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9
HOME OF ZOLTAN
THURSDAY EVENING
Savich drove his Porsche to Cleveland Park, an old, established neighborhood in northwest Washington both he and Sherlock enjoyed driving through, especially when the fall leaves were at their most dramatic. There were beautifully kept older houses surrounded by mature oaks and maples, and it was quiet, not a single kid’s bike to be seen in the neighborhood. Zoltan lived in a hundred-year-old house with a wraparound porch, surrounded by a well-maintained yard. There was a porch light on, and both downstairs and upstairs lights were on. Savich could see the pale brown paint and sharp white trim were fresh. Fall flowers still bloomed from baskets hanging from overhead porch beams, and piles of fallen leaves had been swept up. He paused a moment in front of the dark-brown-painted front door. The neighborhood, the house, even the planted fall flowers seemed so normal, so expected. Who would guess a medium was holding séances in her living room? Why, he wondered again, hadn’t Rebekah wanted to talk about what happened here last night?
He fully intended to find out.
He pressed a button by the front door and heard chimes sounding a lovely deep Gregorian chant. He heard light footsteps, and Zoltan herself answered the front door. She’d looked formal in the photo MAX had shown him of her attending a conference in New York. Now she looked completely normal, wearing black leggings, whimsical moose-head slippers on her long, narrow feet, and a burgundy Redskins sweatshirt. Her thick black hair was pulled up and back in a ponytail, showcasing a face with sharp bone structure and a strong chin. She looked Black Irish with the dark hair, dark blue eyes, and very white complexion. She wore minimal makeup and small diamond studs in her ears. She did not look like anyone’s idea of a person who spoke to the dead and called herself Zoltan.
“Ms. Zoltan? I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich.” He automatically held out his creds, but she didn’t take them. Instead she looked at his face and stilled. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. What did she think she saw?
Zoltan said in a deep, cream-smooth voice, like coffee with a dollop of Baileys, “Just Zoltan. Now, I have to admit I’m surprised. I find it hard to believe you’re an FBI special agent. Candy—she’s my secretary—told me your voice was dark and sexy, and she wished she could think of a bad deed she could confess to you.”
Savich said nothing, kept holding out his creds. Finally, she took them, gave a cursory look, and handed them back, all the while continuing to stare at his face. She stepped away and waved him in. “It’s fortunate for you I saw my last client an hour ago. I assume you wish to speak about Rebekah Manvers’s conversation with her grandfather last night?”
“Yes.”
“I am wondering why an FBI agent would have any interest whatsoever in a communication between a young woman and her dead grandfather. I do hope her husband, the congressman, didn’t send you to harass me.” She turned as she spoke and led him into a lovely high-ceilinged living room, long and narrow, with windows at either end covered in dark blue brocade draperies. A fire burned sluggishly in the fireplace, sending up an occasional spark. It was dim and cozy, the air soft with a light scent of night jasmine. It was a place to read a good book or maybe speak to a spirit. Savich said, “The Carrara marble looks original.”
“It is. When I bought the house three years ago, it was because of the eight fireplaces, all working and all Carrara marble. Luckily, it’s a chilly night, perfect for a fire. Do sit down, Agent Savich.” She gave him a look over her shoulder. “Candy has quite the ear—you do have a marvelous voice. Alas, from your wedding ring, I will have to tell Candy you’re unavailable.”
“Yes, I am.”
“At least for the moment.”
Savich merely smiled. He looked again around the living room. “You hold your séances in this room?”
“Yes. Another reason I bought the house. I’ve found calling to the Departed more natural when a house is older, when it’s lived through years of life and death and drama, of exquisite pain and flashes of joy. I find all that living human experience permeates the walls themselves.” She cocked her head at him. “If you’re wondering where my levitating table is, I’m afraid I don’t use one. I simply arrange the chairs in a circle when I have a small group, and yes, everyone holds hands. It’s not theater, although it certainly could be. No, it’s to pool everyone’s energy. May I get you tea, a nice Earl Grey, black?”
Savich raised a brow.
Zoltan said matter-of-factly, “The Earl Grey is nice and hot. No sugar or cream or lemon, straight-up black tea.” She poured him a cup from a bright red thermos on a side table, handed it to him, then poured herself a cup, added milk and two packets of fake sugar.
“How do you know I don’t care for anything in my tea, Ms. Zoltan? How do you even know I prefer tea? Did a visiting spirit mention it to you?”
She shrugged and looked away from him, toward the fireplace, and her eyes went vague and distant. He sipped his tea and enjoyed the performance. Had she read up on him already, in the few hours since he’d called?
The tea was delicious, the flavors deep and rich, better than his own, actually, and that surprised him. There was something else in the tea, some darker flavor. He let the thought go and studied Zoltan. “May I ask why you chose a Hungarian man’s name?”
She shrugged, the movement strangely compelling and graceful. She smiled at him. “Do you like your tea, Agent Savich?”
He nodded. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Should I satisfy your curiosity?” She paused, then nodded. “Zoltan was a man I met in the Village in New York. He played chess in Washington Square, played the violin in a sidewalk café, and made love to me like I was a Stradivarius. He taught me things, Agent Savich, so many things before he died from a curse he knew was coming for him. He awakened his powers in me before he died, in what he told me was an ancient ritual. His family was originally from Erdély, a part of Hungary before it was taken and given to Romania.”
Her voice was low and musical, mesmerizing. Savich found himself staring into the smoldering fire, the occasional sparking flame. Her words seemed to flow smoothly into his mind. Something wasn’t right. He pulled his eyes away from the fire and back to her face. “Zoltan died of a curse? Is that a tale for your clients’ benefit? And now mine? To give you credibility? To make yourself out to be a sorcerer’s apprentice?”
