Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons Read online

  He waved at two chairs. “Take a seat.”

  Stirland swung his chair to face us. “What can we do for you? Do you have information on the Summers case?”

  Probably the reason they let us up here. “Nope,” I smiled sweetly. “Just catching up. Wondering how you’re doing nowadays. How are the wife and kids, by the way?”

  His expression set, then relaxed as he followed my gaze to a framed photo on his desk. A pretty woman with short red hair stood next to him, between them a red-haired boy of around six years and girl perhaps eight years. “They’re fine, thank you.”

  “And the new baby boy?”

  His face froze again, then his eyes narrowed. “Have you been checking up on me?”

  “You have spit-up on your lapel.” As he grasped his lapel and looked down, I tugged the big, cheap cigar bound with a blue band from beneath a few sheets of paper and twirled it in my fingers. “How old is he?”

  He gave me a filthy look. “Five days. Why are you here?”

  “What progress have you made with the investigation?” Royal asked, as if he actually thought they’d tell us.

  “Mortensen,” Stirland said, gazing levelly at Royal. “Heard of you. You were a hotshot at Clarion till you gave it up to go into business with Miss Banks. Was it worth it?”

  Royal’s expression went cool, but he simply said, “Yes.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “We are professionals, Detective. You could cut us some slack.”

  “Maybe I could,” Stirland said, “if Miss Banks didn’t have a strong connection to the victim.”

  I pursed my lips. “I wouldn’t call it strong.”

  “Come on, Banks, she was on her way to you,” Haney said.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “But not to my knowledge.”

  “You know how it goes, Banks,” from Stirland. His eyes narrowed on me. “You give us a little, we give you a little, but you neglected to mention the workshop you attended with Ms. Summers was for police consultants.”

  I fell back in the chair. “Oops. I did, didn’t I. Didn’t think it was relevant.”

  He stood and took his jacket off his chair. “Sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

  “Nah.” I flapped my hand. “We were passing by anyway, been to the mall. Had to update my wardrobe.”

  He perched one hip on the desk. “You must have a favorite store to drive to University Mall from Clarion.”

  I didn’t even blink. “Yeah, Charlotte Russe.”

  His lip curled as he looked me over. Charlotte Russe is so not my style. I’m more an L. L. Bean kind of girl.

  Royal and I got upright, nodded at the detectives in lieu of a farewell and headed for the exit.

  Although he sneered in an undertone, I heard Stirland’s, “Freak.”

  I’ve heard it before, but never with a depth of disgust which made my stomach clench. I was back at Stirland’s desk and in his face faster than Royal, and that’s saying something. And I mean in his face, so close I saw every individual eyelash. My voice snarled. “You wanna see freak, Stirland?”

  Royal stood there with me, hands fisted at his sides, angled slightly over the shorter detective so Stirland had to look up at our faces. And Royal’s face was chiseled of marble.

  His voice sounded cold enough to make a ghost shiver. “I hope I was mistaken in what I heard.”

  Stirland stuck his thumbs in his belt and puffed out his chest. “Back off, before I arrest you for obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty.”

  “Fuck you, Stirland,” I contributed.

  Haney couldn’t decide what to do. He took a step toward us, glanced at me, stepped back. He knew his partner had crossed the line. He looked at me again and shrugged, then sat in the edge of his desk.

  Royal’s lip curled. He sneered in Stirland’s face. “As I recall, the code of conduct does not condone insulting civilians.”

  “Unless they’re out of earshot,” Haney murmured. Maybe Stirland made a habit of running his mouth off at civilians and Haney didn’t approve.

  Royal had not taken his eyes off Stirland; they shot daggers at the detective. “And as for obstruction … step outside, and I will show you the meaning of obstruction.”

  Haney tugged his earlobe. “Mortensen, did it escape your notice there are twelve officers in here, all of them armed?”

  “No, it did not.”

  I held my breath. Royal kept his sneer.

  “Ooh er,” Carrie whispered.

  I grabbed Royal’s arm and tried to tow him from the room, but he refused to pick up his pace. He strolled. As we came to the door, he pivoted on his heel and gave Stirland an arctic look. Stirland didn’t respond, but Royal’s expression made me shiver.

  “Bye—bye,” Carrie said. “See you tomorrow then.”

  The temptation to reply itched at me.

  “Don’t worry about a thing!” she called as we went through the door.

  If I were not worried before, I was now. We had thoroughly pissed off Stirland and that was not good.

  At the exit, Royal held the door open for me and stood aside to let me through. Our feet beat down the steps.

  I squeezed his arm. “I can’t believe you said that.” I made my voice deep and ominous. “Step outside and I will show you the meaning of obstruction.”

  He grumbled something under his breath, followed by, “I will not allow any man to insult you.”

  I felt the weight of his gaze on me. “Hey, I had it under control.”

  “’Fuck you’ is under control?”

  I tried to sound serious, but it is hard when you want to laugh. “I kind of like having my personal knight in shining armor. Someone to defend my honor. Gives me the warm fuzzies. Though maybe you can hold off on threatening the next cop we lock horns with.”

  He unlocked the truck with the remote. “I will do my best, but no promises.”

  “Banks!” Haney yelled. We looked back. The detective ambled down the steps, tie swinging and jacket flapping open. “Wait up.”

  We waited. My lips felt stiff as he reached us, I didn’t have friendly feelings toward anything Provo PD at the moment.

  He tried a smile, but dropped it as I stared stonily. “My partner was out of line.”

  “Is that an apology? It’d mean something if it came from him.”

  One eye squinched up. “A fake psychic took his mom for thousands after his dad died.”

  I should give Stirland a break? Sorry, I am not the forgiving type when it comes to blaming me for something I had nothing to do with. “So he tars everyone with the same brush?”

  “Bias has no place in law enforcement,” Royal said.

  “Yeah, in a perfect world.” Haney gave an apologetic shrug, “Drive safe,” and headed back to the PD.

  Royal and I got in the car. I humphed as my rear hit the seat. Royal, wisely, said nothing more.

  We drove away, but headed south, not north back to Clarion. I wanted a look at that construction site to reassure myself Lynn’s shade was not there. Not that I distrusted Mike, I just had to see for myself.

  We found the place easily enough, a dusty corner lot with an unbroken view of two sides, the market’s skeleton set back about fifty feet from the road. Although we could not get on the site, I would have seen Lynn in the area marked off with yellow tape if she died there.

  She came home on the 10th, and stopped in Wendover the evening of the 11th, so must have left for Utah that morning. She stayed in Wendover only four hours, and Wendover to Clarion is a four hour drive. She could have got to me early on the 12th.

  Wendover to Provo is a two and a half hour drive. The foreman found her the morning of the 12th, but not that early, which left a time gap plenty long enough for someone to stop her. And kill her. It added up

  After stopping in Wendy’s for a quick lunch, we arrived in Clarion at one o’clock. I had to see to Mac before we headed for Portland, Oregon, Lynn’s last but one appointment before she died. Lynn saw th
e victims on the 8th, then RP on the 9th. We might have to give up on that one, but I kept repeating the dates and that Lynn broke her practice of noting full names and locations in her address book over and over in my mind.

  Home again. Royal parked the truck in front of the garage. I preceded him inside the house, but made sure he heard the alarm beeping away before I deactivated it.

  I twitched an eyebrow at him. “Thought you’d catch me out again, didn’t ya?”

  He made a lousy attempt to look glum, which made me chuckle. “I hoped to put you over my knee and paddle your derriere.”

  “What is it with wanting to put me over your knee?” As many times as he had threatened, I still didn’t know whether or not to take him seriously.

  He reached out as if to tweak the bodily part in question. I yelped and swatted at him.

  Mac scurried into the hall as Royal shut the front door, then about-turned and made a beeline for his favorite spot, the pantry door.

  I’m surprised he has not worn a Mac-shaped depression in the tile, with the time he spends there.

  “Uh uh,” I told him. “It’s hours till your supper time.” But I gave him a dog biscuit to keep the poor starving creature going.

  Royal headed upstairs to use my computer.

  Mel and Jack were usually all over me, asking what happened, where I had been. Now, they were not even in the kitchen. Clearly, they were ignoring me, which must have been difficult as I am sure they were eager to hear about Provo PD.

  I opened the backdoor. Mac charged out and began his sensory exploration of the backyard.

  I got a diet cola from the refrigerator and sat in a kitchen chair bathed by a hazy sunbeam. The warmth felt good on my back. Popping the tab, I sucked in a big gulp of soda.

  Any minute now.

  “Did you have a fun time in Provo?” Mel asked as she nonchalantly wandered into the kitchen.

  Following behind, Jack went to the backdoor and faced the small window. “I suppose you had to put up with her chewing your ears off the entire time.”

  “Speaking of Carrie, we need a word.” I put my soda can on the table. “You three will drive me out of my mind if you don’t learn to get along.”

  “Easy solution - get rid of her,” Mel said.

  “Why did you bring her inside?” Jack asked.

  “I couldn’t leave her on the sidewalk.”

  “Why not? Nobody invited her. If you’d left her there, she’d have gone away again.”

  “You act like she’s special but she’s just another dead person,” from Mel.

  “So I should have ignored her, not treated her with the same respect as a living person? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Jack opened his mouth, then saw the trap. If I didn’t respect Carrie, why should I respect him? He closed his mouth and let his shoulders drop.

  “You know, I thought you’d enjoy talking to another person. And Carrie has been all over the place, she has a ton of stories.”

  Wrong thing to say.

  Mel soundlessly stamped her foot. “It’s not fair! She can go wherever she wants. We’re stuck here!”

  “Bear in mind it’s not always pleasant for her. Imagine meeting other shades, but they want nothing to do with you. They’re angry and spiteful, because you can do something they can’t. I’m sure it hurts her feelings.”

  Mel folded her arms. “If I could go anyplace, I wouldn’t care what other dead people thought.”

  “Easy to say when you don’t experience it. Look, I have no idea how long she’ll be here and I refuse to listen to you three bickering. If you don’t rein it in, I’ll go stay with Royal.”

  “What about - ”

  “I’ll take Mac with me. He’ll hate it, but better there than with you two, the mood you’re in.”

  Yeah, I bluffed, and hoped they would not call me on it.

  Jack spun and stood with his back to me. “I’ll try to be polite, but if she starts in on me, I’ll give as good as I get.”

  “Me too,” from Mel.

  “Fair enough.”

  Royal came downstairs and in the kitchen. “I cannot find anything more on the Collins/Klein case. It appears to be purely a crime of passion.”

  I glanced at the wall clock and went to the backdoor to call Mac. “We’d better get going.”

  When Mac took his time coming inside, I opened the backdoor and tempted him with a liver treat. The prospect lent speed to his little legs and he tore inside. I knelt to give him the treat and rub behind his ears.

  “You’re leaving already?” Jack said.

  I rose up. “Yeah. See you later.”

  Chapter Seven

  When we arrived in Bel-Athaer this time, we drove straight down Ambrose’s main avenue in a cab which looked like a silver limo. The mountains loomed nearer until I had to crane my neck to look up at them through the window. Just as I decided we must be heading out of town, we took a right along a wide street, which led past a housing estate and on to an industrial park where huge one-level buildings of brick with tin roofs clustered together. The cab dropped us off outside what looked like a warehouse on the park’s farthest boundary.

  Twenty minutes after leaving Clarion, the Way let us out in Maple Valley near Seattle, Washington.

  The Gate looked like a gardener’s shed in a massive white mansion’s backyard. A gardener would get a nasty surprise if he came in to pot a few plants.

  Royal snorted at my expression. “The Gate was here long before this area became so densely populated. The High House owns and maintains this property.”

  I hoped he didn’t see the blush which surely decorated my cheeks, and said casually, “Figured it was something like that. I guess they own that building on Montague Square too.”

  It must have been seventy degrees. The sun glowed in a cloudless blue sky. We climbed a sloping lawn, the dense, manicured grass springy beneath my feet, to a swimming pool shaped like a kidney. A breeze rippled the aqua-blue water. Tables with colorful folded umbrellas dotted a wide patio beyond the pool and the first floor’s French windows rose behind. The mansion looked like a Mediterranean villa, with big urns marching along the patio. A stone balcony ran the full width of the second floor.

  “Does someone live here?”

  “Yes, as a security measure.”

  “Huh. Well, if they want to move on, I’m open to taking over from them.” What a palace.

  Royal led me past the white mansion to a huge garage. He opened the side door and I followed him inside a space as big as my entire house, if you put the upstairs alongside the downstairs. Cars and trucks were parked in neat rows.

  He went to a 2010 silver Lincoln Town Car and opened the front passenger door.

  “We’re driving? It’ll take forever.”

  “About three hours,” he said as he guided me in and I settled on the leather seat. “We can spare the time.”

  And easier on me than the demon dash. My upper lip curled at the thought of demon-dashing one hundred and forty-five miles. Royal would be too exhausted and I too sick to do more than collapse. “Yeah, we drive,” I agreed. “But is taking a car okay?”

  “The vehicles, like the house, belong to the High House. They are here for those who need transportation.”

  He shut the door and went around to the driver’s side. I buckled the seat belt as he got in. We drove out of the giant garage a minute later.

  I enjoyed the drive through a part of the country I had not seen before. We parked at the Walmart Neighborhood Market in Beaverton and Royal zipped us to downtown Portland and the Economy Lodge, a basic but decent two-floor motel. We sat on a low concrete wall where I bent my head and groaned. Even the short spurt to the motel affected me.

  He massaged my nape beneath my braid. “Feel bad again?”

  “Too much in the last few days, I guess. The things I do for truth, justice and the American way of life.”

  A few minutes later we went up the outside staircase to the top floor and left to the e
nd unit, hoping it was vacant, or at least unoccupied at the moment. Royal knocked. No one answered the door.

  I kept watch as Royal picked the lock and opened the door. He captured my hand as I moved around him. “Careful in there.”

  I smiled, pulled my hand free and rested the palm on his silken hair. “I will.”

  Since my encounter with Rosa in Boston, he had told me to take care every time I met a new shade. Rosa threw objects around the hotel suite in which she died and nearly nailed me with a plant pot. Normally, though, dead people are no danger to me or anyone else.

  I went inside and shut the door.

  White walls, a light-green carpet, queen-sized bed with a floral cover and the golden—oak headboard fastened to the wall. The headboard matched a long, low wall unit, bedside cabinet, dining table, two chairs and a desk. A small refrigerator sat in the corner with a microwave on top and a coffee maker on top of that. The paint and carpet still smelled new. A door standing ajar looked into the bathroom.

  Polly Klein sat on the bed with her legs outstretched and spine against the headboard. In her mid—fifties with short brown-and blond—streaked hair and misty green eyes, her pink camisole and bikini briefs hugged a trim figure. The hole in her forehead was small, but I bet the exit wound took out the back of her skull. Happily, I could not see it. A little blood surrounded the wound and had left a track down beside her nose.

  Terry Collins, in blue and green plaid boxers, sat in a green armchair which looked like a small chaise longue beside the window, a sash window with air conditioner installed. His hands were flat on a small side table. He looked untouched. The bullet must have lodged in his body and not exited his pale, chunky chest, so blood did not make a mess of the wiry gray hair. He looked good for a sixty-year-old, with defined muscles in all the right places and a full head of thick, iron-gray hair.

  I stood at the end of the bed and eyed Polly.

  Polly had a harsh, nasal voice. “Not another one. Look, lady, there’s nothing to see. They cleaned up the blood and brains and painted the walls. The carpet’s new, too. And the bed.” She patted her palm on her mouth as if bored. “Now go away.”