The next shelf held five fat ledgers. Below them, six brittle scrolls tied with black ribbons nestled. Their scent drew him like heroin drew an addict.
"Who knows about the safe?"
The demon frowned and ran a finger over his mustache. "Only my accountant. He fetches the ledgers and works on them in the office above."
"He has the combination?"
"No." Seve contemplated the safe. "But sometimes he has taken longer than necessary to retrieve a ledger."
"Fool," Kasker muttered. He climbed the ladder back to the office.
The demon followed and replaced the hatch and rug.
"Who is this accountant?" Kasker asked. "Do you have his blood?"
Seve's mouth pulled down into a grimace. "I had no need of blood. He is weak, controlled by his vices and his fear. He is called Alan Mong."
Kasker growled his displeasure. "You have his address then?"
The demon sat at the desk, retrieved pen and paper, and wrote a list, which he handed to Kasker.
"These are the names and locations of the bookies he frequents. He lives with his girlfriend. Her address is the last." Seve looked him in the eye and spoke with sarcasm. "You are the great hunter. You'll have no trouble finding him—even without blood."
"Push me, demon, and the master shall hear of your book," he answered with a toothy smile.
Seve crossed his arms over his chest and scowled but said no more. Kasker kicked the chair from his path and stalked out.
31
I'd agreed to meet Tad at a hot dog stand he'd be passing as he rushed from one campaign event to another. When I reached it, I checked my hair in the rearview mirror and tried to curb my excitement.
I decided to skip eating despite the heavenly aroma coming off the grill at Dad's Dogs. I didn't want my uniform stained with mustard. I got a cold bottle of Coke and sipped it while I waited.
Tad arrived fifteen minutes late. He pulled into a loading zone across the street and limped over to me. A tingle electrified my skin. I couldn't wait to tell him what I'd found.
Tad gave me a lackluster greeting and bought a chili dog despite the baking heat building around us and the danger of spilling on his tie, which was loosened and askew. My excitement ebbed a notch.
We sat under a tatty umbrella at an outdoor table that hadn't been washed since Eisenhower was president. Flighty sparrows vied with fat, aggressive crows to grab stray crumbs dropped on the concrete.
"Did you interview Susie Brown?" Tad asked.
"Haven't had time." I didn't see the need, either. With the map in our possession, we'd stake out the other ley line intersections and catch Sleeth red-handed.
"They were drugged. At least Decker was, according to Chief Greene," Tad said. He stared at his chili dog, picked it up, set it down unbitten. "This can't go on. The Slasher has to be stopped."
"We'll nail him." I spread the map on the table. "Sleeth won't make mugs of us again."
"How can you still think he's doing this when you're his alibi for the Haskell murder?" Tad clenched a fist, and his voice flowed with frustration. "Doesn't anyone get it?"
I didn't want to argue about it. I knew Sleeth had arranged an alibi for himself. He was involved up to his cold blue eyes.
"I found out why he chose the bookstore. It's on a ley line intersection."
Tad gave me a blank look. I pointed to the lines on the map and repeated what Amanda had told me. "So either Sleeth really believes this mystic mumbo jumbo, or he and Calderon are trying to throw the police off by making mob hits look like ritual killings."
Tad went still. "You think Calderon had something to do with the deaths?"
I was surprised Tad hadn't heard about Sleeth's connection to the mobster and wondered whether I'd given away information I shouldn't have. Did the Solaris PD think Calderon had ears in the mayor's office?
"If it's a crime in Solaris, odds are Calderon is involved," I said by way of cover for my faux pas.
I could almost hear the wheels go round in Tad's head. He pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a migraine coming on.
"What about the men you saw outside the hotel?" he asked with an urgency he hadn't displayed before.
I pulled photos of the heavies from my pocket and laid them on the map. "Harold Warner and Jake Bronski. Warner was in the service, but he was dishonorably discharged. Do they look familiar?"
Tad studied both photos for a minute or more, frown lines appearing on his brow.
"Tad Newell wouldn't run from a fight. Why run from these guys? I wish I could remember," he muttered. His worried eyes met mine. "Do they work for Calderon, too?"
"If they do, it isn't in their files." I wondered why he'd think the penny-ante hoods were Calderon's men. He seemed unusually interested in the mobster.
Seeing the concern I'd caused, I wanted to reassure him. "They're small potatoes, and you were in a very public location. It's probably just a coincidence that they were at the accident scene."
He didn't look reassured. "I'll keep an eye out for them. Maybe you could follow up? Find out why they were there? They may be more of a threat than I initially thought."
I studied the well-bitten nails at the ends of my fingers where they rested on the table. Now that I had the map, I wanted to focus on the Slasher case, not waste my time on petty crooks who chased Tad in my imagination.
"If I see them around, I'll ask."
Tad stood and dumped his untouched hot dog in a nearby bin. I rose, too. He took my left hand in both of his.
"You've made great progress, Nicky, but you need to talk to Decker's secretary. If you're going to find the Slasher, you need her help."
Tad grabbed my upper arms and bussed me on the cheek. I stiffened. He didn't notice because he was looking at his watch.
"I have to go," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow. You can tell me what you learn from Susie Brown."
With that, he limped away to his car.
I frowned after him. Interviewing Brown was indefensible—and it might not lead to putting Sleeth behind bars. Dave was right. I needed to focus on advancing my career through actions that I could justify.
I drove to the station in search of Lt. Mack. The duty sergeant informed me that Mack and Greene were at city hall personally updating the mayor. I paced the squad room.
When they returned, a hush fell over the station. Mack's face looked carved in stone. Greene was a walking heart attack. Suddenly everyone had somewhere important to go. The place emptied in minutes.
I screwed up my courage and followed Mack to his office. He stood behind an orderly desk in a room cramped by half a dozen file cabinets and a lone visitor's chair. No photos or framed commendations marred the vacant walls, although word was he'd received numerous awards.
"What do you want, Demasi?"
I stood at ease, map in the hands I kept behind my back. "I know where Sleeth will strike next."
He squinted hard at me. "How's that?"
"Given the ritualistic nature of the murders, I asked around in the spiritual community—"
"You mean those occult nut jobs?" Mack cut in. His fingertips drummed on the desktop.
"Yes, sir. Given the unusual nature of the crimes, I thought those 'occult nut jobs' might explain the choice of locations." I brought the map out with a flourish and opened it on his desk. "It has to do with their belief in mystical power lines that connect places of old power. Intersections—the places the lines cross—"
"I know what 'intersections' means, officer. Get on with it."
My face heated. "As you can see, there's an intersection at the bookstore, and another where Haskell died. If we stake out the other intersections around Solaris, we can catch Sleeth in the act. Sir."
Mack placed both hands on the desk and leaned on them while he studied the map. I held my breath.
"What the hell is this?"
Chief Greene's voice boomed behind me.
I jerked around, face burning hotter. "I was just—"
"Officer Demasi has some ideas about where the Slasher may strike next," Mack said, his voice level and cold. He tapped the map. "She thinks we should stake out the intersections of the red lines, all thirty-three of them."
Greene crossed to the desk and looked at the map. His mottled skin darkened. "Don't you have anything better to do with your time, lieutenant?"
"And you, Officer Demasi." Greene snatched the map from the desk and slapped it against my chest. "Your shift's starting. Get out there and do the job you're paid for."
32
Kasker drove to the ratty apartment complex where Alan Mong lived with his girlfriend. After running up four flights of stairs to find the right unit, he didn't bother to knock. No souls were inside. He walked down the four flights, cussing and swearing.
He shifted his attention to the first of the bookmakers.
The address Seve had scrawled took him to Ernie's, a dumpy corner bar slumped in a neighborhood of decay. Lighted beer advertisements hung behind fly-blown windows. The door dragged on the concrete as Kasker wrenched it open. Soulful Strut played on the jukebox.
The interior reeked of cigarette smoke and grease. Kasker's stomach growled in protest. His mouth was so dry that his lips stuck to his teeth. He couldn't resist the kitchen's siren call.
Kasker grabbed a stool at the bar. A brawny middle-aged Negro sporting a huge Afro stood behind the bar and polished its surface. When he'd finished his cleaning, he walked Kasker's direction.
"Give me a beer," Kasker ordered the barman.
The barman ignored him and walked down the bar to remove the empty glass sitting before a grizzled old drunk who swayed on his stool. Kasker gritted his teeth, opened his wallet, and laid a twenty on the bar.
The barman hoisted a rubber tub of dirty glasses and marched by, headed for the kitchen.
"Give me a beer," Kasker said louder than before. "And a burger."
The barman disappeared around the corner without so much as glancing Kasker's direction.
Kasker shifted on his stool and looked around to see if anyone had noticed the barman's snub.
No more than a dozen patrons occupied the seedy joint, all of them Negroes. All of them had eyes on Kasker.
A group of three hard-looking men lounged by the pool table, their cue sticks rapping against the palms of their hands. They muttered among themselves and nodded Kasker's direction. One made a quiet comment. The other two enjoyed a nasty laugh.
The drunk down the bar returned Kasker's stare, slipped off his stool, and shambled out.
In a dark back corner, four souls watched. They were the real predators. Kasker could tell by their stillness.
The one in the middle had skin so dark he faded into the black upholstery of the booth. Only the glint off his sweating face gave him away. The other three glanced at this man every few seconds, waiting for his command.
The barman returned and swaggered along the bar carrying a tub of clean glasses. As he passed, Kasker leaned forward, snaked out a hand, and grabbed the man's forearm.
"Beer," Kasker said, looking the man hard in the eyes.
The barman turned a haughty look on Kasker. "That'll be ten dollars."
Kasker bristled, but he was desperate. He tapped the twenty.
The barman slid the tub under the bar, fished out a bottle of beer, and plunked it down unopened before Kasker. He snatched the twenty and walked away. He brought Kasker's change and slapped it down on the counter.
"And a burger," Kasker said.
"Kitchen's closed." He swaggered away.
Kasker twisted the top from the bottle and drank half in one go.
The front door opened, and a new patron entered, another Negro. He took a booth near the corner where the bookie held court.
Kasker swigged down the remainder of the beer and turned toward the corner. All eyes followed him as he ambled to the booth. The three thugs slid out and stood like an ebony wall between him and their boss. One had a hand in a baggy pocket, another a hand behind his back.
It would take no more than a moment to abandon the flesh and devour their souls. They would taste so sweet and probably deserved a place in Hell.
If he did, there would be consequences—dire consequences.
"You a little off yo' turf, whitie," the leader said with a sneer. His dark eyes shot daggers.
Consequences, Kasker reminded himself, wanting more than ever to slip the flesh and teach the soul respect. Despite his restraint, his mouth watered.
"Seve Calderon sent me," Kasker replied, hiding his distaste at being thought to be the demon's errand boy. "You see Alan Mong tonight?"
Invoking the demon's name caused a weakening in the ebony wall. Looks of uncertainty turned on the leader. For his part, their boss sat straighter and lost the sneer.
"Knowin' that suppose'ta make me jump to?"
"Never hurts to have a man like Calderon in your debt," Kasker said, pushing his will at the man, "for example, if you were having a problem with your competition."
The boss's face turned thoughtful. "What's he want with Mong?"
"A job," Kasker lied.
"Good. That cat owes me money. He ain't been in today though. You try his girlfriend?"
It was Kasker's turn to sneer. "Where else does he hang out?"
The bookmaker stiffened. "Don't know, man."
Displeasure rumbled in Kasker's chest. Or perhaps it was only gas from the beer. He stalked out.
Kasker strode to his car and fervently wished he had Mong's blood. All this talking with untrustworthy souls was an inefficient way to hunt. He longed for an exciting chase—one that ended in a tasty meal.
He was glad to see no one had stolen his hubcaps while he'd been inside. As he unlocked the driver's door, two men approached. He recognized one as the new customer who sat near the bookmaker. His companion—a Caucasian—stood out in this neighborhood like nipples on a cold female.
"Hey, bro, wait up," the Negro called.
Kasker tensed. He closed his fist around his keys, keeping one jutting between his fingers, and squared his shoulders. The hackles on his neck bristled.
"I heard you was lookin' for Mong," the Negro said. He was a big man, well-muscled in the upper body, but the beginnings of a beer gut overhung his belt. Dark eyes watched Kasker from an acne-scarred face.
"You know where he is?" Kasker asked.
"What's it worth to you?" the white guy replied. He stood next to his companion, chest puffed out, muscles taut, but the smell of fear rolled off him.
The Negro elbowed his mate hard and gave him an angry look.
"What?" the white guy protested. "We ought to get something for our trouble."
Kasker sauntered around the Mustang's nose and joined the men on the sidewalk. They took an unconscious step back. He drew out his wallet and removed a twenty.
"If you lie to me, I'll come for you," he said looking the white man in the eyes.
The white guy shrank away.
"Hey," the Negro said, "we ain't stupid. We wouldn't lie to Mr. Calderon."
Kasker raised the twenty, holding it near his chest so they were forced to move closer. The Negro reached for the bill but stopped when Kasker lifted his eyebrows.
"He's at a warehouse on Frasier, where it intersects Pomona. They hold dog fights there. On fight nights, Mong keeps the book." He checked his fancy gold wrist watch. "Fights will be over now, but Mong stays late counting the take."
33
My muscles were as taut as high-tension wires. I hadn't shown Dave the map, hadn't told him about my meeting with Mack. It was all I could do to be civil.
We drove through a neighborhood where neither whites nor cops were welcome. Dave insisted we look for the thugs I'd identified. I thought it was a waste of time. We'd tried Jake Bronski's last known address. He'd moved out months ago—without notifying his parole officer.
We were cruising toward Harold Warner's place when I saw the maroon Mustang. Sleeth stood on the sidewalk talking to Warner an
d Bronski. I slammed on the brakes, veered to the curb, and doused our lights.
"It's Sleeth," I said choking on his name, "talking to the guys who chased Tad."
Dave recovered from my abrupt stop and looked where I pointed. His forehead wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth pulled down. He glanced at me and let out an exasperated sigh.
Warner took something that looked like cash from Sleeth's hand and stuffed it in his pocket. I leaned closer over the wheel and held my breath. My skin crackled with excitement.
Warner and Bronski were Sleeth's accomplices. And we'd just witnessed a payoff. We'd just scored a big win against the bad guys.
Sleeth rounded his car and got in. The two thugs traded looks and stepped back against the building. Their body language shouted triumph.
"Did you see it?" I squeaked. "I told you he had accomplices, and there they are. That was probably their payoff for the Haskell murder. Or maybe it's down payment for kidnapping Sleeth's next victim."
"He could have been repaying a loan," Dave said, his voice flat.
"Bull. Did you see how he was holding the money? He was waiting for something, and he got it."
Sleeth pulled away. Should we stay and question Warner and Bronski? Or should we follow Sleeth? Sleeth was the mastermind, and the one we had hard evidence on.
I shifted into gear, checked my rearview mirror, and pulled out. I cruised by Warner and Bronski. They gave us the eyeball before hurrying away.
"You can't go after him!" Dave said. "Greene will skin you alive. Pull over and we'll question those two."
"We've been had. I think Sleeth paid those guys to kill Haskell while he had us chasing his tail."
I crawled along waiting for Sleeth to get two blocks ahead, and then I followed his retreating lights.
Dave slapped a hand on his forehead. "Based on what evidence? We should question Warner and Bronski about why they were following Newell and tell Mack about their meeting with Sleeth. He can follow up, and we'll stay out of trouble."
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