Blood of the Demon (17 page)

He huffed and stood, tugging at his pants to get them positioned properly beneath the great shelf of his belly. “I’m gonna go talk to Brian’s dad. I’d ask you to come with me, but me and the judge go back a ways from our NOPD days. I’m sure he’s going through a rough spot right now, and he’ll feel better knowing that a senior detective is handling the case. Plus, it’s gonna be a lot of guy talk, and it’d probably be over your head.”

I resisted the urge to be offended by any of the myriad of insults implied in that statement and instead forced myself to be relieved that I didn’t need to spend any more time with Pellini. “No problem,” I said brightly. “Let me know when you need any help.”
As long as it’s not with finding your dick under that roll of fat
, I thought silently as I left and returned to my own office.

I closed my door, allowing myself to fume for a few minutes, followed by some wallowing in self-pity.
Is Pellini’s connection to Judge Roth how he got the cases reassigned to him? He pulled strings?
And if so, did the judge know what he was letting himself in for? I briefly debated throwing something heavy and breakable, but about the only thing that fell into that category in my office was my computer, and I wasn’t quite brave enough to go there.

I finally had to settle for wadding up the contents of my printer tray and chucking the paper balls across the room. Nowhere near as satisfying, but by the time I cleaned up the resulting mess, I had pretty much burned through the majority of my ire.

My cell phone rang, yanking me out of my funk. “Kara Gillian,” I answered.

“Hey, Kara, it’s Doc. Got some bad news for you about your councilman.”

“Now what?”

“Well, it wasn’t an accident.”

My stomach tightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, unless he fell down and hit his head twice. The impact and positioning’s all wrong for it to be just from falling in the shower. There’s not enough trauma to be life-threatening, but I’m pretty sure he got whacked a couple of times with something heavy—enough to knock him out or stun him—and then he was stuffed into the corner of the shower so that he’d asphyxiate.”

“I hate you,” I said automatically, since that was the reaction he was surely expecting, but my mind was racing a thousand miles an hour.

He laughed. “Sorry. I’ll get back to you later about specifics.”

I hung up the phone, feeling a strange combination of dread and relief.
Two homicides
. Suddenly I had the possibility of a common thread between Brian Roth and Davis Sharp. But what other connection could Brian Roth have had with Davis Sharp? They were probably at least acquainted with each other, due to Sharp’s restaurant, but that would also apply to half the population of Beaulac.

I waggled my mouse to turn off my screen saver, and started typing in online searches for
essence, souls
, and anything I could think of that could give me a bit of a clue as to what besides an
ilius
could consume essence. Brian’s death might not have been my case anymore, but I had every intention of figuring out why the hell both of their
essences had been consumed. This wasn’t a waste of taxpayer dollars, I told myself, since technically it did relate to police work, even though it wasn’t anything that would ever go into a written report.

Doing online searches was always a toss of the dice as far as what came back, but I’d been shocked and pleased before at some obscure discoveries, so I always figured it was worth a try. I knew that there were other arcane practitioners in the world—not just summoners—and it made sense that someone somewhere might have mentioned something. In fact, I occasionally found obscure information in the guise of fiction—sort of like how I’d found information on the Symbol Man in a comic book.

But I didn’t have the same kind of luck this time. I spent a fruitless hour surfing the Internet, finding plenty on vampires, some Japanese
manga
, even some outlandish erotic fiction about unicorn-riding soul-eating succubi zombies, but nothing I could put a finger on and say, “That’s it!”

I wiped my browser history and cleared the cache. Then I sighed and settled in for an afternoon of incredibly mundane but necessary paperwork. Ah, the exciting life of a detective.

I PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT OF ST. LUKE’S Catholic church shortly after noon the next day. As the investigating detective into Davis Sharp’s murder, it was reasonable—and practically expected—for me to attend his funeral, though not for the reasons that were usually put forth in crime fiction, where the detective attended the victim’s funeral in order to corner and question suspects.

In my world, if a detective tried to question suspects at a funeral, he or she would be suspended or fired before they could say,
But that’s how it’s done on TV!

This was essentially little more than good PR—show the grieving family and the public that the police department
cares
and intends to take the case very seriously and personally.

I pulled my jacket on right before I reached the door, noting with mild amusement that I wasn’t the only attendee avoiding wearing a jacket out in the sweltering
heat. I’d dressed in my one good-quality suit—the one I wore for court and funerals—and even worn low heels and tasteful jewelry for the occasion. I didn’t have a problem with the PR aspect of attending funerals—after all, most of our funding came from tax dollars, and murmuring polite regrets wasn’t terribly onerous. But at the same time I
was
interested in seeing who would attend, even if interrogations weren’t on the schedule. And, given Auri’s testimony, I was especially interested to see if any slender blondes showed up.

I held the door for an approaching couple, then entered after them, echoing their sigh of relief as the air-conditioning enveloped us. Then I had to bite back a snort of annoyance.
You have got to be fucking kidding me
.

Damn near every woman in the place had blond hair. And was slender. And was dressed to the nines.

I continued in, suddenly feeling much less confidence in the “niceness” of my suit. I could feel assessing gazes, and I was glad that at least I’d worn my badge. Maybe these taxpayers would now be inclined to vote for new taxes out of pity, since the city’s detectives were obviously so underpaid that they had to buy their clothing
off the rack
. The horror.

I fixed a pleasant and subdued smile onto my face, dutifully signed the guest log, then found an out-of-the-way space near the back where I could people-watch. I managed to pick out Davis Sharp’s widow fairly easily, aided by the fact that I’d downloaded her driver’s license photo before coming to the funeral. Elena Sharp was a strikingly lovely woman, with almond-shaped eyes, light-olive-toned skin, and dark-brown hair highlighted with auburn that fell in a skillfully layered cut down her back. In fact,
she was damn near the only woman in the church who
wasn’t
a blonde.

And she’s a suspect
.

Crawford had been less than thrilled when I finally touched base with him to inform him that Councilman Sharp’s death had been no accident. “What a pain in the ass,” he’d grumbled. “Last thing we needed was a homicide of someone rich and connected.”

I knew what he meant. There would be a ridiculous amount of pressure to find suspects, get confessions, and close the case quickly—preferably by the end of the day.

Elena Sharp had left for Mandeville the day before her husband’s death, but that didn’t rule her out as a suspect. And, yes, she had a semblance of an alibi—the testimony of a security guard at her complex who stated that her car had been there the entire night. But she could have easily used a different vehicle, and it wasn’t that long a drive back to Beaulac.

I’d called Ms. Sharp on Monday and asked her to come in for an interview. While she was quite cordial with me, she also made it clear that, if I wanted to talk to her, I would need to come to Mandeville, since she had no plans to remain in Beaulac once the funeral was over. I knew that I could put pressure on her to come in, yet there was always the chance that she would “lawyer up” if I did. I didn’t have enough probable cause to get a warrant, but I also didn’t have any problem making the hour-plus drive to Mandeville.

So for now I merely watched and waited.

“Lousy week, huh?”

I looked over at the speaker. He seemed vaguely familiar—a fairly good-looking man in his forties or so,
with a Hispanic cast to his features. He was dressed in an appropriately dark suit, but it didn’t look to be anywhere near the outrageous quality of those worn by some of the other men.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“A lot of deaths in the past week,” he explained. “Seems that way, at least.” He sighed and shook his head. “First the Roth couple and now Davis. I guess bad things really do happen in threes.”

“Perhaps so,” I answered noncommittally. I was far more used to bad things happening in sweeping tsunamis of dozens, or at least it seemed that way to me. “Did you know Brian and Carol Roth?”

“Yes, I did. I’m Adam Aquilo. I work with Brian’s father. I’m Judge Roth’s law clerk.” He extended his hand and I shook it politely.

“I’m Kara Gillian,” I replied. “I think I’ve seen you at the courthouse before.”

He nodded. “I recognized you. Of course, it helps that you’re dressed like a cop. Made it easy to place why you looked familiar.”

I glanced down at my suit and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I don’t quite fit in with the fashion parade.”

He gave a low laugh. “Why do you think I staked out a spot against the wall too? My suits come from JCPenney.”

“Oh, law clerks make enough to shop at the
expensive
stores?”

He grinned. “Yeah, I’m rolling in it.”

“So you were friends with the Sharps?”

“I know Elena.… Well, I knew Davis as well, I suppose, through his restaurant, but I’m really here more as Judge Roth’s representative. The social and political scenes tend to run together, you know.”

I gave a nod of understanding. I doubted that anyone expected Judge Roth to be in attendance—not when Brian’s funeral was set for the next day.

I glanced toward the front of the church. Elena Sharp stood by her husband’s casket, graciously accepting the sympathy and polite embraces of mourners as they filed by. “She’s a very beautiful woman,” I remarked. “Davis was a lucky man.”

Adam pursed his lips. “Just between you and me, she was the lucky one. She was trailer trash before he married her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” This was good. No need for interrogations when people were more than willing to gossip.

“Really. That’s why everyone was so baffled when they found out she’d left him. And apparently she filed for divorce the same day.”

That was news to me. “Well, she probably still gets a decent settlement, right?”

He shrugged. “I suppose, but the money was only part of it. She loved being Mrs. Davis Sharp—society wife.” He gave a soft snort of what might have been derision. “She loved all the trappings—the parties, the events. Loved being seen and noticed. Like her car. Davis bought the two of them matching red Mercedes convertibles as a wedding present. She wanted hers to be bright yellow, so everyone would know it was her when she drove it. But they don’t come in yellow, and Davis—thank God—refused to let her have it painted.” He shook his head and straightened. “Well, I’d best go do my duty. It was nice talking to you.”

“And you too,” I replied with a smile.
And thanks for the gossip
, I added silently.

* * *

I DIDN’T STAY much longer. There was no reason for me to pay my respects to the widow and plenty of reason not to, since she was a suspect.

A low rumble of thunder greeted me as I exited the church. By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, it was a full downpour and I had to flick the wipers to high to be able to see anything.

My phone pinged to tell me I had a text message, but since I was already driving white-knuckled, I waited until I was stopped at a red light to look at it.

It was from Ryan.

This weather sucks ass. Why the fuck am I moving here? Surfer Boy says Hi.

I grinned and quickly thumbed in a reply.

Wimp. This is just light drizzle. Ur moving here cuz we are only ones who can tolerate you. Everyone else hates you. Sad but true. Say hi to surfer boy.