by Dana Donovan
Lilith patrolled the diner with sweeping glances, starting at the front by the lunch counter and working back. Those who recognized her scooted their chairs away from the door. Those that didn’t, followed suit just the same. When the mine sweep crossed our booth, our eyes locked. I heard Carlos swallow back the lump in his throat. I reached across the table without looking and patted his hand to hush him.
“Easy, boy,” I said. “She’s not going to bite.”
His whispered reply I could hardly hear, but I believe he said, “Are you sure?”
She let the door go, and as it hit her ass, she started walking. She headed straight for our booth with a whip in her strut. I saw Carlos’ hand slip behind his jacket on his holster side. He could have pulled his gun and shot her, and I suppose it would have all been worth it, except for some paperwork. But I slapped the hand that he still had on the table and I made him stop reaching. Lilith clicked her heels at the foot of our table and folded her arms tightly below her breasts.
“Detective Marcella,” she said, and it didn’t sound very cordial. “I heard you were in town.”
I smiled up at her, pleasantly as I could. “Well, what a coincidence. I heard you were in town, too.”
“No coincidence. I live here. But you know that.”
“You’re right. I also know you didn’t come here for the food. Please, have a seat anyway. It’s been a while.”
I scooted over enough to let Lilith slide in next to me. She smiled pretentiously, and instead slapped Carlos on the shoulder. “Move it, Fidel!” she barked, and then crowded him into the corner where the rips in the imitation leather seats jabbed at his butt. I tried not to laugh, but the look of absolute violation on his face seemed priceless. It didn’t help matters when she nudged the plate of extra meatballs in front of him with a fork like it was nuclear waste. Carlos relocated the plate to a section of table less offensive.
“Do you mind?” he said, wiping his fingers clean of sauce with a paper napkin. “Really. What is your problem?”
“My problem,” she said, and this she directed at me, “is that I’ve been trying to find a way to reach you for nearly a year.”
“Me?” I said, pointing at myself.
“Yes. Nobody in your stinking precinct would tell me where you went or what happened to you.”
“Really? Lilith, I’m touched. I didn’t know you cared so much.”
She made a face as if a sour nut had just come up her throat. “Hardly. You have something I want.”
I straightened up in my seat and pulled the kink from my tie. “Do I? Frankly, I didn’t think I was your type.”
“P—leeease, Detective. I’d sooner sleep with Fidel, over here.” She jabbed her thumb into Carlos’ side, hitting his holstered gun. They turned and looked at each other, equally surprised. “Yeah, you,” she said. “You can just forget about it, my little Copacabana boy. You’re already about as close to me as you’re ever going to get. So, take a deep breath and savor it.”
“Lilith!” I said, no longer amused. “You’re getting a little mean-spirited in your old age, aren’t you? Whatever happened to graciousness and courtesy?”
“They’re dead, Detective, along with my friends from the research center.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Not mine!” she snapped, loud enough for heads in the diner to turn again. “If that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“Oh, no?”
“Certainly not.”
“Right, I forgot. I guess Shekina and Akasha Kayo weren’t friends of your. So, killing them doesn’t count.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“How about Doctor Lieberman?”
“Yeah, how `bout Doctor Lieberman? You had his killer in jail and you let him hang himself. Or maybe he had help.”
I slammed my hand down on the table hard, causing silverware to chatter on plates and Carlos’ Coke to splash from his glass. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I had something to do with Gordon’s suicide?”
“I’m saying he was yours to watch. You had a responsibility. Hadn’t enough people already died by then?”
“Why—you little bitch….” I lunged across the table at her. So help me, I wanted to hurt her. I don’t know why. I had already beaten myself up over Gordon Walsh’s death. To a great degree, though, Lilith was right. Gordon was mine to watch. I should have known he was suicidal after all that happened. But things were really falling apart at that point in the investigation. And that I was with Lilith when he killed himself only made matters worse. I suppose Carlos, witnessing this verbal joust, predicted my unprofessional response to her overtures. As quickly as I came at her, he somehow managed to insert himself between us, preventing my fool-hearted assault.
When things settled down, I apologized to Lilith and to Carlos, too. I expressed my regrets and condemned my actions as conduct unbecoming an officer of the law, retired or otherwise. Carlos, of course, accepted. Lilith’s forgiveness came in a more roundabout way.
“That’s all right, Detective,” she said. Strange, but I noticed how not a single hair on her head went amiss. “I understand you still have some unresolved issues regarding your last case. Believe it or not, so do I.”
“You?” I said. “That’s funny, because I thought you were the only one that got from the case what you wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“Validation. I know they all laughed at your witchcraft and your witch’s ladder. But you showed them. Didn’t you?”
“That witch’s ladder saved your wrinkled old ass.”
“I’m not denying that.”
“No, you’re not. But since we’re on the subject, let me tell you why I came looking for you.”
There is something very unsettling about having a witch tell you that she’s been looking for you. I couldn’t imagine it was a good thing. I pitched back in my seat and gestured for her to continue.
“As I said, Detective, you have something I want.”
“And that is?”
“You remember when you rescued Leona Diaz from the basement of the research center?”
“Where Doctor Lowell had her tied to the bed, of course.”
“Well—”
“Detective Rodriquez! Detective Marcella!” Dominic Spinelli came into the diner and spotted us from the front door. He hurried to the booth in a sprint. “There you are. I thought I might find you here.”
“Dominic!” Carlos clearly seemed happy to see him. “How did you get here?”
“I caught a ride in a black and white.”
“Well, good!”
“Spinelli,” I said. “Have a seat. Let me introduce you to Lilith.” He took a seat next to me and offered her his hand. She looked at it, at him, and then finally at me. That sour expression revisited her face. I smiled and said, “Humor him. He’s a good kid.”
She reached out and they shook. “You’re a detective? What are you, like, fifteen?”
“I’m twenty-six,” he replied, feeling insulted, but I suspected he got that a lot. “Probably older than you.”
“Don’t go there,” I said. “You don’t ever want to ask a witch her age.”
He looked at her with splayed eyes. “A witch? Right, you’re Lilith Adams! I read about you.”
She pulled back, and although she seldom showed it, we all saw her smile. “Did you?”
“Yes, in the official case reports that Detectives Rodriquez and Marcella filed last year. Of course there were no mentions of you being a witch. But Detective Rodriquez filled me in on all the juicy tid-bits. Hey, you know someone should write a book on you.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely! You’re fascinating.”
Lilith glanced our way. “Detectives, where did you find this boy? He’s adorable.”
“Hey,” said Carlos. “Maybe Dominic should write a book.” He turned to Lilith and offered, “He’s expertly versed on the occult, you know. He would do a great j
ob with it.”
“Would he, now?” She leaned her head back and sized Dominic up one side and down the other. “You’ve studied witches?”
“Some,” he replied. “Witches, witchcraft, the Wiccan religion and basically all the Neo-Pagan theologies.”
“What do you mean all of them?” Carlos joked. “Isn’t one Satan worshiper the same as another?”
“Ho, boy, here we go,” said Lilith, rolling her eyes. She turned to Carlos and fed him a—let me tell YOU something—look. She started in, “First of all, Fidel, witches aren’t—”
“Please,” said Dominic, reaching across the table and touching Lilith’s arm. “Allow me.” He looked at Carlos, but kept his hand on Lilith’s sleeve. Surprisingly, she didn’t pull away. “Carlos,” he said, “if there’s one thing you should know about Neo-Pagan worshipers, it’s that they don’t worship Satan. And although witches are Neo-Pagans, not all Neo-Pagans are witches. Some Neo-Pagans are Wiccans. And, though witches aren’t Wiccan, some Wiccans practice witchcraft. And most, particularly witches don’t believe in Satan. Like Wiccans, witches believe in deities of nature—natural spirits. A traditional witch’s rede is, ‘If thee harm none, then do as thou wilt.’” He turned to Lilith and smiled. “Does that sound about right, Miss Adams?”
She smiled back, her thin brows punctuated in parentheses. “Yeah,” she said, satisfied. “Close enough.” They held eye contact for a curiously long time. Looking at Spinelli it wasn’t hard to tell what he was thinking. Lilith, on the other hand—and as usual, was much harder to read. This continued until both Carlos and I felt sufficiently uncomfortable. I nudged Spinelli out of his groove like a stuck record needle. He blinked the spell broken. Lilith turned to me next, and her expression changed dramatically.
“Detective,” she spat, “about Leona Diaz.”
“Yes,” I responded, zeroing in where we left off. “Of course, I remember rescuing her from the basement of the research center. What about it?”
“Leona had in her possession at the time a string of beads. Do you remember that?”
“Her rosary.”
“No, not the rosary.”
“Ah then you must mean the witch’s ladder.”
“Yes. I want it.”
“I don’t have it.”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t say I had it. I knew about it because Leona had it when she showed herself to me in an apparition during one of her out-of-body experiences.”
“Detective, I talked to Leona. She told me the beads were on a nightstand next to her bed where you found her.”
I threw my hands up in surrender. “Then, I’m sorry. Someone else must have taken it because I don’t have your precious witch’s ladder. What’s the big deal, anyway? Why do you want it back so badly? You can make another one.”
“I don’t want another one.” She slid out of the booth, sweeping a set of silverware off the table with her hand. All eyes in the diner turned for the commotion and watched her storm out the door in a devil’s fury.
Carlos, Spinelli and I traded uncomfortable glances, ignoring the patrons that turned their eyes on us. I reached down, collected the silverware and set the pieces back on the table. Carlos, in his uniquely optimistic manor, summed it up best when he said simply, “That went well.”
Spinelli nodded. “It did.”
“Yes, not bad,” I echoed.
Again, Spinelli, “She seemed nice.”
Carlos and I let that one go.
We flagged our waitress and called for our tab. Carlos paid for it with a twenty. As we waited for his change, I noticed that Spinelli seemed unusually quiet. Asked if everything was all right, he said yes, but admitted that he remained confused about something.
“About what?” I asked.
“The witch’s ladder,” he said. “I’ve done enough studying up on them. I know you can make a ladder from almost anything: a piece of rope with forty knots tied in it, a string of forty beads, a lock of someone’s hair braided in a herringbone pattern with forty stitches (that one was new to me). And it can harbor awesome energy. But what I don’t get is why she wants hers back so badly. Once a witch’s ladder has served its purpose, or failed to serve it, it degrades back to a powerless object. By now, that ladder is useless to anyone.”
I looked at Carlos and gestured with my thumb at Spinelli. “Who is this guy? And where was he last year when we needed him?” The two laughed, but I was only half joking.
“Hey, Tony,” Carlos asked, “what did happen to that witch’s ladder?”
“Shut up,” I snapped. “I don’t have it.”
Carlos got his change and left a nice tip. We gathered at the door when Natalie, the lunch counter waitress, hurried over to us. She excused herself to Spinelli and me before crowding Carlos away from the door for a more private conversation. I could see from the look on his face that he thought the reward for his clever note was about to pay off big. She squeezed his forearm lightly and dropped her eyes in a bashful pout.
“Mister Rodriquez,” she said. I couldn’t help overhearing. It’s a curse in the business. “I got your note about you wanting me to call you. And I noticed you waving at me, trying to get my attention earlier. But I want you to know that I like you as a friend. I mean, you’re a few years older and…. I know you’re nice and everything, but I’m afraid it just wouldn’t work out between us. I hope you’re not too hurt.”
Carlos’ jaw dropped, but his words could not find their way out. I decided to help him and so stepped in without asking. “Oh, he understands,” I said to Natalie, patting her hand and prying it gently from his arm. “It’s a shocker, I know, but he’ll get over it. Just give him some time.”
I got her turned around and ushered her back to her lunch counter. Meanwhile, Spinelli steered Carlos out the door before he could totally make an ass—a bigger ass—out of himself. Outside, the gravity of the moment hit him and he realized he couldn’t possibly eat at the lunch counter ever again.
“Don’t worry, Carlos,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll always have our special booth.”
We all got into the cruiser for the ride back to the justice center. It was Spinelli sitting in the back seat who summed up Carlos’ mishap best this time when he repeated an assessment made earlier, saying simply, “That went well.”
FOUR
When we got back to the justice center, Spinelli presented us with a wealth of information. He did his thing with E.I.N.I. (Electronic Intelligence Network Interface) or on-line database, as Carlos referred to it. All I know is that in my day you had a telephone, a radio with dispatch and if you were lucky, a good pair of walking shoes, because unless you hit the streets you weren’t going to learn a damn thing about the case you were working on. But the kid did all right with what he had, and as it turned out his best information did come from working the field.
Carlos kicked it off. “All right, Dom, lay it on us. What do you have?”
Spinelli produced a folder from inside his jacket and pulled from that a photo of Bridget Dean. Carlos and I both nearly swallowed our tongues. The woman screamed class with a capital C. I pegged her at around thirty-ish, but she could have passed for much younger if her hair was down and you traded in her business suit for blue denim. Just going by the photo, you would have to say that the woman was a peach, but Spinelli had the dirt to paint her in a much different light.
“Her name was Bridget Jean Dean,” he started, “thirty two, single, born in New Castle, educated at Harvard. She joined the law firm of Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli after her hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners attitude as a prosecutor caught the attention of Mister Petruzelli himself.”
“I bet it was more than her lawyer skills that caught his attention,” Carlos joked.
Spinelli barely paused. “The woman displayed an almost sixth sense with her cases. She never lost. After five and a half years of undying dedication to the firm, not to mention her recent win of a high-profile, extremely lu
crative, class-action law suit against a major pharmaceutical, HP&P decided to make her a full-fledged partner.”
“Wow! Kudos to her,” I uttered.
“So, what was her problem?” Carlos asked. “Sounds like she was riding on top of the world. Why would she kill herself?”
“Good question,” I said. “Spinelli? Any theories?”
“Just one. She didn’t.”
Carlos, “But she’s dead just the same.”
I said, “Seems logical then, someone killed her. Let’s look at Rivera. What did you find there?”
“Plenty.” Spinelli reached into the folder and pulled out another photo. “This woman….” He handed the photo to Carlos. I came around his desk and leaned over his shoulder to have a look. Neither he nor I needed as much time to study that one. The woman in the photo was about as ugly as a train wreck. I know that’s not very professional, but sometimes you just have to call a spade a spade. “…That’s Mallory Edwards,” he continued. “She works at HP&P on the same floor as Rivera. She’s not a lawyer. She mostly transcribes documents, prepares legal briefs—that sort of thing.”
“And she gave you her photo?”
“I downloaded it from my laptop. She has a page on Blog-Hog.”
“What’s that?”
“Blog-Hog dot com. It’s a community web sites where anyone can post pictures, bios, things you’d put in a Blog.”
“Carlos, do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Sure, Tony. A Blog is short for Web log. People upload pictures, videos, poems and essays, bits of their life that they want to share to express themselves.”
“Why?”
“It’s called inclusion. It’s a way to keep in step with the world at-large, to meet people and to have fun.”
“Do you have a Blog?”
“No.”
“How `bout you, Spinelli. Do you have one?”
Spinelli shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“I see. So, it’s just some passing fad. Is that it?”