Ice Cold Death

by Razevich, Alexes

  I really didn’t want to do this ‘help find the killer’ thing. I didn’t want to have Brad’s death be the focus of my life. Didn’t want to get involved with new people or meet Brad’s family and feel their pain. I definitely didn’t want the responsibility of trying to solve a murder. That’s what the police were for.

  I also didn’t want to be a selfish bitch who wouldn’t help when maybe she could.

  And honestly, wasn’t I already involved? I was the closest thing to a witness there seemed to be. And don’t forget the man in the road who wasn’t there. If he wasn’t a hallucination, then the killer already had his sights on me. Finding him, making sure he was put away, was self-preservation. I was a big fan of self-preservation.

  I poured a glass of water, drank it down, and went back to the parlor.

  “Okay,” I said. “But I really don’t think I’ll be of much help.”

  Diego stood. “Good. Thank you.” He eased a business card out of a silver card carrier and handed it to me. “We like to be in the office by nine. See you tomorrow.” He held out his hand.

  I shook it—and again he felt warm and good to me.

  What was I getting myself into here?

  3

  Danyon and Peet had offices in a two-story, yellow stucco building behind the Manhattan Beach mall. I parked in the underground lot and headed toward the stairs, still not completely convinced I wanted to help in the hunt for Brad’s killer. But I’d said I would, and as my mother used to say, ‘Your word is your bond.’ I’d do the best I could.

  I had no idea how private investigators dressed at the office. I wore my one skirt—black with a small white floral print—and a white blouse. Instead of my usual red high-tops or leather hiking boots, I’d opted for black flats.

  At the top of the stairs and halfway down the corridor, I found a brown door with the brass plaque that read Danyon and Peet. No sounds came from behind the door, but likely that was by design and not because no one was inside. I drew in a breath, steeled myself, and turned the doorknob.

  I’d pictured Danyon and Peet as a seedy outfit with a pair of owners trying to hold it together and one good-looking wizard doing all the errand-running, surveillance, background checks, and the like. The reality was nothing like that.

  In the foyer, an attractive, red-haired woman about my age—mid-twenties or so—sat in a silver Aeron chair swung sideways so I could see both it, and her, behind a mid-century modern-looking, curved blond wood desk. The woman wore a nice black dress with three-quarter length sleeves, fitted in the bodice but with a flaring skirt. Her black shoes had a medium heel.

  She heard me enter and swung her chair to face me. “Oona Goodlight?” She stood and offered her hand. “I’m Terry Miller. Welcome to Danyon and Peet.”

  I cringed at the thought of shaking her hand. Maybe it would be okay if I said, “Sorry, I don’t shake hands.” If she was used to working with a wizard, it was likely eccentricities wouldn’t surprise her. Every wizard I’d known was odd in his own way. It was my personal belief that needing to control the magic and power within them made them a little crazy.

  But I was there as an empath as much as a psychic. I might as well touch her and see what I could learn. I took her hand and held it just a tad too long, but more than long enough to gather that she liked her job and was saving her money to go back to school to get a teaching degree.

  “You’re expected, of course,” Terry said. “Let me buzz you in.”

  She reached under the desk. I heard a low hum and a snap, as if a lock was being undone. What was going on here that offices needed to be locked and people buzzed in?

  The reception area was mid-century modern. The office I walked into was dark mahogany paneling with a heavy mahogany desk with carved legs set to face the door. A closed laptop was the only thing set on the immaculate and highly polished stretch of hardwood. Three armchairs upholstered in black leather faced the desk.

  The woman behind the desk was speaking low into a cell phone. She had black, shoulder-length, expensively cut hair; brown eyes; and a full mouth colored with blood-red lipstick. I guessed her to be in her early fifties.

  I gave her a quick read. Hands on were her watchwords. She prided herself on never asking her employees to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. She liked fieldwork, which surprised me given that she wore an expensive-looking heather-grey linen suit and red stiletto-heeled shoes.

  Her judgmental tendencies and a big boatload of aggressiveness flowed out into the room as she eyed me while finishing her phone call.

  She stood and extended her hand. “Juliana Peet.”

  I really didn’t want to shake her hand. Her vibe was already buffeting me like high waves. I didn’t want to touch her and discover things I might not want to know, but I couldn’t very well refuse.

  I took her hand, held it just long enough to be polite, and drew my hand back. Unconsciously, I wiped the hand that had touched her against my skirt and was a tad embarrassed when I realized what I’d done.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  A side door to the office opened and a man walked in.

  “And my partner,” Juliana said, “Tyron Danyon.”

  In contrast to Juliana’s aggressive successful businesswoman look and demeanor, Tyron was tall and burly with an open, friendly face. His auburn hair was fading to white at the temples. He wore khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and neon-green running shoes, giving him a bouncer-at-a-beach-bar vibe. He stood and held out his hand.

  We shook hands and I felt his pride in Juliana and the agency they’d built together. I also felt his keen desire to find whoever had murdered his friend’s son, and his fervent wish that I’d be of help.

  I swallowed hard. Tyron had pinned his hopes on me. It was more expectation than I was comfortable with.

  Juliana picked up her cell phone from the desk and hit a key. “Your new hire is here. Would you like to join us?”

  Both Juliana and Tyron were thinking about Diego. I was his new hire? What did that mean? Whatever it meant, I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  Diego strode in wearing a charcoal gray three-piece suit with a black shirt and burgundy tie. Even though I’d already pegged him as a man who’d look good in a suit, it was hard to square this person with Goalie-Diego, or shorts, flip-flops, and magic runes Diego. With me, what you saw was pretty much what you got. He seemed more a chameleon. Was there a core Diego Adair hidden among the guises?

  He took the third chair facing Juliana’s desk, the one between Tyron and me. He didn’t offer his hand but did give me a warm smile. I nodded but didn’t smile back. Little Miss Professional, that’s me.

  Tyron cleared his throat. “Could you go over the details of what you saw that morning at the ice rink? The more details you can give, the better.”

  Clever, I thought. Get all the info from me upfront, before I’ve officially taken the job. Thank me and send me home.

  I wasn’t usually this cynical. I let a moment go by while I felt each person in the room again, looking for hidden agendas this time. There was nothing from Diego. Nothing from Tyron. But Juliana was prickly, straight up believing I was probably a phony like the other so-called psychics she’d run into, and not all that happy that Tyron wanted to bring me on board. She wasn’t quite sure if she believed in his magic either, preferring to put Diego’s successes down to charm and tenacity.

  If it was just Juliana, I would have politely excused myself, saying I was sorry but I couldn’t help. But Tyron was desperate. And Brad’s family would be desperate for some sort of truth and closure as well.

  I laid out everything I’d seen of the murder, giving much more detail than I’d told Diego. Juliana had turned on the recorder in her phone and got down every word. Tyron’s growing agony at hearing the story was physically painful to feel—this was exactly why I kept my abilities to myself and spent most of my time alone—but I kept going.

  When I’d finished, Tyron and Diego were silent. Juliana rose and ex
tended her hand again. I took it but dropped it as quickly as was polite. I had to stop myself from wiping her touch off on my skirt again.

  “Thank you,” she said. “We need some time to digest what you’ve told us and formulate a plan of attack to find the killer. Terry will give you the paperwork you need to fill out. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  And just like that, I was dismissed.

  * * *

  Around 5:30 my cell phone rang—a rare enough occurrence that I picked up the phone and frowned. My friends knew I hated to talk on the phone and preferred them to text. I didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voice mail. I really hated telemarketers. The phone rang again almost immediately. Same number.

  “Hello?” I said cautiously.

  “Hi, It’s Diego.”

  “How’d you get. . . ”

  Silly me. My cell number was on the paperwork I’d filled out at the office. I put a friendly smile into my voice. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “There’s stick time at Bay Harbor in an hour. You didn’t get your practice in Sunday. I thought you might like to go for a skate.”

  Actually, I’d love to go for a skate. Nervous energy had been boiling in me ever since Sunday morning. I needed to burn it off.

  Diego hadn’t shown any interest in me as a woman either Sunday or today in the office, but I felt that interest now. A vague lust, him wondering what it would be like. Flattering in Thanks, but no thanks kind of way. He wasn’t going to act on it anyway. His main concern was what I could do to ease Brad’s family’s pain. He wasn’t going to mess up whatever I might do toward that just for a quick romp.

  It was the ‘putting others first’ thing that made me say, “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t mind picking you up,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I’ll drive myself.”

  I liked having my own transportation. It let me leave when I felt like it.

  I had a thought and just couldn’t stop myself from voicing it. “Can you skate or are you one of those net-only goalies.”

  He chuckled. “Come and see.”

  There were only five other people on the ice when we arrived, all clustered at one end of the rink running drills. That left a half-rink open for Diego and me—plenty of room to stretch our legs. We put our gear on in the benches where friends, family, and fans sat during games rather than using one of the locker rooms. I was used to dressing with men and slipped off my jeans without a thought. I wore black leggings underneath and pulled my padded ice pants and long socks on over them. I pulled the socks up over my knees, laced up my skates and fastened on my shin guards. Then elbow guards, and finally, a plain, blue jersey.

  I didn’t know why, but I often found the act of putting on my gear to be meditative. I like the ritual of it. Putting everything on in the same order each time. Lacing my skates just right. Taping on my ancient shin guards to the exact tightness I like. Pulling the jersey over my head and adjusting the sleeves free around the elbow guards. Maybe it has something to do with preparing to go into battle—some collective memory in our DNA. Maybe it’s the calm before the storm of the game.

  Evidently, Diego wasn’t shy about dressing in public either and stripped down to boxers before putting on the rest of his skating gear. As a woman in a man’s sport, I’d seen plenty of guys put their cup and jock on over their boxers. I’d seen guys put a towel over their lap and strip down to nothing underneath. Diego changing was nothing I hadn’t seen before and I paid it little mind.

  Well, maybe some mind. On a purely esthetic level, of course.

  I strapped on my helmet, put on my gloves, and stepped out onto the ice, aware of Diego watching me, judging my skill level. I’m okay, but I’m not an elite skater by any means. I’m aggressive, can handle the puck some, and have a decent shot. I never felt like the guys on a team were carrying me, but I don’t play in a high-skill division either.

  I skated over to a loose puck and did my fanciest puck handling show-off moves and finished with my trick where I bounce the puck on the stick blade half a dozen times before I tossed it to Diego.

  He caught the puck and proceeded to make much, much fancier moves—the kind I could only dream of pulling off myself. If he was as good in net as he was skating out, he was right that he didn’t need magic to win.

  I skated up next to him. “If you’re done showing off, how about some passes.”

  “I’ve seen you skate now,” he said with a grin. “I’m going to have to slow way down if we’re going to pass the puck back and forth.”

  Men condescending to me on the ice usually got my back up. Why Diego’s words struck me more as funny rather than offensive I’ll never know. It must have been the glint in his eye.

  We skated around, passing the puck between us. I wound up with the puck when we ran out of skate room and took a shot at the net, using one of my better tricks of hitting the top crossbar hard, so the iron rang like a church bell. In a game, hitting the post would break your heart since it meant you’d missed making a goal by an inch or two, but it sounded impressive when you were just fooling around.

  The second time down it was Diego’s turn to take the shot. He pivoted toward center ice and backhanded the puck straight into the top left corner as if it were drawn by a magnet.

  “Zen shot,” I said in reference to mounted archers who supposedly could hit a bull’s-eye from a galloping horse while blindfolded. “There’s no way you could see where that puck would go. Zen shot or luck.”

  He shrugged. “I saw the net before I turned. I knew where to aim. No luck involved.”

  “And modest, too.” I headed back up the ice.

  I hit the red line and my head suddenly ached like a rope was being tightened around it. My heart beat in my chest like a frightened bird. I felt faint and leaned on my stick for support.

  Diego skated up beside me. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here,” I whispered. “Brad’s killer.”

  Diego glanced around. A few more skaters and a goalie had joined the guys practicing at the other end of the rink. Players coming in for the first game of the day made a steady stream of people heading for the locker rooms.

  “Can you pick him out?” Diego said.

  I shook my head. “I feel him, but can’t tell who, or where, he is.”

  My head pounded harder and my stomach knotted.

  “Give me a minute,” I said. “Let me see if I can home in on him.”

  The pain in my head intensified as I focused on trying to find the source of my discomfort. My throat went dry. I could hardly speak but managed to croak out the impressions flooding my mind.

  “Something’s off with this guy. I can’t get a firm grip on him. But there’s evil in his vibe. Nasty, vicious evil.”

  Diego took my elbow in his hand and steered me toward the door to leave the ice. “We’re going to head out now. If the killer is a sorcerer or something else, we don’t want him to realize we’re here.”

  “No,” I said. “I want to pick him out of the crowd.”

  Diego stopped hustling me off the ice and seemed to consider for a moment. “Okay. Give it a try.”

  My knees had gone weak and nausea was threatening to overtake me, but I sent my senses out and tried to identify the person emanating the cruel vibe I felt. I couldn’t separate him from the other people in the rink. Dammit. I wanted to find this guy, but knew, here and now, it was a useless search. Frustration made my head hurt more. My stomach knotted and turned over.

  “I need to get off the ice,” I said, my voice a whisper.

  I barely managed to get my skates off and my shoes on before I ran for the lady’s and threw up.

  4

  Diego stood on my porch, the Strand and sand stretching behind him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Look,” he said, “It’s pretty stupid if you happen to know a wizard to not take advantage of it. If you picked up the killer’s vibe and he’s both strange and evil, t
here’s some chance he picked up on you, too. Let me put some protective wards on your house to keep out any bad guys.”

  My throat went dry. It hadn’t occurred to me that the killer might have singled me out in much the same way I tried to isolate him from among all the people at the rink. He could have felt me as my eyes swept over him, the same way most everybody will feel the prickle between their shoulder blades or on the back of their neck and turn around when someone is staring at them. If the killer was a sorcerer, like Diego seemed to think—

  He’d insisted on following me home to make sure I got here safely. I told him I’d already thrown up, I wasn’t going to again, and I’d get home without any problem. He’d shrugged, and then followed me all the way home anyway. My garage is one-car only and there’s nowhere to park on the alley behind my house, so he’d parked on Hermosa Avenue, walked back over, and knocked hard on my door.

  The killer had shown up twice now where I was, three times if I counted the man in the road. Maybe that was coincidence, but some protection wards had to be a good idea.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said. “Come in.”

  He followed me down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Beer?” I said.

  He shook his head. I didn’t know if he didn’t drink at all, drank but didn’t like beer, or wanted a completely clear head to set up the wards. I pulled a Corona from the fridge, popped off the top, and took a deep swallow. It felt good all the way down.

  Diego had brought in a black satchel, rather like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag. He hadn’t had time to stop anywhere, so I assumed he kept it in his car.

  “Are you smoke sensitive?” he asked, drawing from the bag a fist-sized bundle of long sage leaves tied together with a white cotton string.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said.

  My mother is a healer. I’d seen her smudge her clinic rooms at the big house with sage often enough to know that Diego was preparing to cleanse my house of any bad juju that might be hanging around me. After, he’d probably burn sweet grass to call forth peaceful energy and strength. At least, that’s the way my mother always did it.