Blood of the Demon
Page 8

The second floor was more of the same as the first, with window dressings that matched the bedding in the master bedroom, and a bathroom that seemed to take up one entire side of the house. It was to that bathroom that I was directed now.
I’d never met Davis Sharp in person and had never been flush enough to be willing to drop the cash that an evening at his restaurant would cost me, but I’d seen enough pictures of him in the society section of the newspaper to know that he’d been a well-styled man with a very professional appearance, as one would expect of an aspiring politician. Which, of course, made his current situation all the more jarring and definitely snicker-inducing, though everyone on the scene was being exceedingly careful not to let their amusement show, at the risk of being slammed for it later.
It took me a few seconds of puzzled staring to figure out what had happened. I finally decided that Councilman Sharp had either slipped and hit his head or passed out in the shower, managing to fall so that he was facedown, wedged into the corner, with his chin nearly touching his chest and his ass sticking nearly straight up in the air. I’d seen a couple of cases of positional asphyxiation before, and this one pretty much fit the bill.
But I saw those details only peripherally. My gut dropped and a chill swept through me as I felt the discordant wrongness. I shifted quickly into othersight to verify, seeing the tattered remnants of essence clinging to the body. Another one, I thought in numb horror. What the hell could be doing this? I knew that it couldn’t be my ilius, since it wasn’t possible for a demon to stay in this sphere without some sort of binding. But whatever it was, it wasn’t an isolated event anymore.
Could it possibly be another summoner? But summoners were rare, and the chances of another one being in this area and summoning a demon that could eat essence seemed too high to even comprehend.
So was it something else entirely? Frustration gnawed at me, briefly chasing away the horror. There was far too much that I didn’t know.
And whatever it is, what if there’s more than one?
I mentally shied away from thinking about how disastrous that could be and forced myself to concentrate on the mundane aspects of the investigation. I stepped back and pulled my notebook out so that I could jot down the notes I needed to make about the scene. The bathroom and bedroom were neat and tidy, and when I opened a closet I saw orderly rows of shirts and slacks, with shoes lined up precisely along the floor. A second closet was empty save for a few wooden hangers—the kind I told myself I would someday buy to replace the cheap metal ones I got for free from the cleaners. I went back into the bathroom and peered through drawers, finding nothing unusual except for the lack of anything feminine.
His wife went to their condo in Mandeville? I mused. Apparently it wasn’t just a weekend getaway. That was an interesting—and important—detail. I gave the bedroom area one final scan, then went down the hall to a smaller bedroom to speak to the maid.
She was shaken but coherent. I asked her a few quick identification questions, ignoring my near certainty that she was an illegal immigrant and instead being grateful that she spoke damn good English. Auri had worked for the Sharps for the past two years—coming in to cook and clean on Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Except that this week she’d come Friday as well, at Davis Sharp’s request. She seemed terribly nervous, which I wrote off as concern that I would make an issue of her status, but when I gave her my standard “I’m far more interested in working this case than dealing with immigration issues” speech, she surprised me by shaking her head firmly.
“No. I no worry about that. It Mr. Sharp,” she said, gesturing with a fluttering hand toward the bedroom. “He bad upset yesterday.”
“Because of his wife?”
“Sí. Miss Elena go Thursday morning and take all her things. But that not all.”
“What else was there?”
“Another lady come over Thursday after Miss Elena go. I hear her talk to Mr. Sharp, then they go upstairs.” She pursed her lips in clear disapproval. “A few minute later he come down and tell me I can go, ask me to come back Friday because Miss Elena not coming back and he need laundry and cooking.”
I blinked. “Hold on. Have you ever seen this woman here before?”
She shook her head slowly. “No … I no think so. I come most time in morning and see Miss Elena go out for walks with ladies from neighborhood, but I no think this lady one of those. But yesterday I come here again. I clean house and cook dinner like Mr. Sharp want, but he no look happy. He stay upstairs most of day. This other lady come and let herself in back door, then she go upstairs like she live here.” Auri scowled and shook her head. “Mr. Sharp, he lean out bedroom door and shout down to me, tell me I can go early.” She spread her hands and shrugged. “I leave dinner in fridge and go.” Her lower lip trembled. “I come today, I see dinner still in fridge. Then I go to bedroom to pick up laundry. I hear water, so I think he in shower. I clean, start laundry, and water still running. It been almost hour, so I call for him, then I look … I think he hurt real bad. I see him in shower, on floor, and he no breathing.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I turn off water and call police.”
I pressed her for any further details or a description of the woman, but Auri apparently had caught only a fleeting glimpse of the woman as she went upstairs. Light hair, slender figure, dressed in what looked like expensive clothes. And that describes half the female population of this subdivision, I thought in mild annoyance. I finally got as much contact information as I could from her and let her leave.
So, was Sharp getting some action on the side? If so, how long had it been going on? And was that why his wife left? And had this other woman come back later?
I returned to the bathroom, drawn back to the body despite the wrongness of it. I had to clench my hands to keep them from shaking. Could it just be me? Is it my judgment that’s out of whack?
I let out an unsteady breath as I took a mental step back, looking around the bathroom and the adjoining bedroom for any similarity at all to Brian Roth’s death. But nothing leaped out at me. Different neighborhoods, different class of victim.
Maybe a similar cause of death? Brian’s was an apparent suicide, but there were still a lot of questions, and until we found Carol we wouldn’t know anything for certain. And, on the surface, the Davis Sharp case looked as if it was going to be a garden-variety accident or possibly a heart attack, but the fact that his wife had apparently left him certainly added a twist. I had to keep in mind the possibility that this was a murder staged to look like an accident. I’d check with Jill later to see if Crime Scene found anything suspicious, and I’d also check the maid out as much as I could.
I heard Crawford come up behind me, making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of Sharp’s still-damp rear end.
“Nice view. Got anything yet, Kara?” he asked as he took in the scene.
“Just some basics so far.” I gave him a quick rundown, then closed my notebook, my gaze inexorably drawn back to the body. The emptiness seemed to mock me, and now I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe I was seeing wrongness in something that wasn’t wrong. Maybe something had changed in the way essence was released after death? Changed in the universe in general? Maybe this was happening to all bodies, not just the ones I’d seen yesterday and today. I hadn’t been on any death calls—natural or homicide—since my own “death.” Maybe crossing through the spheres had changed something in my perception?
No, that didn’t make any sense. The essence had obviously been ripped away as soon as death had loosened its grip. I could see the trailing threads, and I couldn’t imagine any possible way for that to occur naturally.
“Kara?” Crawford’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts. “Are you with me?” he said, a mixture of annoyance and worry in his voice.
I flushed and gave a sharp nod. “Yeah, Sarge. Sorry. Well, this looks like an accident, but his wife left him, and he might have been getting some action on the side, so it’s possible that there was something hinky going on. I’ll check the wife’s alibi and see if I can find out who this other woman was.”
“Sounds good.” He snorted. “Well, this is a prominent local businessman and parish councilman, so we jump through all of the damn hoops to figure out exactly how this guy ended ass end up in the fucking shower.”
I gave him the amused smile he expected, but I didn’t feel amused. I felt shaken. Shit, I needed to figure out if this essence loss was happening all over or just to a few people. And, once again, just like in the Symbol Man case, I couldn’t tell my supervisors what was really going on. Yeah, Sarge, I’m looking for a link between these two utterly unrelated cases because someone has eaten their souls. Yeesh.
Crawford sighed gustily. “All right, Kara. I know you already have Brian’s case to work, but that should be only paperwork. And with luck you’ll be able to wash your hands of this one pretty soon.” Then he snickered. “No pun intended.” He looked at me with a crooked grin. “Get it? Shower … wash …”
I lowered my head and gave him a look. “Go. Away.”
He grinned. “Okay. This one is hopefully a dumb accident with a rich fuck who slipped on some soap.” His eyes slid to Sharp’s naked ass. “And I’ll be behind you the entire way.”
I groaned. “Somebody shoot me, please.”
It was well past mid-morning by the time the scene was completely processed and the body carted away by the coroner’s office. The heat had risen to the point where I was damp with sweat from the short walk from the house to my car. I climbed in, deeply grateful that, by pure happenstance, I’d parked under a tree. Still, I cranked the AC to arctic levels and allowed the vents to blast me with air that was nowhere near arctic but was a damn sight cooler than the air outside.
I was just about to put the car into drive when I saw Crawford jogging up, a grim look on his face. I rolled the window down as he approached.
He stooped to look in at me. “Brian’s wife has been found.”
I could tell by his expression that she hadn’t been found alive. “Where?”
“City Hotel.” An expression of distaste crossed his face.
“What the fuck was she doing there?”
He exhaled. “That’s what you’re going to find out. I have to finish up a couple of things here, and then I’ll meet you over there.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
Chapter 7
Somehow the temperature managed to rise at least twenty degrees during the ten-minute drive to the Beaulac City Hotel. At least it felt like it. It didn’t help that the cheap asphalt of the parking lot soaked up the heat and radiated it back in concentrated waves, designed to wring as much sweat as possible from anyone silly enough to be outside.
The Beaulac City Hotel—where rooms could be rented by the hour or the week—hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. Several windows had been replaced by plywood, piles of old trash lurked in corners, and an ashtray by the door to the office had reached its capacity a few hundred cigarette butts ago. A sour smell of sweat and piss mixed unpleasantly with the heat rising from the asphalt, enveloping me as I approached. Crime-scene tape had been strung around the rusted metal poles that supported the second-story balcony, and I could see the officer manning the sign-in log standing in the meager shade offered by the second floor. After a hard look at the battered poles, I wasn’t so sure it was a better option to be in the shade.
I signed the log, then ducked under the tape. Another uniformed officer leaned against the outside wall by an open hotel-room door, his usually bald head covered with about a millimeter’s length of hair. I’d known Scott Glassman for years and had worked on the same team with him when I was on the road. He was a solid cop with no desire to ever go into Investigations—a “good ole boy” who was perfectly happy being perpetually assigned to patrol. He had a troubled expression on his face that shifted to a sad smile when he saw me, and I abruptly remembered that Scott and Brian Roth had been good friends and hunting buddies outside work. This whole situation had to be pretty hard on him.
“Hey, Scott,” I said. “Are we sure that it’s Brian’s wife? Who made the ID?”
His expression was grim. “I did. I thought I recognized her, but I verified it with the driver’s license in her purse. And the blue Prius in the parking lot is hers.”
“Damn,” I said. “I was really hoping that Brian had just been using a figure of speech.” I swept my gaze around the nasty hotel. “Any clue yet on why she was here?”
“Well, I spoke to the manager. He says she checked in night before last, alone—under the name ‘Jane Smythe’—but apparently she was something of a regular.”
“At a dump like this?” I had a hard time wrapping my mind around that.
He scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his head. “I guess it was a game they played more than once. I dunno. But the manager says he doesn’t know shit about anyone else coming to the room.” He scowled. “Manager doesn’t know shit about a lot, but I’m about to run his ass to see if he has any warrants, because he’s being a pain in my ass.”
“If you could lean on him, that would be a big help. Why’d it take so long for her to be found?” My gaze swept the exterior of the building. “Place like this probably turns the rooms over pretty quickly, I would think.”
He scowled. “Manager said that she would always be out in a few hours, so he didn’t bother checking in the morning.” I made a face, and he sighed and nodded in agreement. “And the chick who cleans the rooms called in sick yesterday, and obviously he’s too much of a lazy fuck to do it himself.”