Mark of the Demon (Kara Gillian 1)

The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”

I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”

“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.

That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”

Ms. Dailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, he sits at that place and doodles in a notebook, sometimes talking and joking with those drug addicts.” She made a disgusted noise. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up just like them!”

Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone to actually reach out to those people. I knew the center she was talking about. A couple of years ago, several of the local churches had cooperated to create a community outreach center that I had to grudgingly admit was proving to be pretty effective. Though I was about as far from a churchgoer as one could be, even I had occasionally steered people who were having trouble coping toward the place. It had also become the “in” thing to be involved with for local politicians, and just about anyone of any importance was on the board of directors in some capacity.

But now I was intrigued about Mr. Cerise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said, being deliberately obtuse. “He does drugs with them?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, it’s possible! It’s not just that outreach center either. He wanders in bad sections of town, hangs out in the park, gives money to bums …” She gave a not-so-delicate shudder. “Plus, he dresses like a hippie, and with that long hair of his …” She gave a sniff. “I’ve called his landlady several times about him, but all she says is that he pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems.” She made a face. “I don’t know why she won’t listen to me.”

“Did she ever live here?” I had a suspicion as to why the landlady didn’t pay much heed to Ms. Dailey.

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, for several years. Then she got married and moved to the other end of the parish. She put the place up for rent, and he moved in near the beginning of this year.”

No wonder she doesn’t listen to you. She’s dealt with you in person, I thought, controlling my urge to snicker.

“Is Mr. Cerise in trouble?” Ms. Dailey continued, her expression eager and hopeful, very obviously wanting it to be true so she could have proof that all her suspicions were correct.

“Oh, no!” I said with wide-eyed disingenuousness. “I’m just here to talk to him about his volunteer work with crippled children,” I lied smoothly.

Her smile turned rigid and forced. Ms. Dailey’s disappointment was obviously crushing, but she put on a brave face. “Ah. I see. How nice.”

“Is Mr. Cerise a bad neighbor?”

Ms. Dailey wagged her head. “Oh, he just worries me to death.” Now she was changing her act to Concerned Neighbor. “He comes in and out at such strange hours.” Then she leaned close and lowered her voice. “But at least he isn’t black,” she said, giving me a knowing nod. “I was worried when Dana told me she was renting the place out, and I even asked her to make sure she didn’t rent it to any of the wrong sort.”

I somehow managed to keep my face immobile. “Well, don’t you worry about anything, ma’am, and I appreciate the information about where to find him.”

Ms. Dailey gave a sniff, then spun and marched back across to her house, bright yellow velour swishing with each step.

I watched her go, feeling ever so slightly soiled, then returned to my car. If I were that landlady, I think I’d have been tempted to rent to the “wrong” person just to annoy Ms. Nora Dailey.

Most of the churches that had sponsored the outreach center were in the middle of town, a lovely area with clean streets and flowering trees and a pleasant view of the lake. The outreach center was nowhere near there, since the nice people who diligently attended worship didn’t care to have the tourist section of town marred by such a thing and didn’t want to have to actually see any of the people who used the center. As a result, the outreach center was located several miles away, on the outskirts of town, well away from the lake and any possible contact with tourists.

Trash lingered a bit longer in the streets here, the sidewalk was cracked, and the few trees were scraggly, pathetic things that did little to improve the looks of the area. The stores were a far cry from the dainty antiques shops and upscale clothing stores that could be found in midtown. Instead, there were scatterings of secondhand-clothing stores, pawnshops, and the occasional bail bondsman. A diner of questionable cleanliness did a fairly steady business across the street from the center.

The building that housed the outreach center was unremarkable—a two-story white structure made of cinder blocks and aluminum. The sign above the double glass doors in the front was peeling and leaning at a dubious angle, but the glass was spotless, and there was no trash out front.

I pushed in through the doors and walked down a short hallway, entering what looked like a common room. I saw the eyes of everyone inside flick to me and then quickly away as soon as they marked me as a cop. There were about half a dozen people in the room, watching TV, flipping through magazines, or quietly playing board games. There was an unoccupied pool table in the corner and an unused computer on a scarred metal desk against the wall. Faded inspirational posters were scattered on the walls, some with “artistic” additions and commentary that had likely been done by the people who were meant to be inspired. I scanned the room, vaguely recognizing a couple of faces from encounters on the street, then realized with chagrin that I had no idea what Greg Cerise even looked like. Well, I knew that he dressed like a hippie and had long hair. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow it down too much in this crowd.

“Detective Gillian?”

I turned at the sound of my name, then smiled as I saw the preacher from last week in the park approaching. This time he was dressed in attire that made it far easier for me to believe he was a clergyman—dark pants, oxford-style shirt, modest-size crucifix on a chain around his neck. “Reverend Thomas,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to see you again. I didn’t think I’d run into you over here.”

He smiled, weathered face crinkling around his eyes. “My church is heavily involved in this center. I like to come by here and help out when I’m not too busy.” His expression turned more serious. “So what brings you down here? Do you have any more information about Mark?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m still working on that. Actually, right now I’m looking for a man named Greg Cerise. I was told he sometimes comes down here. Do you know him?”

A flicker of what might have been surprise crossed Reverend Thomas’s face, so quickly that I didn’t have time to fully identify it. “Yes,” he said, with the barest of hesitations. “Yes, he’s here. He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?”

What was it with thinking this guy was in trouble? “No, I just wanted to talk to him about some of his artwork.”

Relief suffused his features. “Oh, whew.” He gave an apologetic grin. “Sorry. I like Greg. I really do, and I think he’s incredibly talented. I just worry about him sometimes.”