Dead to Rites (17 page)

And yeah, it was exactly who I’d thought it would be. Exactly whose handwriting I’d thought I’d recognized.

My old client, whose case I’d wrapped up right before I’d first been hired to find Celia Ottati by her frightened mother, before I’d first met Bianca and Fino and poor, slumbering Adalina.

Assistant State’s Attorney Dan Baskin.

I lost a big chunk of the day waitin’ around climbing my thumb, since I wasn’t about to grill Baskin about any of this in City Hall. Nah, this was gonna take privacy, and that meant doing squat until he got himself home. Well, it gave me time to check in with some folks elsewhere in the building who were kind enough to provide me the man’s home address—whether they meant to or not. (I’m sure it’ll shock you to learn that most of the lawyers workin’ for the city in a place like Chicago don’t publicize their addresses.)

Pete pointed out, correctly, that I had no way of guessin’ how the chat with Baskin was goin’ to go, if we’d be in any immediate danger afterward or if we’d have to go dashing off after some lead or other. I wasn’t real thrilled with the idea of takin’ my buddy’s car—a beatup old Ford—instead of the train, but I hadda admit it was the wise thing to do. I just spent the whole trip tryin’ to squeeze my head until it squished like a melon.

He, on the other hand, was even less thrilled about the notion of waiting in the car, down the block, when I went to confront Baskin. But he couldn’t exactly argue that he should go with me, not when the man could end his career with a word in the wrong ear. Better he stay back, outta sight, and ready to come bustin’ in if I yelled for help.

And yeah, I assured him I could yell so he’d hear me. He made some stupid joke about Fae sirens vs. police sirens. I said he was damn lucky I couldn’t drive myself outta here in a hurry if I accidentally tripped and beat him senseless with his own shoes.

Then, that important bit of wisdom exchanged, I ankled on over to Baskin’s doorstep.

The place was, uh… Well, it certainly consisted of a
lot
of bricks.

Yeah, Baskin had learned that much from the trouble boys he’d faced across the courtroom over the years. His place was big, real big, but not quite
too
big. Redbrick walls, white trim and shutters, neatly manicured lawn on a street where everyone else boasted the same. Nice enough to make you say, “Pretty fancy for a guy in his position,” not
so
nice that you’d start to wonder if he was supplementing his income.

Unless you were suspicious as me, in which case you damn well
were
wondering if he was supplementing his income.

And also wondering what the hell kinda magical dinguses he might have locked up in there. How potent where they? Did he know how to use ’em? What sorta trouble was I potentially walkin’ into?

Oh, and where in the house would I hide a millennia-old mummified body if
I
were an assistant state’s attorney?

I rapped a couple knuckles on the door. Gave it a minute. Rapped again.

Baskin was no bunny. He wasn’t just gonna throw the door open to any sap who came along. Your average Joe wouldn’t have been sure he was even home. Wouldn’t have heard the faint scuff of him sneaking up to glance out the peephole, or the soft choke when he saw who it was.

“C’mon, Baskin. I know you’re in there. You make me break in, I’m gonna make damn sure the cops who come to arrest me see things you don’t want ’em to. I just wanna talk a while. I ain’t here to hurt you.”

Probably.

Maybe.

Certainly not too bad, at least.

Took him a minute to decide whether or not to answer. I was gettin’ ready to yell again—or maybe just do something scientifically impossible to the lock—when he finally shouted back.

“What do you want here, Oberon?”

“Uh, didn’t I just say? You ain’t hearing me too well. Must be all this door between us. How’s about you open up and invite me in, and there’ll be
less
door between us?”

“What if I don’t want you in my home?”

“I’d be surprised if you did, frankly. I don’t much wanna be here, either. We all got our crosses to bear. You gonna let me in now, or does your pride need you to protest a while longer?”

The door swung open, revealing a middle-aged mug with a five-dollar haircut, wearing a burgundy housecoat that probably cost more’n Pete’s car, and carrying a double-barreled shotgun almost massive enough to qualify as artillery.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an ass?” he asked me.

“That a trick question, counselor? What’s with the hardware? You go whale-hunting on the weekends?”

“I have a lot of enemies, Mr. Oberon.”

“Seems like you’d want
many
gats, then, insteada one big one. Or do you expect ’em to line up for you? Because I’d pay to see that.”

“Just come inside and close the damn door, would you?”

I went inside and closed the damn door. Learned a few different things the moment I did, too.

First, the house was warded. Not enough to keep me out, not near as painful as Orsola’s protections had been. Just sort of a low-grade discomfort. Definitely woulda distracted me for a second or two if I’d come through the door fighting, maybe enough to have given Baskin a leg-up on whatever he woulda been doing in defense. Mostly, though, I figured it for an alarm; I’m sure somewhere in the house, a crystal was glowing or a taxidermied coyote was shouting a warning, or something similar. “Fae in the house! Fae in the house! Call an exterminator!”

Second, there was magic in the house beyond the wards. I mean, sure, I’d guessed there would be—“collector” and all, as Ramona’d told me—but it was good to confirm. Thing is, it didn’t feel as strong as I’d expected. Either Baskin’s collection was a lot smaller’n I thought, or he had enough occult knowledge to muffle some of it. Given the wards, probably the latter. Best I could tell from what emanations I
could
feel, the goods were upstairs.

And third, as a home decorator, Baskin made a good lawyer.

His sense of style focused on “inoffensive,” fancy without the least trace of personality. Furniture mostly in whites and creams and grays, except where it was varnished hardwood; bog-standard china patterns; a few painted landscapes. About the only things that stood out were some newspaper articles, carefully clipped and framed, hanging in groups on this wall or that. I didn’t even have to look to know they’d be stories about big court cases he’d won.

“Christ, Baskin. Couldya be any more of a stuffed shirt?”

Not that I was really payin’ the slightest attention to the clippings, or much else in the house right then. Naw, I just didn’t want him noticing what I
was
focused on. Woulda been too obvious and too threatening for me to make a grab for the L&G, and I hadda work slow and steady to make sure a stroke of bad luck didn’t gum up the works, so I needed time…

His cheeks tightened around his teeth.

“Did you come all the way out here just to insult me?”

“Well, that ain’t the
only
reason.”

Shaking his head, he opened a glass cabinet and poured himself a lead crystal glassful of something vaguely golden.

“It’s legal to own,” he said defensively after a large sip. “Just not to buy.”

“Yeah, I’m actually aware of how the law works.”

“That remains to be seen.” He finished off the drink in a quick gulp and went back to idly fingering the shotgun. “Quit stalling, Oberon. Why are you here?”

“Why don’tcha ask Ramona? I’m sure she can guess, if you can’t.”

“Who?”

And you know what? I couldn’t taste the lie in his words. Don’t get me wrong, I knew he
was
lyin’, but it was weird not to be able to confirm it. Ain’t unheard of for a human to be a good enough liar that I can’t tell, but it ain’t somethin’ I run into every day, either.

Guess he’d pulled himself together a little with that drink.

“C’mon, Baskin. We really gotta go through the whole song and dance? I felt the wards when I walked in. I know the kinda stuff you’re involved in. I can feel your collection from down here, even through all the efforts you’ve taken to veil it. I know you sent Ramona to try to snag the Spear of Lugh a while back, and to case Rounser’s carnival so you could steal his mummy.”

“You… You’re mad! Certifiably insane!”

“You weren’t surprised when I heard you through the front door. And you knew better’n to think threatening me with that hand-cannon was gonna stop me comin’ in if I really wanted to.”

“Maybe I just don’t like the idea of violence if I can avoid it. Or I just don’t want to have to clean up the mess and fill out the paperwork if I kill you.”

Had it been long enough? Had I been focused enough? Time to find out.

“All right. Since I can sense everything anyway, let’s just mosey on upstairs to your collection and I’ll show you what I’m talkin’ about.”

That suggestion got twin shotgun barrels aimed my way
real
quick. It was almost disappointing how predictable that reaction was.

“No. I think this is about as much of my home as you’re going to see tonight, Oberon.”

“C’mon, bo. There’s more’n just you and me riding on this.”
A young girl’s life and whole friggin’ identity, for one
, though obviously I didn’t say that. “Can we just skip over this part and go upst—?”

“No! It’s time for you to leave, before—”

I mentally tugged on the mystical threads I’d been weavin’ for the past few minutes, draining the luck outta the bean shooter Baskin was holdin’ on me. A couple of unhealthy
clacks
echoed through the room, and the breach broke open on its own, the barrels swinging loose from the handle like a broken carrot.

“After you,” I said.

Baskin glared at the gun, at me, then tossed the thing over behind the sofa and grumbled past me up the stairs.

“You wanna tell me why you let a couple goons outta the cooler to rough me up?” I asked him as we climbed.

He shrugged without turning.

“Where else was I going to get them? Would’ve taken a lot longer to find criminals out on the street.”

Was he tryin’ to make with the funny?

“That… ain’t really how I meant the question.”

“I guessed that might be the case.”

We’d reached the second floor, now. The banister overlooked the sitting room we’d just come from; up here were a handful of doors, one of which was cracked open enough to show a claw-footed iron bathtub. The carpet and wallpaper upstairs were an off-cream, which is about the dumbest color for carpet and wallpaper imaginable. If you ain’t gonna go white, at least go dark enough so it ain’t gonna show dirt, yeah?

Oh, right. And I also recognized the lingering traces of familiar perfume and a natural musk. Ramona may notta been there now, or maybe she was hiding and focused on keepin’ me from sensing her aura, but she damn well
was
here, and not too long ago.

“I knew they wouldn’t be able to do you any real harm,” he said, finally answering the question I’d actually asked, “let alone kill you. I just wanted you out of action for a few days.”

“Long enough for you’n Ramona to finish whatever it is you got cooking? Weren’t sure what she pulled was gonna keep me laid up long enough?”

“I’m sorry, I still don’t know who you’re referring to. Or what. If you were already injured, I assure you I had no idea.”

“Uh-huh.”

We’d stopped in front of a door that didn’t look at all different from any of the others. Baskin obviously didn’t wanna turn that knob. I wasn’t gonna let him off the hook, but since I had another question, I gave him an excuse to put it off another minute.

“Tell me something, counselor. Did you already know about me when you hired me last year? ’Cause I’ll tell ya, I certainly didn’t get that impression.”

Now he
did
face me. I didn’t even have to try tasting his emotions; I could see in his face that he was measuring his answer, deciding if telling me the truth would spill any secrets or reveal any weaknesses he didn’t want me knowing about.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say it’s pure coincidence I hired you—I’ve come to see that the mystical has its own ways of shaping things…”

I nodded.

“…but no, at the time I had no idea you were anything more than what you seemed.” Then, maybe thinking a friendlier approach might work out, he expanded on that. “Truth is, when we met, I was only just learning of the existence of the supernatural at all. When I was trying to retrieve those photos I eventually hired you to find, I came across some… interesting methods. That was my next step, if you’d failed.”

Huh. And in little more than a year, he’d learned enough to construct wards, assemble enough of a collection to make himself a contender, acquire the services of someone like Ramona, and get at least some notion of what I was and what I could do? Either he was lyin’ through his teeth about when he got started, or he’d had some big-time help.

In any case, I offered up a glitzy smile like I believed every word and didn’t have a question in my noggin, and gestured toward the door. He gave up a sigh in return—as though I was somehow gonna have forgotten that I wanted in there—and opened up.

Yeah, the room definitely had additional wards, meant to make its contents harder to detect. Soon as the door opened, the energies hit me like the burst of heat from a blast furnace. Wasn’t the largest collection of mystical artifacts I’d ever seen, not by miles, but more’n I’d expected.

He’d divided the room—which was pretty sizable, probably occupying at least half of the second story—into a series of aisles via rows of half-height bookcases. Many of ’em were empty, or held random curios that looked interesting but held no power or intrinsic value. He owned a buncha books, most of ’em on the history or detail of various occult practices, from the Goetia to Vodoun to Kabbalah to Renaissance treatises on alchemy. A few were actual grimoires, spellbooks of this tradition or that; presumably Gina’s stolen tome was supposed to have found a home among ’em. At the room’s far end lay a cement slab with a rune-inscribed pentagram etched into it, makin’ me wonder if Baskin had already been fiddling around with conjuring.