No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

  Kasker started. She knew about the contracts?

  "Is Holmes attempting to take over Calderon's turf? Is that why he killed Decker? Decker had business dealings with Calderon?" she asked.

  His shoulders relaxed. She was thinking in the context of mob wars, not damned souls. He'd encourage her false assumptions.

  "Possibly," Kasker said.

  "But why the ritual killings? Is it a scare tactic?"

  Kasker shrugged.

  "You don't know any more than I do," she muttered. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "Is there anyone besides Warner and Bronski who might know where Holmes is—and who isn't already dead?"

  Kasker shifted in the seat and wiped a hand across his damp neck.

  "There is someone."

  39

  Who was Sleeth working for? What kind of 'contract' had Holmes broken with Sleeth's boss? Why did Holmes slice and dice his victims? If he was killing people to send a message to Calderon, what was the message? Why was Robert Haskell a victim?

  Sleeth adamantly refused to give me answers despite my continued badgering. Asking the questions kept my mind off Dave.

  Sleeth wiggled in the seat like a little kid frantic for a visit to the restroom. His head swiveled constantly, and he seemed incredibly interested in the weather overhead even though it was the same clear blue sky every time he checked. The guy was wacko.

  We stopped at a burger joint while we killed time until we could visit his mysterious source. I had no appetite. Sleeth downed two burgers and a mountain of fries. To my embarrassment, he leered at the carhop.

  "What did you see when you ran out of the warehouse?" I asked.

  Sleeth made sucking noises as he drained his cup. "The flash of a white vehicle turning the corner."

  "Make? Model?"

  "Couldn't tell."

  Another white mystery vehicle. I didn't see how Merkel's death could be connected to the Slasher killings. Had to be coincidence. Lots of white cars in California.

  "What about the trap? How was it done?"

  The hippie shrugged.

  "Why didn't you go to the office in search of Mong?"

  He squirmed in his seat, and I was pretty sure a lie was coming.

  "I thought I heard someone at the back of the warehouse."

  Yep, another lie. I jingled the keys where they dangled in the ignition and thought about ways to torture Sleeth until he told the truth.

  When it got to be nine, he directed me to a little shop just north of downtown, Hawaiian Mike's Meditation Center. In my time on the force, I'd never heard of it. It didn't look like the establishment of a well-connected mob source.

  "He's a powerful man. He hears things, knows things," Sleeth assured me, worry in his voice. "Be careful what you say."

  Sleeth was slow getting out of the car. He trailed me to the door, casting suspicious glances both directions of the street. His caution put me on edge.

  A heavy-set Hawaiian wearing a billowing t-shirt emblazoned with a screen-print of a surfer riding a curling wave stood behind the counter. His attention went to Sleeth first, and when it did, the hippie stopped dead.

  "I see you found her," the Hawaiian said with a jocular smile.

  I glanced at Sleeth, puzzled by the comment. He stared, first at the shopkeeper, and then at me, his eyes going round and his lips parting.

  The shopkeeper chuckled and addressed me. "Solaris has a leash law. Maybe you wanna get him a collar and license."

  He must have me mistaken for someone else. I didn't know him, and I didn't own a dog.

  I examined the merchandise. It was typical occult junk: brass bells, incense burners, and crystals. I didn't see any obvious drug paraphernalia.

  "I'm Officer Demasi," I said, advancing to the counter. "Solaris Police Department."

  "Are you?" He asked. "Cause that's not what your aura says."

  Definitely one of those spiritual nut jobs, the kind who communed with aliens on a different astral plane. Or maybe I had a blazing 'Liar' sign shining over my head.

  "Sleeth says you might have information about a man we're seeking."

  The big Hawaiian's eyes flicked to Sleeth. "Didn't tell her what she's looking for, huh? Won't matter. It'll find you."

  To me he said, "Better keep him on a short leash. Friday's coming fast."

  "What's so important about Friday?" I asked, struggling to keep frustration out of my voice.

  "Didn't he tell you?" The shopkeeper waved a hand at Sleeth, and Sleeth flinched. "It's the solstice, a time of change. If you're planning big changes, best do it when the energy of the universe is behind you."

  The shopkeeper pulled a bag of colorful hard candies from under the counter and poured them into a glass candy jar on the counter. I glared at him and considered walking out. He offered me a candy.

  "You don't believe?" he asked with a glint in his eyes. "Wot, you aren't a good Catholic girl?"

  "No," I said, heat in my words, and then I wondered why I'd answered. I didn't discuss my religious beliefs—or lack of them—with anyone.

  "No Heaven or Hell? No angels or demons?" he asked, but this time, he looked at Sleeth.

  Sleeth backpedaled another three steps towards the door. His face paled under his honeyed tan.

  "Belief is power," the shopkeeper said.

  I snorted.

  "When you believe in something you give your power to that thing. Stop believing and you take your power back. You want to be strong, the best place to put your belief is in yourself. Then you can do anything."

  "That's a bunch of cosmic hooey," I said.

  The Hawaiian raised his eyebrows in surprise. Or maybe it was amusement. "Here, I'll show you."

  He stared at Sleeth, his brows lowered, his face serious. His voice took on a deep timbre that seemed to fill the entire room without being loud. "I don't believe in you."

  Sleeth staggered back. His eyelids fluttered. His countenance looked dead, like it had when I'd found him in his car behind the apartment complex.

  "Stop it!" I said.

  I rushed to Sleeth and gripped his arm to prevent him from falling. His normally hot skin felt cold and dry under my fingers. My touch steadied him.

  "Run," Sleeth whispered, fear painting his eyes and his breaths coming fast.

  "Buck up," I said. "He's messing with you."

  I turned Sleeth loose and marched back to the counter.

  "Go ahead, you try," said the shopkeeper.

  "No! Just because he's gullible and believes in superstitious claptrap doesn't mean you should torture him. You should be ashamed of yourself."

  The shopkeeper hung his head, and his lips curled up in a bashful smile. "Okay, okay. I'll play nice with the puppy—and you remember the lesson."

  My patience fizzled out. "Do you know anything about the Slasher?"

  The Hawaiian rubbed his jaw with a thumb and forefinger and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "One, two, three, four, five. Yeah, five points on a star. He's got two. He'll be in a hurry to get the other three. Friday's almost here."

  I turned to Sleeth to see if any of this garbled rant meant anything to him. He clutched a display rack like his life depended on it. Sweat rolled down his face even though the store was comfortably cool.

  Useless, the pair of them. It looked like I'd be on my own to find Dave's killer.

  40

  Kasker slumped in the Corvair seat and cast a slant-eyed look at the ward. Goats! She'd shown no fear of the Oracle. In fact, the Oracle implied she had the ability to wish Kasker out of existence, too. Despite the boiling heat in the car, he shivered.

  The ward thrust her key in the ignition, wrenched it over, and started the car. She stared out the windshield.

  "Back to square one," she muttered.

  Kasker wanted to jump from the car and run as fast as he could. He was a simple hunter. He had no business in the company of creatures as powerful as the Oracle or Officer Demasi. No wonder she survived the trap while the angel perishe
d.

  Could she read minds, too? The thought sent a chill racing up his spine.

  The Friday solstice had importance. Why else would the Oracle harp on it? Seve said the book gave Holmes the power to destroy Heaven and Hell. Was that the big change the Oracle hinted at?

  One thing was clear: the ward was meant to be his companion during whatever danger lay ahead. But would she be his savior or his destroyer?

  "We should investigate Mong, see who hired him to steal Seve's information," Kasker suggested.

  "Decker first," the ward replied. "That's where everything started."

  Goosebumps raised on Kasker's flesh. "I've done that already. It's a dead end. Mong's a better choice."

  "We'll pay a visit to Susan Brown."

  Kasker's breath stuck in his throat. Hot panic flooded his brain with a buzz that prevented thought. He had to do something to divert her. He dug the address for Decker's companion from his jeans.

  "If Decker knew Holmes by his new identity, he may have told this woman something."

  The ward snatched the paper from his hand. She frowned at it, turned it upside down, turned it back.

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "A reliable source," he said. Perhaps she couldn't read minds.

  "We'll see this Laverne Fritcher right after we pay a visit to Susan Brown."

  "Susie Brown won't help us," he said in a rush.

  The ward gave him a cool look. "Maybe if you'd spent more time talking instead of… Well, I want to hear what she has to say."

  His heart thumped in his chest. How did she know he'd met Susie? She'd find the body, call her pig buddies, and they'd lock him up—again. Flight was the only option. He reached for the door handle.

  Too late. The ward pulled into traffic. Kasker licked his lips. His gut full of burgers and fries threatened to empty itself on the floorboards.

  Seve couldn't procure new flesh for him on such short notice. He'd be rotting in jail while Holmes destroyed Heaven and Hell. The ward had to be stopped.

  "It's a long, unnecessary drive to Susie's. Laverne Fritcher is closer," he said, pushing temptation at her with all his will power. "Don't you want to see Fritcher? The fuzz don't know about her. It'll be your coup."

  Her face scrunched in thought, and her hands tightened on the wheel. "Fritcher first, then Brown."

  A sigh whispered past Kasker's lips.

  The address proved to be an older, two-story clapboard house in the Solaris red-light district. A large covered porch shielded the front from the sun. Seve's Negro bodyguard lounged in a lawn chair at the top of the steps. Kasker bit back a growl.

  As they approached, the guard rose and barred their way. The huge muscles of his arms knotted, his fists balled at his sides, and his jaw worked back and forth.

  "We're closed," the guard said. A sheen of sweat erupted on his forehead, but he stood his ground despite Kasker's hard stare.

  The ward pushed Kasker aside.

  "Officer Demasi, Solaris PD." She stood, feet planted and hands on hips, while the guard scowled down at her. "You can let us in, or I can come back with my buddies from Vice."

  Kasker admired her balls. The guard's obstinance faded to be replaced by confusion and uncertainty.

  "This is your chance to screw your master for posting you here," Kasker whispered, pushing temptation at the man. "Let the nice officer in."

  The suggestion took its sweet time to worm through the Neanderthal's brain, but eventually a gleam shone in the guard's eye. He stepped back and swept a hand toward the door. "Be my guest."

  The ward brushed past, and Kasker followed. He could feel the guard's vengeful gaze on his back.

  The front door opened into a parlor decorated in black-flocked red wallpaper and crushed red velvet furniture. The large front window was covered by heavy red drapes trimmed in gold fringe, leaving the interior dim and cool.

  The place stank of spilled liquor, sweat, and sex. The odor reminded Kasker that the flesh would crave a woman soon. He considered the ward, since she was convenient, but then reminded himself of her status with Heaven. He listened again for the sound of wings.

  A middle-aged woman wearing a floral housecoat, fuzzy slippers, and a scarf over hair curlers vacuumed the red shag rug. When they entered, she switched off the vacuum and frowned at them.

  "Didn't he tell you?" she asked with a gesture toward the door. "We ain't open yet. The girls need their beauty sleep."

  "We're looking for Laverne Fritcher," the ward replied. Her eyes scanned the room, but her face remained neutral.

  "Never heard of her," the woman said. She switched the vacuum on again and ran it vigorously over the rug.

  Kasker reached down and yanked the vacuum's cord from the wall socket. The appliance died. The woman glared at him.

  "Seve sent us," he said. He took a step forward and loomed over her. "Where's Fritcher?"

  The woman jerked, and her eyes widened just a little. She took a half step back, her hands rising in front of her.

  "You should of said sooner. I'm Fritcher. Listen, if it's about the receipts—"

  "It's not," the ward said, stepping around Kasker and taking the woman by the arm to guide her to a couch. She tossed Kasker a disapproving look and jerked her head toward the opposite side of the room. "Sit down, Sleeth. Over there."

  Kasker resisted the urge to snarl and parked his butt on a wing-backed chair opposite the women. Then he got it: good cop, bad cop. He'd be the bad cop. The very bad cop. He smiled. The woman shrank back.

  The ward placed a hand on Fritcher's arm to draw the woman's attention from Kasker.

  "We'd like to ask you about William Decker," the ward said.

  "The two-timing skunk's dead," Fritcher snapped. "What else do you need to know?"

  "What was your relationship to him?" the ward asked.

  Kasker wanted to laugh. They were in a bordello. What did Officer Demasi think their relationship was?

  Fritcher chuckled. "You ever been in a place like this before, honey?"

  "You were doing business?" the ward said without missing a beat. "From your low opinion of him, I thought maybe there was something more between you."

  Kasker smirked. Despite her time as a pig, Officer Demasi knew little of the world's seamy underbelly. Unlike Kasker, Decker paid dearly for the company of women.

  Fritcher looked down at her hands. "It started out as business. But then he said he loved me. He promised he'd set me up with my own place, my own girls. I wouldn't be under Calderon's thumb anymore."

  Kasker wiped the smirk from his face. Goats! How had the ward known? Until he'd given her the demon's note, she'd never heard of Fritcher. In seconds, she'd pried the woman's secrets from her.

  "You know what it's like for a working girl past her prime? You have to work cheap, and you get all the weirdos. If I had my own place, I wouldn't have to service the clients. And I'd take better care of my girls than Calderon does." She shot Kasker an unhappy glare.

  "I'm sure you would," the ward said. "I don't think William Decker set out to be murdered. If he'd lived, I think he would have kept that promise."

  Fritcher's eyes narrowed. "I'm not so sure. Something was up, something he wouldn't tell me about."

  Kasker sat straighter. "Any idea what?"

  The woman lifted her chin and clamped her jaw shut.

  The ward patted Fritcher's arm and leaned closer. "Whoever killed Decker also killed Robert Haskell. Last night that same person killed my partner. Anything you know could help us nail him before anyone else dies."

  Fritcher turned to the ward, and her face softened. "I don't know much. This past two weeks, Billy'd been distracted and distant. When I asked him about it, he said it was nothing. He had some business with Calderon, that's all. Dealing with Calderon is enough to make anyone crazy. The next day, he brought me flowers. I was shocked. Billy never thought of anyone but himself. The day after, he was dead."

  "Calderon," the ward repeated. Her gaze went to Kasker.
He shifted on the chair and looked away.

  "Do you think—" the woman stopped and studied her hands. "Do you think Billy mentioned me in his will?"

  The ward smiled and patted the whore's shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe his lawyers can answer your question."

  Fritcher wiped her hands over her cheeks and stood. "That's all I can tell you. Now I need to get back to work."

  The ward stood and shook the hooker's hand. "Thanks for your help. If you think of anything else…"

  The woman frowned and tapped her fingers on her lips. "There is one thing. The week before he died, Billy rented a storage locker. He put it in my name and asked me to hang onto the key. He said someone would come for it."

  A thrill surged through Kasker's blood. He stepped forward. "Give it to me."

  41

  "What kind of 'business' was Decker doing with Calderon?" I asked when we were in the car.

  "How should I know?" Sleeth said. "I'm only interested in Holmes."

  His tone was tense, and he rubbed the key between his fingers. As I drove, his eyes darted around the streets, flicking frequently to the rearview mirror on his side. Nothing like working with a suspected felon.

  The storage facility was a shoddy affair near the railroad tracks. Low rows of metal buildings with silver roofs and white siding marched across two acres enclosed by a six-foot cyclone fence. A ten-by-ten office building stood beside the open gate.

  I parked outside the fence, and we walked to the office. It was empty. Sleeth didn't wait for someone to return. He strode through the gates and checked unit numbers. I jogged to catch up.

  He stopped in front of a roll-up door, inserted the key in the padlock that secured it, and removed the lock. The door opened with a screech.

  The unit was ten by fifteen, concrete floored, and stifling. A jumble of cardboard boxes packed the space. I stepped to the wall to flick on an overhead light.

  Sleeth marched to the pile, grabbed a box, and upended it on the floor. He flung the empty box aside.

  I rushed over, planted a hand on his chest, and pushed. My shove had no effect on his six feet of muscles and sinews.