Hell You Say

by Josh Lanyon

  Angus had a bail hearing set for the following day. Personally, I thought he was probably safer in jail, judging by the tenor of most of the news stories. There was a lot of crap about Satanism on the air and the signs parents should watch for in their own children — starting with an interest in heavy metal or New Age rock music and shimmy shimmy ko-ko bopping right on down the line to drug use and burglary.

  There was a startling amount of misinformation out there.

  Not that the basic tenets of Satanism weren’t startling all on their own. There were a few commonsense rules like not complaining about stuff you didn’t need to subject yourself to, but there were more troubling recommendations, like When walking in open territory, bother no one. If one bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.

  Say again? Was that symbolic destruction, or magical destruction, or a practical application like slicing and dicing classmates?

  “Did you know he was a devil worshipper?” Velvet inquired, after we had hung up on our fourth journalist that day.

  No need to ask to whom she referred. “No,” I said shortly. Naturally she would be curious about her forerunner, but I didn’t want to discuss Angus like he was past tense — jailed and the key thrown away.

  “Did he ever talk about…stuff?”

  “No.” That seemed a bit curt, so I added, “He wasn’t a gabby guy.”

  “Did he work for you a long time?”

  “Not quite a year.” And his predecessor had been murdered. I was going to have to take another look at the benefits package I offered my employees.

  “I used to know a girl involved in that stuff.”

  “Good friend?”

  “No,” she murmured. “It’s hard to get close to people like that.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  She laughed. I’d never heard her laugh before. It came out unexpectedly shrill. “I don’t know! They don’t want to be close to other people. They don’t need them.”

  “It’s a lonely way to live.”

  “Being alone is not the same as lonely.”

  “That’s true.” I handed her the list of reserved and requested books that had arrived with that day’s shipment. “What finally happened to your friend?”

  She shrugged inside her navy cardigan. “Nothing. I lost track of her. Do you think What’s-his-name is guilty?”

  “No.”

  She smiled. She had small, white teeth — like milk teeth. “But you never know, do you?”

  “No,” I said, eyeing her plump back as she turned away with the list. “You never do.”

  * * * * *

  Friday morning I had a call from Bob Friedlander.

  “I need to see you right away. Can you drop by the hotel?” He sounded sober and a lot more reasonable than the last time we’d spoken. Still I was wary.

  “Maybe this afternoon. We’re busy this morning.”

  “It’s important that we talk. It’s about Gabe.”

  “Shouldn’t you call the police?”

  He said hastily, “It’s not like that. I just thought you’d be interested. Why don’t you come for lunch?”

  I glanced at Velvet and the line at the counter. “I can’t do lunch. I can try for later. Maybe around three or so.”

  “Okay, that will work. I’ll see you then.” He put the phone down with a clatter.

  An instant later the phone rang again. I picked up.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Guy inquired in that lazy semi-English accent. I heard the smile in his voice. And there was an answering smile in my own.

  “Working.”

  “Would you like to drive out to Oliver Garibaldi’s house in Pacific Palisades? Maybe stop for lunch?”

  As far as I recalled there was no actual rule against mixing meals with sleuthing in the Boy’s Official Guide to Detection.

  “Sure.”

  “Be sure to bring that photo of the sigil left on your doorstep. Oliver is interested in seeing it.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll pick you up around ten tomorrow.”

  I cast a guilty look at poor Velvet, innocently ringing purchases at the register. The sleuthing was becoming an obsession. Not only was it cutting into all my free time, I was actually putting it before my livelihood.

  I was pretty sure that it didn’t boil down to wanting to see Guy again.

  I replied, “It’s a da— deal.” Then I couldn’t help asking, “By the way, has Betty Sansone shown for class?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Didn’t the police interview her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was she there on Wednesday?”

  “You sound surprised. Why shouldn’t she have been?”

  Always eager to practice my diplomatic skills, I said, “I figured she might have been worn out from murdering her pal the night before.”

  Dead silence.

  Finally Guy said briefly, “Well, she’s an excellent student. I imagine she doesn’t cut class regardless of how little sleep she gets.”

  “The fast track for success.”

  “I appreciate that you prefer to believe that my classes are full of psychopaths and devil worshippers.”

  How had we got off onto this? How many times had I heard Jake state that it was crucial an investigator kept his own feelings and beliefs to himself when dealing with potential witnesses? Knowing this, I still said, “I think the subject matter may attract certain people for the wrong reasons.”

  “I see,” he said dryly. “Knowledge should be reserved for the chosen few?”

  “I didn’t say that, but you can’t be unaware that on occasion this stuff has influenced more than a few unbalanced kids.”

  “Here’s the part where you bring up Joseph Fiorella and his mates.” Guy sounded bored.

  “Why, were you their teacher?” I shot back.

  Fourteen-year-old Joseph Fiorella and two of his friends had murdered — and then had sex with — a fifteen-year-old girl with whom Fiorella was obsessed. They had claimed they were inspired by the heavy metal band Slayer and that they had to make a virgin sacrifice to Satan in order to get their own band on the road to success.

  After an affronted pause, Guy said in more normal tones, “As you’re no doubt aware, in the Fiorella case the blame is being placed on the band and their nihilistic message. Which is not to say that in other circumstances an instructor or a local church mightn’t as easily be made the scapegoat by a grieving family.”

  “Look, for obvious reasons I don’t want to see the First Amendment undermined. This is a different issue.”

  “Is it? Well, it should be no surprise to hear that the cops agree with you. I’ve had a couple of interviews with that son of a bitch who was investigating Zellig’s death —”

  “His murder,” I interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Tony Zellig was murdered. He didn’t just die in a car accident or from natural causes. Someone butchered him and buried him in a park.”

  “Yes, someone that the cops believe I inspired and possibly influenced, whether deliberately or not.”

  And the Zellig kid’s fate had been the same as Karen Holtzer’s — and who knew how many others. But I didn’t say that. I felt my popularity index dropping fast as it was. Oddly enough, I regretted that.

  “But regardless of what you or the police or the school administration think,” Guy continued in that chilly voice, “I believe that the examination of the occult is valuable for many reasons, including the fact that it encourages kids to challenge their dearly held knee-jerk assumptions about the world they live in. Knowledge is power.”

  “Yeah, but does everyone need to know how to build an atom bomb?”

  “Perhaps if everyone knew how, no one would make them any longer.”

  “Or maybe we’d blow ourselves into oblivion.” This was stupid. I was arguing with Guy the way you argue with potential — scratch that. I reminded myself that I was not trying to g
et to know Guy; he was a source of information. He was a lead. It did not matter what he thought or I thought. I said, trying to mollify, “It’s not that I disagree with you, I just think there’s a certain responsibility that goes with sharing this information.”

  “I agree — which is why I’m taking you to see Oliver.” He added curtly, “I hope I don’t regret it.”

  I hoped not too. I was very much afraid that Guy had at least one friend who did not deal well with betrayal — whether real or imagined.

  * * * * *

  It was getting close to four o’clock by the time I made it over to the Biltmore, negotiating crowded streets decked with gnarly fake holly boughs and giant silver bells. Even the pawn- and thrift-store windows in the surrounding streets sparkled with colored Christmas lights. Skid Row putting on its holiday finery.

  While Bob did not exactly look rested, he looked like he had paused long enough to bathe and ingest something solid. He was dressed, and other than a nervous tic beneath one eye, seemed pretty normal.

  “How about a drink?” he suggested as I sat in the chair I’d occupied the last time.

  “Not for me, thanks. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on tonight.”

  “Right, me too.” He gave me an uncertain smile. “I have to apologize for Wednesday. I realize I said a lot of crazy things. I’m not used to drinking like that. It was the stress.”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  “When I remember what I said…” He laughed, a ghostly echo of a funhouse laugh. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Like you said, you were stressed about Gabe.”

  “Yes,” he said eagerly. “I’m sure I alarmed you, too, with my…my wilder accusations, which is why I wanted you to know that it’s okay. Everything is okay. Gabe is fine.”

  “He is?”

  He nodded, smiling, the tic beneath his eye beating away. “I got a postcard from him this morning.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Maybe that wasn’t the right response. His smile slipped. “No. Here, I’ll show you.” He rose, went to the desk and picked up a postcard, which he handed me.

  I opened my mouth to mention the possibility of fingerprints, but it seemed pointless now. I took the postcard gingerly and studied it. Malibu Beach at sunset, sure enough. I glanced at the back. The postmark was Malibu, dated yesterday. I considered the handwriting. I’d seen enough of Gabe Savant’s writing the night of the signing to recognize what superficially looked like his bold, erratic hand.

  Sorry, Bobby. I need some me time. You’ll see me when you see me. G.

  “Is this his handwriting?” I asked Bob.

  “Of course!” There it was again, that high-pitched, slightly unsteady laugh. “Of course, it’s his. This is exactly like Gabe.” He got up, as though he couldn’t handle sitting still one minute longer and slopped himself a drink from the bottle on the table.

  “Are you okay?”

  He swung on me, nearly spilling his drink. “Of course, I’m okay! Everything is fine now. I wanted you to know so that you wouldn’t keep” — he swallowed — “worrying. I mean, it’s awkward, of course, to cancel the book tour now. But there was only the Pacific Northwest left anyway. I mean, they’ll get over it. The main thing is that Gabe is A-okay.”

  “That’s great news,” I agreed courteously. “So you don’t actually know where he’s staying?”

  “I don’t need to know.” He tossed his drink back. “So, I want to thank you for all your help.”

  “I didn’t actually do anything.”

  “Well, for your concern, then.” His smile was plastered back in place — plastered being the key word.

  “Will you be leaving soon?” I inquired.

  “Leaving?”

  “You don’t live here, do you? You’re not local?”

  “I — no, I live in New York. And yes, I will be leaving. Shortly. I have to wrap up a few loose ends, then I’ll be flying home. This weekend, in fact.”

  I rose, offered a hand. “Good luck, Bob. I’m glad it all worked out.”

  He stared at me, his expression calculating. “Thank you. And you’ll…”

  He didn’t finish the thought. I said curiously, “I’ll…what?”

  He shook his head, said brightly, “Take care of yourself!”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  If Gabriel Savant was sitting on a beach in Malibu sipping mai tais and enjoying some me time, I was an NHL first-round draft pick. I wasn’t sure why Bob Friedlander felt like he had to convince me his meal ticket was safe and sound, but I wasn’t buying the postcards from the edge act.

  What I didn’t understand was why Bob pretended to.

  I was still turning this over in my mind when I stopped at Vons on the way home to pick up a few essentials, including a couple of steaks on the off-chance that Jake might drop by one evening. The tabloid headlines at the checkout counter reflected the public’s perennial fascination with space alien babies, miracle pets, and celebrity indiscretions. By next week, Angus and Wanda would be hitting the stands.

  Unless Savant’s body had turned up by then.

  If he wasn’t dead, I didn’t get Bob’s distress. Unless Savant was being held for ransom. I’d seen enough crime films to know that kidnappers always wanted their targets to hide what was going on from the police, but I wasn’t the police. I wasn’t involved at all. Okay, maybe I’d shown a little curiosity, but it’s not like I was investing any time or effort in Bob’s problem. I had enough problems of my own.

  Bob was still scared, I thought, going into the dry cleaner’s, but there had been another emotion in play that afternoon. What was it? Suspicion? Yeah, maybe. I tried to remember my first impression of Friedlander the night of the signing. Quiet and mild-mannered. But what else? I thought back. Friedlander had struck me as smart, aware, and apologetic. Clearly he was under no illusions where Savant was concerned. He was used to cleaning up Savant’s messes, used to apologizing for him. Maybe tired of it?

  I picked up my dry cleaning and headed for the local carwash, running this over in my mind.

  He was frightened, he was wary, and he was…guilty?

  * * * * *

  I expected to find everything closed by the time I got back to Cloak and Dagger Books, but when I walked in the side door I found the lights on and an extremely uptight Velvet waiting with a couple of guys. Judging by their suits and ties, I thought they might be plainclothes cops.

  “They said they needed to talk to you,” Velvet said defensively, in answer to my surprise. “Can I go?”

  “Yeah, you can go,” I said, and go she did, banging out through the back.

  The foremost guy, a tanned fifty-something with a gray buzz cut and a Batman tie, introduced himself as Luke Best, one of the legal investigators working for Angus’s defense team.

  I set the grocery bags on the wooden counter. We shook hands. My mind was going a million miles a minute, but I tried not to let any of my alarm show on my face.

  I didn’t catch his partner’s name, but he was a bit younger, lankier, with a superb haircut and no superhero fixation.

  “We want to verify some facts about Angus’s employment,” Best said with a smile I didn’t trust. “This is a nice place you have here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What did you want to ask?”

  “Are we keeping you from putting your groceries away?”

  “They’ll keep.” The personal items Jake left lying around wouldn’t fill a shoebox. But I didn’t want to take a chance. I didn’t want these two upstairs.

  Best and his partner exchanged glances. Then Best proceeded to ask the basics: how long had Angus worked for me, how much did I pay him, what kind of employee was he, did we socialize, blah, blah, blah.

  I was starting to relax when he said, still friendly and easy, “Angus says you paid him quite a bit of money to disappear.”

  I blinked. “You can spin t
hat a couple of ways,” I said. “The truth is, he was scared, and I thought it would be better for him to get away for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t afford to go on his own, so I gave him the money.”

  “This is when the whole Devil-worship issue arose?”

  “Angus had been getting threatening phone calls for a week or so. He’d mentioned having problems with former friends. He didn’t go into a lot of details, and I admit I didn’t pay close attention. I didn’t take it seriously at first, but he got more and more…rattled.”

  Either Best had already heard this, or he wasn’t interested in back story. “A ‘Christmas bonus,’ you told him, although you had never given him a Christmas bonus before.”

  “He didn’t work for me last Christmas.”

  “You never gave him any kind of bonus.”

  I didn’t bother to answer that.

  “Eight hundred dollars is a nice chunk of change. You’re that successful?”

  I wasn’t unsuccessful, but I ordinarily wouldn’t have doled out that kind of cash. Not that I was the cheapskate Jake had on occasion suggested, but I didn’t throw money around. I’d never given Angus any kind of raise after I’d made him a permanent employee, so I’d figured it evened out. He couldn’t have gone far on two hundred bucks, and I had wanted him out from underfoot. I had blithely thought I would drop a word in the right ear, and the whole mess would blow over. Well, I’d been wrong — not for the first time.

  How did I explain all that to Joe Friday?

  He didn’t wait for me to explain, apparently believing he had scored with his last question.

  “How well do you know the detective who discovered the body?”

  “Jake Riordan,” his partner put in suddenly.

  I thought, here it comes. Meanwhile, the entire damn neighborhood knows we’re sleeping together. I said noncommittally, “I know him.”