Jack doubted it as well, as much as he would have liked to chalk it up to the capriciousness of the universe. “Which is why I have to ask — have you sensed any witches or warlocks in the area who aren’t members of our clan? Because I really can’t believe that a de la Paz did this, and I doubt it was a McAllister or a Wilcox, either.”
“No,” she said immediately, the frown returning to her face. “Things have been very calm lately. Robert and Danica Rowe visited Caitlin and Alex in Tucson last week, but they were expected, and were the only outsiders who passed through our territory.”
While Jack had been expecting to hear something along those lines, he couldn’t quite prevent the sinking sensation that passed over him at her reply. If a powerful outsider had come onto de la Paz lands, Luz should have been able to sense the interloper, and would have contacted him immediately, since he was the clan’s best practitioner of defensive magic.
Which meant…what? That the murderer really was one of the de la Pazes? Or that the culprit was a stranger and had somehow managed to mask his presence, thereby making himself invisible to the clan’s leader?
Matías Escobar had done something similar when he came to Arizona several years earlier, but he was no longer a threat. Still, he had come from Santiago territory. Perhaps he had learned his evil tricks from someone who remained back in California, but who had now decided to come to Arizona and stir up trouble, for whatever reason.
“You are worried,” Luz said. Her voice was calm, but a certain tightness around the edges belied her outwardly tranquil expression. “You think it might be the Santiagos again?”
Jack didn’t know why he should be surprised at Luz’s perceptiveness. True, she wasn’t as powerful a witch as her mother had been, but that didn’t mean she didn’t see clearly. “I don’t know. It’s where my mind wants to go first, for obvious reasons. Do you know anything about what’s been going on with them?”
“Very little,” the prima replied. “Simón Santiago was not happy with the way we handled Matías Escobar and his cousins. He thought we should have sent all three men back to California to be dealt with there, and said that Angela and Connor Wilcox overstepped their bounds.”
“They had every right, considering Escobar’s crimes were perpetrated against members of their clans.”
“Precisely. I do not think either Angela or Connor stays awake at night, worrying that they might have done the wrong thing in that instance. But Simón is a proud man, and no doubt already finds his situation rather precarious.”
That was one way of putting it. Technically, the Santiago clan was ruled by a prima, just as all witch families except the Wilcoxes were. But Simón’s wife had suffered a terrible accident years earlier, and had been confined to a wheelchair ever since, and so Simón had taken over the day-to-day running of the clan. What if his grip had begun to slip, though? What was the line of succession? Jack asked as much of Luz, who shook her head slightly, her features still taut with worry.
“Her name is Marisol Valdez,” Luz said. “She is Beatriz Santiago’s niece, the daughter of Beatriz’s younger sister. Because Simón’s and Beatriz’s daughter Lucinda was not a strong enough witch to be considered for the position of prima — a fact which pains him greatly, I have no doubt — Marisol was named the prima-in-waiting. I know very little of her, except that she is in her middle twenties and is bonded to her consort, although they have yet to start a family. I suppose it is something that I have even that much information — much of it was passed to me by Alex’s wife Caitlin, who heard it from Lucinda. It seems that things have been very quiet over there lately, which could be good or bad. I simply don’t know, since Simón made it very clear after the Escobar incident that he did not want any members of our clan visiting his territory.”
Stubborn old bastard. Then again, up until four years ago, the clans here in Arizona had been fairly isolationist as well. The de la Pazes and the McAllisters had better relations than most, but despite the friendship between the two families — and the enmity the McAllisters had held toward the Wilcoxes — Maya had actually allowed Connor Wilcox to attend graduate school here. Clearly, she’d seen something in him that no one else had, a bit of foresight that had more than paid off in the end.
“Well, I’m going to assume it’s a Santiago until I’m proved wrong,” Jack said. “They have the most motive for wanting to cause havoc over here. For all I know, Matías left some groupies behind in California. Maybe they’ve just been biding their time until they figured out the best circumstances for them to strike.”
“What about innocent until proven guilty?” Luz asked. “I’m not saying your instincts might not be correct, but I hate to suspect the worst when we know so little.”
“In this case, we may not be allowed that luxury.” He picked up his glass of iced tea and drank the rest of its contents, then put it down and stood. “Thanks for the tea, Luz, and your advice. I need to get going now.”
“Where?”
“To Tucson. I need to talk to Consuelo. I’m hoping she can offer some insights on all this.” He gestured toward the photos of the crime scene, still sitting on the coffee table.
Back in the manila envelope they went, as Luz said, “Yes, she’s probably your best resource. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“So do I,” Jack said grimly. He didn’t want to think about Kate Campbell, who’d awakened to a world that would be forever changed. Should he have requested a uniform detail to watch out for her?
Problem was, a couple of civilian cops wouldn’t be able to do squat against a warlock or witch. About all he could hope was that she’d decided to go stay with her parents. Safety in numbers. She was much less of a target when surrounded by other people.
He’d check on her when he got back from Tucson, even though that sort of follow-up really wasn’t part of his duties. Still, he thought it might help her peace of mind.
As for his own peace of mind…well, a lot of that depended on what Consuelo de la Paz had to tell him.
5
Sam left at seven-thirty, in a hurry so she wouldn’t be late for the class she taught at Scottsdale Community College. Even as she was walking out the door, though, she said, “You call me if you get the least bit hinky. I mean it. I’ll find someone to cover for me, or I’ll just cancel. One missed class won’t kill anyone.”
Kate had only nodded, although she knew she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her friend’s work. The world seemed a lot less scary now that the sun was up, blazing against a hard blue sky. The day promised to be warmer, and she was glad of that. Maybe later she’d sit on the balcony and soak in some sun, and try to tell herself that things would be okay.
Eventually.
In the meantime, she ate some yogurt and a couple of leftover mini quiches, had two big cups of coffee. She also called in to work, saying that she’d woken up with a stomach bug but hoped she’d be back in the next day. Right then she just couldn’t bring herself to explain what had really happened, partly because the more she talked about it, the more real Jeff’s murder seemed. She just couldn’t relive that scene right now. There was a good chance the lie would eventually catch up with her, since word always got out about these sorts of crimes. However, she didn’t think her supervisors would give her too much grief over it, considering the circumstances.
And then a long hot shower, as hot as she could stand it. That helped a lot, too, scrubbing away the horrors of the night before. After she was dressed but while her hair was still damp, she took a glass of water with her out to the balcony and sat there in the sun, letting the long strands dry naturally. She’d always preferred that method to blow-drying it, but she only had that luxury on the weekends, when she didn’t have to be any place in particular, at any particular time.
This felt good. She sat quietly, trying not to think of anything much at all. It seemed the best way to help her heal from what she’d seen the night before. No doubt there was a team of people at the police stat
ion trying to piece together what had happened, but she didn’t have to be involved in any of that. They’d do their work, and they’d catch whoever was responsible, and then she’d be free to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do next.
“Kate!”
Her name took her by surprise, because she’d been almost dozing, eyes half-shut against the bright morning sunlight. She started, and looked down to see, of all things, a well-coiffed woman in her early thirties in a bright pink dress standing on the path below the balcony, and just behind the woman, a thickset man a few years older, carrying a TV camera.
What the — ?
Kate blinked down at these apparitions. “Excuse me?”
“Kate, can you give us a statement about what happened to your husband last night?”
Estranged husband, she wanted to say, but that sounded petty. Even so, a slow anger began to rise in her, that this reporter had somehow managed to track her down at her apartment, couldn’t even be bothered to come knock at her door, but instead had seen an opportunity and pounced.
“No,” she said distinctly, and picked up her glass of water. “The police have asked me not to comment on an ongoing investigation.” Take that, she thought, and went inside and locked the sliding glass door, then turned the vertical blinds so they presented a blank white barrier to the world.
Goddamn it. Yes, she’d known that the bloodhounds would come sniffing around eventually, but she’d also hoped she’d be allowed a bit more peace and quiet to get herself together. As it was, she didn’t know exactly what to do. Maybe it was time to call her parents and have them come rescue her, but Kate wasn’t all that sanguine about being able to avoid reporters down in Tempe, either. Then again, her father, a no-nonsense engineer, would probably just call the cops on them. That could be amusing.
Knocking at the door. “Ms. Nichols!”
Were they trespassing? She wasn’t sure whether the landing to her apartment counted as a public space or not. The reporter probably knew the law better than she did, but Kate figured it couldn’t hurt to try.
She went to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door a crack. “I’m not going to comment. So I’ll ask you to please leave, or I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing.”
“But Ms. Nichols — ”
Kate shut the door and reengaged the deadbolt. For some stupid reason, the thing that irritated her the most was the way the reporter kept referring to her as “Ms. Nichols.” All right, it was still legally her name, but she hadn’t used it for the last six months and more, and the sound of it was jarring to her ears. And how the hell had they found her? All right, the lease was under her married name, because she couldn’t change her driver’s license or anything else until the divorce was final, but….
Even though the reporter clearly wasn’t ready to give up, and kept knocking, Kate ignored the commotion on the landing and went to the rear of her apartment, which was, luckily, where the bathroom and bedroom were located. Jaw set, she got out her makeup bag and went to work, putting on mascara and blush and gloss. Eventually, the sound of the reporter banging on the door went away, and she allowed herself to let out a sigh of relief.
A short-lived relief, as she realized that someone else might be along in the near future. She really did need to get out of here. The most appealing prospect was to call Colin and ask if he would come down and get her, but she had a feeling the police might not like it if she picked up and headed someplace that was two hours away. It would have to be her parents’ house, down in Tempe but still in the greater Phoenix area. No one could fault her for going to stay with her parents.
She fetched her phone and called her parents’ house. Her father would be at work, but her mother should be at home. As she waited for Lynda to pick up, Kate found her thoughts wandering to Detective Sandoval. What was he doing right now? Making progress? She sincerely hoped so. She didn’t want any of this to drag out any longer than it absolutely had to.
Tucson. It shimmered in the sun, brighter and harder than Phoenix, probably because there was always less air pollution down here. Jack Sandoval’s destination didn’t lie in the tall buildings and revitalized shops and restaurants of downtown, though, but out on the periphery, where the suburban sprawl met the original landscape, the sharp, rocky slopes of the foothills with their sentinel saguaros.
Consuelo de la Paz lived at the end of a dirt road, her nearest neighbor probably a quarter-mile away. Jack was glad he’d driven his personal vehicle, a Jeep Wrangler, rather than one of the department’s unmarked vehicles. A Taurus might have survived the washboard surface, but he really didn’t want to take bets on that.
He got out of the Jeep and approached the house, a squatty, sprawling adobe structure that looked more as if it had grown out of the landscape than had actually been built. Wind chimes sang in the brisk, warm breeze as he followed a gravel path that wound among more species of cactus than he could recognize, many of them now studded with bright blooms in shades of magenta and yellow, scarlet and coral.
The front door was dark wood, hung with a crucifix. The religious symbol didn’t bother him, since most of the de la Pazes, in addition to being witches and warlocks, were quite devoutly Catholic. They didn’t see anything strange about the combination, didn’t find it contradictory in the slightest. Jack himself hadn’t set foot in church in years, except to attend weddings and funerals and baptisms, but his family members tended to overlook his lapse, blaming it on working with too many jaded types at the police department. He never bothered to tell any of them that he’d come to his not-quite agnosticism on his own, born mostly of a realization that while God probably did exist, He didn’t seem to have much influence on people’s day-to-day lives.
A creak of floorboards and a squeak of hinges, and the door opened. Bright black eyes, almost buried in wrinkles and chubby cheeks, glinted up at him. “Come in, Jack.”
“Thanks for seeing me, Consuelo.”
“Ah, well, I like visitors. Not many venture out here to see me, although my niece Juanita brings me a care package once a week. This way.”
She waved him inside with a plump hand, and he followed her inside the house, which smelled of incense and dried herbs. The place was packed with antique furniture, mostly from Mexico, with intricate hand-carving and painted motifs. Every surface was likewise covered, with crystals in all shapes and sizes and colors, religious statues, incense burners, vases stuffed with dried flowers, books, and various knickknacks he couldn’t quite identify.
To someone who kept his own apartment nearly as bare as a monk’s cell, the clutter was quite appalling. However, he did his best to ignore the chaos as he threaded his way along a narrow open path between the furniture, until Consuelo led him into a small room with built-in bookcases on every side, and more books piled on the table in the middle of the room, a table so large there was barely room to squeeze between it and the bookcases themselves.
At one end were two chairs placed side by side. “Sit,” Consuelo said, as she settled her bulk into one of them. It creaked under her weight but appeared to hold. “Let me see what you’ve brought me.”
He handed her the manila envelope with the crime-scene photos. “These were taken last night.”
“During the full moon.”
“That’s significant?”
“Everything is significant. You only need eyes to see.” After delivering that pronouncement, she undid the clasp that held the envelope closed and poured the photos out onto the table, into a space she’d cleared immediately in front of the chair where she sat. One by one she picked them up, mouth pursing, deepening the wrinkles that framed her lips. Then she laid them out so she could see all of them at once, although doing so required her to push more books out of the way. At last she said, “Ah.”
“‘Ah’?” Jack repeated. He knew Consuelo had a reputation for being a bit eccentric, but he’d been hoping for a little more than that. “That’s it?”
Her eyes narrowed
, and one heavy eyebrow lifted. “Tell me, Jack — how deeply do you want to pursue this? Because what I see here” — she gestured toward the photos arrayed before her — “is something that will take you places you may not wish to go.”
“I’ll go as far as I have to,” he replied, somewhat nettled by the assumption that he wouldn’t do everything in his power to bring this killer to justice. “A man is dead, Consuelo. It’s my job to find the person who committed this murder and make sure they never do it again.”
“Ah, Jack.” She settled against the back of her chair, which once again creaked but otherwise held on. “For a warlock, you have such a rational mind. It is all about evidence and facts for you.”
“Well, evidence and facts are kind of what you need in a court of law.”
She didn’t reply immediately, but sat there for a moment in silence, watching him with her shrewd brown eyes. “Perhaps, but that is not what will help you here. This investigation will take you to places you cannot imagine…if you choose to pursue it.”
“It’s not really a matter of ‘choice,’” he protested. “This is my assignment, my case. And thank God for that, because this isn’t the sort of crime that a civilian could have adequately investigated. I know that it will have to be handled by the clan, and not by civilian authorities. But don’t think I’m going to shy away, even if it takes me down some pretty dark paths.”
“Very well.” Consuelo contemplated the photos before her, then shuffled them around, as if putting together a jigsaw puzzle. “This is powerful magic, dark magic. We are talking about entities who have no care for human life, except when they can use its energies to feed their hungry spirits.”
“What kind of entities?” he asked, not bothering to keep the skepticism from his voice. “Demons?”
Once again she tilted an eyebrow at him. For a moment he got the impression that she was going to scold him for being disrespectful, but then she said, her voice calm enough, “You can call them that, although they are not demons in the sense that most people would think of such things. God created this world, but he did not create them. They are other, from the time before.”
Defender (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 11) Page 6