Little Girl Lost

A Trick Molloy Mystery
©2008 Michael A. Stackpole

Part One

It had been a good night, as far as it had gotten. When you’re a bouncer at a strip club, that doesn’t mean much. No one had puked on me. No one was getting too grabby with the girls. Testosterone-poisoning hadn’t prompted gross displays of idiocy. Worst thing going was that some girls hadn’t showed up for their shifts, but that was dead normal. All things considered, it left me in a pretty good mood.

Which ended when Eddie slid a double of Irish Whisky in my direction.

I didn’t have to ask why. As I turned to look at the glass, I caught sight of the ghost walking into Club Flesh. He wasn’t really a ghost—wishful thinking. Dressed in white from head to toe—including his mushroom-like complexion—Detective Inspector Winston Prout paused just inside the entry, tucking his badge away.

I tossed the Whisky down and forced a smile. I kept my voice light. “Good evening, Detective. What brings you here on so lovely an evening?”

My cordial greeting caught him off guard. His eyes went wide as he tried to translate tone and words into something mocking or nasty. He failed, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously on reflex. He cringed against the punchline. The fact that it didn’t come soured his expression, and he decided to be all-tough with me.

“I don’t have time for your games, Molloy.” He wrinkled his nose as if lust and testosterone somehow smelled worse than freshly-tromped dogshit. “Daniela Costa, dances as Adrienne. You seen her tonight?”

I shook my head.

“When was the last time you did?”

A chill slowly trickled down my spine. Adrienne habitually arrived right before happy hour and, ditz though she was, she managed to focus on business. All the girls paid a house fee for the privilege of working the floor. The fee was figured based on when you clocked in. Arrive at four, you pay fifty bucks. Come in at eight, you’re looking at a hundred-fifty. She usually came in by four and ran to midnight, or up to when her scumbag boyfriend needed her to mule some drugs.

Prout worked homicide—having taken my place after getting me tossed from the force on trumped-up corruption charges. If he was asking after her, he was looking at her as a shooter.

Or a body.

“Defendant or deceased?”

“Material witness.”

“Who got splashed?”

Prout was aching to give me the sermon about this being a police matter and that civilians, like me, didn’t have a need to know. But he needed information and, worse yet, he knew I could get any info I wanted from the Medical Examiner because she was a friend of mine.

“Ari Gordon. Two in the back of the head.”

I nodded slowly. “Drug turf war, then?”

“When, Molloy?”

“Night before last. How fresh was the body?”

Prout’s eyes tightened as he did the mental math. “Does she have any friends here?”

I held a hand up. “No, no, this isn’t the way this works, Inspector.”

“Don’t you be telling me how to do my job.”

“I wouldn’t tell you, Inspector, because you wouldn’t listen.” I slid off my barstool and gave him a hard stare. I’ve got a couple inches on him, and forty pounds. I’m not exactly Charles Atlas, but Prout was skinny enough that a coked-up supermodel could take him in a wrestling match. I wasn’t going to hit him, and he knew that.

He just didn’t believe it.

He took a step back.

My eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you how it went down, shall I? Let’s see, it’s ten now, so you found the body around six PM. He’d been down for over twelve hours. Local canvas suggested a crash in the middle of the night. Let’s say two. No gunshots. Silenced. Added a pillow to muffle things. Feathers all over the place. No sign of a break-in, so Ari let them in. Someone he knew, someone in the business. Drugs and money weren’t touched.

Prout’s eyes widened enough that if someone had slapped him on the back, the orbs would have bounced off my chest. I could smell the brain cells burning. He stared at me, his mouth gaping.

“No, I didn’t kill him. I have an alibi for last night.”

“I’ll need to talk to whomever was with you.”

“You’ll need to be thinking how I know what I just told you.” It was all logical. My years in homicide made figuring the scenario out pretty easy. What I couldn’t explain was how he’d connected Adrienne to Ari. They didn’t live together and had something gone bump in the night in Adrienne’s building, the cops would have been on it in a heartbeat. Ari wasn’t the sort to keep pictures of himself and Adrienne on display anywhere and, as nearly as I knew, Adrienne’s record was clean, so she’d not be listed as a “known associate” in his file.

She had to have left evidence behind at the scene.

I motioned for Eddie to give me another whiskey. “How badly hurt is she?”

Prout’s mouth closed, but he shook his head.

“Playing coy isn’t going to help you find her.”

“This is a police matter.”

“Take a look around.” Club Flesh wasn’t too bad to look at, but the crowd was more rough-and-tumble than it was brie-and-cosmos. It was the classiest joint in this end of town, which still meant it ranked three on a scale of one to the Opera. Down here, most places ran into negative numbers, and Prout’s ability to get information pretty much stopped where mine started.

Prout’s face soured, but he got the message. “Get your coat.”

“You can’t be arresting me.”

He shook his head. “You want to know how badly she’s hurt? We’ll go for a ride. You can see for yourself.”

Part Two

We were off into uncharted territory and I think Prout was handling it better than me. Sitting beside him in an unmarked car—almost as if we were partners—had my skin crawling. I’d always thought I’d give anything to be on the force again, but being partnered with Prout was a deal-breaker.

Prout had hated me for years. Tight-ass, by-the-book guys like him never really liked guys who worked more at justice than at law. That made me a marked man, and when he was working Internal Affairs, that put me on his radar. But that wasn’t what drove him to get me booted.

I’ve got talent. I was one of those born to work magick. For small-minded individuals like Prout—who allied themselves with churches who demonized the talented—I was the devil incarnate. In his mind, witch-hunting was a sacred pursuit, and there were plenty of people—powerful people—who agreed with him.

And those people would have pursued a full-out jihad against us save for two things. Many of them were talented, and even more had uses for us to advance their own ends. Prout, good little puppet that he was, wouldn’t ever see that.

We arrived fairly quickly at Ari’s crib—first floor back in a brownstone. The wallpaper was older than my mother and the carpet was so matted with filth that Ari’s blood and brains didn’t soak in very far. The body had been hauled away, but a tape outline marked out where it had fallen—a snowfall of feathers made it stand out.

I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and squatted. Bloodstains on the carpet in the area of his chest and hands. More bloody smears on the carpet. Parallel lines. Like Ari had been clawing at it.

“It was more than bump in the night. No one heard the screams?”

Prout shook his head. “No one heard anything.”

“They leave the tools behind?”

“Took everything.”

“What else?”

Prout led me to the bedroom. Dim and dingy. Rumpled sheets on the bed that had that same sort of yellow sweat stains that I was sure would be on the mattress. Pot, perspiration and stale beer permeated the place. Dirty clothes buried a chair.

In fact, the only stick of furniture that wasn’t covered in dust, debris or old clothes was a small safe. The door stood open. Money, neatly stacked, filled the top two shelves. Below rested four bulging bags filled with rock, pot and crystal meth—a small fortune of each. Ari could have used a larger safe because only one small cubby-hole stood empty.

The dominoes were all getting set up, but nothing was kicking them into a cascade. I looked up at Prout. “Okay, they show up at the door, Ari lets them in. They talk and aren’t happy with him. He opens the safe, but they don’t find what they want. They resort to torturing Ari. Burn his chest. Yank out his fingernails. Beat him to hell. Where’s Adrienne in all this?”

Prout waved me on out and back into the kitchen. It wasn’t any cleaner than the rest of the place, despite having white tiles and appliances. And by white I mean the off-white you get when layers of grease have been laid down over geological epochs.

But there, corner of the counter, a splash of red. More droplets on the floor, at the base of the stove.

Prout shrugged. “We figured that when they started getting rough, she ran. One tripped her, she hit her head, went down hard. They start working on Ari, never notice her getting up and out. When they find she’s gone, they plug him and leave before she calls us.”

“But there never was a call? Not even an anonymous one?”

“She’d have had to go pretty far to find a payphone in this neighborhood. She disappeared. Not at her residence, not anywhere. Know where she’d go?”

“Not off the top of my head.” I stood and stretched. “Give me a second here.”

Prout stepped back and crossed himself.

I shifted my sight and looked at the place through magick. Not much changed. The only life nearby lurked in the walls. The bloodstains stood out, glowing a dull red—residual of life. Adrienne’s bloodstains had a bit more going for them and I mentioned that to Prout.

“Does that mean she’s still alive?”

“Not something I know how to figure out.” I plucked a hair from the area of impact. “I know someone who can.”

He frowned. “We had someone try that. No luck.”

“You didn’t have my guy do it.” I stripped off my glove, turning it inside-out, trapping the hair. I tucked it in my pocket. “Who did Ari work for?”

“Carpentier. He’d taken a liking to Ari.”

“I’ll want a transcript of your talk with him.”

“You’re not working this case, Molloy.”

I shucked the other glove. “You’ve got a decision to make. You want to find the girl alive or not?”

“I can find her.”

“Great. Good luck with that. I’m gone.” I tossed the glove against his tie and headed toward the back door—the one Adrienne had escaped through.

“Wait.”

I almost didn’t stop. I didn’t turn around. “What?”

“Okay, I need your help.”

“What’s the magick word?”

“Please?”

I turned. “Let’s get this straight. I’m looking for Adrienne. She’s hurt. She’s terrified and she’s hiding. She sure as hell didn’t call the cops, so she’ll not gonna be wandering in your direction. She knows Carpentier’s people are looking for her. She’s a ditz, but can be practical at times. I’m hoping this one of those times.”

I cocked my head. “So, I’ll be your bloodhound, but you have to remember one thing—the trail I follow is only as good as the scent you put me on. I need everything that is relevant.”

“Okay, anything you need. I promise.”

“Okay.” Accepted him at his word with a nod, then headed out the door, even though I knew he had been lying to me, and would continue lying right on down the line.

Part Three

I didn’t call Prout on his lies because he would have denied them, I’ve have decked him, and sitting in jail wasn’t going to help find Adrienne. Finding her was paramount. Sure, I felt an obligation because she worked Club Flesh. She was one of my flock. It didn’t do to have someone hitting one of my girls without retribution.

More importantly, Adrienne had saved my life. A bunch of mono-synaptic, nano-dicked weasels had been doing all they could to beat the crap out of me behind the club one night. She came roaring up in her car, bumper-blasted one of them into the next lot, and got me out of a tough situation.

Prout hadn’t offered me a ride back to Club Flesh, and I wouldn’t have taken it if he had. Couple blocks over I caught the Snake and rode it back toward the Club. Not that it came that close, of course, but it carried enough traffic to us that the club maintained a limo to make runs to and from the station.

No one bothered me as the train slithered through the city. I think it was the scowl on my face. Well, that and the fact that if anyone looked at me through magick, I’d be burning white hot. That’s supernature’s way of saying “Don’t touch.”

Prout’s lies ran mostly to omission, which I’m sure is easily forgivable in his mind. In fact, he probably thought himself clever in that regard. He knew things I didn’t. Dress up his pride with all the third-grade “neener-neener” crap you want. I’m sure it was there.

Prout was happy to let me think Ari got hit in his crib. There’s no doubt the man worked out of the place. No doubt he bedded comelier customers for product. But if Carpentier had taken a liking to Ari, he wasn’t going to let him wallow in a dump like that. He had to have some place nicer, and the cops were doubtlessly poring over it. Check that, they’d already gone over it, found nothing, which is why Prout came looking for Andrienne.

So things in that apartment might have linked Ari with Adrienne; but identifying her from unlabeled pictures would be tough. Assuming some of the pictures were taken on a camera phone and emailed to or from her, making the connection became a bit more clear. Even then, however, getting from Daniela Costa to Adrienne wouldn’t be that easy. Still, if the cops were sweeping our lot for license numbers, putting Daniela’s car at Club Flesh was something even Prout could do.

But the way he offered her name bugged me. He knew, he wasn’t fishing. Which meant there was something fishy going on. Just Prout’s coming to Club Flesh, and his pulling me out to see the crime scene were weird. He’d never do that on his own. He was dancing to someone else’s tune, but whose? Carpentier?

I shook my head. Not possible. Prout might be a lot of things, but dirty? No way. He’s the kind of guy who actually fills out gratuity-disclosure forms when someone gives him a cup of coffee on the cuff. Hell, he’s so by-the-book he’d arrest Santa for Breaking, Entering and Littering.

As much as I wanted to know who his puppermaster was, a larger problem loomed. Ari had been questioned—hard—by two guys who brought their own tools and cleaned up after themselves. Pure professionals. Carpentier was clearly pissed with his former golden-boy—pissed enough to whack him. By implication, Adrienne was on the hit list, too. Finding her was going to be finding a tiger’s tail.

Finding her might not be the hard part.

Keeping her safe would be.

Cart before the horse, Trick.

I glanced up at the video map playing in the transit car, then stood and got off three stops shy of Club Flesh. Two blocks over and a half a block south, I walked into a pawnshop. The guy behind the counter didn’t smile when he saw me, but that’s because smiling wasn’t in his repertoire. Sniff was to beautiful what O. J. Simpson was to innocent. Even his warts had warts, which made the short, squat man about the least appealing human being on the planet. Well, at least he wasn’t a Republican.

His voice sounded cheese-graters rubbing up on each other. “No way, Trick, no way. Not after the last time.”

I held my hands up. “It is not my fault that you blew your little reward on hookers and hooch in Vegas.”

He chuckled a bit. “That was good, but I still hurt from what that demon did.”

“I know. I feel bad about that.” I brought out the glove wrapped around one of Adrienne’s hairs. “This one won’t hurt.”

He tucked gloved hands behind himself. “No way.”

“You remember Adrienne?”

“She does the librarian thing?”

“Uh huh.” I tossed the glove onto the counter. “She’s missing. I need to find her.”

“Trick…”

“She’ll be grateful.”

“Her boyfriend won’t.”

“Yeah, well, they’re broken up.”

Sniff’s expression lightened. Ugly as sin, he still could be hopeful; and every man buys into that white knight riding to the rescue crap at one level or another. Me included.

He raised an eyebrow. “How powerful is she?”

“Mid-range. Her channel is glamour, like most of the girls.”

“Okay. Give me a second.” He ducked into the back room.

Magick and the ability to work it depends on three things. We’ve all got triggers. Mine is Irish whiskey. The better the whiskey, the better I work magick. Sniff was ducking into the back room to load up on whatever flipped his switch.

Each of us had our own channels as well. Most are dirt common: earth, air, fire, water; that sort of thing. Glamour is a bit more rare, but not by much. Lastly, each magicker can handle a certain level of power. Most folks with a water channel, tanked to the gills on their trigger, couldn’t raise a dew-drop in a rainstorm. Since most folks didn’t know their trigger or channel to begin with, it made magickers rare and terrifying for the unsuspecting, or the untalented.

Sniff’s talent ran to psychometry. It made him a great fence. He could read the vibes off an item, letting him know if it was genuine or not. He could have cleaned up as an art authenticator, save for the fact that he made Quasimodo look like Brad Pitt. To be fair, it wasn’t just looks. He had the personality and lack of manners to match.

Sniff returned and pointed at the glove. “Open it.”

I complied.

He slipped a grey leather glove off and held his open palm over the hair, as if warming his hand over a flame. “She’s better than mid-range, Trick. Strong vibes coming off this.”

“What do you see?”

“Wild mix of things.”

“I need more than that.”

Sniff gave me the hardest stare he could muster. “Touching that will be like touching a live wire.”

“If you don’t, we’ll be testing that theory.” I matched his stare and raised him. “She’s missing. Someone wants her dead. I need you to help me find her.”

“Look, she’s alive, I can tell you that much.”

“Sniff…”

He sighed. “You’re going to owe me big time.”

“Maybe it brings us even. Do it.”

The little man nodded, then tapped the bloody hair with a finger. Just a tap. Quick. Impatient.

Potent.

His eyes rolled up in his head. His back bowed, and before I could move a muscle, he collapsed behind the counter and started foaming at the mouth.

Part Four

Sniff convulsed only once. I rolled him on his side in case he decided to puke. I passed into his back room and took a quick glance around. Dust and grime choked the storeroom, but the little kitchenette was clean enough that Prout’s suit could have been camouflage. A Milky Way bar wrapper sat in a small wastebasket, so I guessed chocolate might be Sniff’s trigger.

I brewed him up a cup of hot chocolate in the microwave, and laced it with some Godiva Chocolate liquor from the fridge. I brought it back in mug. His eyes fluttered as he caught the scent, but it took him another minute to come around.

I helped him into a sitting position and held his glove out to him. I assisted him in putting it on. He held the hot chocolate in both hands, his eyes closed, breathing in deeply. He shivered like it was midnight at the north pole—back when that meant there was ice there.

Finally he opened his eyes and looked up at me. “You know.”

“Our secret.”

“Nothing’s ever a secret with you, Molloy. You’ll use it against me.”

I considered for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I will. But I won’t give it away. The deal isn’t going to get any better than that.”

He nodded glumly, then sipped. “You’re cruel, but honest.”

“And kind of stressed for time here, too.” I stood and gathered Adrienne’s bloody hair back into the glove, tucking the package into my pocket. “What did you get?”

“She’s alive.”

“You’d mentioned that. What else?”

Sniff sighed and drew his knees up. “Lots of weird shit. She’s a glamour-girl, so you can’t trust anything you see. The Club, Ari, nasty guys, blood. Other stuff, really fleeting.”

“Can you track her?”

“No.”

“Sniff.”

“Hey, I get that this is important, Molloy.” He shook his head. “She’s a glamour-girl. She’s hurt and running. She’s mentally shifting every image she can, hoping to throw off pursuit. Plus she’s had her brains scrambled. She doesn’t know where she is, and she doesn’t even know who she is. Easier to find a raindrop in an ocean than to find her.”

“You’re telling me she’s not thinking, she’s running on auto-pilot?”

He nodded, then took a healthy swallow of the chocolate. “Lot of images to sort. I’ll write down what I get, okay? Maybe it will help.”

“That works. I’ll be back to see if anything I learn checks out.”

I left him on the floor, flipping the “open” sign to “closed” as I went out the door. Back to the Snake and on to Club Flesh. I would have walked to the club, but the limo was leaving, so I rode shotgun. Vince, the driver, ignored me and chatted up the bachelor party in the back, hoping for the tip I’d never pay him.

I went back to the Club to start asking the girls about Adrienne. If she was running on auto-pilot, and was terrified to boot, she’s be seeking a place of comfort. Office records would have her current address, but nothing before that. Another of the girls might know where she’d run to, which would be convenient.

Of course, life never is.

Eddie hailed me the second I walked in the door. “Trick, there’s a guy up in VIP One. Says he knows you.”

“Lot of guys say that.”

“Says he’s your brother.”

My brother? Only two men in the world could say that. One had earned the right. The other, well, if the rubber hadn’t broken there wouldn’t be an “other.” I pointed to a bottle.

“The twelve, Trick? He didn’t look like trouble. And he tips good.”

I wasn’t going to let Eddie know I really wanted the fifty-year-old Irish—all of it. “Just pour, Eddie.”

He did, I drank, and resisted the temptation to ask for another. I stalked from the bar, around the corner to the VIP room, which was really just a deep alcove on a raised platform. A horseshoe couch rimmed it, and a round table set with a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne filled it. A girl wriggled and writhed on a man’s lap, eclipsing my view of him.

“Beat it, Nicole.”

The brunette Latina glanced back over her left shoulder, brown eyes smoldering. Her right breast swept across his face as she did so. “Why aren’t you as much fun as your brother, Trick?”

“I still have a soul. Beat it.”

She pouted—which, I admit, she does well. As she pulled her bra on, her patron stuffed two C-notes in her g-string. Any other guy would have done it with a sly assurance. He did it as if they were used snot-rags.

Nicole retreated, delaying long enough for either of us to slap her ripe little rump. Neither of us did. She’d become irrelevant as old hatreds rose.

“Coming up in the world, Harry?”

Tall, slender, blond, with a perfect face, blue eyes and the hint of a dimple that drove women wild, Harris Courtland Anderson didn’t strike at the bait. He shot the cuffs on his shirt. I did had to admire the fact that despite Nicole’s molesting him, the suit had nary a crease, nor his crotch a wet spot. The latter shouldn’t have surprised me. Harry was always in control.

“Something to drink, Patrick?”

“I prefer being sober when I throw people out.”

“Then you’ve not done that in a long time, have you?” He sat back, admiring the champagne flute. “That Nicole wants you, and thinks flirting with me will make you jealous.”

“And you only want her because you think you’re taking her away from me. Knock yourself out.” I smiled. “No, wait, that’s my job.”

“Droll as ever.”

“Why are you here, Harry?”

“It’s Courtland now, H. Courtland Anderson. My friends call me Court.”

“Wow, what an idea. You having friends. Answer the question.”

“Sit down.”

I raised an eyebrow. “There’s never been a time for you to give me an order, Harry, and this certainly ain’t the place.”

He looked up. “Please, sit. This is actually important. It’s about father.”

“About your father.” I sat slowly. “Which means it’s about his estate.”

“That it is. About his estate, and about your share.” The Prince of Darkness’s smile glowed in the dark. “Which, if you’re inclined to listen to reason, should come to something just over four million dollars.”

Part Five

I hated the jolt that ran through me almost as much as I’d hated my stepfather. Learning that he’d left me four million dollars came as a shock. Part of me desperately wanted that money—the same part that had once craved his affection. I thought I’d killed that part of me, but it appeared to be more resilient than expected.

But that didn’t mean it was in control.

I gave my half-brother a hard stare. “Your father wasn’t a generous man. What’s the catch?”

Harry sat back casually, thereby betraying his anxiety. To sell whatever he was going to sell, he needed to pretend it didn’t matter at all. But selling was what he did well, and this was the deal of a lifetime.

“I’ll cut right to the chase. My father was a shit.”

I kept my face impassive.

Harry noticed, but continued as if my face had lit up. “His will has a number of stipulations. His fortune goes to the whoever wins a contest. He’s constructed twelve challenges—Twelve Labors is the exact wording. Whoever completes the most of these tasks wins it all.”

I shrugged. “Enjoy your winnings. I’m not playing.”

“He anticipated that reaction.” Harry reached inside his coat pocket and passed me a folded slip of paper.

I took it and read. It was a list of the twenty most dangerous criminals I’d put away in my career, supplemented by two dozen racist organizations and rabidly fundamentalist religious groups. “Context, Harry?”

“If you choose not to participate, the contest is off, and his fortune goes to lawyers to get those people out of jail, the remainder going to fund those groups. There was a similar list for me and for Miranda.”

“And our mother is left out?”

“No, she just didn’t need coercion.”

“Neither did you.”

He smiled easily. “Your four million is a thirty-share of the total.”

I frowned. “You said winner take all.”

“Patrick, do you honestly believe you would be able to beat me at even one of these tasks? I’m being generous here. You get thirty, Miranda gets twenty and mother gets five.” He sipped his champagne. “It’s fair. Miranda will just give hers away. Mother needs to be on a leash, and you’re unlikely to go through your share in your lifetime. To each according to his needs.”

I flicked a hand out and tapped the bottom of the glass. Champagne splashed into his face.

To his credit, he didn’t even look surprised. He drew the pocket square from his jacket and wiped his face. “We can negotiate percentages, Patrick.”

“No, we can’t. I don’t want any part of this deal.”

His blue eyes darkened. “Not true, and you know it. What you don’t want is to be part of his game. You don’t want him manipulating you. Wake up, Patrick, we all get manipulated every single day. Look at the fools sitting out there on the floor. They’re being conned out of their money, each one believing he has a shot with the dancer sitting in his lap. Those guys are being manipulated for a dream, a fantasy that will never come true. And they take that same crap in their jobs, being told if they work hard, someone’s going to take care of them for the rest of their lives. It isn’t true.”

“It isn’t true because of people like you.” The stereotypical banker would rub his hands gleefully while foreclosing on widows and orphans. Harry actively sought them out. If there was a stock deal that hadn’t been made illegal yet, he’d ride it until his victims were jumping off buildings. Without exerting much more effort than he had in refilling his glass, he could have convinced all the saps on the floor—dancers included—that investing with him would make millions, and that they’d be rich.

He chuckled lightly. “Indignation, good. That’s always the response when you know I’m right. So, here’s the deal. We go through the labors, we split the money. You know what? I’ll even sweeten the deal. You win the contest, we swap percentages, how’s that? I think that’s fair.”

I shook my head. “No, no games. I’m not playing.”

“But the list.”

“I don’t care if he wanted to fund someone digging Hitler up and cloning him. Sure, he gets guys out of jail. I can put them back, or put them down, whatever needs doing. Those groups, I can destroy them, too. I’ve been looking for a hobby.”

I stood. “It’s not happening, Harry.”

He smiled over his glass. “So you’ll think about it.”

My right hand opened. A blue dagger materialized above it, slowly rotating. Harry couldn’t see it. He had no talent, but he knew it was there.

I closed my fist, snuffing the dagger from existence. “Go away, Harry. Far away. Far enough isn’t possible, but try.”

“I will, Trick. I’ll make a game of it.”

“And that, my brother, is a game I would be willing to play.”

Part Six

Nicole looped an arm through mine as I left VIP. “Is he really your brother?”

“Half.”

“He’s cute.”

I freed my arm from hers and looked down at her. “Understand something. He’s the devil incarnate. He eats kittens. He kicks beggars. He pees on nuns and puts pins in Halloween candy. He’s drug-resistant Ebola in a bag. Stay away from him. Tell everyone else to stay away from him.”

Her smile shriveled petulantly. “You don’t give me the time of day, and you want to tell me who I can associate with? How does that figure?”

“This isn’t about you and me, Nicole. This isn’t about him and me. This is about who he is.” I shrugged. “You don’t want to listen. Don’t. Play him. Take him for all you can. But when you realize it wasn’t worth it, don’t expect me to fix it. Don’t expect me to care.”

I left her fuming and scheming, which is like leaving a fuse sputtering in dynamite, and headed back into the dressing room. Yeah, I know, fantasy spot for most men. You’d be surprised. It looks like a locker room, just brighter, with more reflective surfaces. Women jostle for spots at the mirror like puppies going for teats. It might have been a pretty sight, but some of them threw elbows like NHL enforcers.

I asked them about Adrienne, what they knew, what they liked. Most described her as sweet. A few as stuck-up, but those were the ones who wanted to buy drugs off her. Adrienne refused to sell to them even though Ari never hesitated when he showed up at the Club. Other than that, no one knew much about her. They didn’t socialize with her. Other than having helped with a Habitat for Humanity build she’d organized on behalf of a local charity, they’d not seen her outside the club.

I stopped in the office and snagged her address, then headed out there. It was the middle of the night, which should have made getting into the condo-apartments tough. I got lucky. A cute redhead was coming out as I went in and she held the door open for me. She had an overnight bag with her and any of a half-dozen cars on the street could have been hers.

Adrienne was third floor front. I took the stairs. The cops had been there before me, but the tape barrier on the door had been cut and a key had punched through it over the lock.

I shifted my vision and looked through magick. I can’t see through walls per se, but I can catch the glimmer of life through an inch of drywall. That’s how I saw the vermin where Ari died. The apartment walls were too thick or bug-free. I caught nothing there, so I dropped to my belly and looked beneath the door.

Nothing.

I didn’t have any lockpicks, but I didn’t need them. I pressed a thumb over the lock and invoked a spell I’d learned from a small-time safecracker. Things clicked. I opened the door and went in.

The only light came through the Venetian blinds and a small glow-light in the hallway. The door opened into the living room. Adrienne had set up a small office with computer to the left, near the windows, and couches to the right. Kitchen lay back to the left, along the street wall, and the bathroom was at the other end of the central corridor. Two more room, one a small guest room used for storage, and the master bedroom, lay across the corridor from the kitchen.

I gave the place a once-over. Nothing out of the ordinary. She had photographs on the walls. I recognized a couple of places, and used my phone to snap pictures of anything I didn’t. A couple had Ari in them with her. They looked happy.

Ari had a couple shirts—tailored silk shirts—hanging in the bedroom closet. Aside from a few really nice dresses, most of Adrienne’s clothes were casual. Nothing in the place gave any clue as to Adrienne’s occupation or that her boyfriend sold happy times in bulk.

I went back to the storage room. I know my brothers in blue do their job well, but one of the guys who’d gone over that apartment was Prout. I found it easy to believe he didn’t find anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to find. I stood in the doorway, looking. Tons of boxes. I could feel the despair of anyone figuring they had to go through each one. Especially those labeled “Books.” Heavy, dusty, have to be checked page by page and likely you’ll find nothing in them.

Adrienne used glamour to make herself more appealing while on the job. Glamour has other uses. I didn’t think she was very powerful, but Sniff differed on that point. If she had more going for her than I thought, it might be possible for her to enchant something important and make it look positively ordinary. Spells like that usually fade over time, but depending on when she last renewed the spell, it could keep her secrets hidden for months.

So, I looked at the room, and looked for anything which practically screamed “ignore me.” A couple of things stood out, but only one was easy to get to, and that was a concession to practicality she’d have to make if she wanted quick access to her stash.

I threaded my way deeper into the room to where a dozen box flats leaned against the wall. I pulled them out, but the wall behind them was blank. Then I tipped them up on the narrow end, and ran my hand over the carpet. “Very clever.” My fingers found a seam my eyes would have easily missed. I pulled back a flap of carpet.

Adrienne had sunk a shallow safe into the floor. It had a recessed keypad and my magick didn’t work well with electronic locks. I could spend all night punching in likely combination codes, starting with the usuals like birthdates and such. I was pretty sure, however, that she’d not have gone with anything obvious.

I lay the carpet down again and replaced the boxes. I was getting off the track. I’d gotten lucky finding the safe, but I’d been operating from an assumption based on something Sniff had said. Fact was, magick hadn’t been used to hide the safe, and I didn’t have anything more than Sniff’s word for it that she was powerful. I could assume the safe had something to do with her disappearance and obsess about opening it. If it was empty, or filled with things like her favorite g-strings, it wouldn’t help.

Next step would be to canvas neighbors. Middle of the night wasn’t the time to do that, so I’d have to come back. Closer questioning of the girls who’d done that build with her might reveal something. My best bet was to hope that Sniff could match some recollection up with any of the pictures, showing me a place where Adrienne would feel safe.

Having pulled all I could from the apartment I locked up and headed out. Halfway to my car, two very large men detached themselves from the shadows. Black suits, white shirts, dark glasses, gloves and Homburgs, the dark twins regarded me with cold smiles and cocked heads.

“You know you’re perpetuating a stereotype.”

One laughed.

The other one hit me.

I folded around his fist and sat down hard. If I’d eaten anything in the last eight hours, I’d have been spewing it over his shoes. They were black, too. As it was, I looked up, refusing to rub my belly.

My assailant’s smile broadened. “Mister Carpentier is wanting to see you. He is not minding bruises. You will come.”

Part Seven

I’m not really a “find the silver lining” kind of guy. If there was a silver lining to being bundled into a big car by two bigger guys for a ride to see an organized crime boss, it’s that the man wants you alive for some reason. Since I was trying to find a missing girl that said crime boss wanted dead, I also guessed she was still missing.

I sat in the back rubbing my belly. Even though Carpentier’s rise had occurred after I left the force, I’d heard things about him. Weirdest was that he’d had his inner circle of enforcers all go under the knife to refine their looks. Something about making it tough for eye-witnesses to identify them. Interesting idea. Meant he was nuts, but an interesting idea.

Carpentier had his men take me to Rosselli’s—a mid-level pasta palace with delusions of class. It was where Italians who take umbrage at the very thought of the Mafia go to rub shoulders with guys who would suck the eyeballs out of their dead grandmother’s heads. My being marched in there would raise eyebrows. It was late. They brought me in through the back.

The kitchen’s frenzy had died. Two little Latinos were mopping up, staying as far away as possible from a small table and chairs set up in the corner. Carpentier, a short, powerfully-built man with wide shoulders, a craggy face and eyebrows bushy enough to hide sheep, was at a stove. He smiled as his first ape forced me into a chair.

“I got some spaghetti going. You hungry?”

I shook my head, my stomach feeling like a crushed beer can. “No thanks.”

“I’ll fix you a plate. You’ll eat. You’ll feel better.” He pointed some tongs at the second ape, who got me a place setting, and tucked a napkin in at my neck. “Andre, that’s nice. You get Mr. Molloy here a drink, too. What’ll you have?”

I was tempted to order whisky, but it would reveal my trigger. Carpentier was in a talkative mood, so danger wasn’t that acute. If things escalated, well, I might regret my decision. “You’re the chef. You choose.”

“Chianti. Two glasses.” Carpentier returned to the stove, pulling pasta into a pan and using a wrist flip to mix it with marinara sauce. “That’s smart of you, Molloy, being polite like this. I think we will be able to work together here.”

He poured half the steaming spaghetti onto one plate, then dumped the rest on mine. It splashed a little, but the napkin got caught it. The speckles reminded me of the spatters in Ari’s crib. “Eat. Jimmy, get us some bread.”

Andre poured wine and set the bottle between us. I could envision grabbing the neck, snapping it, and driving it into Andre’s groin, severing the femoral artery. He’d be unconscious in fourteen seconds. Shove the table back into Carpentier, knocking him over, and that bought me time. Grab Andre’s gun, nail Jimmy and the boss, all neatly done.

And, alas, murder. Maybe not cold-blooded—and not to say they didn’t have enough sins on their heads to warrant it—but I wasn’t feeling my life was in jeopardy. Yet.

I twirled noodles around my fork. “We talk business over food? I don’t want to waste your time.”

Carpentier looked up, chewed, swallowed and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Don’t want to waste my time, I like that. Okay, Molloy, you know about the girl. Pity about Ari. Many a night he sat right there, eating with me. You know him?”

I shrugged. “Saw him a few times at the club. Didn’t like him.”

“He didn’t like him.” The Mafia don laughed. “That’s good. It’s good you are free to speak your mind.”

“This is about Adrienne?”

“Eat, I’ll do the talking.”

I loaded my fork and ate. Not bad. I guess some guys do learn something during a prison term.

“Ari. He sometimes made bad decisions. He was thinking he should be moving up but, you know, he wasn’t one of us. There were going to be difficulties. I tried to smooth things over. I liked him, I truly did. But he got it into his head that things were not fair. So he took something of mine. I asked for it back, nicely, no harm done. But he didn’t have it. Swore on everything holy he didn’t have it. Swore that until he died.”

“And the girl saw this interrogation session.” I glanced back at Andre and Jimmy, the latter having since returned with the bread. “You know she won’t testify to anything. And you brought in outside talent to do Ari, so they’re long gone.”

Carpentier put his fork down. “One thing Ari did remember. He’d given her the combination to the safe so she could stash some jewelry. She was the only one who knew—aside from me and a couple other trusted members of my family.”

“You want me to find her for you. You think she’s got it.” I raised an eyebrow. “And if she doesn’t, you’ve got a problem in your family.”

Carpentier chuckled. “Now I know why Johnny Dawes didn’t like you. You’re too smart.”

Dawes. He’s been the one to make it look like I was on the take, and that let Prout punt me from the force. “Smart enough to ask, ‘What’s in it for me?’”

“Could be I have someone who confesses to setting you up for the bribery charges.” He shrugged. “Or money. Thirty grand, you deliver her to me.”

“And if I deliver the thing Ari stole instead?”

“You’ll find me very generous. The thirty, plus five a month, for the rest of your life. And I’ll let it be known I want that to be a long life.”

The implications of my screwing him over went unsaid. In that case the biggest piece of me they’d find would fit in a thimble.

“The cops expect me to find her for them.”

“The cops expect you to find her body. I have more faith in you, Mr. Molloy.” Carpentier lowered his fork again. “You really don’t want to disappoint me.”

Part Eight

Breaking bread with a Mafia don should have had me feeling pretty sleezy. It would have, too, but I’d seen my brother earlier. By comparison, dinner had me feeling fresh as a daisy—though the lack of dessert did rankle. I guess it wasn’t love at first sight after all.

Andre and Jimmy took me back to my car. I expected another punch, but neither one offered. I hadn’t gotten the sense that they or Carpentier were talented. They didn’t need to be. Being big and nasty sometimes is a talent in and of itself.

I went home and got some sleep. Some, in this case, means not enough. I kept trying to reconcile ditzy Adrienne with a girl who hid a safe in her apartment. That safe might be the hiding place for whatever Ari had stolen. If so, it would be smaller than the average hardcover book. If it had been in that one open nook in Ari’s safe, it was smaller yet. And easy to conceal, which is how Adrienne got it out of there.

There was the key problem. Why would she steal something? Did she know what it was, or did she take it by mistake? Adrienne didn’t seem like the thieving type—and I’ve had plenty of experience with locker pilfering at the club. There was something more going on there, but figuring it out was beyond me.

One thing I knew: I wasn’t going back to that apartment to open the safe. Carpentier clearly had folks watching the place in case Adrienne returned. Popping the safe and coming up with the package would just mean it got yanked off me. Carpentier had offered me generous terms for its recovery. Two bullets cost less than that reward, and with the economy in the dump, it wasn’t hard to imagine down-sizing in my future.

Eventually I got to sleep, but woke up much too early. I hit the gym, working on a speed bag for a bit, lifted some weights. I wasn’t in bad shape for a guy my age, but I wanted to tighten a few things up. Andre and Jimmy wouldn’t be impressed, but they weren’t my type anyway.

After a shower, I hit Sniff up and showed him the snaps of Adrienne’s pictures.

He snorted. “All I get from these is that you’re a lousy photographer. You should have brought the pictures with you. Them I could work with.”

I snapped my phone shut on his nose. “So, nothing?”

“The lake cabin, she feels safe there.”

“That’s something.”

“It’s nothing. That’s New England, maple trees, fall and twenty years ago.”

The rest of the pictures hit dead ends as well. Sniff promised to let me know if anything else came up. I thanked him, almost meaning it, then went to work. I questioned the girls who’d known Adrienne, but none of them had ever heard anything about New England. Most were confident she’d grown up on the coast, a bit north of here. Tiffany, from Boston, said she’d never heard a bit of accent from Adrienne. I took that as about as definite a no on the New England connection as was possible.

I stayed at work, hoping the next girl to walk in would know something more, and I even buttonholed a couple of Adrienne’s regulars. I was so desperate I even talked with Nicole, who didn’t offer much unless I wanted to come back to her place and jog her memory. I passed and cut out by six, racing home, showering again and heading out for a date.

I caught up with Doctor Natalia Heron at Dominions, one of the best steak houses in the city. Her big smile just smothered the hurting on my heart. I pulled her into a hug and hung on, breathing in the perfume of her blonde hair. She’d worn a black turtle-neck sweater, pearls at throat and ears, a nice check skirt and black boots to her knees, but I barely noticed. Not that she doesn’t have curves in all the right places, but those blue eyes can drown a man.

She slowly withdrew from the hug. “Clearly you needed that. Trouble?”

I hesitated. She knew what I did for a living, but only on an intellectual level. It’s kinda of like being a sanitation engineer. It sounds good, but when you start describing smells, textures and rude sounds, it just becomes a turd you can’t gild.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s been rough. A girl’s gone missing and I’m not having much luck finding her.”

Talia made the requisite sympathetic noise, but actually meant them. She held my hand as we were taken to our table. I ordered Irish whiskey. She asked for an apple-tini and took delight in my frown. “You can have a taste.”

“No thanks.”

“Not even from my lips?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.”

Our drinks came.

Delivered by my brother.

“So sorry to interrupt, Patrick. I was over there having dinner and saw you two.” He slid a glass in front of me, and a luminous green drink to Talia. “I’ve replaced that nasty Irish with Scotch. Very good Scotch. It’s something you’ll grow to appreciate.”

Before I could throw it in his face, he offered Talia his hand. “My brother’s so rude. I’m H. Courtland Anderson.”

“I’m Natalia Heron.” She shook his hand politely. “You’re Patrick’s brother?”

“She’s a smart one, Patrick; makes it sound as if you’ve mentioned your family. He never does.” Harry smiled at me. “I wanted to see if he’d given any more thought to my offer to make him a very rich man.”

I decided not to waste a hard stare on him. “Still working on it.”

“You may want to work faster. The will has a proviso to begin disbursements to some of those groups by the middle of next week if we’re not all on board.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it.” I glanced back over from whence he’d come. “Shouldn’t you get your date home before her nanny calls the cops?”

He waved to a woman sitting alone. “Your Nicole cleans up nicely, doesn’t she?”

I said nothing and sipped the Scotch. It was good—single malt and easily older than Nicole. I even felt a tiny trickle of magick, but this was lighter fluid compared to the weapon’s-grade plutonium of Irish. But I was drinking it for the alcohol, not the power.

Harry concluded the conversation was at an end. “I’ll check back with you later, Patrick. So nice to meet you, Natalia.”

“And you, Courtland.”

Just the way she said that, I could have kissed her. Bloodlessly—no cold bloodedly. More importantly, she wiped her hand off on her napkin, then took the scotch from me and gulped half of it down.

I blinked, surprised. “You okay?”

She smiled and set the glass down between us. “We’ll have to strike a truce, Patrick. You don’t speak ill of my family, and I won’t of yours.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

She laughed. “That’s a better deal. I can’t wait for you to meet my uncle.” Talia shivered. “Why does it feel like I just shook hands with Mephistopheles?”

“He’s his understudy.” I signaled the waiter and re-ordered my Irish. “He was born Harris Courtland Anderson, after his grandfather. As a kid, he was always sucking up to his namesake. Grampy died and didn’t leave him a cent, so now he’s calling himself H. Courtland.”

“It was your grandfather’s will, he mentioned?”

“His father, my step-father. And that whole discussion is left over from yesterday.”

Her hand closed over mine. “Yesterday is gone. What I propose is this. We talk about things we like over dinner, and after, we’ll actually do them.”

Part Nine

It had been a long time since I woke up in someone else’s bed. I was alone, as usual, but stretching out a hand let me feel the fading warmth from where Talia had slept. I rolled over lazily, burying my face in her pillow, breathing deeply of her scent. Musk and flowers. Sweet flowers and the heavy musk of sex.

I lay there for a bit, then slowly crawled from beneath the covers. The color white dominated the bedroom, from the carpet to walls, and furnishings. The floral-pattern bedspread differed, and the ornate furnishings were off-white and decorated with gold-leaf. It was all Louis-something or other in style—and reason enough, as far as I was concerned, for the king to have lost his head. Still, it all worked for Talia and the room felt very welcoming, just like her.

I stumbled into the master bath, relieved myself, then took a look in the mirror. Didn’t appear as wrecked as I might have, given that I was operating on too little sleep. I could still feel her kisses. They burned against every scar on my body, especially the gunshot wounds. She’s not been shocked, though clearly she’d never seen or touched one before. It didn’t matter to her. They were part of me, and that meant they deserved to be kissed.

I have to admit, I had a hard time with that. I’d spent a lot of time hating myself for the failures of my life. I was pretty sure I’d continue doing so, too; but for the first time it seemed like a waste of time. She was looking past the surface, looking past what I did, and finding something there worth kissing. Maybe even worth loving.

Even if I couldn’t see it.

She met me as I left the bathroom. She stood there, completely naked, her white-blonde hair hiding her collar-bones. She had small nipples, and they were rock hard. Flat tummy and sweet curves, including hip bones that sorely wanted kissing.

Talia smiled, her eyes bright. “I figure you for a ‘coffee-and-go for breakfast’ kind of guy.”

I nodded. “I tend not to wake up until about noon.”

“I noticed you’re a night-person.” She closed, kissing my throat. I hugged her to me, feeling her nipples against my flesh, her hip molding against mine. She purred. “I could get used to that.”

I kissed the top of her head. “But you’re a morning person?”

“By choice, not inclination.” She laughed lightly. “I like early classes. The students who sign on for them tend to be more dedicated.”

She pulled back and took my hand in hers. She led me from the bedroom to the ranch house’s great room and the kitchen at the back of it. Coffee was brewing, and a small television played local news silently. White continued the decorating theme, with blonde wood and modern furnishings working from it into the sunken, living-room portion of the great room.

She bade me sit on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. “What am I going to do with you, Mr. Molloy?”

“What do you want to do with me?”

Again, she laughed. “Frankly, I want to explore you. Intellectually, emotionally, physically—all of you, in intimate detail. I find you fascinating and, I fear, could find you addictive.”

I glanced down. “You’ll get bored.”

“Actually, I think you’ll be bored with me long before I will be with you, Patrick.” She moved between my knees, tipped my head up with a hand, and kissed me. “I could become very attached to you. That’s a risk, but one I’m willing to take.”

She felt a little tremor run though me. “You don’t like that idea?”

“Just surprised by how much part of me would like that.” I frowned. “You know what I do. You’ve seen the kind of marks it leaves on me. You’ve noticed the bruise on my stomach. You’ll see more. Maybe more cuts. Maybe more gunshot wounds. Maybe worse.”

“I’ll audit a first-aid course. I’ll even do the labs.”

I smiled. “Look, there’s something else, and I don’t think there’s a course for it. The circles I run in, the person I’ve been and am; sometimes my people skills are lacking. I spend a lot of time with people who, well, I won’t call animals because I like animals. And I can’t tell you that at some faculty reception I won’t tell some know-nothing theorist all about himself.”

“Bravo. Let me make you a list and get an engagement calendar.”

“I’m not joking, Talia.”

“Neither am I, Patrick.” She met my stare, her eyes incredibly intense. “I can’t tell you I’ll always understand, but I will always seek to understand. And I’m willing to explain what you don’t understand, if you want explanation.”

I nodded, half-smiling. “And you know I’m not a fixer-upper, right? There’s no changing me.”

Talia stepped back, opening her arms. “Honey, do I look like a spackle-and-fill kind of girl to you?”

“No, but I do like the body-work you do.”

“And I like that you need lots of work.” She laughed throatily as the coffeemaker started its hiss-and-sputter last gasp. She padded to it, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. “You take it black?”

I didn’t answer her immediately.

“Patrick?”

I blinked. “Black. Sorry. The TV.”

“What?”

A low growl slipped from my throat. “Forget the first-aid class. See if someone at Coast College can teach you to shoot.

Part Ten

We had to wait a half-hour for a repeat of the news story, which let me get dressed and get half a pot of coffee into me. Talia had an old bottle of Jamesons in her liquor cabinet, which was better than nothing. I liberally laced the coffee. When the story played again, she hit it, too.

The redhead I’d passed going into Adrienne’s condo had been found badly beaten in the parking lot of the Crowley Foundation. She was its director, Anne Parker. The Crowley Foundation helped victims of domestic abuse. The offices had been ransacked. The Foundation had been the local charity that sent a team help Habitat for Humanity build a house. Adrienne had recruited girls from the club to drive nails.

Things began to click. Adrienne is hurt, scared. She runs to the Foundation. They’re used to stashing abuse victims in safehouses. Parker knows Adrienne, heads to her condo to pick some things up for her, and Carpentier’s people noticed her. They probably tagged her license plate, bribed someone at DMV for the info, and followed up when they figured out who she was. They went to ask nicely where Adrienne was and didn’t get the answer they wanted.

At least I had to hope so.

Talia was willing to let me have the Jameson’s for the road, but I passed. On the way to the hospital a stopped at a liquor store and picked up a twelve-year-old bottle of Tullamore Dew. At City General I cracked it open and took a healthy pull. Warmth spread through me, and magick started burning in my veins.

The girls at the club use glamour to enhance their charms. Most of them had an emotional channel, since glamour was highly compatible with emotions. Anyone can learn a spell, but spells work best if they function with your channel. And, luckily for me, I’d learned some glamour and it meshed with mine perfectly.

My glamour, however, wasn’t the sort that made me stand out. In fact, it worked in the reverse. I slipped into the hospital, pulled a white coat from a doctor’s lounge, and shrouded myself in glamour. Anyone looking at me would get a sense that I belonged, which was all I needed.

I’d been in City General before. As it turned out, I’d even occupied the same Intensive Care room they’d stashed Anne Parker in. It was end of the hall, so the cop sitting next to it didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking up behind him.

I paused at the nurse’s station, picked up one of the electronic tablets and tapped my way to Parker’s record. Lots of numbers and enough drugs to guarantee some pharmaceuticals mogul a billion dollar bonus. Short form was she had multiple fractures, including face and skull, countless soft tissue injuries and some serious bruising to her liver, kidneys and spleen. In fact, she was probably going to lose it. Most troubling of all, however, was brain swelling which wasn’t going down. Prognosis was not good.

I’d worked with organizations like the Crowley Foundation. I’d even had to subpoena records. So protective were they of their clients that everything would be encrypted. The severity of the beating suggested that Anne Parker hadn’t given anything up. Even if Carpentier’s men had found a record for Adrienne, he’d have to do some heavy-duty decrypting to locate her.

And, I was willing to bet, Adrienne’s hiding place was locked up in Anne Parker’s swollen brain.

Studying the tablet, I headed to her room. The cop looked up from his book of Sodoku puzzles, then nodded. I entered and crossed to her side. They’d done a job on her. The chart had described her clinically. It made it almost possible to understand what had happened.

But one look blew all that away.

It was hard to tell she was human.

I shifted my vision and looked at her through magick. She wasn’t talented. Most folks look dark, like a silhouette, with sparks of color here and there. The whole idea of auras is drawn from we can see, though colors don’t mean anything more than someone is alive.

Anne Parker was black with slowly moving rivers of grey.

I held my left hand out, about an inch above her head. A golden scalpel materialized in my right hand. I took a deep breath, set myself.

Then I stabbed the scalpel through the back of my hand and caught the flash of the golden blade quivering in my palm.

My hand spasmed, but I forced it open again. Slowly, like dew-drops gathering on the tip of a leaf, golden energy flowed down to the point. It hung there, oscillating with my heartbeat. The drop grew fatter, then fell free. It resolved itself into a perfect little glowing sphere, then splashed into the blackness that was Anne Parker’s skull.

I worked up and down her body, letting her have a drop every eight inches or so. I probably hit her chakra or a boatload of acupuncture points. I even gave a drop to each foot, in case that reflexology crap had some spark of truth to it. I went back up to her head and popped two more drops there. I could have done more, but I had to be careful. Kick her healing into high gear and her white blood cells would consume the needles in her arms, the catheter and the respirator tube in her throat.

And, frankly, doing much more would do me in. I closed my left fist as the scalpel evaporated, then caught hold of the bed rail to steady myself. Nausea poured over me and my knees almost buckled. I twisted around and dropped into the chair beside her bed. I ended up with my head between my knees, taking slow breaths.

Not sure how long I remained like that. Five minutes, not much more. I’d have stayed that way longer, but sheets rustled. I hauled myself to my feet and smiled.

The swelling had gone down. Not all the way, but purple had passed to jaundice yellow. And her eyes, open now, were clear. She saw me and, from the initial look, my glamour had faded.

I smiled hopefully. “We met once. I’m a friend of Adrienne’s—Daniela Costa. You let me in to her condo the night before last. You’d just gotten her some things. I was going to check on her. She saved my life not too long ago and I’m returning the favor.

“The guys who did this to you. Nasty work. Andre and Jimmy. Big and scary. They wanted to know where you’d stashed her. You didn’t give her up. Thing is, if I don’t find her, they will.”

Anne shook her head and screwed her eyes tight shut. Tears began to well up.

“I know you’re protecting her. Think. Did she ever mention me? Trick Molloy?”

She shook her head again.

“Dammit, I should have worked on that build. Adrienne said she needed someone for heavy lifting.”

The woman opened her eyes again. She didn’t look afraid anymore. She looked at me harder, then nodded.

I took the tablet, flicked it over to the Internet function and called up a map of the city. I held it out to her. “Please.”

She tapped the screen with a trembling finger at the top of the image. The map scrolled north and east, following the Inland Turnpike. I flipped it around, brought up a detailed image. Anne tapped it again, centering on the area around Oakdale. Another focus and she picked out a small lake called Jasper Pond. A couple of no name roads ran around the lake. Logging roads probably.

“This is where she is? At a cabin at the lake?”

A nod.

“Got it.” I returned her nod, solemnly. “I’ll get there before they do, I promise you.”

She smiled as best she could, probably feeling reassured.

I took that as a good sign.

I shouldn’t have.

True to my word, I would get there before the Mafia.

Problem was, I wouldn’t get there long enough before them to make any damned difference at all.

Part Eleven

Oakdale exit, Inland Turnpike. Cost me $12.75 in tolls and, worse yet, time. Didn’t matter how fast I drove, when I came to a toll plaza, there was always some octogenarian counting out coins from a change purse. Most of them had hands shaking with Parkinson’s tremors. Slow as they were, however, they were preferable to the moron who casually tossed his quarters at the big basket and missed, then got out to crawl under the car to recover two bits.

Consuming about $9 in gas while his old Caddie idled.

Sure, I could have saved time if I used a QT Pass, just roaring on through at eighty. I didn’t for two very good reasons. First, I will never own anything that even sounds like “cutie” on general principles alone. Second, if anyone wanted to track my movements, they should tail me the old fashioned way, not pull a printout of my toll account.

Oh, and three, paying cash let me get rid of all the change that had collected in what once was a cup-holder.

Only interesting thing on the trip was listening to local talk radio. They were all over Anne Parker’s miraculous recovery. The story went from the tragedy of random crime to a wonder that medical science could not explain. They got Reverend Ray Rayburn to pronounce it to be a sign of God’s favor. They counter-pointed him with some scientist who muttered about “spontaneous remissions” and similar twaddle. No one wanted to utter the word magick since Rayburn was invested in all magick being evil, and science was invested in wanting to ignore anything they couldn’t describe with math.

Despite all the folks slowing me down, I made decent time. Once I’d taken the exit, the only time I eased off the gas was when I hit dirt roads. They were nasty and rutty old logging roads, with washouts that left huge boulders poised to rip out a transmission or crack a crankcase. I felt a sense of urgency, but any rescue kind of depended on my car being functional. Besides, easing off on the speed let me study the tiny signs tacked to trees where the road forked.

Several pointed me toward Parker Camp Road, which I figured was my destination. Turned out I was right, as the road came down through a dense tunnel of foliage to a log cabin on Jasper Pond’s eastern shore. The setting sun splashed blood over the water, which wasn’t an omen I liked. I turned the car around and pointed it heading back out, which also brought the passenger side door closer to the cabin’s front door.

The place looked similar enough to the photo from Adrienne’s place that I understood why she found it familiar and comforting. I was guessing that she might have helped Anne ferry someone up here once and made a comment. When she came to Anne for help, this became the logical choice for a sanctuary.

I mounted the steps quietly and checked the door. Locked. I pressed my thumb to it, cast and turned, opening it with a click. The cabin itself was one large room with an open loft covering the back half of the main room. Big stone fireplace to the left with a couple of comfy chairs, bookshelves full of games, a table with a kerosene reading lamp. On the right, a kitchenette with a sink and an old fashioned refrigerator that required a supply of ice to keep it cold. Side door let out onto a screened-in porch. Beyond it lay an outhouse, and another building that served for wood storage and as an icehouse.

Adrienne sat all bundled up in one of the comfy chairs. She had a gauze bandage wrapped around her head. Blood stained it at her right temple. The left side of her face remained swollen with a nasty purple bruise. Bottle of water on the shelf next to her and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate beside it. And a bucket in case she felt like throwing up on the other side of the chair.

She hadn’t used it. I checked her for vital signs. Breathing shallow, slight rasp. Eyes reacted to light, but the right did so sluggishly. Pulse was strong and steady. Using a bit of the water, I teased the bandage away, revealing another huge bruise that ran back into her hair and an inch long cut. Someone had used a couple butterfly bandages to pull it closed.

Funny thing about the healing magick I use. It doesn’t require a doctor’s knowledge of what’s wrong with a patient to work, but I feel better when I know what’s going on. I understood enough of the stuff in Anne Parker’s chart to give the magick a mission briefing, albeit a tiny one. With Adrienne I knew I was looking at a concussion, some brain damage, the cut. Skull fracture, maybe? I could do that, but it would probably take a bit more juice than I had in me.

As I turned from her, intent on going back to the car to get the Tully bottle, an engine roared outside. Not mine. I dropped to a knee, turning toward the flash of headlights coming down the road. Carpentier! Had to be.

Andre’s easing back the hammer on his pistol confirmed it for me. “Do not move, Molloy. The boss, he is wanting a word with you.”

I kept my hands open. “Good. I’ve got some information for him.”

“Like you know where the Costa woman is?” The enforcer chuckled.

I stood slowly. “That, and where she’s got his prize hidden.”

No reaction. Didn’t matter. Carpentier knocked on the door, then let himself in as if a neighbor coming for a visit. “Mr. Molloy, thank you. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“Yes, for leading us here, and for what you are about to do.”

I frowned. “And that would be?”

Carpentier nodded toward Adrienne. “You’re going to use your considerable magickal talents to bring Miss Costa to her senses, so we can wring from her everything we want to know.”

Part Twelve

“Me? Healing magick? You gotta be kidding.”

Carpentier smiled with less warmth than the empty hearth was kicking out. “The fact that we found here should indicate that we’re not stupid. Anne Parker used QT Pass to come up to Oakdale. We were already searching fruitlessly in the area when you arrived. Poor Jimmy is even further north, won’t be here until we long since done.”

“You bribe someone for the toll data?”

“No, Mr. Molloy. No need. QT Pass is one of the legitimate enterprises I’ve invested in. I just made a call to the office. Quality assurance and all that. And, so you know, I had a tracker installed on your car while we shared dinner the other evening. This is how I know you went to City General. A nurse in the ICU, whose husband has a gambling problem, let us know a doctor she didn’t recognize had visited Parker. Soon thereafter the miracle was noted. I was capable of putting two and two together.”

“Happy coincidence. I never saw the Parker woman.”

“And yet here you are at her family’s retreat.” Carpentier shook his head. “I told you that you didn’t want to disappoint me, Mr. Molloy. Because I’ve had your car tracked, I know where you spent last evening. Do you really want to see Doctor Heron come to harm?”

My guts twisted in on themselves. “There’s something I need in my car.”

“I submit, if it was that vital, you’d have brought it in with you.” Carpentier produced a pistol. “Andre, frisk him.”

Andre’s pistol disappeared into a shoulder holster. He patted me down, wasting no time while taking great liberties with my person. I’d have felt violated, but the way things were going, the pat-down was probably just foreplay.

“He is clean.”

“Good.” The boss motioned with the pistol. “Do your magick, Mr. Molloy.

I returned to Adrienne’s side and summoned the scalpel. Neither man reacted to it, and I didn’t get the sense of talent about them, so I figured they couldn’t see its glowing presence. I held my left hand up and made a very deliberate a slow stroke across the palm—what doctors call a “bagel-cut.” I squeezed my hand into a fist, and four golden drops splashed onto Adrienne’s wound. They sank in, glimmering for a moment, like cavers’ lamps as they descended into the depths of the earth.

I staggered, a wave of exhaustion crashing over me. “There. It’s done.”

“Yes?” Carpentier tucked his pistol away and approached to watch. “Spontaneous healing?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how much it will fix.” I leaned back against the fireplace, but Andre’s reappearing pistol directed me away from the iron poker. “If she’s got too much brain damage, she’s done. And lost memories from amnesia I can’t do anything about.

He watched closely. So did I. I was expecting the bruises to fade and the cut to close. In the half-life I thought I saw something, but by the time Carpentier lit the kerosene lamp, the healing proved to have been just a trick of the light.

Carpentier shook his head. “You have disappointed me, Mr. Molloy.”

“It may just take time.”

“Well, time is up. At least, your time is up.” Carpentier scratched at his throat. “I’ve wrestled with the idea of whether or not to kill you. You’re useless as a witness against me. My lawyers would use your status as a pariah to destroy you on the witness stand. Because of that I was inclined to let you live. But that was if you proved useful to me. Alas, I don’t know if you actually used magick here, or just went through an elaborate charade to buy time. Doesn’t matter. Andre, kill him.”

“Mr. Carpentier, Molloy said he knows where the girl put the package.”

Momentary interest lit his eyes, then it died. “We know everywhere he’s been. Backtrack him, starting with her apartment. We’ll find it. He’s of no further use.”

I flicked my right hand out. The golden scalpel flew true, sinking into Andre’s face just below the bridge of his shades. The glowing blade sank in all the way. Golden light jetted from his nose like dragonfire.

Just for a second he looked like he was going to sneeze.

That’s what spoiled his first shot, whizzing a bullet past my head as I closed.

Funny thing about healing magick. Even without a mission briefing does it’s best to set thing to rights. It tries to put them back the way they had been. Reshaping poor Andre’s face had required the breaking of some bones and the shaving of others.

A painful process which—when reversed in a split-second with an audible series of cracks—hurt like hell.

I helped things along with a punch. His pistol went flying, bouncing to the fireplace, as he toppled back. I hit him again, hoping to fold him forward around my right hand. Punching his stomach was pretty much like hammering stone. I added an uppercut which pitched him over backward.

I turned back toward Carpentier, which saved my life. He’d been aiming at my back but caught me in profile. The bullet nailed me in the right shoulder, spinning me around and dumping me on Andre. Glancing shot, muscle mostly, with the slug tucked in nicely behind my shoulderblade.

I clapped my left hand over the wound.

Carpentier stalked forward. The smoking pistol never wavered. “Now I know why Johnny Dawes left you alive. So much fun to play with.” He shrugged. “But I’ve never liked playing games.”

Adrienne spoke. Her voice had an edge I’d never heard before. “Then understand this isn’t a game. Put the gun down. You’re under arrest.”

I looked past Carpentier. Adrienne crouched there, Andre’s pistol in a department-issue double-handed shooting stance. The bruises on her face faded as she let her glamour evaporate. The healing had taken, and she’d come back aware enough to keep things hidden with her own magick.

Carpentier lowered the gun to the floor, then raised his hands. He turned toward her, but I caught his growing smile. “Are you local, my dear, or do I start negotiation Witness Protection with you?”

Adrienne, aka Daniela Costa was really Special Agent Dara Costigan of the FBI, working undercover. Her bosses were kind of surprised when she called them for backup from Carpentier’s cell, but they warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. Vehicles rolled, birds flew, and all of a sudden feds were on that cabin like crows on roadkill.

Roadkill was pretty much how I was feeling until I hit the Tully in my car. The bullet hole healed up clean with something less than an acne scar to mark its existence. My body spat the slug out. I handed it to Dara in case they wanted it for ballistics.

Funniest thing about the whole deal concerned the much mentioned “package.” One of Carpentier’s subordinates had talked Ari into using a thumb-drive with some special snitchware to yank down the boss’ books. Dara had gone to the crib that night to get it, but someone had already stolen it from the safe. Whoever had it—and Ari hadn’t revealed that tidbit of information to Dara—had been prepping to replace Carpentier. I figured we’d learn soon enough who that was eventually.

Sitting across the table from me at Rosselli’s, Talia looked about suspiciously. “Are you sure it’s safe to be telling me this here?”

I nodded at the half-empty house. “After the US Attorney made her announcement about the collar, everyone is hunkering down trying to figure out how exposed they are. No one’s going to be making any moves right now, and no one is going to connect me to this.”

In fact, the Feds and local cops, represented at the press conference by the Wonder in White, weren’t of a mind to shovel any credit my way. Carpentier’s comment held. As a witness, I was instantly impeachable. The further they kept me away from this case—in which I’d be known as “Confidential Informant 041″—the easier their prosecution would be.

She smiled and stoked my hand as the waiter hauled away the remains of our dinner. “I’ll confess, it is rather exciting. And, you know, you’ll be needing physical therapy for your shoulder.”

“You think?”

“Private facility. Personal trainer. You should start tonight.”

I smiled, but before I could say anything, the waiter returned with a tiramisu into which had been set a single birthday candle. “You should have told us, sir, that it was your birthday.”

I looked up and caught a shadowy figure heading out. The waiter organized a sing-along, through which my face reddened. They thought I was blushing.

When the song died, I blew out the candle, and the waiter handed me an envelope.

I opened it as Talia looked on expectantly. Travel docs and a note. The plane ticket was for Phoenix, the booking sheet for a resort.

The note was from my brother.

“Let the games begin.”