Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  She looked down her nose at him. “Cut the good-cop crap, Grant, I think we’re past the formalities. I’m not crazy.”

  “Mrs. Erickson has a solid alibi.”

  “I don’t care if she was at a dinner with the governor, president, and pope! She killed him as sure as I graduated summa cum laude from USC. She doesn’t have to actually be there to kill him, right? She could have poisoned him, or hired someone, or—”

  Grant cut her off, “I just came from the autopsy.” He had a hundred things to do and the day was nearly over. And while he’d certainly go over Erickson’s case again, he had nothing that pointed to Pamela Erickson as a killer. “There are no physical signs of foul play. We should know more after the weekend. If he was poisoned, we’ll know from the bloodwork. Full panel.”

  She dismissed his comments with a regal wave of her unadorned hand. “You don’t get it, Grant. She doesn’t need to poison him. She’s a witch.”

  Grant rubbed his temple. “Nina, it’s been a long day and I just came from the morgue. Pamela Erickson has an alibi, and I have her on security camera, not just a witness. Jeff and I have talked to half a dozen people who confirmed that the Ericksons had an open marriage. I haven’t talked to everyone on the list, but by Monday I don’t expect to learn anything different. You were having an affair with him, I can understand why you’re upset, but there were signs he was with a different woman last night.”

  She slammed her hand on the table. “He wasn’t!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Were you with George last night?”

  She stared at him, obviously stunned. “What?” She shook her head. “Grant Nelson, I swear—”

  “I’m a cop, Nina. You just admitted to an affair with a married man and are accusing his wife of murder. We know he was with someone last night, someone who walked out while he was dead or dying. Was that you?”

  She stifled a sob. “No.”

  “I assume you have an alibi,” he said softly.

  “I was in Sacramento for the last two days. County business. My flight came into Burbank at eleven-thirty this morning. I heard about George on the noon news as I was driving to the office.”

  Pretty damn solid, Grant thought, even though he hadn’t believed for a second that Nina had killed Erickson. “Nina, if he cheated on his wife with you, he could have cheated on you with someone else. Believe me, I know what I speak about. I wasn’t faithful to my ex-wife, or my mistress.”

  Nina leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped on the table, her knuckles white with the pressure. She spoke slowly as if he were a child. “Grant. George’s marriage was only open on one side.”

  Grant frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “George let Pam fool around because that’s what Pam wanted. I swear, he was under a spell when he married her. I’ve known George for years, since I interned in his offices while I was in law school. We were friends for a long time—he’s ten years older, I never thought we’d get involved—but about a year ago I ran into him at a political fund-raiser. He was upset. He explained their arrangement and how he didn’t know why he’d ever agreed to it, because it wasn’t how he was raised. He said he loved Pam … but when he said it, somehow he didn’t mean it. I think he knew he didn’t mean it.

  “We started talking, and I was going to help him divorce her. One thing led to another and we fell in love. It was an affair of the heart long before it became sexual. Pam found out and had a meltdown. George was not allowed to cheat on her, but she could screw any number of men. That’s when I hired the private investigator.”

  She reached below the table into her briefcase and pulled out a half-inch manila folder. “He found some very interesting things about Pamela Levin Erickson.”

  The folder was standard P.I. issue. Photographs of the subject, timed and dated notes, detailed observations. He flipped through the folder more to humor Nina than because he expected to find anything. He stopped when he came to a photo of an orgy. Two women and one man who couldn’t be identified in the picture, his face blocked by one of the women. Pam Erickson was naked and very much an active participant.

  “Interesting, hmm?” Nina said.

  “This doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Turn to the next one.”

  This picture was of the same scene but a wider shot. The three participants were in the middle of some sort of odd circle with candles surrounding them. Several partially clothed women were observing the orgy.

  Grant recognized Wendy Donovan, the manager of Velocity. She stood inside the circle wearing a sheer gown, watching. She held something in her hands, but Grant couldn’t tell what it was. It seemed to reflect the light of the candles.

  He swallowed uneasily, then cleared his throat.

  “She’s a witch,” Nina said.

  He straightened. “You mean a witch? I thought you meant something else.”

  “I generally mean what I say, Grant. She’s a witch. A real witch. I know it’s hard to believe, and if I hadn’t seen these pictures and followed up with my own research I’d never have paid the P.I. I hired, Carson Felix.”

  “Felix?” Carson Felix had been one of the most respected private investigators in the city. The city had often hired him for contract work, and he’d often been retained by the rich and famous. He’d investigated everything from cheating spouses to kidnappings to embezzlement.

  And he was dead.

  “Well, you know what happened to him,” Nina said.

  “He committed suicide two months ago.”

  “Bullshit. He supposedly committed suicide—”

  “There were multiple witnesses. He’d been acting depressed for weeks and left his office desolate. A dozen people saw him take a nosedive off the San Pedro Bridge.”

  “He was driven to do it. I don’t know how she did it, but Pam had to have found out he’d taken pictures of their sick rituals.”

  “It might not be our thing, but—”

  “Don’t feed me a line about privacy in the bedroom. I was having an affair with a married man, I’m no saint, but dammit, it wasn’t just the orgies. Even Felix was scared. He gave me that report and said he was through, that they were evil. Felix, who helped you guys with some badass killers and never batted an eye? Calling a group of naked women evil? Quitting an assignment? Felix was freaked out. There’s something going on!”

  “I’ll look into it,” he said. He hadn’t planned on following up on anything Nina said, but that there was yet another connection to Velocity disturbed him.

  “Be careful, Grant. These people are crazy, but they’re smart. And they obviously know how to get people to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do.”

  “Nina, why aren’t you worried about your own safety?”

  “Because Pam didn’t know who George was sleeping with, just that he was having an affair. We were extremely discreet.”

  “And she couldn’t have hired a P.I.?”

  “If she knew who I was, there’s no doubt I’d be dead, too. Unless—” She hesitated.

  “Unless what? I’m losing my patience.”

  “Read Felix’s file. He suggests that Pam belongs to a female coven of witches. Maybe they have some sort of principle that they don’t go after other women.”

  “Coven,” he said flatly.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m a crazy scorned woman. I didn’t believe any of this crap for a long time. I have my guard up; make sure you do, too.”

  Grant didn’t know what to believe. He wouldn’t have even considered any of it, except Nina was someone he knew and respected. After she left, he took Carson Felix’s file to Jeff’s desk, where his partner was updating reports.

  “I don’t know if Nina is smoking crack or onto something,” Grant said, “but even if her theory is wrong, Pamela Erickson needs to stay on our list.” He handed Jeff the file. “Do not let this out of your sight. I want every person in that file identified. Name, last known address, place of employment, criminal records. And, verify Nina’s alib
i. I doubt she’s lying, but we have to check.”

  Grant retrieved the one clear picture of Wendy Donovan, Velocity’s manager, and put it in his own file folder. In this case, it would be better to just ask. In person.

  Skye sat on a bench one hundred feet outside the main doors leading to the morgue. It reeked of cigarettes, the ashtray overflowing. But it was the only place to sit outside.

  She didn’t want to sit, so she stood and paced.

  She missed Anthony so much it hurt. Especially now. Somehow, when he was at her side, she felt as if she could do anything. That with all the crap hitting the fan, they’d make it through. Without him, she saw the mess she called her life. The lies and deception to her staff. The manipulation. Breaking the law. Her career was in jeopardy, and with it her reputation and very likely her freedom.

  “Skye, what’s wrong?”

  She hadn’t heard Rod Fielding approach. Rod had heard all this before; he was one of the few people she could confide in because he was one of only two members of her staff who knew exactly what was going on. She didn’t want to dump on him again. Instead, she asked, “What’d you learn?”

  “Don Takasugi, the supervising pathologist, knows his stuff. I’ve left the two brains with him and he’s going to dissect them himself. He normally has a neuroscientist come in, but he’s personally curious.”

  “Rod, I don’t have to tell you that—”

  He put his hand up. “I understand that we could be run out as laughingstocks, lose our jobs and pensions if we talk about what really happened to those victims, but we might not have a choice. The micro exam on Rucker showed an enlarged amygdala—the memory and emotional center of the brain. The cerebral cortex is extremely complicated, but if this is how the demon”—he whispered the word—“is affecting people I might be able to come up with an antidote, or at least a way to slow the growth of the affected cells. But I can’t do it on my own. I don’t have the skills.”

  “And just who would you bring in?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I was hoping Anthony might know someone.”

  “He just boarded his connecting flight out of New York. I’ll talk to him when he lands.”

  “Learn anything at the autopsy? Want me to go back in and talk to Takasugi?” Rod asked.

  “There’s nothing we don’t already know.”

  Her phone rang—Assistant Sheriff Hank Santos.

  “McPherson,” she answered.

  “That bastard Truxel,” he said, his voice low. “He just let Elizabeth Ellis out of jail.”

  Elizabeth Ellis was Lily’s mother, and had been a willing participant in a violent ritual that nearly cost Lily her life. The D.A. had been a thorn in her side from the beginning of this mess, which started with Rafe’s coma following the murder-suicide at the mission. “What?”

  “He dropped all charges against her.”

  “He can’t do that! Lily’s pressing charges.”

  “He said she wasn’t a credible witness.”

  “But my statement—”

  “Hearsay.”

  There was no use drilling Hank. There was nothing he could do about the situation, and nothing Skye could do from L.A.

  But a free Elizabeth Ellis put Lily at risk. “Take Lily to my house. I’ll be back tonight and take responsibility for her protection.”

  “Do you really think that Mrs. Ellis is going to hurt her own daughter?”

  Skye didn’t know—but Rafe had been adamant that Lily was still in danger. “I can’t risk it. I’ll keep her this weekend, and hopefully by Monday Anthony will be back from Italy and we’ll come up with a better solution. Keep a close eye on her.”

  “I will.”

  Rod shook his head, stunned. “That idiot Truxel let Ellis out of jail?” he asked when Skye hung up.

  “We have to go back. I can’t believe this!” That the D.A. didn’t take the sworn statement of the sheriff as cause enough was a huge problem. The press was going to have a field day. And how could she protect Lily, Anthony, and her staff? Everything was spiraling out of control.

  “Where did Cooper and Moira go?”

  “To that nightclub, Velocity.”

  Skye didn’t want to leave them in Los Angeles, but she didn’t see how she had a choice. She felt torn and hopeless. “I hope Rafe and Moira find something at the club; otherwise we’re at a dead end, and I need to get back to Santa Louisa right away.”

  TEN

  The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

  —WILLIAM FAULKNER

  Velocity spanned half a block, from the corner to a narrow alley wide enough for one car. Opaque black glass, embedded with blue and green neon lighting that flowed in a minimalist version of ocean waves framed the exterior on two sides. It had the simple, understated elegance only achieved with a lot of money.

  “You’re quiet,” Rafe said.

  Moira didn’t address his unspoken question. She’d pushed their argument in the garage aside; she had to focus on her other senses, not the feelings between her and Rafe.

  “I’ll bet they charge twenty bucks a drink,” Moira muttered. “And they probably don’t have Guinness on tap.”

  “It doesn’t look open.”

  Moira pulled out her phone and looked Velocity up. “Friday night, open from five until two. It’s only three. I don’t really want to hang around for the next couple hours.”

  A woman walked out of the building, an oversized tote over her shoulder. She wore impossibly tall heels, but when she reached the corner, she slipped them off and put on Vans.

  “So we know people are inside,” Rafe said.

  “I can pretend I’m interviewing for a job.”

  “I doubt they interview right before opening.”

  “I can pretend I’m a health inspector.”

  He just stared at her and shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about this. The demon can go anywhere it wants, right?”

  “Pretty much, though they’re probably looking for easy marks.”

  “So why here?”

  She thought about it. “You’re right, you’d think the demon would want to spread its warm fuzzies. Why stay in one club? There’re probably a hundred of these places that appeal to the raging-hormone crowd.” Moira straightened. “Maybe—” She hesitated.

  “What?”

  “As far as we know, no one in Fiona’s coven was affected by the demons. Yet we know they were in contact with Envy’s victims.”

  Rafe nodded. “The demons could be connected to them in some way. Following them around.”

  “If Fiona figures this out, she’ll have a way to bring the Seven back together by reuniting her coven.”

  “Not if we trap them first.”

  She glanced over at the nightclub. “Maybe Fiona is here.”

  “Moira—”

  “I’m not planning anything stupid, Rafe. I just want to be prepared.” She switched subjects, because Rafe seemed to understand too much about what she was thinking. She didn’t want to lie to him about what she had planned when she found her mother. “Let’s check out the alley. Maybe I’ll sense a spell at work. Maybe that frat boy had a curse on him.”

  “You think you can sense the magic even after two days?”

  “Possibly. After being so close to Envy, I think I can pick up on residual energy, over and beyond the foul stench the demons leave behind.”

  “Their scent doesn’t last long.”

  “Probably not two days.”

  They walked past the building toward the alleyway that ran parallel and several blocks south of Wilshire Boulevard. Moira relaxed, focused on the energy in the area. But Rafe’s close presence distracted her. She felt his emotions, and they were all directed toward her, even as he looked down the alley and assessed the area. His feelings were clogging her senses.

  “Rafe, I need to go down there alone. You’re messing with my head.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She smiled, widely,
hoping to alleviate Rafe’s worries. No luck, he still looked concerned.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  Moira walked slowly down the alley. It went all the way through to the street on the other side, but was narrow and didn’t look as if it was used for much of anything but servicing four dumpsters. A few unmarked doors on both sides of the alley suggested emergency or employee entrances.

  Craig Monroe had been found with his pants around his ankles, with no outward sign of homicide. Had there been no demon’s mark on the college kid’s back, Moira wouldn’t even be here. It would have been a human crime, not a supernatural murder.

  What drew the demon to Velocity? What made it stay? Why had it not spread the deadly rages of unrestrained lust far and wide? Perhaps it wasn’t as easy as simple contact. Moira realized there were far more complexities to these demons than any of them understood. What needed to happen before the demons affected someone? It had been more than two weeks since the Seven Deadly Sins had been released. Had the demon Lust been in Los Angeles since the beginning, or arrived more recently? Envy had managed to destroy many lives and families in two short days; why was Lust taking so much longer?

  Moira moved farther down the alley. Though direct sunlight was nonexistent between the buildings and the stench of days-old garbage uncomfortably filled her olfactory senses, she’d nevertheless much rather be here than in the morgue watching some dead guy get cut open.

  While the signs of police activity were gone—and there were no convenient chalk outlines like in the movies—Moira knew exactly where the body had been found. In the center of the alley between two dumpsters was a surprisingly clean square of stained cement. It had probably been picked clean by cops collecting evidence.

  She leaned over, noting a faint stain on the gray brick wall, at approximately the height where a sitting body would rest. Her heart quickened when she considered it might be washed blood, but that was impossible. Craig Monroe hadn’t had a scratch on him.

  Moira touched the wall. A wave of pain spiked down her nerve endings and sent her jumping back several feet.