow.
His response was to give me an oddly knowing look. “Detective Gillian,” he said, voice dripping with what was probably meant to be sympathy and compassion. “I’d hoped that you would be more understanding of the mistakes that young people can make. I truly hate to see Lida’s future thrown away because of charges related to the incident at the concert. You of all people should know that it’s possible to turn your life around after a rough start and become a valuable addition to society.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face, followed quickly by a white-hot surge of fury. The satisfaction that filled his eyes at my reaction wiped away any doubt that I might have misread what he’d said. How dare he attempt to manipulate me by bringing up my past issues with drugs? And how the fuck had he found out? I’d never been arrested, which meant that he’d have had to obtain access to medical records ...
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