Sins of the Demon

by Diana Rowland

  “I was on both scenes and gave CPR to her,” I jerked my chin toward the body. “And my brain hasn’t exploded yet. So we’re probably all right.”

  Doc gave a humorless chuckle. “It’s also only been one day. Hardly enough time for anything to take hold.” He blew out his breath. “I have a feeling I’ll be spending the rest of the day looking through a microscope.”

  “Barry Landrieu was a known drug user,” I said. “And Evelyn Stark was an alcoholic.”

  He gave a nod. “My investigator told me that Landrieu went to jail a few years ago, and when he got out he supposedly cleaned up and was doing the whole straight-and-narrow thing.”

  “You don’t see that very often,” I said.

  “Well, apparently his little sister died of an overdose while he was in prison. Guess that was his wakeup call.”

  Shock and regret coiled through me. I made it out of that life and never looked back. But what could I have done for her? Given her pep talks? Pressure her to get into rehab? No way to know if anything would have helped, but once I had my own act together surely I could have tried.

  Doc was still talking, thankfully oblivious to my reaction. I yanked my attention back to him and did my best to shove down the guilt.

  “Anyway, I’ll put a rush on the tox screen. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that’s what it is.”

  I gave him a dutiful nod in response. He had his avenues of investigation, and I had mine. Now I knew for certain that the two deaths were related and not simply by coincidence. My next hunch was that the presence of the graa was connected. Now I simply had to hunt down a summoner.

  Easy.

  Chapter 9

  I left the morgue, still wondering how the hell I was going to accomplish my grand goal of finding this other summoner. We were private people out of self-preservation, and there wasn’t exactly a local directory. I fully intended to check and see if my aunt had any leads, but other than that I didn’t know what else I could do except wait for the summoner to tip his or her hand again.

  By the time I made it to the station the sky had cleared to the kind of brilliant blue that only happened in southern winters when it was stupid-cold outside. No snow anymore, which was a relief, but the chill wind that swept around the building was anything but brisk and refreshing. Stabbing-icy-knives-of-death wind was probably a better description.

  I made sure the cuff was concealed under my coat sleeve as I hurried up to the building. The last thing I wanted was to deal with questions about it. Actually the last thing I wanted was to have to keep wearing the damn thing. This whole mild nausea thing was a real downer.

  I gave myself a mental slap and scowl as I entered the door marked “Investigations.” Yeah, I didn’t care to feel crummy. But getting summoned to the demon sphere? That was a whole ’nuther level of Do Not Want. I could deal with a bit of queasy stomach.

  Warm air wrapped pleasantly behind me, and I quickly pulled the door closed to block out the wind.

  “Damn, Gillian, afraid of a little cold weather?”

  The nasal tenor startled me. I spun to see Detectives Boudreaux and Pellini sitting in the cramped waiting area usually reserved for people who had appointments to see one of the investigators. I straightened, instantly annoyed that I’d allowed my surprise to show.

  “I’m a delicate southern flower, Boudreaux,” I said to the detective who could best be described as weasely. Skinny to the point of emaciated, he looked like a meth addict, but not as healthy. It didn’t look like he’d shaved in at least two days, but he was in no danger of growing anything resembling an actual beard. The patchy stubble on his chin looked like a fur coat left for a month in a moth factory. The stains on his khaki pants indicated he was in the long habit of wiping his hands on them instead of a napkin, his shirt had more wrinkles than a smoker’s lips, and his tie looked like it had been knotted with a square knot. Yet despite his complete lack of professional demeanor, he managed to close enough cases to stay on in Investigations. He was lazy, couldn’t investigate worth a shit, and was annoying as all hell, but rumor had it that he was a brilliant interrogator and could finesse information and confessions out of the most hard-core and stubborn types. “The chill does terrible things to my sunny disposition,” I added.

  Pellini shifted on the ancient couch and pulled his belt further up under the pudge of his belly. “Delicate, my ass,” he said with a snort of sour amusement from beneath his mustache. “You could take Boudreaux here down with your eyes closed.”

  I blinked. Had that been a compliment? From Pellini? Our conversational exchanges usually involved various insults, not-so-veiled slurs, and generally disagreeable banter. I had no doubt that he would have been more than happy in the “old days” of police work when respecting a suspect’s civil rights was a laughable concept. “What are you two doing sitting out here?” I asked, deciding to pretend the possible compliment hadn’t happened. Too many weird things were happening lately. A Nice Pellini would put me right over the edge.

  “Our office is about thirty degrees,” Boudreaux said, face twisted in annoyance. “Maintenance is supposed to be coming by ‘any minute now.’ They said that an hour and a half ago.”

  And I had no doubt that they intended to avoid all semblance of work until the climate control was fixed. I decided to not point out that they could have brought their laptops out to the lobby so that they could get caught up on their reports.

  “I hear you had a fun weekend,” Pellini said.

  “Yep,” I said. “A guy died out at the Nature Center. Barry Landrieu. Then a lady crashed her ride into mine and dropped in the middle of the parking lot out here.”

  Pellini’s mouth pursed beneath his mustache. “Nature center guy…you said his name was Landrieu? White guy? Blond hair and a mustache?”

  I nodded warily. “You know him?”

  A frown curved his already dour face. “Neighbor of mine. Was it a thirty?”

  He was asking me if it was a Signal 30. A homicide. “Nah. Just got back from the autopsy. Natural death.” It wasn’t a complete lie. It did look like a natural death. I wasn’t going to tell him that the woman had died in the exact same way. Pellini and Boudreaux already thought I was plenty weird. No sense giving them more reason to think so. I was probably already pegging out their “whackadoo” meter. I also wasn’t about to mention my own history with him. “Buddy of yours?” I asked.

  Pellini shook his head. “Nah. Just a guy who lived down the street—about four houses down. Big-time jogger. Every fucking day, rain or shine.”

  I tried not to show my surprise. Maybe it wasn’t the same guy?

  “Dude was an ex-con,” he continued, putting the lie to my brief suspicion that it was someone else. “But he didn’t seem like a bad guy. Looked like he was trying hard to start over.”

  I did my best to hide my shock. Pellini was being understanding? Showing a measure of actual empathy? “That’s pretty cool,” I said.

  Pellini shrugged. “Yeah, but this week he got weird. Had issues with some of the neighbors.”

  I leaned against the doorframe. I was pretty sure this was the longest conversation I’d ever had with Pellini where I didn’t have the urge to throw something heavy and dangerous at him. “Any issues with you?”

  Pellini gave a low bark of laughter. “He tried. I was in my garage the other day and he comes walking up the driveway, stopped right before the door and starts going on about how the Saints didn’t deserve to win the Super Bowl, and that Green Bay was going to take it all the way this year.”

  Boudreaux gave a snort. “Did you bust his ass?”

  Pellini shrugged. “Nah. I kinda wondered if maybe he was trying to bait me and get me to take a swing at him—figured he probably had a buddy of his ready with a camera.”

  I was more than a little impressed at the level of restraint and understanding Pellini had shown, but then he spoiled it by continuing.

  “Instead I went by his house later that night, let all the air
out of his tires, and pissed on his front mat,” he said with a satisfied smile.

  “Okay, even I think that’s funny,” I admitted. “Well lemme go write this shit up so I can get out of here and leave you two to your little camping trip.”

  “You only wish you were cool enough to hang out with us,” Pellini called after me as I continued on down the hall.

  My office was frigid as well, but unlike Boudreaux and Pellini I was used to having a shit office and was prepared for it. Luckily it was about the size of a utility closet, which meant that it only took about ten minutes for the space heater in the corner to bring the ambient temperature up to the point where I could shed my coat. I pulled off the cuff as well and stuffed it into the pocket of my coat, breathing a deep sigh of relief as the simmering queasiness eased.

  I plopped into my chair, then swept a frowning glance around the office as a sudden urge to rearrange the furniture seized me. I’d had it in the current configuration ever since getting this office. Maybe it was time for some change?

  Easier said than done. I stood and spent several frustrating minutes trying to figure out how to turn the desk ninety degrees before realizing it was physically impossible. The desk had probably been assembled in the office, and I had a feeling that it would have be completely taken apart in order to change its position. I sat back down, annoyed at being thwarted by geometry. Maybe this weekend I can bring some tools up here and get that done.

  In the meantime, I had things I wanted to check on. Ruthlessly pushing aside a stab of guilt at what I was about to do, I pulled up a search engine on my computer and typed in “Saratoga Springs, New York public records.” Within a few minutes I found records stating that a Ryan Walker Kristoff had been born to Julius Kristoff and a Catherine Rathbun Kristoff. Okay, birth records successfully faked. But how deep did the history go? Would a bit of scratching reveal the charade?

  Pretty deep, I began to realize after about fifteen minutes of searching. He had a full genealogy that went back at least four generations—which was as far back as I bothered searching before giving up and looking for other details. There were school records and assorted newspaper clippings for Ryan, his parents, and his cousins, one of whom had been arrested twice for driving under the influence. A bit of finagling pulled up Ryan’s college transcript and his yearbook pictures, and more public records searches turned up name checks for various cases he’d been involved in.

  In other words, it was, in every way, shape, and form, as real a background and history as anyone could possibly have. I sat back, baffled. There’s no way this is faked. So what the hell does this mean?

  I glanced up at a tap on my door, surprised to see Roman Hatch standing in the doorway, carefully balancing a box that looked like it might very well contain donuts, with a coffee cup on top of that. “Morning,” he said with a wide smile. “This is the proper sort of gift for a cop, right?”

  Grinning, I motioned him in, then accepted the coffee cup he handed me. “It’s a good start,” I said, pulling the lid off. It already had cream in it and I glanced at him. “You added sugar?”

  “Sure did,” he said, setting the box on the desk. “I remember you used to like it pretty sweet.”

  “Just like me,” I said with a bat of my eyelashes. Taking a sip, I discovered our definitions of “pretty sweet” were quite different. At most there might have been three sugars in it. More likely two. Still, it was a nice gesture, and I wasn’t about to throw it in his face or anything. Besides, it was heaps better than the coffee here at the station. “Have a seat.” I indicated the beat up chair that was squeezed into the corner of my tiny office. I leaned forward and tweaked open the box. Donuts, though not my favorite—the chocolate kind. Still, I was cool with regular glazed as well. “And now you will get to see me at my most glamorous,” I said as I snagged one out.

  “How long have you had this office?” His gaze swept the miniscule area.

  I had to finish chewing and swallowing donut before I could reply. “Almost a year. I don’t mind how small it is since I don’t have to share.”

  “Sure, but don’t you believe in decorating?”

  I made a show of looking around. “It is decorated! See, I have a poster.” I was quite proud of my fake “Magic Eye” poster. I’d lost count of the number of people who struggled to see a 3-D image in it that didn’t exist.

  He chuckled but didn’t rise to the bait of the poster. “I stand corrected. You should consider opening your own interior design business.”

  “Nah. I like being a cop. I get to drive fast and tell people how stupid they are.” I licked icing off my fingers and grinned.

  “Anyway,” he said, shifting to a smile that he probably thought was disarming. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something?”

  I gave him a properly inquisitive look, though the slight curl of disappointment in my belly already had a good idea of what he was about to ask. Some sort of trouble with his neighbor maybe, or a ticket that he was hoping I could help him take care of.

  He tugged a folded piece of paper from his pocket. A ticket. I hated that I’d been right. No real interest in me after all. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Back in college he’d always seemed more interested in having either a hot girlfriend he could show off or a super smart one he could use for free tutoring. I hadn’t really fallen into either category, which was one of the reasons I’d been astounded that he’d asked me out in the first place.

  Unfolding the ticket, his expression morphed into “sheepish.” I wasn’t buying it. He probably practiced these expressions in the mirror in order to get what he wanted. He was smooth.

  But I’d been dealing with demons for the past ten years.

  I didn’t say anything as he set it on the desk. Didn’t even look at it. Just continued to gaze at him with the same inquisitive, slightly puzzled expression. Two could play this game.

  He broke first, tapping the ticket with a finger and clearing his throat. “There’s this road near my parents’ house with a hill, and I didn’t realize how fast I was going. He got me for sixty in a forty-five.”

  “Okay,” I said as guilelessly as possible. “You need to know where to go to pay it? Or are you going to contest it in court?”

  He leaned back, rueful smile still in place. “It’s a pretty hefty fine,” he said. “I was wondering if you knew any way I could get it reduced?”

  “You want me to see if I can fix it.” I didn’t make it a question. “You want to see if you can spend a few dollars for donuts and coffee to see if you can save over a hundred.” If I was more of a bitch I’d throw the coffee right back at him.

  Now he winced. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. I just wanted to see if it could be changed to seatbelt or—” He let out a choked cry and staggered to his feet, staring down in shock at the coffee covering his front.

  I stared in shock as well, then yanked my eyes to my right hand—which was holding the empty coffee cup. I barely even remembered throwing the coffee at him, but I knew I had. I’d thought about it, then done it. No hesitation.

  “Oh my god, Roman. I…I…” I dropped the empty cup on my desk and yanked open my top drawer to grab out some tired napkins from a long ago fast food meal. I thrust them toward him, and he eyed them almost uncertainly before taking them and making a futile attempt to blot up the coffee.

  “I guess that’s a ‘no’ then” he said, mouth twisting in a grimace.

  “Shit, Roman, I swear I—”

  “Everything cool here?”

  I jerked my head around to see Cory, my sergeant, standing in the doorway of the office, frowning beneath his mustache, brown eyes taking in the details.

  I opened my mouth but suddenly had no idea what to say. I threw my coffee on him because he asked me how to get a ticket reduced. So fucking what? That kind of stuff happened all the time.

  “I’m a klutz,” Roman spoke up while I was still floundering. He turned the wry smile onto Sarge as he wiped his hands o
n the soggy napkins. “I was trying to give Kara her coffee, and we bumped hands.” He laughed, an easy sound. “I was the loser.”

  Damn, but he was good. I’d have totally believed him if I hadn’t actually been here when it happened and done the actual spilling. Throwing, rather.

  Sarge’s face cleared, and he gave a brisk nod. “Gotcha. There’s a restroom down the hall if you need to clean up.” He shifted his attention to me. “I’ll see if I can get a trustee in here to mop.”

  I just gave him a nod. I wasn’t sure if it was safe for me to speak yet.

  Roman simply gave a self-effacing chuckle. “I think I got the worst of it. I’m going to have to head home to change anyway.” He shot me a perfect imitation of an apologetic look. Or maybe he really was apologetic? “I’m really sorry about getting coffee everywhere, Kara.”

  I gulped. “Um. ’S okay,” I managed. Why the fuck had I thrown my coffee at him?

  He caught my eye, and for the first time I saw what I thought might be true emotion—a confusing split-second flash of regret, anger, affection, and relief. Then he was out the door while I stood with my hands clenched to keep them from shaking.

  Sarge watched him go, and as soon as the outer door closed he turned to me, eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

  I shook my head as if that could get my thoughts back in order. “I threw my coffee at him.”

  He made a hmmfing sound. “No shit. I’m not any sort of blood-spatter analyst, but—” His gaze raked the coffee on the wall. “—even I can tell that was more than a ‘bump’ of hands. Now tell me whether I need to go after him and defend the virtue of one of my sisters in blue.”

  A snort of laughter escaped me at the thought of anyone defending what little virtue I might still have. I unclenched my hands, sighed. “He didn’t do anything like that. All he did was ask if I could get a ticket reduced.” I grimaced and rubbed at my eyes. “I have no idea why that set me off.”