Bad Blood: Latter-Day Olympians Page 15

  We kept up our staring contest until she finally blinked. “Fine, I’ll get my checkbook. I do owe you for the return of my dog.”

  Uh huh. “And the checks will clear—are we understood?”

  She spared a moment from digging through the purse on her kitchen counter to look daggers at me. “They’ll clear.”

  “Good.” I waited for her to tear the checks out before rising to study and tuck them away.

  It was probably too late to end our business on a cheerful note. I doubt Karacis Investigations would be receiving any referrals from Mrs. S.

  Still. “Mrs. Strohmeyer—” she met my eyes reluctantly, “—divvying up community property is less expensive than a murder conviction.”

  “Without a body?” she scoffed.

  “It’s been done before.” She seemed to think about that. In any case, I’d done what I could to see that Dick would regain his natural form and live through the experience.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Death comes in threes; disaster comes in waves.”

  —Uncle Christos

  Even as odd as this case had been, I felt the buzz of satisfaction that came with a mystery solved. I was feeling pretty good—right up until the time I checked my messages. The first was from Jesus, as expected, the second from Armani.

  “Tori, your attacker has been found, unfortunately dead, washed up under the Santa Monica Pier. It’s outside our jurisdiction, but Lau and I were called in because of the description. I have no idea what the press will do with this, but I think your gods might be outed a little sooner than intended. There’s no way to keep a lid on it. Body’s off to the ME now. We’re going to need you to ID him as the suspect. Let’s just hope this doesn’t move up the conspiracy’s time table.”

  Nothing like the threat of impending doom to kill a buzz. I quickly rang Armani back, but got bumped straight to voice mail. I wondered if I’d catch holy hell if I told Apollo about this latest development. Then it occurred to me that he might already know. What if he’d truly recognized my description of Circe’s killer and taken matters into his own hands? I couldn’t imagine it, but then, I didn’t want to. No, my instincts couldn’t be trusted on this. I’d have a better sense of the truth if I could tell him face-to-face and see his reaction, though with an actor… Aw hell, it wasn’t my place anyway. I was sure Armani would want to do the honors.

  The phone rang in my hand—Armani with the address in Santa Monica. The police there were cooperating only so much; the body stayed on their turf, since this murder had taken place within their boundaries. If I had to guess, they might also be thinking of the notoriety the body’s sheer oddity would bring.

  I got there as fast as I could, signed in, showed my ID and the whole nine yards before I was allowed into a stark tiled hallway where I found Armani and Lau stewing in a small waiting area with hazmat-orange couches. I could almost see the steam streaming from Lau’s ears.

  “Good,” she said, and I knew she didn’t mean me, “now maybe they’ll let us in.”

  Armani rose to take my arm and lead me across the hall to a set of double doors he rapped on twice. Lau trailed behind.

  A man whose hair had all fled to his monobrow and mustache opened one side far enough to glower at us.

  “She’s here,” Armani said simply.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Monobrow answered.

  “Our witness, our escort.”

  I felt like the rag in a game of tug-of-war.

  “Boys, can we play ‘mine’s-bigger-than-yours’ later? I’d like to get this over with.” I tightened my grip on Armani’s arm to make it clear he’d be coming with.

  “Fine,” Monobrow said with poor grace, “but don’t touch anything, and I don’t want a whiff of this hitting the press before we’re ready to make a statement. One word and I won’t look any further for the leak. Clear?”

  I wondered if he was married. He and Marla Kelly would make a lovely couple.

  The thought made me smirk. “Yes, your surliness.”

  He gave me the eye, but after facing down psychos and gods, I couldn’t really be impressed. “I don’t like your attitude,” he growled.

  “No problem. I don’t like yours.”

  He didn’t have any choice about letting us in, not if he wanted some semblance of an ID, but he didn’t have to like it.

  Besides the still body on the gurney, there were two other people in the room, one a Junoesque African-American woman in a lab coat, hair pulled into a neat bun, and the other the somewhat-less-chiseled version of A. Martinez. If I weren’t already juggling attractions to Armani and Apollo, my hormones might have done a little, “Hey, sailor.”

  In contrast to his partner, Detective Rodriguez, as he was introduced, gave us a grim smile.

  Dr. Sheridan had barely looked up from the body as she continued her discussion already in progress.

  “This is too important to treat lightly,” she argued with the detective.

  “As I’ve said, the department just doesn’t have the resources to cover an unnecessary procedure. Do you know what an MRI costs? Unless you need it to determine cause of death…”

  “It might be unimportant to the law, but its value to science—”

  “Then let some science foundation pay for it once the body’s released,” Rodriguez cut in.

  Dr. Sheridan looked thunderous, but also seemed to note finally that they had an audience. Still, she offered one final argument. “Once I cut into him, the body won’t be intact; so much of the value is lost.”

  “Enough,” Monobrow—Detective Mikulski—cut in. “Argue on your own time or take it up with the chief. Ms. Karacis would like to take a look at our vic.”

  Rodriguez and Sheridan both eyed me as if to see if I could stand the shock. Then Dr. Sheridan peeled back the sheet, releasing the incongruous smell of ocean salt and singed flesh.

  It was fish-face all right. He certainly hadn’t gone gently into that good night. His face was a mask of anger. I could just barely see the top of a blackened chest wound. Without a better look, I had no idea if the cause of death was man-made, like a large caliber bullet from a gun held at close range, or godly, like a lightning bolt. So I asked.

  “How did he die?”

  “Is that the man you saw kill Circe Holland?” Mikulski asked.

  “Yes. I believe he may have been stalking Sierra Talbot as well.”

  It implied that Glaucus had killed both, but it was for the best. He was too dead to care about his reputation and I suspected Poseidon, if Sierra was indeed his handiwork, was a bit beyond human justice. Anyone looking for him would probably land on a matching slab. Better to put the whole thing to rest.

  Mikulski nodded and Dr. Sheridan replaced the sheet.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him.

  “No, and I’m not going to. For one thing, the autopsy results aren’t in. For another, it’s none of your damned business.”

  I was escorted out. Lau reminded him before the door shut on us that they’d be in touch.

  “What’s his deal?” I asked.

  “He’s on the wagon,” Lau answered. “Happens every time. Weirdly, he’s much more charming when he backslides.”

  Armani gave her an odd look.

  “We have history.”

  I had the office all to myself. Armani and Lau were on duty; Jesus had gone home or wherever he went when he left here. There was no one to hear me scream or cry or rant like a lunatic. I wanted to do it all at once. I didn’t like feeling powerless, a teeny tiny ant compared to the huge, unapproachable power of the gods. It made me angry and the anger felt huge, too big for me to contain—as if all hell were literally about to break loose. It gave me the brass balls I needed to threaten a god.

  I punched in the number Jesus had found for Hermes in his Thom Foolery persona. When his machine picked up I started talking. “Hermes, I know it’s you. Glaucus is dead. You’d better damn well pick up. If I have to fly to Boca to kick y
our sorry ass—”

  “Please, tell me more,” he purred into the phone. “I just love it when women talk dirty to me.”

  “That was not foreplay.”

  “Not to you, maybe. Really, tracking a man down might be considered forward by some, but I like a little aggression in my women. Of course, now you’ve blown my whole mystique.”

  “Whatever. Look, I need to know everything you know. I don’t have time for riddles. Three people are dead already—”

  “And that’s supposed to make me talk? I’m not foolish enough to set myself up as the next victim.”

  “Then try this on for size—either you tell me and I keep it to myself that you’re my source, or I find out elsewhere and put it out that the information came from you.”

  “It occurs to me that if you ‘put it out’ that you know, you’re in as much danger as me. Maybe more. I’ve had centuries to prepare for anything.”

  “Well, damn. That always works on TV.”

  He chose not to comment.

  “Then how about this, I keep completely silent and no one knows the beans have been spilled.”

  “Until you swoop in to foil the plans. Anyway, I’m not certain I’m so enamored of my current reality that I wouldn’t welcome a change.”

  “Exactly when did you get that stick implanted up your butt? Where’s the Puckish rabble-rousing? Come on, you’re not really going to hang back and let things unfold without your interference. What fun would that be?”

  He laughed. “A very palpable hit. Let me think. How can I keep you in the game without exposing myself? You’ve caught me at a loss. All that disingenuous idiocy is not without cost, you know.”

  Hermes made thinking noises until I was ready to jump through the phone line and throttle the answers out of him. Just as my very last nerve was about to snap, he said, “I’ve got nothing. I only hope you don’t unearth the plot too late.”

  He was gone. My stomach sank down to my toes.

  Struggling not to lose hope, I pulled out my list. I wondered if Jesus’s hacker buddy could get access to Yiayia’s phone records, track down her “friend”. I wasn’t ready to cut off the very last tie to my family now that Uncle Christos had fled into the wild blue yonder. Not yet anyway. Both Apollo and Hermes had dodged my questions.

  Maybe I should have started with Christie and worked my way up. I owed her a call anyway. Aside from emailing her Jesus’s head-shot preferences, I’d been ducking her since slipping out of the nightclub with Apollo. She’d want details. Girlfriends told each other that kind of thing, I knew. It was just kinda hard to get used to. In the circus everyone knew each others’ business; there was hardly a need to talk about it. Anything truly private was guarded like Fort Knox. The only way to survive in such close quarters day in and day out was to respect that. My fatal flaw. I was good at blowing things wide open. Not so good at sharing.

  I sucked it up and dialed Christie’s number.

  “Hey, traitor,” she answered.

  “Um, hey?”

  “Don’t say it like you’re not sure I’m talking about you. You practically disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. A lot’s been going on.”

  “Yeah, I saw the news. Looks like you and Apollo are getting pretty chummy. Are you ditching me for a guy? I mean, at least I can sort of understand this one, but—”

  “Christie, I’m not ditching you for Apollo or anyone else. It’s this case. Well, two really, but I just wrapped up the one.”

  “Well, goody for you,” but the vehemence was already draining from her voice and for once I really appreciated the bigness of heart that allowed Jack the jerk so many chances.

  “Actually, maybe you can help me with the other.”

  “Really?” She brightened.

  I grimaced, certain she had something other than interrogation in mind. “Yup. On the day of Circe’s murder, the conversation kind of took a right turn before you got to tell me whether or not you knew her.”

  “Oh.”

  Noncommittal, but, hey, not outright hostile.

  “Do you?” I pushed.

  Silence.

  “Christie, I can’t hear your head shaking.”

  “Well, duh. I was just trying to decide what to say. See, you’re going to think I’m nuts.”

  “I promise, whatever you have to say, I won’t think you’re nuts. I’ve seen enough insanity these last few days that it’s starting to seem normal.”

  “Okay,” she answered doubtfully. “Um, here goes—Circe Holland contacted me, like, a year ago about representation.”

  “She’s your agent?” No, that couldn’t be right. I was sure she called him something like Mac.

  “No, that’s the crazy thing. You’re going to think I’m all superstitious, but it seems like she’s kind of a Typhoid Mary. Her actors are all, like, big, you know, for a short time, kind of shooting stars, but there’s no staying power—they die young or fade away. Maybe it’s just that her attention wanders to the next big thing. Maybe it’s the nature of the business. I just get this weird vibe. But, you know, Circe Holland. So, I met with her, took a look at her contract. I can’t remember now, but there was something strange about it.” Yeah, like a forget spell, I thought. A clause like that doesn’t just slip your mind. “Anyway, I didn’t sign. Look how well that’s turned out—still doing commercials and catalogue shoots.”

  “Oh, Christie, you did the right thing. Trust me.”

  I’d been ridiculously arrogant thinking Christie needed me to be some kind of guardian angel shielding her from the world. Maybe she already had a guardian angel. Recent events had proven there were more things on Earth than were thought of in my philosophy. Anyway, she did just fine. Probably better than I would have if someone offered up my dreams on a silver platter.

  “Really? I’m not a silly superstitious freak? I know you think I’m naïve—”

  Ouch. “No, you’re just right. I’m the idiot. I’m such a cynic I think it’s the only way to be.” I needed to start giving Christie more credit. “I’m sorry.”

  “Good. That way you’ll be beholden to me, which works out because, ah, I wanted to ask you something. Just to see what you think. You can always say no, or—”

  “Christie, just ask.”

  “Okay, well, like, I heard that Apollo is taking over Circe’s business—hey, wait, that’s weird, they’re both totally Greek names, right? Anyway, I was wondering if you thought he might consider me again, you know, if he were changing that contract boilerplate, and hoped you could put in a good word?”

  I didn’t groan, but it was a close thing. I didn’t want to owe any more to Apollo than he already thought I did. But for Christie…

  “I’ll have to play it by ear. He’s—” how to put this? “—not always so approachable.”

  “Uh huh. He looked pretty approachable the other night at the Kasbah,” she teased.

  I let my head fall until it thumped on my desk. “Ow.”

  “Tori?”

  After the call I sat staring at my blotter for a full minute. Something about the conversation had sparked the glimmer of a thought, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. I was pretty disgusted with myself for taking things for granted. Weeks ago, I knew that Yiayia was eccentric and our family stories a bunch of hooey; gods didn’t roam the earth, magic existed only in books and movies; blond plus big-hearted equaled dupe. Blind, deaf and dumb. Some investigator.

  That was when it hit me, the niggling thought. Since when had Hermes ever been at a loss for words? I had assumed that he was on the level when he told me “I got nothing”, but Hermes/Coyote was never that straightforward. I was on the tail end of a planet-sized learning curve about assumptions. What kind of idiot would count her change at any deli but take a trickster god at his word? My kind of idiot, apparently. Uncle Christos was going to regret leaving me alone with his business.

  But dammit, I was going to see this through. I thought back over Hermes
’s parting words. “I hope you don’t unearth the plot”—was that it? I didn’t see what I could do with the first part, so I moved on to “unearth”. I grabbed a piece of blank paper from my printer and started writing. Unearth—excavate, exhume, dig up, uncover. Hmmm. Plot—of land, grave, plan. Exhume and grave would go together, but if so, whose grave? Hell, for all I knew this could be the plot of a novel or screenplay. It could mean anything. Was I making erroneous assumptions again, trying to read into Hermes’s words? Maybe. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to put it on my backbrain, see what developed, whereas ignoring the possibility might be hazardous to L.A.’s health.

  My stomach growled and the phone rang all at once. I ignored the one and answered the other.

  Without preamble, Armani asked, “Are you near a TV?”

  “No.”

  “You might want to find one. I’ve got some things to wrap up. Then, if it’s all right, I’ll come by. I’ll bring dinner.”

  Much as I hated to nix what sounded like Armani’s attempt to make good on that date… “I’m headed out for something now. You could bring dessert.”

  “What do you like?”

  “Anything chocolate.”

  I stopped for takeout souvlaki and ate it in front of my television. I flipped through the channels until I found what Armani wanted me to see—the press conference already in progress.

  Detective Rodriguez and a man I didn’t recognize, but major brass, a captain by his bars, shared the mic while Monobrow tried not to sulk too obviously about his strictly supporting role. Someone must have decided that Rodriguez would make a better impression in front of the cameras. Go figure.

  From the sea of raised hands, brass chose a brunette Barbie in a red power suit.

  “We’ve heard that there are some unusual identifying characteristics about the body that was fished out of the ocean. Would you comment on that?” Which either meant a leak or, more likely, that whoever found the body had already contacted the stations about selling camera-phone pictures or amateur video to the highest bidder.

  Brass oh-so-kindly sidestepped that one, leaving Rodriguez with the mic. “Yes, our victim has certain abnormalities, as noted by one of the witnesses at the Circe Holland homicide, a local investigator.”