An older man in an undershirt, creased pants, and bedroom slippers stared at our vic over Dave's shoulder and gasped. One pudgy hand flew to his mouth. He turned away to vomit.
The cold blue eyes swiveled back to me. The killer wasn't smiling now.
"I found him like this." He gestured toward the body.
His voice startled me. It was low and melodious with a 'come hither' quality that promised pleasure. I shivered. His eyes narrowed, and he ran them from my feet to my head. I was struck with the thought that he suddenly found me less appealing.
I'd studied my detective handbook. I knew what we could ask without advising the hippie of his rights—and what we couldn't. I phrased my question with care.
"You stumbled over him while shopping for the latest issue of Rolling Stone?"
"I heard someone cry out. The door was open, so I looked in."
He glanced at Dave again. Something about my partner worried him.
"What's your name?" I wanted to ask why he'd done it, understand how someone could perpetrate such cruelty on another individual. But that wasn't allowed.
One hand drifted down to point at a back pocket. "It's on my license if you want to know."
Was he trying to lure me closer? Or did he want me to feel up his ass? I wasn't looking for a lawsuit. Dave holstered his firearm and frisked the guy. He carried no weapons. Of course he didn't—the knife was still stuck in the victim's throat.
A wallet bulged in the hippie's pocket, and Dave handed it to me. The driver's license said his name was Kasker Sleeth. It listed a local address in a neighborhood of quality apartments.
He didn't look like he could afford the lifestyle. And he didn't act like a drug-crazed maniac.
"So, Kasker Sleeth, who is he?" I asked, nodding toward the vic.
His eyes darted down and lingered on the mess on the floor. It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. Every glimpse caused a tsunami in my gut.
"No idea."
"What about you, sir?" Dave asked the store owner. "Is this man a customer of yours?"
The old guy spoke over his shoulder without looking into the storeroom. "No. Not one of my regulars, anyway. I never seen the other guy before, either. I'll be out front if you need me."
He shuffled away.
"Let's get out of here," Dave said. "We're contaminating the crime scene."
Dave took a firm grip on Sleeth's arm and marched him through the front of the shop. Our suspect didn't protest, didn't resist, didn't act at all like he should in the presence of such horror. His cool demeanor gave me the creeps.
Outside, I swore I could still smell the blood despite the cool fresh air. The faint strains of country music drifted from a bar across the street, too normal for our macabre situation. We stopped by the cruiser, and Dave opened the back door.
"Get in," he ordered.
Sleeth's brows pulled down and belligerence stiffened his face. "Why? I had nothing to do with this."
"Then what were you really doing in there, Mr. Sleeth?" I asked.
"Don't talk to him. Leave it to the detectives." Dave glared at Sleeth. "In."
"Arrest me and you'll look like fools."
I stepped closer. "Why is that?"
"Nicky, call it in. I'll take care of Mr. Sleeth."
The cold eyes gazed down into mine, and he swung a hand over his body. "See any blood on my threads?"
I didn't understand how someone so cold could give off so much body heat. It was like standing next to the old coal furnace in my parents' basement. He smelled like sweat and sex and cannabis.
"Maybe you wore an overcoat."
Dave shot me an irritated look. "Nicky, leave it. Let the detectives handle him."
Sleeth's eyes slid to Dave, and something feral flashed in them. His breathing picked up, and his frame stiffened. I grabbed his bare arm. The muscles were thick and bunched.
His pulse skipped under the pressure of my fingers, and his skin burned in the cool night air. His attention returned to me, a new sharpness showing.
He leered at me. "Yeah, Nicky, leave it to the men. This is no job for a woman."
He said it as casually as if he'd commented on the weather, but he watched for my reaction like there was nothing more important in the world.
The urge to pepper him with questions squirmed in me. Who was he? Why had he done it? If I asked direct questions about his guilt without informing him of his rights first, I could blow the case. I bit my tongue.
Dave was correct. If I wanted to get off the streets and earn a detective's badge, screwing up my first investigation wasn't the way to do it. I had to follow protocol.
Maybe since Dave and I were first on the scene, the Chief of D's would let us work the case. After all, it was 1968. Why couldn't a woman become a detective?
"It's Officer Demasi to you, buddy. Now get in the car."
4
A guardian angel. That was the last thing Kasker expected. The angel seemed oblivious to Kasker's true nature. Not surprising. Goats knew the lower forms of angelic hosts leaned toward blind followers with little power.
But if the woman, Officer Demasi, was important enough to warrant a guardian as her companion, they should send some badass seraph, not dorky Dave, especially considering the power of the demon that called Solaris home. A demon Kasker was now late reporting to.
He looked out the window to where the angel's ward unfurled yellow police tape. What an interesting ward she was. Unfashionably short dark hair tucked under her hat. Long face, thin nose, piercing brown eyes, and strong hands whose touch made him burn.
Her dark blue uniform slacks had razor-sharp creases, her shirt was wrinkle free despite the heat, and her shoes were spit-polished shiny. Even her gun belt gleamed. She was perfection.
She smelled like spring sunshine and hot iron, of choices well-made and true. A neat package of female explosive ready to napalm anyone who crossed her. His little test temptation had bounced off without a hint of indecision.
What prophesy was she tangled in? The angels liked their prophesies. He didn't worry overmuch about it. Let the demonic horde concern themselves with the machinations of Heaven. That was their purpose, after all.
The hunt was his. The hunt was all that mattered, all that sated. But the presence of the angel could complicate the hunt. Hunting in flesh was forbidden.
Maintaining the uneasy peace between Heaven and Hell required strict adherence to rules of conduct. To break those rules was to restart the conflict, and Hell hadn't sufficiently stacked the deck yet. But to find the escaped damned soul, Holmes, some rules had to be bent.
He'd followed Holmes on his flight from Hell. The trail went cold once Holmes entered the realm of souls. Now Kasker was stuck in the loathsome flesh searching this goats-begotten city.
The loss of Decker's soul was little more than a blip on the radar. If it led him to Holmes, he'd welcome it. Decker was nobody special, but Holmes had performed the unthinkable when he'd escaped the confines of Hell.
To add insult to injury, Holmes had eluded recapture for three months, making Kasker look more the fool. Kasker would gladly sacrifice Decker's harvest if only he could fetch Holmes' soul back to Hell.
Kasker sat in the back of the stuffy car, irked at his confinement. He had a clue to Holmes' whereabouts at last, and instead of following it, he was detained while the trail grew cold. Perhaps that had been the point. He'd underestimated his quarry.
The annoying flesh craved a joint, after which it would crave another burger, and then a woman. How did humans cope? Masochists the lot of them, with their backward social rules that denied them everything their flesh demanded.
Two police cars and a black sedan pulled up. Uniformed officers leaped out and scurried away like picnickers from a wasp attack. A heavy-set man stepped from the sedan. He scanned the scene and barked orders. Everyone scurried faster.
Unlike the rest of the pigs, the new arrival didn't wear the dark blue uniform of the Solaris PD. His sweat-s
oaked white shirt was tucked in ill-fitting brown peggers, and his thin navy tie hung crooked. Close-cropped brown hair dusted with gray hinted at military service, maybe in the Korean War. He was too old for 'Nam.
He spent a few minutes talking to Dave in quiet tones before opening the cruiser door and sliding into the front seat. The acrid smell of his sweat filled the interior. Kasker wrinkled his nose.
"Kasker Sleeth, I'm Lieutenant Mack. I have some questions."
Kasker smiled. Time to pay back the delay they'd caused him. "Do I need a lawyer?"
The detective mirrored his smile, including the lack of warmth. He had crooked, yellow teeth and bad breath that carried through the wire separating the front and back seats of the cruiser. If he'd been laid in this decade, it was because he'd paid for it.
"At this time, we consider you to be a witness. We're asking for your help to solve the heinous crime committed in the bookstore. Nothing you say now in response to questions can be used in evidence against you. If we move on to a formal interrogation, we'll inform you of your rights, and then you can have an attorney present."
Kasker snorted. "Right. You're the Man. Whether it's legal or not, if you don't like my answers, you can beat me bloody, lock me up, and throw away the key."
Mack's face grew hard, and he crossed his arms. "Don't play smartass hippie with me. A man's dead. What were you doing in there?"
Crossed arms, a sign of a soul's repression. Kasker smirked. "Being a Good Samaritan."
"How's that? You think that man needed to be put out of his misery?"
Kasker rubbed a thumb and finger over his chin and looked contemplative. "Was he miserable? I suppose, once the knife went in."
Mack's jaw worked back and forth. "Last time. What were you doing in the bookstore?"
By now, word of Decker's demise must have reached Kasker's demonic cohort, not someone to anger. Time to cut the crap and cut out.
"Answering a plea for help. Guess I was too late."
Mack's mouth sagged open. "You telling me you heard the guy on the floor call for help?"
"I heard…"
When the woman questioned him, he'd snapped off a lie without thinking it through. Decker hadn't been dead more than a few minutes when he'd entered the shop. That serene face—the man had probably been drugged, or he would have screamed in agony, and Kasker would have heard that sweet music.
But would anything show up in Decker's blood work that could have prevented him from calling out? Best to be vague if Kasker didn't want another visit from the pigs.
"…something strange. Strangled. The door was open. So I went in to check."
Mack leaned back. "I'm not buying it. What were you doing in the alley?"
"I wasn't in the alley. I was on the street by my car. That's still legal, right?"
"And what were you doing on the street by your car at midnight?"
Kasker gave a lazy smile. "Hanging out."
"A guy like you hanging at your car like a chump when there's a bar across the street?" Mack said, a frown creasing his forehead. "Were you waiting for your supplier?"
Kasker glanced out the window. Where had the guardian angel and his ward gone? Best to keep an eye on them. They could be trouble.
"I was waiting for a chick."
"This chick have a name?"
"Alice? Amanda? We met at a party. Or maybe it was a bar. She said she'd catch me later."
In truth, he hadn't asked the pretty redhead in the skimpy halter top and mini-skirt her name when they'd hooked up earlier. They'd balled and split, her with some dude promising great weed and him on the hunt for Decker, the yammering flesh temporarily sated.
"Why on the street?" Mack asked.
"Maybe she wanted me to do her in the car before we went in the bar." Kasker pointed across the street. The flesh desired a cold beer. If the police let him go soon, he could get one before the bar closed, and then hunt for Holmes—and Decker's soul, although devouring it took a back seat to the recapture of Holmes.
Mack grimaced. "You see anyone in the alley?"
An interesting question. When had he lost the connection to Decker's soul? Before he'd parked? How long could Decker last, split open like that? No more than a minute. Only seconds after his heart was removed. But the alley was empty when Kasker arrived. Where had the killer gone?
"It was dark, man."
Mack shifted in the seat and squinted at him. "You seem pretty cool about what you saw in there."
Kasker shrugged. "Shit happens. Can I split now?"
5
"Demasi, Chief of Ds wants you in his office." The duty sergeant jerked his thumb toward the hallway door.
I flashed a smile at Dave, who labored over paperwork at the desk opposite me.
"This is it," I whispered, rising from my desk in the station squad room. "They're letting us into the investigation. We'll nail that bastard, Sleeth, and I'll be on my way to a promotion. I can't believe Mack let him go."
He sighed. "Don't hold your breath."
I seemed to float down the dingy corridor to Chief of Detectives Lenny Greene's office. Two of Lt. Mack's detectives hurried by, squeezing me against the wall without a whisper of apology. I didn't care. This was my big break.
I was no rookie. Because I was a woman, I'd languished behind a desk for my first two years on the force. During that time, I'd memorized the detective handbook. I'd run three miles every day. I'd let the sexist innuendos slide off my back and remained cool.
I'd paid my dues and hated every minute of it. I was ready to quit. Then suddenly I was on the very short list for first female patrol officer. The Solaris PD was finally being dragged kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.
I was about to rap on Greene's door, but it swung open before I connected. Lieutenant Mack stood on the other side. His eyes narrowed, and the trace of a mean smile curled his lips. I stepped back, and he brushed past without a word.
Greene's office was small and cluttered and shabby. An ashtray overflowed on the desk, and the air in the room would set off a smog alert. Pictures of Greene with famous villains he'd collared plastered the walls. Pictures with politicians—and family—were absent.
Greene sat in his battered swivel chair behind an equally battered wooden desk buried in case files. His ruddy face looked darker than usual, and he ran a hand through gray hair thinning on top. His hazel eyes squinted into mine. They weren't warm and welcoming. He didn't ask me to sit.
"What did you think you were doing questioning Sleeth? You're a beat cop, for Christ sake. You detain suspects, and you secure the scene. Period."
My face felt like a three-alarm fire. I'd made darn sure I hadn't asked anything that would jeopardize the case, and I wouldn't be told that I had by someone who wasn't there. "But, sir—"
"You're just damn lucky I talked Mack out of filing a formal complaint. If you weren't the poster child for those bra-burning women's libbers, I wouldn't have stopped him." He waved an arthritic hand in the direction Mack had gone. "Leave the detective work to the detectives."
The heat in my face migrated to my gut and my shoulders got tight. "He let the prime suspect go!"
It was a mistake. I should have defended my actions, not questioned Mack's. I was an idiot.
Greene leaned over his desk. "He's following the evidence, Officer Demasi, something detectives understand. You think a jury would convict because your feminine intuition said some hippie was guilty?"
My lungs forgot to inflate. My nerves jangled from his derogatory remarks. But I was a fighter so I opened my big mouth even though I knew better.
"I saw him. Sleeth tasted the vic's blood."
Greene's jaw tightened. "Do you know why you're a patrol officer, Demasi? Because a bunch of busybody females hired a lawyer and threatened to sue if we didn't promote 'one of their own.' Women belong at home raising a family, not chasing criminals down dark alleys. You endanger the good officers you serve with because you have neither the brawn nor the guts to
be a cop."
Greene turned his attention to the stack of files on his desk. "Now get out."
I spun on my heel and rushed from the office blinking back tears. Down the hall, I darted inside the ladies room. I gripped the edge of the sink so hard my fingers turned white. Bitter disappointment churned in my stomach.
All I'd ever wanted was to help people, to be a cop like my dad. To make him proud. But men like Lenny Greene couldn't see past my gender. He and his cronies would never let me earn a detective shield.
The door swung open and Maggie Tisdahl dashed in, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder.
"You all right, honey? I heard that brute Mack was gunning for you."
She glanced in the mirror and swept a finger over the thick makeup on her cheekbones that disguised four decades of sun damage. She still wore her civvies—a cream peasant blouse and blue jeans with green paisley insets that made the jeans flare at the bottom. The style looked ridiculous on a woman in her mid-forties.
Black and white yin and yang earrings dangled from her earlobes, and gold rings flashed on her thumbs. I'd heard she'd embraced counterculture mysticism after her husband cleaned out their checking account and ran off with a younger woman, forcing her to moonlight at a security company to pay the mortgage.
If Maggie knew about Greene's lecture, then everyone knew. I groaned inwardly and heat rose in my face. The heat stoked the fire of my frustration to a burning rage.
I'd had enough of being their submissive token female. I'd march back to the squad room, type my resignation, and slap it on the sergeant's desk. Then I'd find a job where I was valued.
Maggie put a motherly arm around my shoulders and squeezed. "It's okay, sweetie. You're the sharp end of the stick poking those macho men in the behind. They're just a bunch of fraidy-cats worried we women will replace them. You know all us girls are with you, right?"
Maggie's eyes mirrored the frustration in mine. She'd served twenty years with the Solaris PD, never giving up hope that one day she'd earn the responsibility and the pay of a patrol officer. That one day they'd appreciate her intelligence and loyalty and reward her with the job she deserved. At her age, she'd never see service on a beat.
No Place Like Hell Page 2