[Morgan Kingsley 04] - Speak of the Devil Read online

  The tears came, and I plopped down onto the floor, my back against the bed, my knees drawn up to my chest, and sobbed my heart out.

  Chapter 22

  Eventually, I managed to fight off the tears, though it wasn’t easy when my heart ached so badly. Even after the flow of tears had stopped, I couldn’t seem to find the willpower to get up off the floor.

  After a few minutes, there was a soft tap on my door. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so I didn’t answer. I should have known better than to expect anyone in this house to respect my need for time to lick my wounds.

  Barbie stuck her head in tentatively; then when she saw me in my little pocket of misery, she invited herself in.

  “Why aren’t you driving Brian home?” I asked.

  Since she apparently didn’t need an invitation to make herself right at home, she came to sit beside me on the floor. “He said he’d take a taxi. I’d told him about my role in getting the blood sample, so I’m not his favorite person right now.”

  I bit my lip, my own misery momentarily forgotten. “That was a bad idea. He’s a bit of a … stickler.” I’d thought of him as a Goody Two-shoes once, though he’d shown a little more moral flexibility than I’d expected. But I wouldn’t put it past him to sic the police on Barbie.

  A hint of worry flickered in her eyes, but she dismissed it with a shrug. “It’s too late now.” She pulled her legs up to her chest, mirroring my pose. “I guess things didn’t go so well, huh?”

  I laughed bitterly. “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “But he knows all the evidence was phony, right?”

  “He knows.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  I turned to give her a steely look. “That’s not really any of your business.”

  She smiled, not at all intimidated by the obvious “back off” signals I was shooting her. “I’m congenitally nosy. It’s part of the reason I became a PI. I can’t help noticing your entire circle of friends is male, and it’s my experience that even the best male friends are pretty much useless when a woman is having man trouble.” She shrugged. “So, if you need someone to talk to …”

  My first impulse was to laugh uproariously at the idea. I managed to swallow that impulse, because I was pretty sure she was being sincere. “Thanks, but my inability to talk is one of the reasons—” My voice choked off. I couldn’t finish that sentence without a return of the tears.

  “Okay, so talk is out. I noticed there was a convenience store about a block away. Is an inability to consume large quantities of ice cream one of your problems?”

  This time, I did laugh, but that had been her intention. “A pint of Ben and Jerry’s might go down pretty easily right now,” I admitted, then sighed. “But I don’t have time to wallow at the moment.” The clock on the nightstand announced it was eight-thirty, and Raphael and I had planned to arrive at The Seven Deadlies right around its nine o’clock opening time. We were already running late, thanks to me.

  “Going somewhere?” Barbie asked, and the curiosity—or was it cunning?—was back in her eyes.

  “Don’t even think about following me.” Maybe that hadn’t been one of her plans, but she’d been on my tail often enough that I wouldn’t put it past her. “You know that old saying about curiosity and the cat.”

  She grinned at me. “As enjoyable a pastime as it is, I only tail people when I’m being paid to do it. But let me give you some professional advice.”

  My whole body went on red alert. Barbie rolled her eyes.

  “Relax, I don’t mean anything ominous.” She scooted back and regarded me with a critical eye. “The dye job helps, but the best way to avoid unwanted attention is to look inconspicuous.”

  I gave her a droll look. “I’m five-nine. I don’t do inconspicuous well.”

  “If I promise not to follow you, will you tell me where you’re going?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can decide the best way to make you look relatively inconspicuous. I’d pick a different look for, say, South Street, than for around here.”

  I’m sure my usual poker face made its appearance. “Why would you think I’d be going to South Street?”

  She gave me a knowing look. “I told you once that I was good at my job. Well, part of my job is drawing conclusions based on the evidence at hand. The evidence says you have some kind of relationship with Adam White, though I have yet to make sense of what that relationship is.”

  You and me both, I thought.

  “You also have a mysterious relationship with Tommy Brewster, one that’s close enough for you to hide out at his house. This after you’d been hired by Tommy’s mother to exorcize him, which would generally create a hostile relationship, if any at all. So why would an exorcist spend so much time with demons? Especially one like Tommy, who any sensible person would suspect is an illegal despite whatever papers he may have signed? Perhaps that exorcist is a demon herself?”

  I didn’t answer her, too stunned by her conclusion to speak. That probably cemented her assumption, but I was pretty sure anything I said would only make it worse.

  “I’m going to go out on a real limb here,” Barbie continued, “and speculate that you used to be Jordan Maguire’s demon. That somehow during the exorcism, Morgan made the mistake of touching Maguire, and you moved in.”

  I was painfully conscious of the way her eyes bored into me, studying my responses. I didn’t know what she would make of my response to this particular theory.

  I tried to imitate Brian’s lawyer face. “If you think I’m Jordan Maguire’s demon, why are you interested in helping me? I’m a violent rogue who has to be destroyed, remember?”

  “And I say that’s bullshit. Knowing that beating someone up is an automatic death sentence for a demon in this state, the only way you would have hit Jessica Miles is if you were completely out of control. And if you were out of control, she’d be dead.”

  I had no idea whether I should try to encourage Barbie to believe this theory of hers or not. So instead of talking about my supposed identity, I nudged the subject back to my original question.

  “I still don’t get why you’d think I was going to South Street tonight.”

  “Well, it’s something of an open secret that The Seven Deadlies doesn’t discriminate against illegal or rogue demons. It’s a slightly less open secret that if you want information about the demon underworld, that’s the place to get it. With Adam off your case because of the potential conflict of interest, and with the rest of the police force ignorant about the demon angle, if any good investigating is going to be done, you’re the one who has to do it. Ergo, you’re going to South Street.”

  Amazing how many facts she could have wrong and still come to the correct conclusion about my destination and purpose tonight. My mind was wheeling around frantically, trying to figure out what I should say. I finally decided that, being such a lousy liar, it wasn’t worth the trouble to deny that I was going to The Seven Deadlies.

  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny any of the guesses you made tonight,” I said, hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake, “except for the one about The Seven Deadlies. That is where I’m going, and if you have any tips on how to make a five-foot-nine woman less conspicuous, bring them on.”

  There was no full-length mirror in Raphael’s house, so I had to make do with the bathroom mirror to examine the end result of Barbie’s makeover. She stood leaning against the doorjamb awaiting my verdict. All I could do was shake my head and give her a doubtful look.

  “You call this inconspicuous?” I asked. My newly black hair was parted to one side—a neat trick, considering how short it was at the top—and plastered to my head with hair gel. And instead of my usual jeans and T-shirt, I was wearing a dark blue pinstriped pantsuit I’d borrowed, reluctantly, from Raphael. Tommy Brewster and I had remarkably similar builds, though we’d had to take in the waistband of the pants with safety pins. Beneath the suit jacket was a crisp white men’s shirt, an
d a conservative striped silk tie. Barbie had even insisted I stuff my feet into Tommy’s only pair of respectable dress shoes, which were at least a half size too small for me. I figured this had to have been Tommy’s interview outfit, because every other piece of clothing he owned was faded, ragged, and ultracasual. Also, he was an inch taller than me, but the cuffs of his pants were just the right length. He obviously hadn’t worn this suit in a while.

  “Like you said, you aren’t a great candidate for inconspicuous. So instead of really trying to disguise you, we go for a little misdirection.”

  My mouth was still hanging open. “You don’t think a guy wearing a business suit on South Street at this time of night is going to attract attention?”

  “Sure. But you don’t really look like a guy even in that outfit. So people who look at you are going to be distracted wondering if you’re a woman dressed as a man, or a man with effeminate features.”

  I frowned, looking down at my chest. “The boobs are sort of a dead giveaway, don’t you think?”

  She laughed. “You’ve been on South Street before. Have you never seen men with boobs there?”

  She had a point, but I still wasn’t happy with the idea of drawing eyes toward me. Barbie looked me up and down, tapping her chin. “Maybe we need to make a nice bulge in those pants, just to increase the gender confusion.”

  “Do you really think this is going to work?” I asked skeptically. My mind kept conjuring images of cops converging on me with guns drawn.

  “Yes. If people are preoccupied wondering if you’re a boy or a girl, they won’t be thinking to themselves, ‘Gee, that woman looks familiar. Maybe she’s that fugitive exorcist I’m supposed to be keeping my eye out for.’”

  I can’t say I was entirely convinced. However, I had to agree I was harder to recognize now than I had been when I’d been wearing my jeans. Besides, I would have Raphael with me for company. If I saw anyone in uniform, I could make sure to put him between me and them.

  When Barbie was satisfied with my appearance, she presented her new work of art to Saul and Raphael, who pronounced me unrecognizable.

  Because we were all a bit paranoid and disinclined to trust an outsider, we “suggested” that Barbie stay with Saul until Raphael and I returned from our mission. I’m quite sure Barbie understood just what kind of “suggestion” this was, but she didn’t look offended. She didn’t even object when Saul patted her down for weapons before we left, just to make sure she didn’t pull the same trick on him as I had. She had a small gun in an ankle holster, but nothing else. Naturally, Saul confiscated it.

  “Good luck,” she said as Raphael and I headed to the door. It sounded like she really meant it.

  “Thanks,” I answered. “And sorry about, er …”

  She waved the apology off. “No apologies needed. I wouldn’t blame you if you left me handcuffed in the closet.”

  “Now there’s a good idea,” Raphael muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. He, of all of us, was the most concerned about Barbie and her motivations. He motioned Saul forward.

  Looking wary and reluctant, Saul approached to within about three feet. Raphael grabbed his arm and pulled him in closer, lowering his voice to a level Saul and I could hear, but Barbie couldn’t.

  “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at her, son. Don’t fall for the oldest trick in the book. Keep it zipped, at least until we’re back.”

  Not surprisingly, Saul’s eyes started to glow.

  “Don’t you guys start that crap again,” I said impatiently. “Ra—” Damn. I really needed to break myself of the habit of calling Raphael by his real name. “Tommy, let go of Saul’s arm. Saul, back off and pretend he didn’t say a word.”

  I was pleasantly surprised when they both obeyed. I knew Barbie was now curious as hell, and I also knew she hadn’t missed my almost-slip. I wanted to grab Saul and Raphael by the hair and knock their heads together, but I didn’t suppose that would solve anything. Instead, I merely grabbed Raphael by the arm and hauled him out the front door before he could start any more trouble.

  Chapter 23

  I was nervous enough about poking my head up aboveground—and about going another round with Shae—that I was able to keep myself from thinking about Brian and what my life would be like without him. The Morgan Kingsley solution to postbreakup blues: Do something that risks arrest and a possible life sentence, or even a gruesome death.

  We got lucky with the parking situation and didn’t have to walk more than half a block before we arrived at Shae’s doorstep. I was conscious of the curious glances of various passersby, but I pretended not to be. If I’d had Barbie’s confidence, perhaps I would have winked and flirted and given people a “Wouldn’t you like to know” smirk. However, acting is a glorified form of lying, and, as we’ve already established, lying is not one of my strengths. I had to spend most of my concentration pretending not to be as nervous and generally twitchy as I felt.

  The demon who had previously inhabited Tommy Brewster’s body had been a big fan of The Seven Deadlies, having formed an agreement with Shae to provide him with good breeding stock as he tried to increase the genetic diversity in the lab-bred hosts. The good thing about this was that Tommy/Raphael was a card-carrying member, and was therefore able to bring me in as a guest with no fuss.

  When we asked for Shae, we were told she was inside the club, keeping an eye on her domain. That translated into “If you want her, go find her, because I’m too lazy to page her.” I would have made an issue out of it—I didn’t want to set foot past the safe and tame lobby area—but Raphael slung an arm around my shoulders and directed me to the set of doors that led to the bar and dance floor. I elbowed him in the ribs, and he took the hint and let his arm drop back to his side.

  As is typical of nightclubs, the music playing in the heart of The Seven Deadlies was loud enough to do permanent damage to my eardrums. I winced as soon as I stepped through the door and had to resist the urge to cover my ears with my hands. Tonight’s theme seemed to be tuneless techno with a heavy enough bass to make the floor vibrate like an earthquake with each beat.

  The place was also dark as a cave, giving people an illusion of privacy as they clustered at standing-room-only tables around the dance floor or sat at the bar.

  The delay in putting together my disguise meant that we’d arrived considerably later than we’d planned, so the dance floor was already packed with dancers, many of whom had the impossibly good looks of your typical demon host. The only place I could think of that I’d want to be less than here was prison.

  Raphael cut a path for us through the crowd toward the bar. It wasn’t hard to spot our quarry. Shae probably couldn’t manage looking inconspicuous even wearing Goodwill rejects and camouflage paint. However, she obviously had no objection to attracting attention, and she always managed to look drop-dead gorgeous even when wearing the most outrageous outfits.

  To my chagrin, her outfit tonight was also a suit and tie. However, that was where the similarity ended. Her suit was of pristine white, the better to show off the night-black color of her skin. And there was plenty of skin showing—the jacket was a flaring, one-button number, and she wore nothing beneath it but the neon blue tie that dangled between her breasts. She had to be using some of that double-stick fashion tape to hold the lapels in place; otherwise she’d be flashing the crowd every time she made the slightest move.

  Shae was engaged in a shouted conversation with the bartender when she caught sight of us plowing our way toward her. Her eyes darted quickly between Raphael and me, and I didn’t think my disguise fooled her for even a fraction of a second. She said something to the bartender, then came to meet us halfway. The crowd parted for her automatically, even those with their backs to her stepping out of the way as if there were some force field that surrounded her.

  “You two make a lovely couple,” Shae said when she reached us, flashing us her sharklike smile. Her teeth were as dazzling white as her suit, whiter th
an teeth had any right to be, and I wondered if that was the effect of tooth whitener or if they were all caps.

  As usual, she’d managed to get under my skin almost immediately. It was a unique skill of hers.

  “Can we talk in private?” Raphael asked.

  She gave us another of those cool, appraising looks, and though she was being coy, I was certain she’d want to talk to us. The last time I’d come to her for information, I’d been asking questions about Tommy Brewster, and she’d told me enough to help me figure out what his demon’s mission was on the Mortal Plain. I’m sure she was surprised—and intrigued—to see us together. The plan was to dangle information about our alliance as bait in our attempt to get her to cough up anything she might know about a demon who was out to get me. Raphael, with his superior lying skills, would do most, if not all, of the talking.

  “Sounds like fun,” she agreed with another shark smile.

  Shae took us through a key-carded door marked Employees Only and led us to her office, which was decorated almost entirely in black and silver. If the idea was to make visitors feel cold and unwelcome, the design was perfect. Shae looked perfectly at home there.

  “I’ve missed seeing you at my club, Tommy,” Shae said as she took a seat behind her desk. Her smile turned sly. “And I have a number of girls lined up who would meet your requirements perfectly.”

  I gritted my teeth to keep myself from saying anything scathing. I didn’t think Shae was evil, precisely, but she certainly wasn’t one of the good guys, and if she had any morals or cared about anyone, I’d yet to see evidence of it. A mercenary to her core.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Raphael said. “I’m not Tommy’s original demon.”

  My jaw dropped, and I turned to gape at him. This had not been part of the script. “What are you doing?” I hissed, my hands clutching the cold metal arms of my chair.