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As he shuffled to the door, he stopped and glanced back. "Have you ever had any contact with your mother's sire, witch?"
"Balaam? Um, no. He missed all my birthdays growing up. I'm still pissed."
"And your mother? Were they close?"
"Is this a trick question? Of course not. Lord demons make most deadbeat dads look like father of the year. They sow their seed and scram. Adam doesn't know Asmondai. Hope doesn't know Lucifer. My mother didn't know Balaam. If you think otherwise, then we'd better shop for a demon helper who's a little more in touch with his world."
"They have been known to make contact," he said evenly. "I was merely wondering if Balaam has, with you or with your mother."
"No."
He nodded. "Then I will see you in Miami. I trust you'll be there, after you speak to this necromancer? To facilitate my audience with Lucifer's daughter?"
"We'll get there eventually."
"Sooner rather than later, I'd suggest. If you are involved in this matter, it is the safest place for you."
He left, and we did too--before housekeeping stopped by and tried to charge us extra to get rid of the stench.
I called Schmidt again. Still no answer. A quick check on his area code told me it was from a residence in Riverside, California. I researched him, hoping to ping a cell or business number. No luck.
"Do you have a home address?" Adam asked as he drove.
"Yep."
"Then I guess we're keeping the car for another day. And you get to avoid going to Miami for a little longer."
Riverside was just close enough that it wasn't worth the bother of flying. And just far enough that we were exhausted by the time we arrived.
We got to Schmidt's place after eleven, and I couldn't help being reminded of yesterday's late-night visit to Walter Alston. Would we find another dead body here? As we sat in the car, looking at the darkened house, SUV in the drive, it was beginning to look like a definite possibility.
We had every reason to believe Schmidt would welcome our visit, so there was no need for subterfuge. Too bad, because it would have been a hell of a lot easier here than it'd been at Alston's.
I didn't see any signs of external security. No cameras. No dog. Not even a fence around the garden-filled yard.
From my research, I knew the Schmidts didn't have children, which explained the small house. He was an economics instructor at the local community college. His wife was a high school teacher. The SUV was his. An identical model was registered to her, too, and was presumably in the garage. Both Schmidts were in their forties, but only married five years. They volunteered together at a youth group. They vacationed at their time-share in Maui every winter. They took pottery classes at the community center. A very normal, very boring middle-aged couple.
Given the kind of supernaturals Leah hung out with, I'd decided that Schmidt's dull suburban life had to be an excellent front for his darker enterprises. Except that when I searched our files, I found no mention of him. We had Schmidt necromancers in the council records, but as complainants, not troublemakers.
Adam rang the bell. As we waited, he examined the front porch for any signs of a camera feed. None. He rang again. When no one answered, he peered through the side window.
"Got a security system," he said. "But it's only arming the doors, as far as I can tell."
We went in through a rear window and no sirens blasted. Adam checked the security panel by the front door. Taped to the inside was a scrap of paper with the word: Mom.
"He used his mother's birthday for the code," I said. "Or she did. Very secure."
"He's a necromancer." Adam walked into the living room and lifted a pot filled with dried herbs. "He needs a different kind of security."
Vervain, for warding off unwanted spirits.
We did a sweep of the main floor, then went upstairs. The banister was still broken where Leah had pushed Mrs. Schmidt through. The same trick she'd used on Michael, only there hadn't been a banister to slow his fall and it'd been more than a ten-foot drop. I stared at that broken railing, thinking about Michael, until Adam nudged me along.
Next stop: the bedroom. The bed was made. No sign of Schmidt. No faint odor of decomp anywhere either.
As Adam searched for a basement, I poked around the living room. Needlepoint on one end table. A half-constructed model ship on the other. The pillows and throws all looked handmade. Same for the artwork. None of it was particularly good. A couple of artistic dabblers.
I found a photo. The Schmidts were just what I expected. Middle-aged, plain, slightly dumpy. They looked happy, though. I glanced around the living room and could picture them there, doing their arts-and-crafts hobbies together.
