The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“LAPD is a lot of things, but I don’t remember reasonable.”

“The chief is Sub Rosa, so he understands how important our investigation is.”

“Having fun, fatty?” says the Shonin. “Does he always waste time like this?”

“He’s a child,” says Wells. “A misbehaving child. That’s why I’m so reluctant to give him this.”

The Shonin laughs a grumbling laugh. Like rocks in a tumbler. I hope I don’t hear him do it again.

“We’re getting early Christmas gifts? Are you my Secret Santa?”

Wells reaches into a jacket pocket and takes out a folded piece of leather. Hands it to me. Inside is a card with my name on it and the Golden Vigil insignia.

“This is official Vigil ID. If a situation develops with local law enforcement, show it to them. It won’t work in little Podunk towns, but it will in L.A. and you’re not going anywhere anytime soon, are you?”

&n

bsp; “Not with a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, I’m not.”

“Do not even begin to think about abusing the authority afforded to you by this identification.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But LAPD does know that I’m a car thief, so the thing might actually come in handy.”

Wells takes back the ID.

“Speaking of your previous criminal activities, understand this. This identification is only good while you work for this organization. My organization. You get cute, you go off the reservation, and I’ll throw you to the wolves. Do you understand me?”

“I’m a team player, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“See that you don’t,” he says, and hands me back the ID. I put it in my pocket before Wells can take it away again.

The Shonin crooks his finger at me and says, “Come over here and see what real mystical forensics looks like.”

I go over. He waits on the other side of a table holding Hobaica’s body.

“The man’s name is Joseph Hobaica. He’s thirty-­eight years old, and by the cross around his neck, a good Catholic boy.”

“Wow. You and your mystical powers found his driver’s license and a first communion present. You’re goddamn Kreskin.”

“Language. He runs the distribution company where you witnessed the ceremony,” says Wells.

“Was that even a ceremony? It just looked like some kind of elaborate suicide pact to me.”

“You know damned well it was an Angra offering ritual. Stop being a smartass.”

“What I’m saying is, the all-­beef church aside, the whole thing looked kind of thrown together. There weren’t any ritual objects. They didn’t have time to do an invocation before I got there. They didn’t even have decent suicide instruments. What kind of Gods want a life offering made with something you can get at a hardware store?”

“Do you have any brilliant theories?”

“I think they were freaked out and desperate. I could smell it on them. Maybe they were offering themselves to their freaky God, but they were also splitting town. Just like all the other suckers clogging the freeways.”

Wells nods.

“You might actually have a point there.”

“But you’re wrong about there being no ritual objects. Did you see the amputated limbs hanging among the circle?”

“They were a little hard to miss.”