by Josh Lanyon
Naturally I wanted to spend Christmas with Jake, but I realized that was unlikely. He would spend it with his family, who after forty years apparently had no clue that James Patrick Riordan had a yen for men. Despite the fact that he spent a couple of nights a week under my roof and in my bed, there was no way that Jake was going to set them straight (as it were).
Nor was he likely to spend Christmas on my turf. He wasn’t thrilled about the fact that my mother and Chan, his partner on the force, knew we had a relationship. Add four more strangers to the mix, and I’d probably never see him again.
Jake had vacation time coming — he always had vacation time coming, because he was a workaholic — and for a while I had toyed with the idea of trying to persuade him to take a trip for the holidays. I thought that on neutral ground, someplace where no one knew either of us, he might relax again, and we might regain the closeness we had shared the previous spring. But I had never got around to asking him — mostly because I was fairly sure he’d say no.
There were a few forlorn Christmas lights as I drove down Colorado Boulevard. The lamppost holly wreaths had a windblown, ghost-town look. I turned off onto the quiet side street, driving past mostly dark shops and closed businesses.
I lived over the bookstore. The building had originally been a small hotel built back in the ’30s. I’d bought the place not long after I’d inherited a chunk of change from my paternal grandmother. I’d graduated from Stanford with a degree in literature and a vague idea that running a bookstore would be a good day job for a writer. A decade later it turned out that writing wasn’t a bad hobby for a guy who ran a bookstore.
Old Town was a happening place at night, but not in my neighborhood. Around here it emptied out about eight o’clock. Generally I liked the privacy. Tonight it felt lonely.
I wondered if Jake might have left a message on the answering machine, but I knew that was unlikely. I wouldn’t see him tonight, not two nights in a row. The CD started over. I listened to the sweet sorrowful chords of “Rain,” reached over to turn off the player.
Turning into the alley behind the store, my headlights slid across the brick wall of the back of the building. I caught a gleam, like eyes shining in the gloom. I had a confused glimpse of something uncomfortably like heels disappearing out of the spotlight of my headlights. I jammed on the brakes.
Had I imagined it?
I waited, engine idling, exhaust red in the Forester’s taillights, windshield wipers squeaking against the glass.
No movement in the shadows.
A cat, I thought.
A really tall cat.
A really tall cat wearing sneakers.
I took my foot off the brake, rolled quietly into my parking space. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned off the ignition.
A gust of wind sent a milk carton skittering along the asphalt. It was the only sound in the alley, the only movement.
I got out of the SUV and went inside.
* * * * *
Things looked brighter in the morning, but that was due to sunshine slicing through the leaden cloud cover, not any emotional epiphany on my part.
I had requested that the temp agency open another can of sales associates. They sent me Mrs. Tum. Mrs. T was a diminutive and elderly lady with practically no English, which provided insight into how the agency perceived my business.
Mrs. Tum also appeared to be rather excitable in nature, as I discovered when she tried to explain to me about the graffiti on the front step.
Finally, when I was still no comprende-ing, Mrs. T grabbed my arm with her doll-sized hands and hauled me outside, where I had an up close and personal view of what appeared to be a pentagram drawn in blood on my threshold.
Chapter Four
“Still think it’s harmless fun?” Jake inquired, after I had finished filing my complaint with the uniformed patrolman who answered my call.
“Refresh my memory. When did I ever say I didn’t take this crap seriously?”
“Quiet,” he muttered, as the officer returned after a brief conference with his compadre.
“It’s not blood,” Officer Hinojosa informed me. “The color is a good match, but it’s paint.”
Not blood was good. Very good. I let out the breath I seemed to have been holding for the last hour.
“Not blood? Just…custom color, huh? Well, is it okay if I wash the evidence away? It’s liable to wreck the Christmas vibe.” I had already used my digital camera to take several photos of the artwork. Not that I had high hopes that they were going to be bringing anyone to trial in the near future.
Hinojosa shook his head regretfully. “It’s enamel. Quick drying. I don’t think you can wash it. I think you have to paint over it.”
“Nah, it’ll come off with paint solvent,” the other uniform said, joining us.
“Not if it’s dried.”
“Yeah, it’ll come off if you put some elbow grease into it.”
“No. But you might be able to cover it with that concrete resurfacing paint.”
“You could try that Goof Off stuff.”
It was like Home Improvement with guns. Jake gave it up after a minute or two and stepped inside the shop. I waited it out. Eventually they called a draw, told me to have a nice day, got back in their patrol car, and drove away.
I located Jake cornered by Mrs. T at the coffeemaker.
I wasn’t exactly sure why or how Jake had appeared on the scene of what, after all, was merely a vandalism complaint, but I had been glad to see him. Mrs. T did not seem similarly reassured. Her doll arms were flailing around like the button on her remote control was stuck. I made out one word in ten of that rapid-fire exchange.
“What language is that?” Jake inquired, sotto voce, as I joined them.
“I thought it was Spanish, but I’m beginning to think she’s speaking in tongues.”
“It’s not Spanish.”
I nodded earnestly, smiled at Mrs. T like I’ve seen legions of immigrant workers do to Lisa when they don’t have a clue what she’s requesting of them.
She shook her head at my obvious stupidity and stalked away. Jake took off his sunglasses, picked up my camera. He studied the photos in the monitor.
“What did you plan on doing with these?”
I knew I was going to have to come clean sooner or later, so I said, “I’m not sure. I thought I might show them to Angus’s professor at UCLA.”
His gaze narrowed on me like he was lining me in the crosshairs.
“What professor is that?”
“Van Helsing,” I said at random, hesitating (not sure why) to give up Snowden to the long arm of the law. “Didn’t I mention —?”
He was not amused. “I don’t recall the name of the professor being mentioned. I wasn’t aware you knew the guy’s name. Are you telling me you’ve talked to him?”
“Briefly.”
“Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you just give me his name and let me deal with it? Seeing that it’s what I’m paid to do.”
He had a point, so I responded a little irritably. “I don’t know, Jake. Speaking from personal experience, it’s not exactly a joy ride when the police show up at your place of employment asking questions. I didn’t know that it was warranted.”
“Warranted?” His face tightened. “That’s not for you to decide. You’re not a cop. I told you I wanted to talk to Angus, that I thought there was a chance he might be able to provide a lead on these killings. You didn’t think I’d be interested in knowing the name of the professor who started all this shit?”
“All what shit? You also said you realized that there probably wasn’t a connection between your case and this.”
“That girl they dug up in the Hollywood Hills? Her name was Karen Holtzer. She was a student at UCLA.”
“Yeah? She have any life or interests beyond being a student at UCLA?”
It occurred to me that what was really biting him was the fact that he hadn’t considered tracking back to the original cl
ass Angus had attended or the professor who had taught it — and I had.
But I didn’t want to fight with Jake; I saw little enough of him as it was. I said, “Look…” and filled him in on exactly what had been said — and to whom.
When I’d finished Jake stared at me like he’d never seen the species before. “What the hell are you doing butting in on this?” he asked. “You’re not the punk’s father. Or do you have something going with him too?”
I admit that took me off guard. My stomach dropped a floor or two. I blinked at him, at a loss for words. I had a sudden vision of myself lying in his arms, soaked and sticky with his cum. Did he honest to God think —?
He glared back at me, but then his gaze swerved. He grimaced. “Forget it.” He sighed. “Adrien, you’re trying to help the kid, but for all you know you made it worse, and now you’ve set yourself up as a target too.”
“You don’t know that. Snowden may not have talked to anybody yet. This could be the natural progression.”
He was silent. Too silent. When he could apparently trust himself to speak, he said crisply, “I’m going to tell you nicely. Stay out of it.” He slid his sunglasses back on. I had twin reflections of myself looking pissed. “Understood?”
“Got it,” I bit out.
It didn’t go a long way to cooling me down when he reached over and gave my hair a quick, casual ruffle before turning to go.
* * * * *
The shop was called Dragonwyck. As fate would have it, it occupied the building which had once housed Café Noir. The pink stucco walls were painted with ivy and thorns and magic symbols. In the glass-front box that used to display the menu was a listing of the classes offered for the winter session: Magickal Tools taught by Rhiannon. Dreams and Divination taught by Cassandra. Finding and Communicating with Spirit Guides taught by Ariel.
I stepped inside and was greeted by soft sitar music and the scent of incense. The place was brightly lit, clean, and well organized, which I didn’t expect. If Claude’s spirit was still hanging around, I couldn’t tell. Neatly labeled shelves were packed with books, gems, minerals, crystals, candles, candles, more candles, goblets, chalices, incense, oils, and bumper stickers.
Goddess on the loose
My other car is a broom
Witches Parking (all others will be toad)
A plump, middle-aged woman stood at the counter dressed in purple tie-dyed gauze. She had a kind, freshly-scrubbed face — nothing like the babes on Charmed.
“Blessed be,” she greeted me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Can I help you find something? Herbal tea? A Renaissance Fair costume?” She twinkled at me. “A love potion?”
Herbal tea is one thing, but did I look like the kind of guy in the market for a Renaissance Fair costume?
“Information.”
She tipped down her gold-wire specs, peered at me.
I showed her a couple of the photos I had enlarged on my computer and printed out.
She stared for a long time, frowning. Then she said, “This is an inverted pentagram. It symbolizes the Morning Star — Venus — and Satan. That’s not what we’re about. We’re Wicca. We have nothing to do with Satan.”
That sounded familiar. I’d done reading on the subject years ago. Nothing attracts adolescents like the promise of supernatural powers. If ever a kid had felt the need to overcompensate, it was me.
“In fact, we don’t recognize a supreme evil deity like Lucifer or Satan, whatever you want to call Him,” she added. “We worship the God and the Goddess, the harmony of male and female. We honor Mother Earth and hold all of nature sacred. This…” She looked at the photo. “This is entirely different. This is…evil.”
“It’s annoying, anyway.”
She shook her head, insisting, “It’s evil.”
“What does the symbol in the center of the pentagram represent?”
She hesitated. “Ariel,” she said softly, gazing past me.
For a second, I thought she meant that the symbol represented Ariel. The only Ariel I knew was the spirit who served Prospero in The Tempest, and I didn’t believe that was even a real supernatural entity. There was motion behind me. Another Wiccan appeared, this one, tall, bony, freckled, clad in flowing green tie-dye. Apparently she’d been lurking amongst the dried lemongrass and sassafras.
They reminded me of the fairies in Sleeping Beauty. I was tempted to ask where Merryweather was.
Ariel wafted past me. She examined the photograph her soul sister held out. She blanched.
“The Ars Goetia?” The first one inquired.
Ariel nodded. She looked at me. “This symbol is a seal. A personal signature representing a demon. A high-ranking demon.”
I certainly didn’t want any low-ranked demons loitering about the place. “So…what does that mean? I’ve been cursed?”
They both made these quick, almost imperceptible hand gestures. Were they averting the Evil Eye or giving me a witchy high five?
“This is your home?” Ariel inquired gravely.
What did I have to lose by telling the truth?
“I own the property,” I compromised.
“Not good,” Ariel said to the other one. “Cassandra?”
Cassandra shook her head.
“This is out of our realm,” she told me apologetically. “The Howling Art is not one of ours.”
“That makes three of us.”
Ariel said tentatively, “We could…refer you to someone.”
“Okay.” A specialist. I knew how that worked.
The Wiccans looked at each other, seemed to exchange info via the Psychic Network. Cassandra disappeared into the back room, which had formerly served as the kitchen at Café Noir.
She reappeared a moment later and handed me a business card. I glanced at it. There was a phone number in silver script. That was it.
“An’ it harm none, do what ye will,” said Ariel.
“Words to live by,” I agreed.
* * * * *
I left a message for Professor Snowden with the history department secretary. I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. Maybe he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the Wild Bunch yet. Maybe he had no intention of talking to them. Or maybe I had miscalculated, and talking to them had made them more aggressive.
In any case, further sleuthing on my part had to wait until I’d solved the case of getting coverage at the store.
Mrs. T did not seem any happier with the streaky results of my efforts to clean the front stoop than she had been with the original pentagram. She kept looking at me and shaking her head sadly as though she could already foresee my unfortunate end. But what settled the matter was the fact that every time a customer neared the cash register, she came haring after me, frantically flapping her tiny hands over her tiny head in the universally recognized gesture for The sky is falling!
We waved good-bye to each other at the end of the day. I called the agency asking for a replacement. While I microwaved a frozen dinner, I thumbed through the Los Angeles Times.
missing teenager may have been victim of cult
Investigators digging in Eaton Canyon Park late Saturday night unearthed what they believe are the remains of a teenager who disappeared two years ago.
The badly decomposed body of a young white male was discovered in a shallow grave beneath a tree carved with symbols believed to have occult significance. Similar symbols were found on the victim’s body. A source close to the investigation confirmed that the heart of the victim had been removed.
Detective James Riordan of the Pasadena Police Department refused to speculate on a possible link between this death and the discovery of a woman’s similarly mutilated body in the Hollywood Hills last month.
As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.
Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.
Chapter Five
“I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday night’s Partners in Cri
me writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
“You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my handiwork.
“I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”
I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.
I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.
“Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”
Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual friendship — which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.
“A task force?”
“Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.
If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything remotely occult-oriented.
I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder — let alone two murders. I mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.