No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

  "Knock it off!" I said. "This is evidence."

  "So?" he said.

  He squatted and stirred the pile of papers that had fallen from the box. Before I could join him, he rose and reached for another box.

  "Enough." I inserted myself between him and the pile. "We'll do this my way, or I'll do it alone while you're rotting in a cell."

  His chest swelled, his eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to loom over me like he'd done with Miss Fritcher. His strong-arm tactics with Fritcher had angered me, but I couldn't argue the point in front of her. Now was a different story.

  I sucked in a breath, puffed out my own chest, and poked a finger against him with each word I spoke. "And you can knock off the intimidation stuff. It won't work on me."

  For a moment, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. Instead of backing down, he huffed up more and leaned closer, so close his body heat rolled over me in waves. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

  I screwed up my courage, leaned in, and locked on his cold blue eyes.

  "My way or the highway, Sleeth. What's it going to be?"

  The hippie blinked first. He stepped back, lifted his chin, and crossed his arms over his chest. I knelt by the mess on the floor so he wouldn't see me exhale the breath I'd been holding. Threatening a psycho. How dumb could I get?

  In a minute, he joined me. He didn't say anything or touch the bank statements and cancelled checks scattered in a three-foot circle. If he'd tried, he would have gotten a sharp jab.

  I organized the statements by month and sorted the checks into the appropriate groups. Then I read through each statement.

  Decker never bought groceries, at least not with a check during the past six months. He dined out daily at all of Solaris' best restaurants. Travo's seemed to be a favorite.

  He made outrageous mortgage payments. He also made sizeable payments to Jamelko's, the only auto dealer in town that sold foreign sports cars. I hadn't seen anything in the case files about anyone finding his car near the scene of his death and wondered what had become of it.

  In the final two weeks of his life, he'd made several very large deposits to his checking account. About the time Miss Fritcher said he'd seemed worried, he'd withdrawn ten thousand in cash. On the day of his death, he'd withdrawn all but a few hundred. Where was all that cash?

  I retrieved the discarded box, replaced the statements, and moved on to the next box. Sleeth walked to the door, checked the alleyway, and returned. Fifteen seconds later, he'd paced to the door and back again. I ignored him and moved to another box.

  "Find anything?" he asked ten minutes later.

  "Give me a break! Financial records take time."

  Sleeth continued to pace. I continued to dig. The sun climbed out of sight over the building, and the stuffy storage space got hotter.

  "This is a stupid waste of time. Let's go." Sleeth headed to the door.

  I looked up and shook a thick sheaf of papers at him. "About two weeks ago, Decker took out all the cash advances he could against his five credit cards, got a second mortgage on his house ostensibly for remodeling, and sold his business inventory—including goods he hadn't paid his suppliers for yet."

  Sleeth's look of annoyance told me he didn't get it.

  "He liquidated assets, whether they were legally his or not. He deposited the funds in his personal checking account and withdrew nearly all of it as cash the day he died."

  I started on another box.

  "He planned to run," Sleeth said. "Fool."

  "Maybe," I replied, pawing at the contents of the new box. "Or he might have used the cash for a payoff."

  The next box was much like the last. The one after included legal documents for the incorporation of Decker Industries. Tucked between the pages was a pamphlet for the Temple of Enlightenment, a counterculture hippie church that probably only called itself that for tax purposes. On the corner, someone had written 10k in smudged ink.

  I wondered about the notation. The only place I heard metric used was the drug trade. The Temple of Enlightenment was familiar. Someone had mentioned it to me, but I couldn't remember who or why.

  Was the temple a front for a drug supplier? Had Decker decided to buy into the operation? Had Calderon ordered Decker killed because he'd dared to go into business on Calderon's turf? Maybe the bizarre murder ritual was meant to implicate the temple.

  A queer feeling crept over me, and I glanced at Sleeth. Was I working with a killer caught up in a drug war? If that's what it took to get to the man who murdered Dave, so be it.

  The next box contained dozens of bundles of hundred dollar bills. I'd never seen that much cash and sucked in a breath. Sleeth noted my reaction and came to look over my shoulder.

  "I was right," he said, expression smug. "He hid the money here so he could get it later."

  "Or he was killed before the handoff," I said, unwilling to cede my theory to his.

  Sleeth put the lid on the box and picked it up. He walked toward the door.

  I ran after him and grabbed the box.

  "This isn't ours," I said while wresting the box from him.

  "Finders keepers," the hippie said and snatched it back.

  I grabbed the box but couldn't jerk it out of Sleeth's grasp.

  "This money should go to the people Decker cheated."

  We stood there tugging on the box like two kids arguing over a favorite toy until another storage unit renter walked into view.

  "If I scream," I whispered, "you can be sure he'll call the cops."

  Sleeth's lips drew into a thin, hard line. He let go of the box.

  I placed the box with the others, escorted Sleeth from the unit, and locked the door.

  "Key," I said, hand outstretched.

  Sleeth held out his own empty hands. "Must have left it inside."

  "Bull." I wiggled my fingers in a gimme movement.

  The hippie stalked away to the car. I clenched my teeth and followed. We got in my baking Corvair, the late afternoon sun slanting through the windshield.

  We sat.

  We sweated.

  "Key," I said.

  Sleeth glared at me. Then he dug the key from his pocket and tossed it on the dash. I scooped it up and put it in my pocket.

  "We should see Mong's girlfriend," Sleeth said.

  "Right after we interview Susan Brown."

  Sleeth went still. I backed out of our parking spot and pulled onto the street.

  "We won't learn anything from her," he said. "It's a waste of time. Mong's girlfriend might know who he stole the information for."

  I glanced over at the hippie. He was positively rigid. The air blowing in the open windows had done nothing to staunch the trickle of sweat running down his temple.

  "Susan Brown first. Then we can question Mong's girlfriend."

  Sleeth rubbed his palms on his tatty jeans. "I had nothing to do with it."

  What the hell was he talking about?

  "Someone slashed my tires. You can ask the mechanic who sold me new ones. I was tied up all Saturday afternoon."

  The little whisper of worry pulsing along my nerves erupted into a full-blown storm.

  "Why should I care where you were Saturday afternoon?"

  His neck flexed when he swallowed. He didn't look at me.

  "Susie's dead. Someone shot her Saturday afternoon."

  42

  The ward stomped on the brakes and swerved to the curb. Kasker braced a hand on the dash to keep from colliding with the windshield. She stared at him, open-mouthed.

  "You didn't report her death?"

  Kasker snorted. "So they could arrest me?"

  The ward's hands dropped to her lap. "Christ! Another murder?"

  Kasker glanced up, waiting for the lightning strike. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain. He's a vengeful god."

  Officer Demasi blinked at him. Then she laughed in a scary, crazy way that made him twitch.

  "I've partnered with a psycho to chase a murdering lunatic. Imaginary de
ities are the least of my worries."

  For the briefest moment, Kasker had that melting sensation, the same one he'd experienced in the Oracle's shop. The world faded. He struggled to hold onto the flesh, remain in this realm.

  "Are you all right?" the ward asked. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  His true skin burned under her touch. Fire coursed through his veins. His lungs sucked in air. His heart resumed its regular beat.

  "I'm cool," he said, voice shaking and vision clearing.

  The ward withdrew her hand. "I assume you searched Miss Brown's house after you found her."

  Kasker nodded.

  "Why would anyone kill her?"

  He cleared his throat. "She had Decker's appointment diary. I think she tried to blackmail someone in it. Whoever killed her took the diary."

  The ward banged a hand on the steering wheel. "Tad was right. I should have questioned her sooner."

  "What?" he asked.

  "Nothing."

  He slumped in the seat. He'd expected her to run him in, or at least to call her pig friends and send them to Susie's. But she didn't. How could he use that to his advantage?

  She checked traffic, signaled, and pulled away. They drove in silence until they reached a business district where a grocery store, pharmacy, and hairdresser's shop shared a block with a gas station.

  The ward turned into the parking lot. Perhaps she had the munchies. She hadn't eaten at the burger joint and it was supper time. He could use a meal, before his flesh began its incessant nagging.

  "Come on." She fished a purse from under her seat and got out.

  Kasker popped his door and unfolded from her crappy little car. Goats! He missed the comfort and power of the Mustang. He missed the control of being in the driver's seat.

  The ward stopped beside a pay phone. She dug in her purse and pulled out a dime.

  "You're going to call the police and report a suspicious smell coming from Miss Brown's house," she said.

  He crossed his arms. "Screw that."

  "Show some respect for the dead. You know it's the right thing to do."

  "It's a rotting corpse. Why should I care what happens to it?"

  The ward's jaw tightened. She dropped the dime in the slot and held the receiver out to him while she twirled the dial. He reached past her to thump two fingers on the hook. The dime tinkled into the coin return.

  "My fingerprints are all over her pad. The pigs will take me in."

  The ward smacked his wrist bone with the hard plastic handset. He jerked his hand away and glared at her.

  Officer Demasi returned his glare. "The longer her body decomposes, the harder it becomes to determine time of death. Your alibi won't be worth a plug nickel if they don't find her soon—assuming your flat-tire story isn't fiction."

  He growled at her. She retrieved the dime and placed it in the slot again.

  "Tell them you're a neighbor, but you don't want to get involved," she said.

  He snatched the receiver from her hand, gave the operator who answered the story of the mysterious smell, and hung up. The ward nodded her approval and headed to the car.

  "Where's Mong's place?" she asked.

  Kasker directed her to Mong's apartment. He climbed the four flights of stairs behind the ward, admiring her tight ass and trim figure. Blue jeans enhanced it more than her ugly uniform. His desire for her almost overrode his fear.

  He'd been foolish to challenge her directly. Lies and deceit were the safer strategy. He longed to be rid of her, to return to the hunt—in his true skin and alone.

  The skinny waitress from the Luna Azul opened the door to their knock. A sticky brat of perhaps five clung to her hip. When the woman saw Kasker, recognition and fear flashed in her dark eyes.

  Before the ward could speak up, Kasker crowded her over. "Seve sent us."

  He extracted his wallet, drew out a wad of cash, and held it towards the woman. "He wants to make sure you're all right."

  The woman's dark eyes flitted beyond them to the empty balcony, and her hand trembled where it held the door. She didn't take the money.

  "We're very sorry for your loss," the ward said. "May we come in?"

  After more hesitation, the woman snatched the bills and opened the door. The interior of the apartment looked much like Kasker's place after the police search. Mong's woman shooed the child away to a bedroom, cleared toys and magazines from a worn-out couch, and indicated they should sit.

  The ward offered her hand. "I'm Officer Demasi. You're…?"

  The woman sucked in a breath. Her gaze jumped to Kasker. Her thin frame shook.

  "I don't know anything about what Mr. Calderon does," she said. "I just work in the restaurant."

  "This isn't police business," the ward assured her. "And we don't care about Calderon."

  He'd assumed she'd lied, but now Kasker realized Officer Demasi told the truth when she'd said she wasn't a cop anymore. That should give him some leverage.

  The woman didn't take the offered hand. She clutched the money and glanced toward the bedroom where the child sang the alphabet song off-key.

  She turned to the ward. "Eva. Eva Rodriguez. What do you want?"

  The ward bowed her head and spoke softly. "I know this is a difficult time for you, and we don't want to make it worse. We have some questions about Alan. If you can answer them, it may help us find his killer."

  The suspicion in her eyes turned to confusion. She addressed Kasker. "Calderon didn't… ? The police said you…"

  "No," Kasker said, "I didn't. Neither did Seve. But he'd be grateful to know who did. Very grateful."

  Kasker's gaze fell to the cash in the woman's tight grip, and he pushed temptation at her. The ward's cheek twitched, and her hand went to her temple. Rodriguez glanced down at the money she held.

  "What do you want to know?" she asked.

  The ward guided Rodriguez to the couch. "Did Alan meet anyone new recently? Someone who offered him a job?"

  Rodriguez scrunched her brow. "A month ago, he started talking about moving away. San Francisco, he said. Or maybe Seattle, where no one knew him. I thought it was just talk. He owed Calderon more than he could ever pay off. But he said he'd have a lot of cash soon."

  "Who offered him the money?" Kasker asked.

  "He never told me." The woman wrung her hands. "Then that man, Decker, got killed in the bookstore, and Alan got jumpy. He said we had to go right away."

  Another dead end. Kasker wanted to throw something. Bite something.

  "Did you ever see him with these two men?" The ward drew pictures of Bronski and Warner from her back pocket.

  Mong's woman stared at the pictures. Her eyes went wide. "They came for Alan, a couple days ago. He met them in the parking lot. I thought one of his bookies sent them to collect." She hung her head. "He gambled."

  The hint of a smile tightened the muscles in the ward's face, and a new sharpness showed in her eyes. "Did you see their car?"

  Kasker stopped breathing. He stared at the woman, willing her to speak.

  "A white van, I think—with writing on the side. My eyes, I'm nearsighted," she said. "I couldn't read it."

  The ward rose, reiterated her condolences, and thanked Rodriguez for her cooperation. They left the apartment and clomped down the four flights of stairs to the parking lot.

  In the ward's car, Kasker drummed his fingers on the dash. They'd learned nothing new. He'd hoped for more.

  The ward clicked her nails against the steering wheel. "The white van again."

  "What I saw last night," he said.

  "The same one Mrs. Sanchez saw at the Merkel building?" she muttered. "What does Merkel have to do with this?"

  Kasker couldn't follow her reasoning. When he'd read Merkel's obituary, he'd realized the man died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. It explained why he'd found Merkel's soul in the middle of the roadway. Thousands of humans departed the realm of the living every day. They weren't all Holmes' victims. Being anywher
e near the site of Haskell's death was pure coincidence.

  He brushed aside the ward's comment. That he'd spent so much time and raised uncomfortable blisters on his feet without finding the sacrifice angered him. When he found Holmes, Kasker would enjoy every luscious bite. If he found Holmes before the damned soul destroyed Heaven and Hell. The terrifying thought of Hell's imminent destruction raised his hackles.

  43

  I got a newspaper from the box outside the Denney's and followed Sleeth in. The sun had dipped to the horizon, and we were no closer to finding Holmes' lair.

  We'd looked into Decker and Mong. In the morning, we'd start on Haskell. I didn't have high hopes about turning up vital clues.

  We took a booth, looked over the menus a waitress provided, and ordered. I didn't have much appetite and went with an egg and toast. Sleeth ordered a burger basket.

  The front page of the paper was devoted to the Slasher killings. The writer rehashed their gruesome nature and emphasized the inability of the police to stop the killer. The story continued on page five.

  I flipped pages. Sleeth drained his water and flagged the waitress for a refill. She rushed right over, ignored my own half-full glass, and filled his to overflowing.

  Page five included additional stories detailing Decker and Haskell. I found nothing new or startling in Decker's bio. Haskell was another matter.

  "Robert Haskell was a professional bowler?" I said. I'd expected him to be another businessman. "Why would Holmes choose him to frame you? Did you know Haskell?"

  "Does it matter?" Sleeth's gaze followed the swing of the waitress's hips as she returned to the kitchen. His eyes grew heavy, and a lecherous smile curled his lips.

  "Of course it matters," I hissed at him. "You said Holmes wanted to take over Calderon's turf. What kind of business would Calderon be in with a pro bowler?"

  The hippie turned his stone-cold eyes back to me. "I only said it was possible."

  I sorely missed my police contacts. Five minutes gossiping in the canteen would have netted me the information about connections between Sleeth and Haskell or Haskell and Calderon. Or I should have asked Tad when he called to offer condolences.