I splashed some water on my face and reached blindly for the paper towel dispenser.
“Here you are.” Someone handed me a paper towel.
The voice sounded familiar—annoyingly so. I dried my face and took another look in the mirror. Hermes stood beside me. His long white hair hung around his shoulders. It clashed against his jet-black suit.
“Nice performance, Mr. Jones.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I came to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” I turned to leave.
Hermes stood on the other side of the bathroom, in front of the door. I never saw him move. “On the contrary. We have much to discuss.”
I knew that muscling past him was not an option. Neither was shooting him, though I favored the idea.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“There’s been another murder.”
My heart jumped. “Who is it this time?”
“Hephaestus.”
The Smith God. I had seen him a handful of times, but we never spoke. He used to work for the military, as the director of weapons development, and had fathered countless innovations, like a rifle whose shots could pass through solid matter, and a ray gun that caused enemies to burst into flames. But he felt Zeus wasn’t giving him the recognition he deserved, so he decided to quit. He became a recluse, spending most of his time holed up in his estate.
My guess was he was playing mad scientist, creating things just for the sake of creating them but not bothering anyone in the process. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him—much less how they managed to do it. Not only was Hephaestus immortal—or so I’d thought—but his house was a fortress, filled with all sorts of booby traps.
“He was found dead in his home earlier today,” Hermes continued. “We want you to investigate the crime scene.”
I shook my head. The movement roused a spell of dizziness. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t work for the Gods anymore. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to.”
Hermes crossed his arms. “How about this? You come with me and look at the scene. Give your opinion of what happened. Afterward, I’ll bring you back here, so you can finish getting drunk, wasted, or whatever it is you mortals call it. I’ll even pick up the tab. No additional strings attached.”
I crossed my arms. “If I do this, will you get lost and let me enjoy the rest of my night?”
Hermes held up his hands as if to show he was unarmed. “You’ve got my word.”
I closed my eyes. “Let’s make this quick.”
13
Hephaestus’s estate was out in the sticks, far removed from the glitz and glamour of the city. A wrought iron fence enclosed the entire property. A mile-long road stretched through the woods toward the main house. No streetlights illuminated the way, but Hermes—like all Gods—could see in the dark, and drove without the aid of his high beams.
We pulled into the driveway and stopped. There were six unmarked black cars parked near the front door. Their headlights shined brightly, though the vehicles were empty. Two OBI agents in black suits were conversing at the bottom of the steps. One looked human. The other was a satyr. I didn’t recognize either of them.
From the outside, Hephaestus’s mansion was a looming fortress of gray stone, complete with ramparts and a bell tower. There were no windows, no decorative shrubbery. If those walls could talk, they’d say, “Get lost!”
We got out of the car and approached the front door. The two agents nodded at Hermes as he passed.
“Sir,” they said in unison.
He didn’t acknowledge them, and continued up the stairs to the door. I followed at a sluggish pace, sweating like a pig in the muggy air. The alcohol in my system was gradually wearing off, and I felt the beginnings of a headache. This was going to be a long night.
The inside of the house was a museum. Everywhere I looked, racks and display cases full of weapons lined the walls—guns and blades from various eras throughout history. Most of them had been crafted by Hephaestus himself.
In keeping with the whole medieval fortress motif, stone and mortar covered just about every surface in the living room. The ceiling was arched, the furniture rustic, and crimson banners hung from the walls, emblazoned with images of gold hammers. The stench of rotting flesh hung in the hot air, sticking to the back of my throat.
Hephaestus was sprawled across the floor in a pool of oxidized blood. His severed head lay a few feet away, near the dead fireplace. Blue eyes stared into oblivion. Deformed since birth, his bearded face resembled a lump of bread dough covered in brown hair. Hera had been so disgusted by his appearance that she once threw him from Mount Olympus. Allegedly.
I borrowed a pair of examiner’s gloves from one of the OBI agents and got to work.
From the looks of the body, death had occurred less than twenty-four hours earlier. Visible through the opening in his red-and-black robe, deep gashes laced Hephaestus’s body. Some of the cuts exposed white bone. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the coffee table.
I asked one of the OBI agents if he knew who had reported the murder. He told me they’d gotten an anonymous tip from an unlisted number. My guess was that the call had been made by the killer via a throwaway cell phone. If that was the case, it meant the sick bastard was trying to send a message.
After examining the body, I checked the mansion for clues. The OBI agents had already done a preliminary sweep. I made sure they hadn’t overlooked anything. The upper floors were mazes of interconnecting hallways, doors that led to nowhere, and rooms that were totally empty. Not only that, but most of the areas were identical, which made navigating them a pain in the ass.
Ultimately, my search of the upper floors yielded no clues. I moved downstairs to the basement, where I found Hephaestus’s workshop filled with workbenches, tool cabinets, and piles of techno-junk. A giant anvil sat in the middle of the room. Scraps of metal—gold, silver, platinum—littered the anvil and the floor around it. Gemstones of various shapes and colors glittered on a nearby table.
Hephaestus had been working on something prior to his death—probably a sword. An ornate one, considering the high quality materials. In one of the wastebaskets, I found a crumpled receipt. The ink was badly faded, making it nearly illegible. The only information I gathered from it was the name of a store. Marvin’s Scrap Heap, an industrial warehouse. The receipt wasn’t the case-cracking piece of evidence I had been hoping for, but it was better than nothing.
During my search, I noticed a number of surveillance cameras strategically placed throughout the house. I asked to see the footage from that day. One of the OBI agents told me that the digital memory cards had been removed from the cameras, presumably by the killer. Looking at the victim’s computer for clues was also a no-go. Hephaestus didn’t have an e-mail account, and his personal files were heavily encrypted. It would take weeks to decipher them. And if that wasn’t irritating enough, I couldn’t check his phone records because he didn’t own a phone. I can respect a person’s desire for privacy, but this was ridiculous.
On the whole, my search of the mansion was a bust. There was no indication of forced entry and no missing property except—possibly—the memory cards. The killer might have left behind a couple fingerprints for forensics to discover, but I doubted it. Whoever pulled this off was good. Damn good.
Nearly three hours had passed. I was short on answers and ready to call it quits. I pulled off my examiner’s gloves and tossed them in the wastebasket. Most of the OBI agents were outside by now, combing the surrounding area. Those who remained indoors took notes and snapped pictures.
Hermes waited for me in the foyer, looking at his watch.
“Did you find anything?” he asked.
“Not muc
h.” I blotted the sweat from my brow. “From the looks of it, Hephaestus was mauled by a large animal.”
“You think an animal did this?”
“Nope.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But it’s not human.”
“What else?” Hermes asked.
“I think Hephaestus knew the killer.”
That seemed to interest him. “What makes you say that?”
“He was dressed as if he’d been expecting company. Also, there was a bottle of wine on the coffee table—with two glasses.”
Hermes nodded slowly.
“Did Hephaestus have any close friends?” I asked.
“No,” Hermes said at once.
“You sound awfully sure about that.”
“I am sure.”
“Mind telling me why?”
Hermes’s lips twitched upward like he wanted to laugh. “Do I even need to explain? Just look at him. Hephaestus was a freak. The Gods wanted nothing to do with him. Why do you think he lived all the way out here by himself?”
I shook my head in disgust. Hephaestus had been brutally murdered, and Hermes, his half-brother, didn’t give a crap. Where I come from, you’re obligated to care about your family members, even if you don’t get along with them. It’s just the right thing to do. In Hermes’s case, omnipotence and compassion were as incompatible as oil and water.
“If you hate him so much, then why bother investigating his murder?” I asked.
“Because we must.” Hermes looked at me as though I should have already known the answer. “What do you think will happen if the public finds out that Gods can die, that we can be killed?”
I shrugged. “My guess is chaos.”
Hermes nodded smartly. “Precisely. So far, we’ve been able to keep these murders confidential. But if we don’t find this killer before he strikes again, things could get ugly.”
“Good point.”
“So how do you suggest we proceed?”
“First you should make a list of potential suspects,” I suggested. “Do you know of anyone or anything powerful enough to kill a God?”
“No.”
He answered without hesitation, and there was no deception in his tone, at least none that I could pick up on. But his eyes darted to the side for a split second, and I couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest with me.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Hermes frowned. The Gods hate to repeat themselves. Asking them to do so is often considered an insult. I was too hot and too tired to care.
“Positive,” Hermes said.
“Well it sounds like you’ve got a problem.”
“Do you have any useful advice?”
I nodded. “Start your search at home.”
“At home?”
“Yeah.”
Hermes narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”
“From what you told me, the Gods weren’t too fond of Hephaestus. The killer could be one of your own.”
“That’s absurd!” Hermes snapped. “We would never murder one of our own—not even a black sheep like Hephaestus. And let me remind you that Eileithyia was well respected on Olympus. If the killer’s problem was with Hephaestus, why would he go after her as well?”
He had me there. “I’m not sure. There is one thing that interests me though.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact that Eileithyia and Hephaestus are both children of Zeus and Hera.”
Hermes raised his eyebrows. “Do you think someone is targeting the First Family?”
“It’s possible.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“That’s for you to figure out. I’ve done my job. I investigated the crime scene and gave my honest opinion. Now it’s time for you to keep your part of the deal.”
Hermes didn’t argue. He gestured for me to follow him outside. We walked across the front lawn to his car. At some point in history, he had traded in his winged sandals for a white Ferrari Enzo. A nice upgrade, in my opinion. He unlocked the doors and we got in.
“Are you sure you won’t help us?” he asked.
“Afraid so.”
“Have it your way, Mr. Jones.” Hermes started the engine.
14
It was after one o’clock when I got back to the Night Owl. The crowd had thinned out, but not by much. A man in a green Hawaiian shirt was onstage, singing the worst rendition of Mister Mister’s “Broken Wings” I had ever heard. The audience cheered him on.
Geno sat at the bar with his head in his hands, snoring. His now-messy hair hung over his face. A beer in his hand, Herc looked no worse than he had several hours ago.
“Where’d you run off to?” he asked me.
I sat on the stool beside him. “I had something I needed to take care of.”
Herc remained silent for a time, staring at his beer, his brow furrowed. Then he said, “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.”
“In private?”
“Uh, okay.”
We got up and went to the restroom. There was no one inside. Herc paced back and forth for close to a minute. Then he placed his hands on the counter.
“I have a confession to make,” he said.
“Let me guess. You still watch cartoons?”
“No. I mean yes. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. Truth is, the whole thing about Hebe wanting to remodel the kitchen, it was a lie. I’m really sorry.”
I shook my head as if to say forget about it. “Why lie about something like that?”
Herc returned a guilty smile. “To throw you off.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“I didn’t want you to be suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I said. “What in the world are you talking about?”
Herc hesitated. “Jonesy, I have a favor to ask.”
“What is it?”
“Did you hear about Eileithyia’s murder?”
I already didn’t like where this was going. I nodded slowly. “Yeah, what about it?”
“I want you to investigate it.”
Son of a . . . I knew he was up to no good. That explained the generosity. And the willingness to get on stage and make a fool of himself. It all made sense now.
“That’s a big favor,” I said.
Herc raked his fingers through his hair. “Hebe is pretty broken up about losing her sister. She wants justice.”
“I’m sensing there’s more to this.”
Herc nodded again. “Someone out there has the power to kill Gods. Until they’re captured, no immortal is safe.”
“You’re worried about the killer coming after Hebe?”
“Yeah.”
I felt obligated to tell him about Hephaestus’s death, but decided against it. It would only exacerbate the situation. Besides, I already had that creep, Hermes, breathing down my neck. I didn’t need my best friend laying on the pressure as well.
“I just want to keep her safe,” Herc said, just above a whisper. “You’ve got to help.”
I shook my head. “Hermes already approached me about this, and I refused. I don’t involve myself with Godly matters. You know that. I’m sorry but I can’t do it.”
Hercules spun toward me, his eyes wide and intense. Though I knew he’d never hurt me, I couldn’t help flinching. I fought the urge to look away.
“If you won’t do it for the Gods, then do it for me,” he pleaded. “I’ll even . . . pay you. Whatever you want.”
I stared down at my feet. “I don’t know, Herc . . .”
“Please! Hebe is everything to me. If someone was out to kill Alexis, wouldn’t you want to stop them?”
I chose not to answer
that. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises.”
Herc beamed. He pulled me into the grandfather of all bear hugs. I thought he was going to crush my spine.
“Thanks, Jonesy!”
I frantically tapped him on the back, hoping he’d let me go so I could breathe normally again.
“Oh!” He released me.
I fell to the ground, wheezing. Herc hauled me to my feet.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” I squeezed out.
“Sorry about that.” He flashed me a sheepish grin. “Guess I got a little excited.”
“Only a little? Y’know, you could make a killing as a chiropractor.”
Herc laughed. “Thanks again, Jonesy.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I said I’d think about it.”
Herc seemed not to hear. His grin widened. “Come on. Let’s get back to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink. Anything you want under five credits. How’s that sound?”
I shook my head. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m done for the night.”
“You heading out?”
“Yep.”
Herc’s smiled faltered. “Oh, okay. See you later then.”
I left without another a word.
15
I woke up before dawn with a hangover. I had a massive headache, and nausea churned in my stomach. My mouth and throat were bone dry. It was as if I had swallowed a cup of sand. But as crappy as I felt, I knew things could’ve been a lot worse. Investigating the crime scene had burned off some of the alcohol.
I shambled out of my bedroom, exhausted and feeling like I had to throw up. I hadn’t been able to get much rest. Two or three hours, if that much. The rest of the time I spent rolling around in the sheets, trying to get comfortable. For some reason, I can never sleep after a night of heavy drinking. Some people are snoring after two or three drinks. But not me.
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