As Big Paul and I led the unresisting goblins toward the door, I thought about what I could do to show my appreciation for Rachel's efforts. I was wondering if witches liked flowers when I heard the insane screech behind me, followed instantly by Paul's voice shouting, "Fuck!"

  I whirled to see a goblin – the undrugged, uncompliant third goblin that nobody had known about – rushing at Paul. It held a knife with a foot-long blade in one green, furry paw.

  I'd seen Paul's scores on the yearly firearms qualification, including "Draw and Fire." He was slower than me, by three-tenths of a second. But he still had plenty of time to draw down on the meth-crazed goblin.

  I had my own weapon out now, but Paul's bulk blocked my shot. No problem. I knew he could double-tap that little green fucker without my help, and I'm sure Big Paul knew it, too. Right up until the instant that his weapon jammed.

  I heard the click from Paul's Colt Commander, and knew instantly what had happened. And Paul froze. He should have dropped to the floor and given me a clear shot. That's standard procedure. Christ, they even teach it at the police academy. Instead, he just stood there, pulling the trigger on his useless weapon over and over, as if hoping that i would finally fire.

  Paul's goblin prisoner was between us, and I wasted a precious couple of seconds shoving him out of the way. I reached for Paul's shoulder with my free hand, intending to push him aside so I could get a clear shot of my own. But by then it was far too late.

  I felt the impact as the goblin's blade slammed into Paul's chest, unprotected by the body armor I'd said we didn't need. I heard his grunt of pain and surprise, saw the spray of blood from the wound – the bright red arterial blood that continued to spurt as Paul fell to his knees, giving me at last a clear view of the goblin that had knifed him, its face made even uglier by the rage and drug-induced madness stamped on it, then made uglier still by the impact of my bullet between its crazed black eyes.

  The head shot was an instant kill, I knew that. There was no reason for me to empty the other seven rounds of cold-iron-tipped 9 mm into the green, misshapen body as it lay sprawled on the floor. No reason at all.

  I tried to stop Paul's bleeding with pressure, and pretty soon I had a lot of uniformed help. But Paul still died before they could get him into an ambulance. They said later that the goblin's blade had severed one of the arteries leading to his heart. He'd bled to death internally in under a minute.

  Nobody could have known there was a third goblin hiding in back, they said. Big Paul should've remembered to keep his weapon clean, they said. It was nobody's fault, they said. Everybody, from the chief on down, seemed to accept that.

  Everybody but me.

 

 Skip ahead about seven weeks.

  I arrived for my shift a few minutes before 9pm, nodded to my partner, and sat down at my desk to check the messages and email that had come in during the day.

  The Supernatural Crimes squad room is a cramped rectangle, with the detectives' desks set flush against the walls at the long sides. The shorter end at the front has McGuire's office and a door leading to the small reception area. The other end's got a door that leads to interrogation cells, a tiny lounge with coffee and vending machines, and the locker room.

  Two of the other detective teams were already there. Pearce and McLane had the pair of desks opposite mine. McLane had bad acne as a kid, and has the pockmarks on his face to prove it. He had one of those four-dollar lattes in front of him as he paged through today's Scranton Times-Tribune. I noticed that the front page was all about some corrupt politician; the real news story will be if they find one in the Wyoming Valley who isn't corrupt.

  Pearce, who's built like a fireplug, had a pair of earphones in, his big, square head bobbing to whatever the iPod was cranking out, although I'd bet it was the Dixie Chicks. Pearce used to fight in Golden Gloves, and his nose has been broken so many times he's become a mouth breather.

  Further down on my side of the room, Sefchik and Aquilina sat at their abutting desks, arguing quietly about something. That didn't mean much – they always argued. But they've stayed partners for going on three years. Sefchik had the blond-and-blue looks of a choirboy, offset by the mouth of a Marine DI. As usual, he had a bottle of Diet Pepsi on his desk, and his partner drank from it as often as he did. You gotta like somebody pretty well to swap spit with them like that. Maybe Sefchik would have felt differently if Aquilina was a guy.

  Carmela Aquilina was one of the unit's two female detectives. Cops being cops, she had to put up with a fair amount of shit when she first joined the squad. There's only one locker room for everybody, and guys were always trying to catch a glimpse of Carmela in the shower. She go so sick of it that she started walking around the locker room naked all the time, locking eyes with anybody she caught staring. We're so used to it now, nobody really looks anymore. Maybe that's what she had in mind to begin with.

  I was barely halfway through my email when the lieutenant appeared at the door of his office and called out a couple of names, one of them mine. There was a report of something weird going down, and my partner and I had caught it.

 

My new partner was Karl Renfer, a tall, gangly kid, all elbows and knees. Far as I'm concerned, a "kid" is anyone younger than I am, and Karl's just past thirty. He'd been with the Supe Squad about six months. I remember when he'd been a basketball standout at Abington High. After graduation, he joined the army, and they made him an MP. He says that's when he realized he wanted to be a cop.

  Karl'd had a pretty good record in uniform, and ordinarily I'd be okay about him riding with me. I've gotta have a partner, and it might as well be him. But there was already a cloud over him in the unit.

  When he first transferred in, Karl had been paired up with Marty O'Brian, who's about eighteen months away from his pension. Not one of my favorite cops, O'Brian. It's not that he's extremely lazy, or stupid, or mean, or careless about regs. He's just a little bit of all those things, so I don't have a lot of use for him. But he's been on the job a long time, and that earns him some degree of respect. I guess.

 

One night, O'Brian and Renfer had been sent to check out a cemetery at the edge of town, where a voodoo houngan had been spotted trying to raise zombies. Following procedure, they'd split up, with O'Brian approaching through the front gate and Karl finding another entrance at the side, or maybe the back.

  At least, that's the way it was supposed to go down.

  There was a houngan at work, all right. He'd already raised four zombies by the time O'Brian arrived on the scene. Instead of giving it up, the old man sent his newly created shamblers after O'Brian, who was forced to kill (or re-kill) all of them. In the process, a stray bullet found its way into the houngan's head, as well.

  That's the way O'Brian tells it.

  Karl Renfer didn't arrive until after the shooting was over. He said all the other cemetery gates were locked. He'd checked every one, and then tried to climb over the fence. But the church had been worried about vandals, so the fence was high and difficult. Karl wasn't able to get in until he found a trash barrel that he could up-end and use to boost himself over the top. He got to where O'Brian and the action was as soon as he could.

  That's what Karl claimed, anyway.

  O'Brian said Karl was yellow, that he'd been cowering somewhere while O'Brian heroically risked his life against the zombies and their evil master.

  There'd been no way to prove or disprove either story. The only possible witnesses were dead, either for the first or second time. After a Review Board hearing, Karl was cleared and sent back on the job. But O'Brian refused to work with him anymore, and, like I said, he's got a lot of seniority.

  So the new guy needed a partner. And for my sins, they gave him to me.

  O'Brian's an asshole, and maybe this was just more of his self-promoting bullshit. But "maybe" isn't good enough in this job. You have to be able to trust your partner all the way, every time. If there's any doubt about that, then the partnership isn't going to work.

  Every time we went out on a call, that doubt rode with us like a third passenger.

 

I was thinking about Big Paul again as il rought our unmarked car to a stop in front of the address we'd been given, just off North Keyser Avenue. The expression on his face when Paul realized he wasn't going to make it…

  Then I pushed all that stuff out of my mind and focused on the job. Wool-gathering's for sheep, and sooner or later, sheep get slaughtered.

  The place looked like an abandoned warehouse. That figured. I sometimes think companies build these things and leave them deserted just so bad guys will have someplace to hang out.

  There'd been a report that some Satanists were holding sacrifices in there, although nobody'd caught them at it yet. But this was the first night of the full moon, and if there was any coven activity going on, tonight was a good time for it.

  We've got freedom of religion in this country. You can worship Jesus, Jehovah, Allah, Vishnu, Satan, or Brad Pitt, for all the law cares. But killing dogs, cats, goats, or whatever – that comes under the animal cruelty laws, although some Santería practitioners are fighting it in the courts.

  Normally, dogs and cats would be a job for Animal Control, or maybe the SPCA. But every serious Satanist cult I ever heard of eventually moved up to sacrificing what they call "the goat without horns" – a human being.

  Unless somebody stopped them first.

 

I turned to Karl. "Stay here. I'll call you on the radio if I find anything interesting."

  Karl gave me a look I was already getting tired of, and said, "When are you gonna stop treating me like a fucking rookie?"

  "I'm treating you like my partner," I told him, "who happens to be the junior partner on this team and is supposed to do what he's told. And I'm telling you to wait here."

  I got out, and just before slamming the door shut I snapped, "And stay awake!"

  I was pissed off, but I couldn't have said at who. Maybe both of us.

  I made a careful circle of the warehouse. All I learned was that the loading dock was in back and there was a normal-sized door on the north side. I approached the door and carefully tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  I wasn't sure whether I was happy about that or not.

  Inside, it was darker than the boots of the High Sheriff of Hell. I thought I could hear voices chanting, but they weren't close.

  I took out my flashlight, and held it well away from my body before flicking it on. If the light was going to draw hostile attention, I didn't want any of it hitting me. But nobody shot, or shouted, or seemed to give much of a shit that I was there at all.

  I wasn't sure whether I was happy about that, either.

  The flashlight beam showed me that this part of the warehouse was divided into rooms by sheets of cheap plywood. There were a couple of hallways at right angles to each other. I followed the one where the chanting seemed loudest.

  After rounding a couple of corners, I saw a door with light under it – the faint, flickering light you get from candles.

  That door was unlocked, too. These people were either really stupid or really cocky. I turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak.

 

I soon learned it wouldn't have mattered if the door was wired to start playing "The Star-Spangled Banner", in stereo. The people inside were so intent on what they were doing, they didn't even notice me. At first.

  I slipped inside the room and quickly counted the house. It looked like thirteen of them. Well, that figured. They were all dressed in those hooded gray robes that were probably the height of fashion in the fourteenth century.

  The cultists were standing in a rough semicircle, their backs to me. As I crept closer, I got a better view of what they were all staring at. That's when I realized it wasn't a case for Animal Control any longer.

  This coven had already moved beyond goats and chickens. They had gone all the way to the big time.

  The scrawny blonde teenager they had on the floor, tied spread-eagled and gagged, was dressed like a streetwalker. No surprise there.

  Prostitution is the only job that requires a woman to go someplace private with a complete stranger. That makes working girls easy prey for guys who have more on their minds than a quick blowjob. Psychos have known that ever since Jack the Ripper, if not before.

  It looked like they had just finished cutting her throat.

  Her blood was flowing slowly across the wooden floor in the direction of the pentagram that somebody had drawn there in yellow chalk. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what they had in mind.

  These morons were trying to conjure a demon.

  Despite what you see in the movies, a summoning isn't all that easy to do. Hellspawn don't much like to be bothered by humans, who they regard with contempt. And most of the grimoires that you find are either completely worthless or they've got just enough accurate information to get you killed. Or worse.

  Conjuring a demon is like that proverb about grabbing a tiger by the tail – the slightest mistake, and you're lunch. I wondered if these fools would succeed in calling something from the netherworld. If they did, they might soon wish they'd failed.

  I had just decided to sneak back out and radio Karl to call for backup when the stream of the girl's blood reached the pentagram. As soon as it did, the air in the center began to shimmer and sparkle. The conjuration had worked, after all.

  Something from Hell was on its way.

 

I drew my weapon and stepped forward. Summoning a demon is a crime all by itself, and there was no way to tell whether these clowns had constructed their pentagram properly. If they hadn't, we could soon have a demon loose in my city, and I was not going to let that happen.

  "Police officer!" I yelled. "Stop the chanting and put your hands in the air! Do it!"

  Most of them whirled to face me, eyes wide with shock. But some were so mesmerized by the pentagram, they couldn't tear their eyes from it.

  The cultists who had turned my way were starting to put their hands up when I realized that I had miscounted. There were actually twelve of them gathered around the pentagram. I figured that out when Number Thirteen jumped me from behind.

  The thirteenth guy had been out of the room – maybe in the john, puking over the sight of blood, I don't know. But he picked a bad moment to come back.

  Lucky for me, the bastard didn't have a weapon. Instead, he jumped on my back, threw a forearm around my throat, and tried to grab my gun with his other hand.

  Most of the others had turned back to stare in awe at what had just appeared inside the pentagram. I only had time for a quick glance, but I saw that it was a class-four demon, which is about all you'd expect from Amateur Night. Not a heavyweight like Lucifuge Rofocale or Baal, thank heaven, but still enough to cause plenty of trouble if it got loose.

  Two of the cultists started toward me, I guess with the idea of giving their buddy on my back some help. I tried to bring my gun to bear on them, but Number Thirteen's hand on my wrist kept pulg it away.

  Since I couldn't shoot them, I decided to do the next best thing.

  I'd seen a guy do this in a bar fight, years ago. It had impressed me so much that I tried it myself in the gym a couple of times, where it didn't work real well. But I didn't have a lot of options.

  I took two running steps, tucked my head down, and went into the beginning of a forward somersault. It wasn't the full deal, not with Number Thirteen clinging to me like a tumor. But it took us right into the two approaching cultists like a huge bowling ball, knocking them sprawling, and ended up with Number Thirteen going down hard on his back with me on top of him. He let go of me then – he was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

  I scrambled to my feet, sensed movement behind me, and turned just in time to catch another cultist's fist square in the face. The guy was no Muhammad Ali, but the punch was enough to knock me off balance. I went down, more pissed off than hurt, and immediately started to get up again.

  Then something far stronger than a human hand grabbed my ankle, and in a heartbeat I knew that my leg had breached the pentagram.

  The demon had me.

 

Most people can think pretty fast when they have to. Even me. In a flash I considered my options, and none of them looked very good. I still had my gun, but shooting a demon is a waste of time, even with silver bullets. And Arnie Schwarzenegger in his prime couldn't have broken the grip that thing had on my leg.

  I was just thinking that my best option was to put the pistol in my mouth and pull the trigger when Karl Renfer appeared behind one of the smaller cultists, grabbed him at the neck and crotch with those big hands of his, and heaved.

  "Here's dinner, Hellfuck!" Karl yelled, as he threw the struggling man right at the demon's ugly, misshapen head.

  The kid was stronger than he looked.

  Class-four demons aren't very smart. If this one had been brighter, it would have hung on to me with one clawed hand and grabbed the airborne cultist with the other one. Kind of like dinner plus dessert.

  Instead, the stupid thing let go of me to grab its new prey, and I rolled away from that pentagram faster than a scalded cat on speed.

  I got to my feet just in time to see the demon bite the cultist's head off and swallow it whole.

  I waved my gun at the rest of the coven. "Freeze, motherfuckers! Hands in the air – you're all under arrest!" One of them made a dash for the door, but only got a few steps before Karl shot his leg out from under him. It didn't take long for us to get the rest face down on the floor, fingers interlaced behind their necks.

  I looked at Karl. "You call for backup?" I asked. My voice was a little unsteady.

  He shook his head. "Wasn't time, once I saw what was going down in here."

  "Okay, I'll do it now."

  I took out my radio, got the station, and told them what we were dealing with. The dispatcher promised to send help immediately. "Be sure to tell 'em to bring an exorcist," I told her. "We got something that needs to be sent back to Gehenna."

  As I clicked the radio off, I looked toward the pentagram. The demon was still devouring what was left of the unlucky cultist. Demons are real messy eaters.

  Karl saw where I was looking. "Ate the outfit, too," he said. "Must be the extra fiber."

  It wasn't all that funny, and definitely a 10 on the Insensitivity Scale, but I laughed. And laughed. It was all I could do to stop it from turning into tears. Comiclose to being eaten alive can shake you up some.

  Even a tough guy like me.

 

So the crime scene people took our statements, the department exorcist sent the snarling and screeching demon back home, and the poor hooker's body was carted off to the morgue. The cultists were on their way to the county jail. They'd be arraigned in the morning.

  Only a few of the robed idiots had actually seen Karl throw one of their buds to the demon. God only knows what kind of story they'd be telling. But if it came down to it, Karl and I would be more credible in front of a jury than a couple of cultists facing murder and summoning charges.

  A medic said my ankle was badly bruised, but nothing was broken. He taped it up tight and told me to take ibuprofen for the pain.

  As Karl and I headed back to the car, I said, "That was quick thinking in there, earlier. Pretty good job of power lifting, too. I guess I owe you one."

  There was enough light for me to see his grin. "Okay, so you're buying breakfast, even though it's my turn."

  "Deal," I told him. "But you're driving, since I'm injured, and all."

  As Karl started the car I said, "You know, those guys in the robes might have been onto something. I sometimes think that Satanism is the perfect religion."

  He looked at me like I'd just grown a second head.

  "No, really," I told him. "Way I figure it, if you're a Satanist, and you fuck up – well, you go to heaven. Right?"

  Karl laughed a lot longer and harder than the feeble joke was worth. Then he turned on the lights and drove us out of there.

  The kid was going to work out okay.

• • • •

For Karl and me, the rest of the shift was paperwork: arrest reports, a Supernatural Incident Report, all that stuff. And since Karl had fired his weapon, he had to talk to the Internal Affairs people, who surprised everybody by quickly agreeing that it was a righteous shoot.

  We were able to knock off about 6:00, just as the sun was coming up over the city. Karl said, "See ya," and headed off to his car, but I stood at the top of the steps for a minute, watching the sunrise. I know that Scranton's not a big deal like New York or San Francisco. But I still like the way the skyline looks at dawn.

  It's not a big town. And the way most people figure these things, it's not a great town, either. But it's my town. And protecting it from the forces of darkness is my job.

 

The shit hit the fan three months later, and none of us even knew it – at first. On the night in question (as we say in court) I came on shift at the usual time. I barely had the chance to sit down at my desk when McGuire was at his office door. "Markowski, Renfer!" he barked. "You got one."

  We'd caught a homicide. The stiff, according to McGuire, was in a house on Linden Street. The address was near the campus of the University of Scranton, which I attended for three years before running out of both money and ambition.

  "We know anything about the perp?" I asked. "Vamp, werewolf, or..."

  McGuire shook his head. "Or none of the above. It isn't clear the killer was a supe."

  I let my raised eyebrows ask the next question. McGuire got it immediately.

  "It's our case," he said, "because although the perp might not have been a supe, the victim was."

  I heard Karl mutter under his breath, "Well, fuck me to Jesus with a strap-on dildo."

  I couldn't have put it better, myself.

 

The house on Linden Street was typical for that neighborhood – a mid-size Victorian with a front yard the size of a postage stamp. The uniforms had secured the scene, but forensics hadn't shown up yet. There's a joke around the station house that if forensics ever arrives on time, it's a sign of the Apocalypse.

  I think the forensics guys started that one themselves, to stop detectives from bitching.

  Inside, I hung back a little and let Karl ask one of the uniformed cops, "So, what do we got here?" He just loves saying that at crime scenes. What the hell, we were all young once.

  One of the uniforms, a stocky guy named Conroy who I knew slightly, led us down a dim hallway toward a room where lights burned brightly. Halfway there, the smell told me this was going to be a bad one.

  What crept up my nostrils was a mixture of blood and shit and sweat and fear, and if you don't think fear has an odor, just ask any cop. Overlaying all of that was something a lot like roast pork, which is what burned human flesh smells like.

  I don't eat roast pork anymore. I haven't since my second year on the job, when I arrived at a crime scene shortly after a guy had doused his sleeping wife with gasoline and set her ablaze.

  From the warning my nose had given me, I wasn't surprised by what was waiting for us in that room, which the owner of the house probably called his study. I saw Karl's face twist when he saw the corpse, but I wasn't worried about him. He'd been a uniform himself for six years before joining the Supe Squad. Like any cop, he'd seen plenty of the ugliness the world has to offer. Although maybe nothing quite so ugly as this.

  The vic was a male Caucasian, early fifties. He was tied, with heavy fishing line, to a sturdy-looking wooden chair that probably belonged behind the ornately carved desk over near the window. Shelves on every wall were filled with old-looking books, but the man in the chair wouldn't be consulting them any more. It's pretty hard to read once your eyes have been burned out.

  The man was naked, so it wasn't difficult to see everything else that had been done to him – cuts, bruises, and burns covered the body from scalp to shins. I stepped forward for a closer look, making sure to breath through my mouth as I did.

  The tissue damage around the burns suggested a very hot flame, the kind you get from a blowtorch. I glanced around the room, but didn't see anything that would produce that kind of heat. Maybe the perp took it with him. On the floor not far from the chair was a wide strip of duct tape, about six inches long, all wrinkled and bloody.

  Karl started to say something, stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "How'd you know the guy was a supe?" he asked Conroy. "He's no vamp, that's for sure, and a were would probably have transformed and got free. That ain't silver holding him to the chair."

  Before Conroy could answer, I said, "Look here." Taking a pen from my pocket, I leaned over the vic's left hand. I slipped the pen under his fingers, what was left of them, and gently lifted the hand up. Despite the blood smear, the tattoo of a pentagram was clearly visible on his palm. I'd seen the edge of it from where I was standing.

  "Wizard," Karl said.

  "There's something else you guys oughta see," Conroy said. "It's in the next room."

 

We followed him through a connecting door into what was clearly the wizard's bedroom. The ceiling light was burning, along with a two-bulb floor lamp.

  I asked Conroy, "Were these lights already on?"

  "Yeah, that's why I decided to take a look," he said. "Everything's exactly the way I found it." He sounded defensive, and I wondered why.

  The four-poster bed was shoved over against a wall, fresh drag marks clearly visible on the polished hardwood. Where the bed had been standing was a hole in the floor, maybe a foot square. The matching pieces of wood used to conceal it had been pried up and tossed aside.

  Inside the hole was a safe with its heavy door open. I looked inside and saw cash, lots of it, although there was plenty of room left. The bills were divided into stacks bound with rubber bands.

  Now I knew what had gotten up Conroy's ass: he was afraid we might accuse him of helping himself to some of the dead guy's money.

  I straightened up and looked at Karl. "Whoever it was, he didn't come here for money," I said. "The bills haven't been messed with at all." The last part was for Conroy's benefit, although it was also true.

  "Unless maybe he was after the money," Karl said, "but got scared off by somebody before he could grab it."

  I shook my head. "Anybody who's hard-core enough to do all that–" I pointed with my chin toward the study "he's not gonna be stopped by a surprise visitor."

  "Yeah, maybe you're right." Karl turned to Conroy. "We got a name on the vic?"

  Conroy checked his notebook. "Kulick, George Lived alone."

  "Who called it in?" I asked him.

  "There's a housekeeper, Alma Lutinski, comes in once a week. Has her own key. She found the stiff, went all hysterical, and started screaming her lungs out. The neighbors heard her and called 911."

  "We'll need to talk to her," Karl said. "Where is she?"

  "She really lost her shit, so they took her to Mercy Hospital. The docs'll probably give her a shot, get her calmed down a little."

  "I doubt she got a look at the perp," I said. "Otherwise, he would've iced her, too. But we'll find out what she has to say for herself, later. Maybe she knows what the late Mr Kulick's been up to lately. And with who."

  There were voices coming from the hallway now. "Sounds like forensics is here," I said. "Finally."

  "Wanna start canvassing the neighborhood?" Karl asked.

  "Might as well," I said. "Shit, we might even find a witness. That happens every three or four years."

  I looked at Conroy. "Make sure the forensics guys pay close attention to that safe, okay? I'd like to know what else was in there besides money."

  We went back out through the study, careful not to trip over the forensics techs, who were crawling all over the place like ants on a candy bar. "Guess whatever was in that steel box was real important to somebody, haina?" Karl said.

  "Two somebodies."

  "Two?" Karl's brow wrinkled. "The perp, for sure..."

  "Kulick was the other one." I looked once more at the savaged piece of meat that had once been a human being. "Otherwise, he would have given it up long before all that was done to him."

 

Our canvass of the neighborhood turned up precisely zip. Richie Masalava, the M.E.'s guy at the crime scene, guesstimated that Kulick had been cold about twenty-four hours, but nobody we talked to remembered seeing or hearing anything unusual the day before.

  When Karl and I got to the hospital, the tranquilizers had worn off enough so that Alma Lutinski was more or less coherent. She said she had been George Kulick's housekeeper for about two and a half years.

  "I dust, I vacuum, I sweep and mop up. That's all." Her voice sounded husky, like the kind you get with heavy smokers, but I couldn't smell any tobacco on her. I wondered if Alma had screamed herself hoarse inside George Kulick's house.

  "Once in a while he leaves a note," she said. "'Dust the venetian blinds,' so I dust them. 'Clean the shower,' two-three times, maybe. He leaves a check on the kitchen table, every week. Never bounces. Not like some."

  "You never saw him when you came over to do your cleaning?" Karl asked Alma.

  "A few times, he's there. But then he goes into that room, his 'study' and closes the door. It's like I'm there by myself. I like that, nobody bothers me."

  "But didn't you have to get into the study to dust?" I said.

  "Oh, no." Alma shook her head. "Never the study. 'Stay out,' he says. 'Don't worry about the dust, the dirt,' he says. Why should I argue – I need more work to do?"

  Karl gave her his special smile then, the one he once claimed could charm the knickers off a nun. "Bet you went in at least once, though, didn't you? Looked around a little, maybe checked out his desk, all that crazy stuff he had in there. Weren't you curious? Just a little?"

  The look she gave him reminded me of a nun, all right, but not the kind who'll slip her knickers off for you. Her expression was right out of Sister Yolanda's playbook, and I was glad for Karl's sake that there wasn't a big wooden ruler handy.

  "You little snot," Alma said venomously. "You think I snoop? Look around? You think I steal, maybe, too, huh? He says stay out, I stay out. I'm a good Catholic woman, you German bastard."

  Karl and I backed away slowly, the way you do from a Doberman that's slipped its chain. Once we were safely outside, Karl said, "I think maybe she took a dislike to me. He shook his head. "'German bastard.' Talk about old country."

  "Maybe you should have tried for her knickers, instead," I said.

 

Things were quiet among the supe community the next few nights – nothing that the other detectives couldn't handle, anyway. Karl and I spent the time going through George Kulick's personal effects. We were looking for names of friends, associates, relatives, even enemies – anybody who could tell us what Kulick kept in that safe besides money.

  We came up empty on all counts. The only letters we found were professional correspondence, like the letter from a magical supply house, saying that the shipment of powdered bat wings he'd ordered would be delayed. Stuff like that. If he had an address book, we didn't find it. No diary, of course. My luck never runs that good. No answering machine for somebody to leave a juicy message or two.

  Phone records revealed no incoming calls for the last four months, and only two outgoing. Both of those were made to the local Domino's Pizza place.

  Kulick didn't even have a home computer. Guess he did his communicating in ways that Bill Gates had never heard of – although there were news stories that Microsoft was getting ready to release a new product line called Spell Software.

  I checked with my contacts in the magical community, but nobody knew George Kulick – or would admit to it, anyway. And no relative ever claimed the body, so it was buried in some land that the city owns in a local cemetery just for that purpose. In the old days, I guess it would have been called the potter's field.

 

Driving home at the end of the third fruitless night, I found myself wishing that the forensics guys would pull off one of those miracles that you see on TV every week – the kind where they find some microscopic bit of evidence that would give us the perp's name, address, phone number, and astrological sign.