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I woke late, mood not improved when my coffeemaker refused to turn on. I tried a variety of methods to make the damn thing work—including yelling, crying, and cursing—but it still stubbornly refused to produce coffee.
I finally gave up and headed to the coffee shop and its overpriced product. Without coffee, the day had a good chance of sucking, and I really didn’t need any more suck in my life at the moment.
I fumbled in the glove box of the Taurus for sunglasses, jamming them onto my face with one hand while trying to adjust the sun visor with the other. The mid-morning sun speared relentlessly through the windshield at the absolute perfect height to evade the sun-blocking powers of the visor. I had the air conditioner cranked all the way up, but the air it produced was only slightly below tepid and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I’d briefly experimented with driving with the windows down, but even at ten in the morning the outside air was hot enough to make that pointless. At least the minimal air-conditioning wouldn’t turn my hair into a tangled mess the way open windows would. And since the day’s agenda involved driving down to Mandeville to interview Elena Sharp, I figured it would be best if I avoided arriving with bride-of-Frankenstein hair.
Sure, she can pop on up to Beaulac to lurk outside Brian Roth’s funeral, I thought sourly, but she’s still going to make me drive to Mandeville to interview her? And I was willing to bet that the AC in her car worked pretty damn well. On the other hand, the trip to Mandeville would conveniently keep me out of the office for the rest of the day. That was a win.
The drive to Mandeville was uneventful, and it didn’t take me long to find the complex where she lived. I pulled in and realized quickly that even though it wasn’t a three-story house on the shore of Lake Pearl, Elena Sharp’s new residence was by no means a mere apartment. From the gated entrance—complete with a security guard who actually checked my credentials—to the lushly landscaped surroundings, the entire complex screamed wealth.
I spied Elena Sharp’s distinctive red Mercedes, parked between a Lexus and a BMW. I stuffed my grungy Taurus into a spot next to an Audi, then walked down a path shaded with flowering crape myrtles to her unit. I rang the doorbell and heard the deep, sonorous tones vibrate beyond the oak and glass door, followed by the sound of heels on marble. A few seconds later the door was opened by Elena Sharp.
She was a few inches taller than me and wearing heels as well, which gave her enough of a height advantage that she was most definitely looking down at me. She wore a strapless mid-calf-length formfitting dress that molded over a flat stomach, narrow hips, and generous tits that I had a feeling were not factory originals. On her the dress looked elegant and expensive. On me it would have looked tawdry and pathetic. Actually, on me it would have looked stolen as well, since I figured it probably cost several hundred dollars. Not that I knew that much about fashion, but I could tell what was way out of my price range.
“Ms. Sharp, I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the Beaulac Police Department,” I said as I extended my hand. “As I stated on the phone, I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding your husband’s death.”
Her eyes flicked over me, taking in my clothing, my gun and badge, even my hairstyle—or lack thereof. I had a fleeting sensation of being cataloged, and I had to wonder if she could tell that I shopped mostly at stores that ended in Mart. Her eyes went back to mine, and she reached out and clasped my hand in a brief shake. Her manicure was perfect, her hand cool and smooth in mine. “Detective Gillian,” she said, polite smile curving her lips. “Please come in.” She stepped back and motioned me in. I obliged, then followed her as she turned and led the way to a sitting room.
The sitting room was about the same size as the one in my house, except that in my house it was called a living room and definitely looked lived in. This was a room where one was expected to sit and perhaps sip tea and speak of lovely things in soft and cultured tones. Everything here looked expensive and elegant, with sleek furniture that exuded an aura of quality, fresh flowers on the coffee table, and a rolltop desk beneath a window that offered a stunning view of Lake Pontchartrain. It was beautiful, but I had a hard time imagining anyone spending much time in the room.
She sat smoothly on a sleek couch that I figured cost more than every stick of furniture in my house. The only other place to sit in the room was a large wingback chair that I knew without a doubt would swallow me whole, but I didn’t really want to sit on the couch with her if I was going to be questioning her. I gave a mental sigh and sat carefully on the forward edge of the wingback, telling myself I didn’t really look ridiculous. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I began, setting my notebook on my lap.>I maintained my silence as I drove back to my house, and when I pulled into my driveway I saw that he was asleep. At least I hoped he was asleep. I felt a quick stab of fear that something awful had happened, but his chest still rose and fell in a nicely reassuring manner.
I parked the car in front of the house and gently nudged his shoulder, really hoping I could wake him up, since I didn’t want to think about carrying him into the house. But his eyes snapped open as soon as I touched him.
“We’re at my house. Do you want to crash here for a bit?”
He rubbed at his face, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”
He seemed steadier on his feet as he walked to the house and up the stairs. The twenty-minute nap he’d taken in the car had obviously helped a lot. “Are you hungry?” I asked as I headed to the kitchen.
He hesitated, then nodded again. “I should probably eat something.”
I searched through my fridge for something quick and easy. I finally settled on a microwaved mini-pizza. I half-expected him to make a crack about my cooking, but he didn’t even bat an eyelash, merely wolfed it down in about three bites. I was relieved to see some color come back to his face after he ate, though he still had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. I thought I had the monopoly on those.
I stuck another pizza in the microwave, and when I turned back around he had an empty wine bottle in his hand, looking at it with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. I groaned inwardly.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t have a drinking problem. I was trying to relax enough to get some sleep last night. And for the record, that was emptied over the course of about a week.”
His eyes lifted to mine. “I never said you had a drinking problem.”
“You didn’t have to.” I took the bottle out of his hand and dumped it in the trash, wincing as it clanked harshly against the two other bottles in there already.
“My, aren’t we touchy.”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. “You’re right, I am.” I busied myself with getting the second pizza out of the microwave and putting it on his plate. “Sorry.”
He lifted the pizza and blew on it to cool it. “Did you summon again Saturday night?”
I blinked at the non sequitur. “Yeah.”
“That’s cool.” An oddly strained silence fell for another minute or so while he ate. At least he was looking better. I expected him to ask me more about my summoning, but if he wasn’t going to ask, I wasn’t going to offer.
Finally he leaned back in the chair and pushed his empty plate away. “Okay, much better,” he said, giving me a more normal smile. “So, what did you summon that wears boots?”
I stared at him, then twisted to look at the floor by the back door. Great. A damn near perfect boot print. Shit. Teach me to mop my floors more often. “I … uh, I summoned Rhyzkahl.”
He frowned at me. Or, rather, he gave me a facial expression that was about ten times as frowny as a frown. “How the fuck? Why the fuck?”
I forced a laugh, trying not to look guilty, which was how I felt for some reason. “I know, I know. But he wanted me to summon him, and I was given his oath that I would not be harmed.”
