"How long have the pigs been watching?"
Heat inched up my face. "I'm just—was—a lowly beat cop. I don't know anything."
The hippie snorted. He wiggled in the seat and went back to humming.
Back at the hotel, I handed him a makeup case and a stack of clothes. His nose wrinkled at their musty smell.
"What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Pretend it's Halloween and you're going dressed as a Mexican peasant. There's coloring for your hair in the case.
He set the garments on the bed and pulled off his tank top. When he reached for the button on his jeans, I fled to the bathroom with my costume.
I stripped to my underwear and started with the padding usually worn under the Santa suit. Over that, I added a flowing orange and red skirt that reached my ankles, and an oversized white blouse. I covered my head with a red scarf and finished the look with black-framed men's glasses.
I cracked the door open and hoped Sleeth was decent. He sat at the desk using the mirror on the wall. He'd changed into the brown work pants and red checkered shirt I'd brought. He'd streaked the dye through his loose hair so skillfully that I could have sworn it was naturally black threaded with gray strands. He pasted a stringy, drooping mustache on his upper lip and turned to face me.
"Whoa, Chiquita, looks like you need to ease back on the tortillas," he said. His fake Mexican accent sounded like something from a cartoon.
We parked three blocks from the Luna Azul. By the time we reached the restaurant, sweat trickled down my ribs under the padding. I hoped I wouldn't drop from heat stroke before we left.
I dragged the wheelchair from the trunk while Sleeth watched but didn't offer to help.
"Get in," I said.
His brows rose. "Why me?"
"It's part of your ensemble." When his face turned belligerent, I sighed. "They know you, your build, your height, your swagger. In the chair, they won't see any of that."
Sleeth grudgingly sat in the chair. He settled a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat low over his eyes, caved in his manly chest, and slumped his shoulders. He curled one hand in his lap as if it were useless.
Too bad he'd gone to the dark side. If he'd kept his nose clean, he might have had a stellar acting career.
We bumped and rattled our way to the restaurant. I was chugging like a freight train and sweating like an ox by the time we arrived.
One of Calderon's men stood outside. He barely glanced at us and held the door open while I pushed the chair in. Sleeth chuckled, and the man gave us a second look.
"To the kitchen, Chiquita," Sleeth said. He gestured to the door at the back.
"Call me Chiquita again and I might accidentally push your chair in front of a bus," I muttered over his head.
Threading around the nearly empty tables was murder. We'd gotten within fifteen feet of our destination when the mobster appeared in the doorway, one hulking goon flanking him, and another approaching us from a nearby booth. I drew in a sharp breath.
Calderon's flat eyes took in the hippie first. The disguise didn't fool him for a moment. Then he regarded me.
A chill came over me despite my stifling outfit. The dining area seemed suddenly darker, as though Calderon sucked away the light. Behind us, the chatter of patrons and the clank of cutlery died.
"My Chiquita has questions," Sleeth said, amusement in his voice.
The damn hippie thought this was funny? I expected us both to be wearing concrete overshoes and swimming with the fishes before noon. I should have let him come alone.
Calderon stared at Sleeth a good thirty seconds. He gave a flick of his hand, and the goons parted like the Red Sea. The mobster spun and walked into the kitchen. Sleeth rolled the chair forward. I scrambled to keep up.
When we reached Calderon's office, Sleeth abandoned the chair and walked inside, leaving me to move the chair to clear the doorway. The mobster stood behind his desk, his face hard. We stood opposite.
"The pigs have eyes on you," Sleeth said.
Calderon's gaze flicked to me before returning to the hippie. "Si, of course. Who is this señorita?"
"Citizen Demasi," Sleeth said. "Formerly Officer Demasi, the… fuzz who found me at the bookstore."
For a split second, Calderon's eyes widened. New caution slowed his speech. "Where is her partner?"
"Perished." Sleeth let the word hang in the air.
The mobster's lips parted. He dropped into his chair. Like the hippie, he glanced up and cocked his head, listening.
"He stumbled into a trap meant for me." Sleeth splayed his hand on his chest as though pleading for sympathy.
Calderon's shock quickly turned to anger. "You brought her here?"
"Alan Mong is dead," I said. "And so is Matthew Shertleff. I'm tired of following Holmes' bread-crumb trail of bodies. I want to get in front of him. You did business with Decker and I'm willing to bet you had a relationship with Haskell and Shertleff. Tell me about your other associates."
Calderon's anger surged to barely controlled rage. He turned it on Sleeth. "What have you said to her?"
Fearless, the hippie stared down the mobster. "Nothing. But little time remains to stop Holmes. If the stakes are as high as you believe, maybe you should explain…"
"Risk the master's wrath if you will," Calderon said, "but I want no part of it. What you suggest is forbidden."
"She has power," Sleeth countered. "The Oracle says so. And she's Chosen. How can there be objections?"
Their conversation had shifted into the Twilight Zone. When had Solaris become an asylum for all California's lunatics?
"The victims never fought back," I said. "Decker at least made preparations to either pay off Holmes or to run away. That means he had contact with Holmes before his death. If we can find someone who's heard from Holmes—and is still alive—we can use the information to track Holmes to his hideout. I need to understand why and how Holmes targets his victims and know who he might go after next. I need a list of all your business associates."
"All?" Astonishment widened the mobster's eyes.
Sleeth sighed. "Some must be more… interesting than others. Those are the names we need."
Calderon tossed the hippie a black look and bared his teeth.
"The master would not be happy if he learned that you impeded the hunt for Holmes," Sleeth said in a pious tone.
The mobster's jaw tightened. Sleeth looked smug. The mobster rubbed his fingers on the edge of the desk, his eyes focused on a closed ledger.
"The killings aren't about business," Calderon said at last. "I belong to a secret organization. Its members sign contracts swearing to silence. Holmes lost faith and left. Now he commits this butchery because he believes it is the only way to loose the others from their vows."
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of surprise from Sleeth. This wasn't what he expected. The question was, did he know the real truth and this was a lie? Or was what Sleeth thought the lie, and Calderon's revelation the truth? It all made my head hurt.
"I need a list of the other members," I said.
The mobster pulled a pad from the desk drawer and scrawled the list. He handed it to Sleeth, who frowned at it, shook his head, and tucked it in his pocket.
"Sabueso, you will accompany her during questioning," Calderon said, glaring at the hippie. "You will protect our interests—or the master will hear."
Sleeth bristled. "Don't flip your lid, man."
"What do you know about Herman Marks?" I asked.
Calderon leaned back in his chair, his face shuttered. "Why do you ask?"
"He tried to kill the— He tried to kill Citizen Demasi last night," Sleeth said. "But he screwed up and killed himself instead."
The mobster's eyebrows twitched, and he glanced at the ceiling. Sleeth did the same. "He's untrustworthy, an addict. And he's a stooge for the police."
Calderon's revelations didn't seem helpful, but I wasn't going to press. I counted myself lucky to still be alive.
>
"I need more pesos, compadre." Sleeth held out a hand.
The mobster glared at him.
"Living on the run's expensive, man." Sleeth shot me a look.
Calderon's lip curled. He reached in a desk drawer, pulled out a bundle of cash, and tossed it on the desk.
"Go."
Sleeth grabbed the cash, walked to the office door, and dropped into the wheelchair. "Let's go, Chiquita."
I grumbled a curse under my breath and pushed the hippie through the kitchen. Calderon's shoes clicked on the floor behind me. All the hairs stood up on the back of my neck.
"Be careful, sabueso," the mobster said when he stopped at the kitchen door. "You play a dangerous game."
Sleeth sniggered and waved a dismissive hand.
48
Back in the hotel room, Kasker nibbled a fingernail and fought to keep his true skin contained. Anticipation coursed through him. Tonight, he would devour Matthew Shertleff's damned soul. Hiding in Erick Richards' body wouldn't save Shertleff from his fate.
Had Shertleff remained in his own body, who knew how long a life he might have enjoyed before his final demise? Now that he'd separated his soul from his flesh, Shertleff would make an express trip to Hell. Kasker ran his tongue over his lips, sucking back the drool forming in his mouth before it dribbled down his chin.
"Isn't 'sabueso' Spanish for hound?" the ward asked when she emerged from the bathroom. "Why does Calderon call you that?"
"Because I'm a dog with the chicks." He cackled and tossed her a sly look.
The ward scowled. "Give me the list."
Kasker opened the paper Calderon had given them and squinted at the spidery writing. Eight names straggled down the page, each with an address and a note describing their occupation.
"First on the list is Debbie Peck. She's hot. Miss Southern California, 1966." At the ward's deepening displeasure, he added, "Just sayin'."
The ward snatched the list from his hands. She scanned it, and her frown deepened.
"William Decker, businessman; Robert Haskell, pro bowler; and Matthew Shertleff, writer, all dead. That still leaves five people to interview."
"Four," Kasker corrected.
"Because eight minus three equals four?"
Goats! How would he explain that Lester Renquist—although not a Slasher victim—was already deceased? The sweet taste of the crooked lawyer's soul sliding down his gullet brought a momentary smile to his lips.
"Whatever. Math's not my thing," he replied while walking to the door and searching frantically for a lie to explain his knowledge of Renquist's untimely death. "Let's bug out."
The ward trailed behind, the paper rustling in her hands. "Merkel isn't on here. If Holmes is sticking to members of Calderon's cult, his name should be listed."
Merkel was on a list, it just wasn't the mobster's. Holmes didn't choose his sacrificial receptacles randomly, Kasker realized. Holmes expected the damned souls he'd shifted to new bodies to be beholden to him, and he'd want them in positions of power where they could serve his interests, cover his crimes.
Merkel, a rich man with influence in business and politics was exactly the kind of victim Holmes would target. Like Merkel, Erick Richards—the recipient of Matthew Shertleff's soul and a respected judge—fit Holmes' victim profile perfectly. Who else might Holmes target? The city offered too many choices.
The ward drove to a working-class neighborhood of apartments and scanned property numbers for their destination.
"What's she do now?"
"Who?" he asked, pulled from his thoughts of his coming rendezvous with Shertleff.
The ward tossed him a glare. "Deborah Peck, the beauty contestant at the top of the list."
Kasker shrugged. Debbie Peck's day would come, and he would devour her soul, but Matthew Shertleff was ready now. He wanted to ditch the ward, race to Shertleff's location, and suck down the sweet taste of sin.
Unfortunately, Erick Richards/Matthew Shertleff's new incarnation would be at the court house this time of day, surrounded by pigs. Kasker wouldn't get his flesh within a mile of the damned soul without being arrested.
The ward turned into a parking lot and squeezed the car into a visitor space. They walked past an office and into a courtyard dominated by a large swimming pool. The chlorine stung Kasker's nose.
A hot babe sunning in a skimpy pink bikini caught his eye. A full salute rose in his jeans. The flesh had been without a woman for two days. Two days. It seemed an eternity.
The ward led the way up a flight of stairs and along a balcony that overlooked the pool. No souls blazed in most of the units, not surprising for a Wednesday noon. If they didn't find Peck in her apartment, he would convince the ward to go for lunch while he got it on with the chick in the bikini.
They stopped in front of a door, and the ward knocked. Kasker shifted from foot to foot, eager to answer the call of Shertleff's damnation. He could use the Mexican peasant disguise to get into the courthouse undetected. All thought of the woman by the pool fled.
The door opened. A shapely blonde dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts stared out at them. The alluring scent of damnation drifted through the warm air to Kasker drawing his attention from Shertleff. Her eyes flicked from the ward to him. He gave her a wanton smile.
"Officer Demasi, Solaris PD. Are you Deborah Peck?" the ward asked.
A little crease formed between Peck's eyes, ruining the near-perfection of her face. "I'm not interested in contributing to the Police Department Benevolent fund."
Kasker caught a slight rise of the ward's eyebrows and a shift in her stance. He dragged his attention from Peck's breasts pushing on the soft fabric of her shirt to consider the ward's reaction.
"This is official business. Can we come in?" the ward asked.
Peck hesitated. Kasker barged past.
The main room looked more like an illegal sewing factory than a living space. It contained no comfortable furniture for entertaining. Bolts of cloth were stacked against the walls. Hand-drawn pictures of blouses, skirts, dresses, and swimsuits hung above them.
A large table covered by a layer of silky fabric, paper patterns, and straight pins took up the center of the room. A portfolio containing a pile of drawings sat open at the far end of the table. An old-fashioned Singer sewing machine stood in front of the window. A dress-maker's mannequin squeezed in next to it.
"Calderon sent us," Kasker said. "Where's Holmes?"
Peck's shoulders lifted, her face stiffened, and one finger pointed to the door. "Get out!"
Kasker thrust out his chest and took a threatening step toward Peck. The woman clenched her jaw. Her pointing finger didn't waver.
The ward shot him a fierce look, stepped between them, and faced Peck.
"My apologies," the ward said. "Ignore him."
Peck's hand dropped, but her anger didn't. "Anyone who works for Calderon is lower than a rat. Lower than a worm."
"We don't work for Calderon," the ward said, voice low and calm. "And I couldn't agree more. Calderon is the scum of the earth. He ought to be in jail."
Kasker chuffed a breath and crossed his arms over his chest. The ward had been more than willing to consort with the demon when he had something she wanted, and from her scent, she'd been plenty afraid, too.
The ward took Peck's elbow, turned her ninety degrees, and gestured to the walls. "These are amazing. Are they your designs?"
Peck's gaze flickered to the pictures and back to the ward. "Yeah, they're mine."
"What did Calderon promise you? That he'd get you a job at a fashion house? Is that why you joined his cult?"
Surprise blossomed on Peck's face. It morphed to anger. "He promised I'd win the Miss Southern California title. I thought that the fame and prize money would be enough so I could start my own fashion house."
Peck's hands balled into fists. "But I didn't have enough cash to do it alone, and banks won't loan money to young single women who want to start a business."
"Tell m
e about it. So you're selling privately?" the ward asked.
"At consignment shops. If I can get a rich patron to back me…" A flash of hope crossed her face but drained away. "Calderon cheated me."
"You got what you bargained for," Kasker said. Stupid, gullible humans. Always wanting short-cuts to a happy-ever-after. The demon hadn't given her anything she couldn't have gotten by herself.
The ward shot him another withering look.
"We think you might be in danger," the ward said.
Peck's brow wrinkled, and alarm shone in her eyes. "From Calderon?"
"From the Slasher. He appears to be targeting people who signed contracts with Calderon."
The woman relaxed. "Thanks for the warning. I'll be careful."
Peck walked a few steps toward the door. "Now I have work to do."
"Has the Slasher contacted you?" The ward drifted in Peck's wake. "He may have used the name Holmes, or he may have used an alias."
"How stupid would a killer be to contact his victims?" the woman said.
"We think he develops a trust relationship first so he can lure them to their deaths. You haven't been approached by someone who's taken a sudden interest in your designs?"
Peck opened the apartment door. "Sorry, Officer. I'll be sure to let you know if he does."
Kasker followed the ward out. The door thunked closed behind him.
Goats! What a waste of time. All they needed to do was arrive at each murder scene early enough for him to identify the victims to which the damned souls transferred. If Kasker devoured them after the transfer, then Holmes would never get the five the Oracle claimed Holmes needed for whatever ritual he planned.
The ward marched away along the balcony. He strode after her and ground his teeth.
The scent of Peck's damned soul had tormented Kasker. His peasant disguise was at the hotel. He could claim a return of his food poisoning, go back to the hotel, don the costume, and head to the courthouse while the ward continued her useless interviews without him.
Once inside the building, he could hide in the men's room and wait for the judge to be alone in his chambers. Shertleff's demise would take only moments. Saliva broke in Kasker's mouth.
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