The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 58
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apparently sealed Gabe’s fate.
I reached for the phone, then stopped.
Did this prove a connection between the two cases? If the police went to Bob
Friedlander, he would show them a postcard from Gabriel Savant, claim that Savant was fine
and that I was the wacko. Hundreds of people had been at the bookstore that evening. Betty
and Kinsey’s presence might have been a coincidence. Not that I believed that, but the police
would if Bob chose to play it that way. After our last conversation, I couldn’t imagine Bob
playing it any other way.
The desire to talk it over with Jake was nearly irresistible. But I couldn’t do that. Even
if Jake and I had still been on those terms, it wasn’t his job to fix my mistakes, to absolve me
of responsibility. Especially when he had been warning me from day one to stay out of it.
I shuffled through the photos once more. Did Kinsey and Betty’s involvement
automatically intimate Guy’s guilt? Jake believed that Guy was involved. Maybe Jake was
right; certainly the Amazing Kreskin had nothing to fear from my batting average.
But Jake had been skeptical when I’d told him about Blade Sable, and I didn’t think I
had learned anything that would change his mind. He would say Angus was playing me, and
he could be right there too. No, I didn’t believe what I had discovered would justify the risk
of contacting Jake.
Besides, Jake might believe I was using Angus’s story as an excuse to see him again.
If I was going to pursue this any further, it would have to be on my own. The question
was, did I want to pursue it any further?
“Hello?” called Velvet from the front.
I shoved the photos back in their envelope, put the envelope back in the file cabinet,
and relocked it.
* * * * *
I hadn’t put a lot of faith in Paolo’s promise to get me Peter Verlane’s private number
in exchange for being allowed to texturize my hair, but midmorning he called.
“Are you enjoying your hair, sweetness?”
“Uh, sure.”
“I have Peter’s cell number. Do me a favor. Don’t tell him you got the number from
me. He’s…quirky that way.”
“Fair enough.”
He quoted the number, and I wrote it out. “One other thing, sweetness. Don’t leave
your wallet lying around. Not that he’s not worth every penny, but…”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You enjoy yourself, sweetness. You so deserve it.”
I hung up. Stared at the number. Swell. The guy was a hustler?
Assuming it was the right Peter Verlane, wasn’t he in Germany, sharing schnapps and
strudel with the folks? There probably wasn’t any point in calling.
Unless Guy had lied.
Did I want to know? Did I want to take this any further? It’s not like my sleuthing had
resulted in universal happiness so far.
I was still trying to come to a decision, when I realized I had dialed the number.
“Yeah?” a young male voice inquired.
“Peter?”
“Yeah.”
“I got your name from a friend. I wondered if maybe we could get together sometime.”
Silence.
“What friend?”
“Does it matter?”
He chuckled. “Maybe not. What did you have in mind?”
“Sex magick.”
I felt surprise in the static between us.
“You mean an initiation?”
Is that what I meant? “Right,” I said, with a certainty I didn’t feel.
Warily, he asked, “Are you craft?”
What did that mean? Was that like, are you a Top or a bottom? Did I see myself as an
Art or a Craft? Or was he asking whether I was a witch? Or maybe he wanted to know if I
was pro cheese-macaroni?
I fought a nervous desire to laugh and said, “No. I’m curious, and willing to pay to have
my…itch scratched.”
I thought of Jake’s face if he were to overhear this conversation, closed my eyes to
block the image.
“Wow,” Peter said. He sounded like he might laugh too. Probably not the desired
reaction. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m booked through the holidays, but maybe I can fit you
in after Candlemas.”
Candlemas? Wasn’t that in February? Maybe this kid really was worth pursuing.
I said, “That’s quite a wait. I’m impressed. I’m also impatient. Can you recommend
someone else?”
Silence. He said at last, “Perhaps we can work it out. What did you say your name
was?”
Good question. I opened my mouth. “Oxford,” I said at random. “Avery Oxford.”
“Where can I reach you, Avery?”
Another good question. Maybe I should have taken half a minute to inspect for rocks
before I dived in head first. “I’ll call you,” I said curtly, and rang off.
“What an idiot!” I announced to the room at large. Shaking my head, I tucked the
number in the Rolodex on my desk. I happened to notice the business card I had received
from the Wiccans at Dragonwyck. I inspected the silver scripted numerals. Dial M for
Magick.
Hadn’t I embarrassed myself enough for one day?
Any more of this and I’d believe some unseen hand was trying to give me a shove in
the right direction. I practically felt the palm print between my shoulder blades – or maybe
that was the lingering bruises from my visit to Hell’s Kitchen.
Which reminded me. Guy had lied about Peter Verlane being out of town.
* * * * *
I was having a BLT at Johnny Rocket’s when I happened to notice Jean Finch peering
in the front window. When she saw me gazing back at her, she ducked away. Then she
appeared in the window again, waved at me with frantic friendliness, and walked off
hurriedly.
Holy moly.
Leisurely finishing my sandwich, I paid the bill and stepped outside into the gloomy
afternoon. No sign of Jean. I started walking, stopping every so often to glance into a shop
window.
I finally spotted her, lingering several yards behind me.
I started back toward her. She froze in panic, then looked around as though planning to
flee. She didn’t flee, however; she stood her ground, practically trembling in her little white
trench coat.
“Jean, what are you doing?” I asked as I reached her.
“N-nothing. I was Christmas shopping. I saw you at Johnny Rocket’s. Is the food good
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