City of Ghosts

Chapter Twelve

Randy Duncan could have given him the picture before he died. Chess had never seen her confidential file; she supposed she could ask Elder Griffin about it—if she wanted him to panic and order her back on the grounds. Hell, she could ask Lauren. The Black Squad could access any fucking thing they wanted.

If only Lauren weren’t so damned offputting. Not a surprise, really; most of the Squad members Chess had worked with were fairly irritating, in an anal, law-abiding kind of way. But Lauren had in addition the arrogance of birth and her father’s position, which took her beyond annoying. Bottom line: Chess didn’t trust her. Couldn’t bring herself to trust her. They were opposites, natural enemies. The haves versus the have-nots.

And again, it didn’t matter anyway. The Lamaru knew who she was, so what. They had for months. Of course, without Terrible’s protection … yeah, that sucked. Funny how she hadn’t realized how much she depended on that until it was gone—how much she depended on him until he was gone.

But she’d been over that ground too many times lately, and she had other things to focus on at the moment. Like the fact that what she was doing right now could get her fired. Well, a lot of what she did could get her fired, but this was different.

She hid in the shadows behind the executioner’s house, with her lube syringe and her lockpicks, and prepared to use them.

It wasn’t violating a direct order. Lauren hadn’t forbidden her to search the place. Nor had Elder Griffin or any of the other Elders. But as Lauren kept reminding her, it wasn’t technically part of her investigation. Which meant that what it was, technically, was trespassing. Trespassing in a dead man’s house. If she got caught, and if they wanted to be hard on her, they could call it looting and she could do time for it.

But she wasn’t going to get caught. She’d parked two blocks away. She’d watched the house for almost three hours, while the neighbors returned to spend their cookie-cutter evenings in their cookie-cutter homes. Not a soul had moved on the street for the last hour, and windows were starting to darken, lights popping off like spent bullets.

The executioner’s house was dark, and had been dark. Empty. No family, no friends. Time to go.

She tossed another couple of Cepts into her mouth and crept toward the door. A quick squeeze of the syringe plunger—she used to use a spray, but after a major leak in her bag she’d switched to the syringe, which she’d discovered one night had the additional advantage of being an excellent murder weapon—and a few seconds with her lockpick, and the door swung silently open.

Enough light seeped through the half-open blinds and the open door to let her see. Her flashlight rested in her hand, warm from her body heat, but using it might alert the neighbors. Best to wait until she really needed it.

The back door brought her into the kitchen. Debunker protocol demanded she search all the cabinets, left to right, then the fridge and freezer and other electronics, but technically this wasn’t a Debunking case. And even if it was, it wasn’t hers. And even if it was, the kitchen was a veritable soup of gross bits of food and empty containers and grime on every surface. Even with gloves on, plunging into the mess didn’t appeal.

So instead she shut the door behind her and wandered around for a few minutes, avoiding furniture and stacks of porn magazines and dirty clothes, opening her senses. If he’d been making psychopomps in there he would have left traces of magic. Hell, the Psychopomp Division in the Church building set every hair on her body on edge when she just walked near it. So surely experiments like creating wolf psychopomps would leave traces.

But she felt nothing.

Okay, then, shit. Start searching, just as she’d been trained to do. Under the furniture, along the shelves on the wall. Plow through miscellaneous papers, most of which related to various dating services and not to magic of any kind. Pity twinged in her chest, pity and shame. The first because lonely people deserved pity; the second because she’d become one of them, hadn’t she?

Into the kitchen, placing her feet carefully on the tile floor. Unused cleaning supplies under the sink, canned food in the cupboards, vodka in the freezer. His possessions told her nothing.

But what he did not possess interested her as well. No bare marks in the dust indicated anything had been removed. Clearly he kept his supplies elsewhere.

The stairs didn’t protest as she crept up them. Here the sour, unused smell of the house grew stronger; here the light from the windows did not penetrate. Her gloves skittered along the banister, sticking intermittently; she switched the flashlight on just long enough to see the staircase walls were bare.

Nothing in the bedroom. Nothing in the spare room. Frustration rose in her chest, almost stronger than her high just starting to set in.

No empty spaces. No herb-scented drawers or cabinets. No animal fur, no traces of blood. She supposed the Squad might have removed such things, but given the outrageous mess, how would she know?

What a waste of time. The idea that the executioner was innocent, that the Lamaru were involved up to their slimy necks in whatever was happening with the psychopomps, still throbbed in the back of her head, but no proof awaited her in this house. Fuck. Much as she hated on principle to believe Lauren, maybe she’d have to. Working with the Squad wouldn’t give her access to their evidence rooms or files unrelated to her own case; the house was her only hope. So much for hope. Like she didn’t know that already.

She’d just managed to shove the door of an overstuffed closet closed when a man’s voice drifted up the stairwell.

“This place is disgusting.”

Something about it—aside from the mere fact of it—stopped her in her tracks. Familiar, but not overly so.

Someone else spoke—a woman. “Yes, but it’s practically the only place in the city we can guarantee no one will be looking for you. You have too many neighbors.”

“Anywhere in Downside—”

“Anywhere in Downside one of that creepy bastard’s horde could find you. They see everything. We’ve been over this again and again. Besides, it’s not up to me. Or you.”

Fuck! How the hell was she going to get out of this one? She could take the stairs in a leap and run for it. But the front door was double-locked, and flipping the bolts would cost her a few precious seconds. The kitchen wasn’t that big. They’d be on her before she managed to hit the street.

“I don’t know why we can’t just kill him. After what he did to—”

“You can find him, you can kill him.”

“He’s easy to find. He puts on those silly shows to sell his stupid potions that don’t even work. It’s—”

The woman interrupted him again, but Chess wasn’t listening. Maguinness. They were talking about Maguinness.

What the hell? Who were these people, that man with his fucking familiar voice and the woman? Had Maguinness known the executioner?

Damn. She’d missed something. They’d stopped discussing Maguinness, at least so she assumed.

“Just trust him. He knows what he’s doing,” the woman said. “Hasn’t he already proven that? We just do what he says, and keep him informed, and we’ll—”

“I don’t want to be here long.”

“And you won’t be. One night, Erik. Maybe two.”

Erik? Erik Vanhelm? Chess hesitated, then took a chance and peeked down the stairs into the kitchen.

Yes. Erik Vanhelm, talking to a woman whose back was to Chess. Long hair fell to just past her shoulders; where the moonlight caught it, it gleamed silvery. Dark blond, maybe, or light brown? Whatever. Figuring it out didn’t feel worth getting caught for, so Chess slipped back into the darkness.

“Why don’t you stay here with me?”

“You know why. I have to go, and you need to get some sleep.”

Vanhelm sighed. “I know, I know. But tomorrow—”

“I’ll see you there, yes. And after you can spend the night.”

Fabric rubbed against fabric; a faint change in the atmosphere told Chess the pair’s mouths were busy with other things for the moment.

She could duck down the staircase, hide in the living room until Vanhelm went upstairs. If he went upstairs, and didn’t decide to watch TV or crash on the couch. TV was probably out; they wouldn’t want to chance a neighbor noticing the telltale light, but who knew for sure with the Lamaru?

Or she could make her way back upstairs, assuming Vanhelm would take the master bedroom. Once he fell asleep she could sneak out. She had her Hand of Glory with her.

She needed to make a decision, and she needed to make it immediately. Up or down? Up or down? Fuck!

Up. Probably the wrong choice, but a choice at least. Better to be stuck there until Vanhelm slept and have a shot at escaping than to try to duck into the living room and be discovered by both of them.

The smaller front bedroom was probably the better place to hide. Its closet had some room available, at least. Or …

Not just a closet. A side window, dingy curtains hanging limp over it. The executioner’s house wasn’t new, so it didn’t have the soaring ceilings and lofty heights of newer buildings, and the window sat low in the wall; she figured from the sill to the ground below couldn’t be more then ten feet or so. She’d dropped larger distances than that before.

No sounds rose from the kitchen below. Either they were still kissing, or they’d started disrobing and just weren’t making any noise. Wow. Exciting.

Either way, they probably wouldn’t notice if she slid the window open and dropped out of it. Assuming the window opened, and that it didn’t squeak as it did so.

But it wouldn’t open. She pushed as long as she dared, until their voices rose in farewell and the back door opened. No escape, then. Not for a while, assuming it was possible at all. She tucked herself into the closet and listened to Vanhelm’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Her legs ached from crouching when she made it back to her car an hour later. Vanhelm had finally fallen into the deep sleep of the wicked after about half an hour, and she’d waited another fifteen minutes or so just to be sure. It was after midnight, and she was more lost than ever.

Maguinness and Lupita had known each other. Maguinness and the Lamaru were involved in something, some kind of war. But Maguinness obviously made them nervous. She’d never heard of anyone making the Lamaru nervous, so her feeling about his power was correct.

But why hide that power? Especially when doing a job like his. He could have forced the residents of Downside to empty their pockets for him with a few well-chosen spells; why not do so?

The idea that honesty prevented him from doing it never even entered her mind. Honesty was for those who could afford it, like heating or electricity or a conscience. To be honest in Downside was to be a victim in Downside.

At least having overheard what she’d overheard gave her something else to do, some other place to go, although her welcome wouldn’t be remotely welcoming. She circled Trickster’s, then headed for Chuck’s, looking for the Chevelle. If he wasn’t at one of those places she’d try the Market, or his apartment. No point in calling. He wouldn’t answer if he saw it was her, as she well knew. Even working this together at Bump’s behest probably wouldn’t change that, and she didn’t want to give him any warning she was looking for him.

The Chevelle sat in its usual place across the street from Chuck’s; she slid into a spot another block down and headed for the bar, shivering in the chilly air. At least, that’s why she told herself she was shivering.

Muggy heat blasted her face when she passed through the dingy entrance—heat, and Richard Hell’s “Blank Generation.” It took her tired eyes a second to adjust; when they did she saw him at the back of the room, caught his scowl as he turned and headed for the rear exit. Shit.

Luckily for her, midnight in Downside counted as early so the place hadn’t filled up yet, but she still had to practically shove a gang of drunken teenagers out of her way in order to catch up with him. Her hand brushed his arm; he yanked it away.

“I need to talk to you. About work.”

His cold stare turned her into a smudge on the floor, something filthy and worthless. Which she pretty much was. “What?”

Several interested people watched them. Chess glanced at them, looked back at Terrible. “Outside, okay?”

For a second she thought he would say no, and then she’d really be fucked. Going to Bump to tell him Terrible was refusing to help wasn’t even close to an option; even if she didn’t know that snitching on him would infuriate him further, she wouldn’t consider it. If he said no she’d have to figure out some way to get the information. Maybe she could go talk to Maguinness himself, but something told her he wouldn’t be any more pleased to find her on his doorstep than Terrible was, and he had no reason at all to talk to her even if she could tell him why she was there.

But Terrible nodded and pushed his way out the exit. Chess managed to catch the door before it hit her and followed him into the narrow alley. Someone had left a lamp burning on the second floor of the building behind; it cast a square of pale light across broken crates and rolls of chicken wire leaning against the rusty fence. Rotted leaves mixed with dirty bits of paper and garbage on the cracked cement. The bottoms of her boots made faint sucking noises when she lifted them.

“What,” he said again.

Right. Obviously he didn’t plan to make this any easier on her. She couldn’t really blame him. “That guy, Maguinness. The potion guy we saw today. Did—”

“Ain’t—”

“No, just listen. Did he get permission from Bump to set up in the Market? Did he talk to him, I mean?”

His head tilted; his gaze didn’t leave her as he lifted the beer in his hand and took a long swallow, emptying it. The scrapes decorating his knuckles hadn’t been there when she’d left him that afternoon.

She waited. Waited, and forced herself not to think. Not to speak.

“Why you askin?”

“I think he’s connected. To them. I heard—ow!—I just need to know what you know about him. If he’s doing any other business besides the potions, or if he said anything to you or Bump about—”

“Oh, aye. I dig. Figure we got knowledge we ain’t sharin with you. Figure we got whoever-the-fuck workin for us, and ain’t gave you the tell.”

“No! I don’t mean it that way. I just need to know what you know about him, that’s all. Maybe he said something and you didn’t think anything about it at the time, or whatever.”

“Too stupid to know what to pass on, what not to?”

“Damn it, will you stop? I don’t think you’re too stupid to know what to pass on, and I don’t think you’re hiding anything—”

“Good, causen I ain’t the one who lies, aye?”

The venom in his voice almost made her jump, and not just because it hurt her feelings or scared her. It didn’t sound like him. How many beers had he emptied before she got there? She’d never seen him drunk, not really, and fear settled cold in her stomach. He had a target on his back most of the time; sure, in general people were too scared to go after him, but all it took was one pissed-off speedfreak with a gun. And he knew it. She’d seen his caution, his awareness of his surroundings; they’d even talked about it once at his place—the only place he said he really relaxed—before she passed out on his couch.

No point in asking, and no point worrying about it. That road didn’t lead anywhere good, and she had more than enough to worry about already. Instead she lit a cigarette to give herself something to do and tried again. “I need to know what you know about him, for the case. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me.”

His own lighter clicked; the alley glowed for a second before he snapped it off, shutting down the six-inch flame. “Aye,” he said finally. “Came and talked to Bump. Bout three, maybe four weeks past, I were still in the hospital. Been here longer’n that, though. Said he’d been.”

“Did he say what he was doing? Any businesses aside from the potions?”

“Ain’t talked to him myself, dig. Only know what Bump gave me.”

“But if he was doing something else, you’d know, right? You would have heard.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction, like he was trying to figure out if she was using cheap flattery or not. “Ain’t heard shit on him. Got a family, he say. Guessin a big one. Sells whatany he sells to feed em. But nobody say me aught else.”

Damn. That didn’t give her much of anything, did it?

“His potions. He might be selling them to—Did Bump try them? Did Maguinness give him any of them, like, as a sample or something before Bump said okay?”

“Aye. Bump said ain’t done shit for him. Say tasted some nasty, too.”

“That might not have been one of his real potions, though. Not one of the ones …” Shit. She couldn’t finish that sentence, even if she thought she was right, which she didn’t. The Lamaru had had some involvement with Maguinness. Maybe it was about his potions, maybe it wasn’t.

Terrible shifted position, his face a deeper shadow. “Got other asks, or can I get gone?”

She wanted to ask him more questions. She wanted to let him go. Figuring out if it hurt more to have him run away or to stay and talk to her like she barely existed didn’t really appeal. Of course, she’d spent most of her life feeling like she barely existed, but never around him. Not before, anyway.

“Got shit to do. We done here?” He gripped the door handle to head back into the bar.

“I guess—No, wait. Can you talk to Maguinness? Or ask Bump to talk to him? Ask him about this, you know? And if I could be there when you do, that would really help.”

A pause, a curt nod. The door opened, and he was gone.