“Look, whoever you are, my head is about to split itself down the center. Whatever you have to say, stick it in a memo. Jesus, if this is some kind of crazy candid-camera thing you’re fired.”
“I AM POSEIDON, LORD OF THE WATERS AND YOU WILL LISTEN!” the fish boomed, doubling its previous volume.
It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to my head with each word.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, “but only if you exercise a little volume control. Otherwise, you’re shark bait.”
Through the pounding on my brain it was hard to consider what antagonizing the god of the oceans might do to my summer tanning options.
“You will leave my people alone,” he commanded, conceding maybe a decibel or two. “We will look to our own.”
My left eye twitched. “Really? Where the hell were you all yesterday when one of your own was trying to put me to sleep with the fishes?”
The rubber fish flapped annoyance. “You did not need our intervention.”
“Funny, ’cause from my perspective I was this close—” I demonstrated with my fingers, “—to a watery grave.”
“ENOUGH!” the fish bellowed, causing me to wince.
“Oh yeah, this new form of yours—real intimidating,” I continued, knowing I was pushing my luck, but pissed off and curious about the results all the same. ’Cause that approach had done wonders for the cat. “Maybe if you showed yourself… Though, you fitting the killer’s general description and all, maybe there’s some reason you don’t want to come out and fight like a man.”
The only warning I had was a nasty-sounding gurgle-belch before a flood of brackish water exploded forth from the fish’s mouth. I jerked back from my desk as if the stream would hit me then laughed at my own fear. “Ooh, swamp water—very scary!”
And suddenly the flood became a torrent, an entire swollen river bursting its banks. Not so funny after all. Easy enough to run away myself, but my office! Uncle Christos’s security deposit!
Something had to be done. I grabbed my desk chair and pulled it with me toward the door, trying to shield my eyes and make progress against the stinging force of the geyser. The chair and I were knocked to the floor once and nearly twice before I managed to get it in place and climb unsteadily aboard. Blinded now by the torrent, I reached for the fish, feeling my way to the mounting, which I ripped from the wall. Plaster rained down on my head and the fish had gone from soaking the rug to soaking me.
The chair keeled over as I jumped down, sprinting toward the outer door with the still-spewing fish like a football player headed for the end zone. I raced down the fire stairs and out into the alleyway.
The flood had trickled to leaky-faucet level and no doubt Poseidon’s spirit had long since departed but I took great pleasure in cramming the damned fish into the dumpster where it belonged anyway.
Maybe I’d saved my office, but for the second time in two days I was soaked to the bone and madder than a wet hen. Pisses me off when my day sounds like a freakin’ country-western song.
I squelched my way back to the office to survey the damage and arrange for a wet vac. My nose wrinkled involuntarily at the swamp-water smell of the place. It would be just my luck if the damage seeped down into the office below and I had two repair bills to worry about.
At least I kept a change of clothes for myself at the office—I’d say for “just such emergencies”, but who the hell anticipated plastic fish gushing pond scum? My life had gotten too damned weird. I was the investigator; I was the one supposed to put people in the know. So why the hell did I get the feeling that I was the blind man in the game of bluff? It seemed everyone else knew the playing field and gamboled around taunting me, dangling the truth just out of reach.
If there was anyone I should damned well be able to expect straight answers from it was my client. Come hell or high water—oh wait, I’d had near misses on both—he was going to answer my questions. I didn’t care if he was akin to Hollywood’s crown prince. He’d signed a contract; we’d played tonsil hockey in a club alley. One way or another, I ought to be entitled.
I picked up the office phone and jabbed in his private number from memory. It occurred to me that somewhere in the adrenaline rush to save my office the headache had disappeared. At least something had gone right.
To my surprise, the man of the hour actually answered.
“Hello,” he said, voice low and a bit hoarse—I refused to think husky—as if I’d woken him.
“Apollo, it’s Tori. We need to have a conversation. In person.”
I heard movement. Bed sheets rustling? His throat cleared and he came back to the receiver sounding a bit more normal. “What’s happened? You sound upset.”
Give that man an exploding cigar, I thought.
“What, you mean you don’t know? Your freakin’ Oracle didn’t give you a heads-up on this morning’s little visitation?”
“I’ll be right there,” he said, sounding urgent now, though I couldn’t figure out what I’d said that would prompt it.
“Wear old shoes,” I suggested, but the receiver had gone dead in my hand.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Apollo asked as I showed him in.
I’d considered meeting with him in Uncle Christos’s office, but I had a point to make.
“Big,” I agreed, waiting until we’d both squelched across my floor to say anything more.
A comment or question on the moisture wouldn’t have been uncalled for but Apollo kept silent, perhaps wisely guessing that it had something to do with my call.
Once we were seated, I pinned him with my very best glare and began. “Let’s cut right to the chase. You did not hire me because you thought Circe’s death had anything to do with your business. I doubt any of your old crowd gives a damn about the talent agency, and you knew before you even entered my office that we were dealing with one of the divinities. So, you can talk or I can walk, ’cause I’ve had it up to here—” I held my hand to my hairline, “—with the lot of you right about now.” And with myself for not tossing him from my office at the get-go.
His eyes widened, but the only other movement was that of his chest expanding and contracting as he breathed. The seconds ticked by and I relaxed back into my chair, watching his thought process dance over his face—consternation, caginess, resignation. I was pleased with the last. The interview would go so much faster if I didn’t have to browbeat Apollo into submission—not that the idea didn’t have its perks.
“No,” he answered finally. “No one gives a damn about the agency. You want the full story, fine, I’ll give you everything I have, but it isn’t much. Something odd is going on. Circe is the first death that I know of, but some of the old-timers have gone twitchy and others have seemed to disappear. The oracle has been broadcasting “Get the hell out of Dodge” on all frequencies, and I want to know what the hell is going on. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to turn tail and run, even if I had anywhere to go. Since no one on the inside is talking, I’ve had to go to an outside source.”
I’d liked it better when I thought Apollo might have some answers.
“If something’s going on in godland, why would you be left out of the loop?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe because I was working with Circe, who no one in their right mind trusts, and got tarred with the same brush. Maybe there’s some kind of vendetta thing or war between factions that I’m just not part of. I was up front with you that I want to find out what happened, what Circe was involved in, to be sure I don’t get the fallout.”
“So what changed your mind?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t show up at the club last night because of my irresistible charm, such as it is. You knew where to find me; you knew about the attack, and you were ready to pull me from the case. Conclusion: you’re holding out on me. Care to fill me in?”
Apollo stood abruptly, nearly upending his chair onto the sodden carpet. He filled the room, pacing the six or
seven steps the office allowed, but somehow the squishing sound of each footfall diminished the effect.
“If you put others on the spot nearly as well as you do me, you must be a very good investigator. Yes, I went there to fire you. I’d been warned away from investigating Circe’s death. Specifically, I’d been told that your life was in danger, but I got the distinct impression last night that pulling my financing wasn’t going to take you off the case.”
He wasn’t looking at me as he said it and something told me there were gaps in the story.
“What else?”
Apollo had stopped in front of my doorway and was eying the twin holes I’d left in the plaster. “You know that headache?” he asked, barely audible with his back to me.
I blinked at the complete non sequitur. “Ye-ah,” I answered warily.
“Well, that’s kind of a side effect.”
“Of what?” My heart rate had kicked up and this time it didn’t have anything to do with his proximity per se.
He finally turned, measuring my reaction from there, “A bit of an edge.”
“Tell me,” I said, already rising to cut off his escape.
“Just a little precog,” he answered, holding his ground. “Think of it as your Spidey sense, an early warning system in case of danger. The headache won’t last long. It’s an effect of waking up pathways in your brain previously closed off. All I did was open some doors.”
I stood before him now, hands on my hips, almost a head shorter than him but, I hoped, intimidating in my anger. I put hold it right there, buster into my glare. “Without my consent,” I stated.
Apollo stayed put, but that could have been his own arrogance. He was a god, after all, what did he have to fear from little ol’ me? “Yes.”
No apologies, not the least abashed. Okay, on the one hand, I could see how a little precognition might not be such a bad thing. On the other, I knew that Apollo’s gifts did not come free, and I didn’t like the idea that he could play with my mind at will. It hadn’t turned out so well for Cassandra, prophetess of Troy, when Apollo’s broad shoulders failed to make her swoon. Oh sure, she still had the visions, but no ability to make anyone believe. All she could do was watch the horrible reality unfold. Something like that would drive me barking mad. I wasn’t feeling too far from that ledge as it was.
We continued our standoff, toe-to-toe, me with my anger and Apollo with his defiance, daring me to take issue.
“Thank you,” I said with effort. “Don’t ever mess with my head again.” I tried to drive the point home with my glare.
Apollo’s head jerked fractionally. “You want to tell me about the carpet?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I’m not finished with you yet. Who threatened me?”
“The same god, I presume, who’s responsible for your water damage.”
“Poseidon?”
He nodded. “Do you think he’s the killer?”
“No. My attacker and Circe’s were one and the same. If it had been Poseidon who’d grabbed me, I doubt I’d still have a pulse. How much do you trust Hephaestus?”
That one shocked him. Apollo’s eyes met mine. “Hiero? Last I checked, he was neither green nor scaly. What’s he got to do with anything?”
“The place I was attacked yesterday—he’s the one who pointed it out on the map. No one else knew where I’d be.”
“But if it had some significance to your case, it wouldn’t have been too hard to figure out.”
Damn, all that beauty and brains too. My righteous anger was wearing off and with it went my defense against Apollo’s spell. I had to end this quickly.
“Okay, point for you,” I conceded. “Sorry to get you down here in such a rush.”
Double uh oh. The smolder was back in his eyes. He must have sensed the second the mood had shifted.
Apollo reached out to me, and I backed out of my own office in retreat.
“Here, let me get the door for you,” I offered
It was a lame cover and we both knew it. Before making his exit, he stopped to take my chin and force me to meet his eyes.
“You had your chance, you know. Off the case and out of my—clutches. I think you know what will happen if we continue working together.”
I struggled to remember why that was a very bad thing; I fought to dredge up some anger at his arrogance, but deep down I both feared and hoped he was right.
“Is this where you start twirling your mustachios?” I asked, trying to dispel the mood.
“If you insist on playing the damsel in distress. Fortunately for me, I don’t think your police detective is much of a challenge.”
Urk. It was on the tip of my tongue to protest, but everything I could think to say would come out as admission or encouragement. I didn’t see how he could really know anything and certainly didn’t want to give him any fuel for the fire. The gods weren’t known for their charity toward the competition. Besides, Armani was clearly not mine in any way, shape or form.
That fact was illustrated beautifully a few hours later when Lau called to inform me brusquely that my presence was requested at the precinct to once more go over my story of Circe’s murder and discuss “any subsequent attacks”. If Armani had thrown me to the wolf, then he was probably still in a snit about yesterday.
I agreed to come in for two reasons. One, I didn’t trust Lau not to find some way to force the issue, and that would provide her with way too much satisfaction. Two, given the site of yesterday’s momentous battle with the Creature from the Black Lagoon, I wasn’t entirely convinced that Circe’s murder wasn’t tied in some way to the actress’s death. I still wanted to get a look at the Talbot file. Not that Lau would slip it to me, of course, but it might be possible to tap into one of Uncle Christos’s police contacts of yore.
Besides, there wasn’t much to do on my other investigation but wait for my various phone calls to be returned. I was particularly anxious to hear from the widow whether she knew of anyone in the Sunset Strip area to whom her husband might have gone, dragging the dog behind him. With any luck, I’d close the case by sundown. Funny enough, clients were so much happier to pay when you’d actually gotten results. Not necessarily faster, you understand, just less grudging.
Lau kept me cooling my heels for a good half hour, so I decided that when she was ready, she could come find me. Meanwhile, it seemed only polite to drop in on Christos’s old drinking buddies and see what they were up to. Stan Muldavi was out on a call, but I was in luck for George Santos and Tony Robbins, who were catching up on paperwork. Neither noticed me until I snuck up behind George and covered his eyes.
He practically jumped out of his skin, but I kept my hands in place.
Tony chuckled. “You’re getting old, George. Ten years ago you wouldn’t let some slip of a thing sneak up on you.”
George could shrug me off in a second if he chose. Instead, he asked, “Is she cute?”
“Nah. Kinda buck-toothed and cross-eyed.”
“Tori?”
I pulled my hands back. “Very cute, you two. You ought to take your show on the road.”
“Can’t—George gets carsick. Hey, you heard anything from your uncle?”
“Yeah,” George chimed in. “Tell him he owes me money.”
“Great. That’ll certainly get him back here,” I answered. “Listen, I’ve got a question; I was hoping one of you might have heard something.”
“If it’s about the Circe Holland homicide—” Tony made a warding sign.
“Not that. I’ve got this missing dog case. The woman’s husband took off and their hound seems to have followed him—or maybe been dog-napped. Anyway, the lady figures good riddance to the husband, who was catting around, but she’d like the dog back. The only problem is that I probably have to find the former to get the latter and the husband’s pulled a vanishing act. I’m wondering if you guys have anything on him, like some legal reason he skipped town or maybe he’s on the sheets for a domestic dispute.”
Tony shrugged. “Christos will be so glad to hear his business is going to the dogs. What’s the deadbeat’s name?”
“Dick Strohmeyer.”
George and Tony shared a Look.
“What?”
It was George’s turn to shrug. “Go ahead, tell her. Can’t hurt.”
I pushed some files aside to perch on the edge of George’s desk. “I’m all ears.”
Tony settled back in his chair. “Strohmeyer’s girlfriend was in last week, calling for the wife’s head on a platter. She talked to Nelson, but half the squad room heard her.”
“Yeah, real spitfire,” George contributed.
“And easy on the eyes, but that mouth—eesh. Anyway, she hadn’t seen Dick in days. The wife claimed he moved out, but the girlfriend wasn’t buying it. She thinks the wife, your client, had him whacked.”
I couldn’t see Annette Strohmeyer whacking anybody. ’Course, I couldn’t see her getting all sappy over a slobbery hound, but it was always the ones you least expected.
“Did Nelson take her seriously?”
“Don’t know. He talked to her for a good long time. Certainly wrote down all her particulars.”
Tony’s eyes flicked past me.
I turned to look. Uh oh.
“Can you get me her name and address?” I asked sotto voice.
“Call you later,” he said quickly. “Detective Lau, pleasure to see you.”
“Robbins, Santos,” she answered with a bare nod. “You. We have an appointment.”
As if I’d kept her waiting. I bid farewell to the guys and followed Lau, past her desk, which always creeped me out with its array of desiccated sea life—mounted piranha, urchin shells, starfish—in lieu of photographs, into one of their stark interview rooms.
Lau practically slammed the door behind me and ordered me to sit. The solitary table was littered with files, as if the detective had commandeered the room for some time and had made herself comfortable.
“Why did you fail to report your attack?”
“Huh?” I asked, honestly baffled. “You mean the fish?”
Bad Blood Page 9