Secrets of the Demon (Kara Gillian 3)

For a second he looked puzzled at the question. “ ’Cuz you’re a cop.”

“So is Knight,” I pointed out.

He frowned. “But I work with you,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not gonna let someone from outside fuck with a teammate.”

“Oh. Right,” I said, feeling as if the world was about to tilt and toss me off. “Then I, uh, appreciate the warning.”

He gave me a jerky nod, looking almost relieved, as if he’d gotten something off his chest. Then he turned and yanked the door open and walked away without another word.

I stared at the open door for several heartbeats, then finally shook myself back to some semblance of reality.

“My life,” I muttered to myself as I exited the copy room and returned to the waiting Knight. “It is never dull.”

Chapter 23

Marco and I took separate cars to the scene, which was good since I needed some quiet to sort things out and regain my mental balance. Not only was I upset about Roger, but the strange conversation with Pellini had thrown me completely for a loop. I was far more stunned at the fact that Pellini would bother giving me any sort of warning than at the revelation that Knight was “weird.” And I had absolutely no reason to believe that Pellini was being anything but sincere. In a way it was a bit comforting to know that I wasn’t the only one who had the capacity to be unnerved by Knight at times. Not to mention I’d been braced for a confrontation with Pellini and I wasn’t about to complain that it hadn’t materialized. At this point, though, I’d spent enough time with Knight that, if he really was able to discern thoughts or secrets or whatever, he’d have a head full of them by now.

But I couldn’t help but be stupidly warmed by the fact that—at least in this—Pellini had my back.

Who’da thunk it?

The emergency vehicles were clustered along the road a short distance past the apartment complex. I found a place to park behind an ambulance, then walked up to where a knot of people stood about a hundred yards from the road, on the edge of a drainage ditch. Marco dawdled a ways behind but I didn’t worry about him. He seemed to be the type who preferred to observe from a distance as much as possible, which was fine with me, especially since I had the unerring feeling that he totally had my back. It was a comforting feeling, I realized. I’d gone for so long in my life without having anyone on “my side” other than my aunt. And the demons, of course, though any sort of dealings with demons came with its own price. So, yes, I was bemused at the whole concept of having a circle of friends and allies.

I really am a dork, aren’t I?

Scott Glassman turned as I approached and gave me a nod and a slight smile. I’d worked on the same team with Scott back when I was a road cop. Bald and stout, he looked and acted like a hick, but he was a sharp and savvy cop with a gift for putting people at ease. He was a sergeant now, as well as a training officer, which I thought was an excellent use of his talents. With him was an officer I didn’t recognize. Dark-skinned with angular features that reminded me deliciously of Denzel Washington, he stood almost a head taller than Scott. Probably his trainee, I realized.

“Looks like you’re It,” Scott said. “Thought it was an accident at first. Maybe the guy went running while it was still dark, decided to cut across the grass, then tripped and fell into the ditch, hit his head, and drowned.”

I started to shake my head, but he held up his hand. “But it ain’t no accident,” he said firmly.

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

He gestured downward and I peered into the ditch. It was a decent six-foot drop down to the bottom where Roger Peeler lay, faceup, with mud streaked across his face and torso. The lower half of his body was still in the water, which didn’t look to be more than a foot deep and only about three feet across at its widest spot.

“Dunno if you can see it from up here,” he said, “but there’s some blood on the back and side of his head.”

I nodded. “I see it.” Now I was interested to see where he was going with this. I had an enormous amount of respect for Scott and his experience. He’d have been a shitty detective, but he was one of the best street cops I’d ever known.

“Saw something like it on a body a buncha years back,” he told me, tone still as conversational as if we’d been talking about whether the Saints would win the Super Bowl again this year. “Guy got jumped in the bathroom at Rosie’s Roadhouse and after he got a good beatdown they shoved his head into the john and drowned his ass.”

I had to shudder. I’d been in the women’s bathroom at Rosie’s before and had been completely grossed out. I doubted that the men’s room was any classier.

“Dude put up a fight,” Scott said, “but whoever was holding him had a solid grip. So solid that his scalp tore a bit during the struggle.”

I breathed a curse, my eyes on the body of Roger. “Same thing here, right?” I asked. Scott nodded. “I told him to be careful,” I muttered. “I told him to not go anywhere by himself.”

“Then he shoulda listened to you better,” Scott replied with a scowl. Then he shook his head. “But I know it’s gonna eat you up for a while. I get it.”

I gave him a small smile. This was why he was one of my favorite people. “Thanks, Scott. So, can you give me the gist?”

He jerked a thumb toward the other officer. “I’ll let Gordon do the honors. He’s my latest trainee, and I’m actually not worried that he’s going to shoot me by accident. Can you believe it? We might have a keeper here!”

Officer Gordon gave me an amused smile and extended a hand. “Tracy Gordon. Pleasure to meet you, Detective. Sergeant Glassman says you’re not clueless, which I understand is one of his highest compliments.”

I gave a low laugh and shook his hand. He had a lovely rich baritone that I could have listened to all day. “I have him thoroughly snowed. Good to meet you.”

He winked, then released my hand and flipped open his notebook. “A Ms. Jeanne Henry, white female, forty-three years old, was out walking her dog at approximately oh-nine-thirty. Her dog, Scooper, a three-year-old Labradoodle, began to pull at the leash and bark and led her to this point where she saw the victim facedown in the ditch.”