His Father's Eyes - eARC (16 page)

The myste nodded once, and vanished. I had to resist an urge to drive home and hide under my bed with my Glock and every magical herb I had in the house. Instead, I pulled out my phone and called Kona at home. Driving and dialing again; I hated myself a little. But I couldn’t bring myself to pull over. As it was, I expected at any moment to feel that clawed hand take hold of my heart once more.

Margarite answered and after a bit of chit-chat, told me that Kona was at 620, despite it being close to four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Between the murder at Sky Harbor Airport, the attack on Solana’s, and the murders committed by Dimples and his weremancer friends, she, Kevin, and the rest of the Phoenix Police Department had plenty to keep them busy 24/7.

I didn’t bother calling her at 620 from the highway; I just drove into the city.

Somehow, I made it downtown without being killed or run off the road by a silver sedan. I parked near 620 and called Kona’s number as I walked to police headquarters. She answered on the second ring.

“Shaw.”

“Hey, partner.”

“Well, if it isn’t the television star.”

It took me a minute to remember my on-air temper tantrum outside of Solana’s. “Oh, right.”

“That was must-see TV, Justis. Hibbard in particular gave you rave reviews.”

“Billie and I were in there. She almost died.”

“I know,” she said, the sarcasm leaching out of her voice. “I’m sorry. How’s she doing?”

“Last time I saw her she was doing okay, improving. Listen, I’m parked nearby. Can you come down? We have a lot to talk about.”

“I’m pretty much slammed right now. Two terrorist attacks in less than a week, not to mention that murder in Sweetwater Park—even with the federal boys taking over the lion’s share of the airport and bombing investigations, I have more than enough to keep me up nights, know what I’m saying?”

“The attack on Solana’s wasn’t a bombing. It was magic. I should have told you sooner, but—”

“You think?” she demanded, voice spiraling upward again. “That would have been helpful information!”

“And I’m ready to tell you everything I can. But I think we’d be better off talking about it outside of 620.”

She heaved a sigh. “Should I bring Kevin?”

“Sure, why not? The more the merrier, right?”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll be right across the street.”

“We’ll be down in five.”

It didn’t even take them that long. Kona was uncharacteristically sheepish as they crossed the street and approached me.

It was Kevin who said, “She’s sorry for how she was on the phone.”

“He your spokesman now?”

“Probably should be,” Kona said. “I am sorry. Billie was hurt, you’ve probably been working on this night and day since it happened. And I should have guessed from the way you were on television that it wasn’t an ordinary bombing. You know better than to talk to the press. But a spell aimed at you and your woman—that would throw anyone off their game.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at Kevin. “Both of you.”

“What you can you tell us?” Kona asked.

“Not much right now. There seems to be dark magic flowing in every direction, and I don’t know what to do with it all. The body at Sweetwater Park, some weird stuff happening with my father, the attack on Solana’s. And those don’t even cover the worst of it.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Kona said. “But what’s the worst of it?”

“One of Namid’s kind was murdered in the last day or so.”

Kona’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t think they were mortal.”

“Namid’s the ghost-thing you told me about the other day, right?” Kevin asked. “The one who helps you train?”

Namid would hate the description, but I didn’t see any point in correcting him.

“That’s right.” To Kona I said, “I didn’t know they were mortal, either. Even Namid is at a loss to explain what happened. But somehow one was killed. I’m wondering if you’ve had any reason to investigate Regina Witcombe since I left the force.”

“Witcombe,” Kevin said. “Don’t tell me she’s into magic, too.”

“Dark magic, from what I hear.”

“Shit, Justis. This keeps getting better and better.” Kona closed her eyes, rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “No, I haven’t had anything to do with the woman. Neither has anyone else on the force as far as I know. I’ve been convinced for years that she had her husband killed, but we were never—” Her hand dropped to her side. “We were never able to prove it. And now you’re telling me that she’s a myste, too.” She shook her head. “Well, at least now I know how she got away with it.”

“Any new leads on the Sweetwater Park murder?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We’ve got nothing. I was going to ask you the same thing. What can you tell me about what happened at Solana’s?”

I gazed across the street at 620. “It was aimed at me. I heard someone speak to me after the explosion. ‘A warning. Do not push too hard.’ That’s what she said.”

“She? You think it was Witcombe?”

“No, I don’t. I think Regina Witcombe is a weremyste. Like me, but richer, and into dark magic. I think Solana’s was attacked by someone who’s more on Namid’s level.”

“So it was aimed at you,” Kevin said, studying me with a critical eye. “And yet your girlfriend’s the one who’s in the hospital.”

“Kevin!” Kona said.

“He’s right. That might be the weirdest part of it. Nothing happened to me. Nothing at all. I didn’t so much as tear a fingernail. No cuts, no bruises, no burns.” Kona glanced at my jaw. “I got the bruise elsewhere,” I told her. “I’m serious: Nothing happened to me at the restaurant. Someone blew up Solana’s to send me a message, and at the same time did everything in her power to keep me safe.”

The words echoed in my head. Kona asked me something, but I didn’t hear her. I was remembering the touch of magic dancing along my skin the instant before the explosion, and also the tickle of magic I’d felt before Mark Darby shot at me. There should have been some residue of power on me after both episodes. That there wasn’t must have meant something.

“There’s no residue on my dad, either,” I whispered.

“What are you talking about? Are you all right?”

My gaze snapped to Kona’s face. “This wasn’t the first time she saved me,” I said. “The night before, I was working on a case and nearly got myself shot. By all rights, I should have died. But someone cast a spell that saved my life. I still don’t know who.”

“So there’s some weremyste out there—”

“I told you: She’s not a weremyste. She’s too powerful for that.”

“All right. Some magical entity. And she’s doing everything she can to keep you alive, while at the same time blowing up your favorite restaurant and the woman you love with it.”

“Sounds a little crazy doesn’t it?”

Kevin exhaled. “I’m glad you said that, and not me.”

“Welcome to life with Justis,” Kona said. “Crazy just follows him around.”

“I need to speak with Witcombe,” I said, “and I’m not sure how best to get close to her.”

Kevin gave a small shake of his head. “She has a security detail. A good one. If she doesn’t want to talk to you, you won’t get past them.”

Kona and I exchanged glances. She grinned.

It was like a light bulb went on over Kevin’s head. “Unless you happen to have magic.”

“You don’t know her address in Paradise Valley, do you?”

“No!” Kona said. “Talking about this is one thing. Giving you an address so that you can go harass arguably the most influential woman in the city? That’s something else entirely.”

“She was on the plane.”

For the second time in about five minutes, Kona stared at me as if I’d sprouted wings and flown over 620. “By ‘the plane,’ you mean . . .”

“Flight 595. For all I know, she killed Jimmy Howell. Then she flew to Washington, and within twenty-four hours of her arrival there, one of Namid’s fellow runemystes was murdered in—wait for it—Northern Virginia.”

She pursed her lips.

“Does that change things a little?” I asked.

“Not as much as you’d think. In case you’ve forgotten, the PPD doesn’t investigate murders of runemystes, or, for that matter, murders that take place two thousand miles beyond the state border.”

“And the plane?”

“There were lots of people on the plane. We have no evidence whatsoever—at least none that’s admissible—implicating Regina Witcombe in either murder or sabotage. Add to that the fact that the FBI guys practically claw out our eyes anytime someone from the department gets near their desks, and there’s really not much I can do for you.”

I nodded. I could call back Sally Peters, who had access to the real estate databases, but I was sure her company would frown on her giving out private information, too.

“Of course,” Kona went on a moment later, “a woman like Witcombe is probably at her office more often than she’s at home, even on a Saturday. And corporate addresses are easy to find, even for a private investigator.”

Kevin snorted.

I lifted an eyebrow. “I’d thought of going to her office. But I figure that’s where I’m most likely to encounter that security detail Kevin mentioned. She might relax a bit at home.”

Kona frowned. “I hate it when he’s right.”

“If I find something, you know I’ll bring it to you. Wouldn’t you like to beat the FBI guys at their own game?”

“Go back inside, Kevin.”

Kevin’s face fell. “What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” Kona said, rounding on him. “I’m trying to protect your ass. If I get caught doing something wrong, I want you to be able to swear on a stack of Bibles that you knew nothing about it. Now get back to work.”

His eyes narrowed a bit, and his expression hardened. But after a moment his gaze flicked in my direction. “Jay.”

“See you later, Kevin.”

He said nothing to Kona before walking away, crossing the street and entering 620. Once Kona couldn’t see him anymore, she faced me again.

“I’ll get you Witcombe’s address. I’ll call you with it. But I don’t like this.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t either.”

She dipped her chin. “I believe that. Twice now you’ve mentioned your father. What’s he got to do with this?”

“I wish I knew. He’s been . . . someone’s been hurting him, using magic to . . . to do I-don’t-even-know-what. I don’t understand what’s happening to him, but I’d bet everything I own that it’s tied in some way to the rest of this.”

Her lips pursed again, and I could tell what she was thinking.

“You’re taking a lot on faith. I appreciate that.”

“I was thinking that the full moon’s only a couple of days away, and you get a little funny even before the phasings start.”

“Is that a polite way of suggesting that I might be imagining all of this?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sure that it’s all happening the way you say it is. But this strikes me as a little odd—you’re hearing voices, your father is suffering—”

“You mean, my father the nutcase.”

“And then there’s the plane, and Solana’s. And even that bit about you almost getting shot. What is all this, Justis?”

I shook my head and started to answer, but she held up a hand, stopping me.

“Kevin’s inside. This is just you and me. And I’m asking if there’s more to this than you’re saying.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. If she thought the rest of it sounded over the top, how would she react when I started talking about a magical war? But I thought again of Jacinto Amaya and how I’d kept from her that he was my source on the role of dark magic in the ritual killings she and Kevin were investigating. The last thing I wanted was to alienate her further with more secrets.

“Yeah, there is,” I told her. “We seem to be on the brink of . . . well, of a kind of magical civil war.”

She blinked. “That doesn’t sound so good.”

“It’s not. When runemystes start dying, you know that things are headed in a bad direction.”

CHAPTER 16

My cell rang before I’d made it back to my car. Kona gave me the address, whispering so quietly I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I could make out all of it, which probably defeated the purpose of all that whispering.

Not surprisingly, Regina Witcombe lived in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the entire Phoenix metropolitan area, in a mansion that was about six times the size of my place in Chandler. It also didn’t come as a surprise to me to find that the house had a sophisticated security system, as well as armed guards, several of whom were accompanied by German shepherds that made Gary Hacker in coyote form look like a chihuahua.

The guards, and even the security sensors, could be fooled by a decent camouflage spell. The dogs were the problem. They could hear almost anything, and what their ears missed, their noses would find. Trying to sneak into the Witcombe estate would be idiotic, the kind of thing you might see in a movie, right before the hero is captured by his nemesis.

I decide to try a more direct approach. I drove up to the front gate and smiled at the guy in the guardhouse, who could have been a walking advertisement for a home gym.

“Can I help you?” he asked as I rolled down my window. He sported a military-style buzz cut and carried a CZ 75 nine millimeter in a shoulder holster. His navy blue uniform had to be a couple of sizes too small, but given how big his biceps were I wasn’t sure they made shirts in his size.

“I’m here to see Missus Witcombe. My name is Jay Fearsson. I’m a private detective doing some work for the Phoenix Police Department. I’d like to talk to her about Flight 595.”

Whatever he’d expected me to say, that wasn’t it. Sometimes, nothing flummoxed a potential adversary like the unvarnished truth.

“Is she expecting you?” he asked.

“No.”

He stepped back into the guardhouse, picked up the phone, and punched in a three-digit number. Seeing that I was watching him, he shut the guardhouse door and turned his back on me. I scanned the courtyard beyond the gate, taking in the Spanish mission-style house and the vast desert garden in front of it, complete with prickly pear and ocotillo, teddy-bear cholla and barrel cacti. A pair of orioles darted past, flashes of orange and black in the afternoon sun.

After a brief conversation, the guard came back out. “She’s unavailable right now. She suggests that you call her office on Monday. Her attorney will be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

“Could you let her know that I’ve already spoken with Patty Hesslan-Fine. The three of us have a good deal in common. You should tell her that, as well, and that she’ll see what I mean as soon as she meets me.”

Buzz-Cut glared at me, and I was sure he’d refuse. I half-expected him to pick up my car and toss it back into the street. But he stalked back into the guardhouse and made a second phone call.

This conversation went on longer than had the first. Several times he glanced back at me and at one point he laid down the receiver on his desk and came out to ask for my PI and driver’s licenses. After a few minutes he hung up, handed my IDs back to me, and waved me through the gate.

I parked beside a silver Mercedes—apparently silver was the car color of choice for weremancers this year—wound my way through the garden, and approached the front door. There, two more security officers, probably the guardhouse guy’s workout partners, asked me if I was carrying a weapon. I handed over my Glock and let them wand me before I stepped through a metal detector. I thought it ironic that I’d been screened more thoroughly here than I had the other day at the airport. But I kept this thought to myself.

Regina Witcombe was waiting for me inside the front door. She was wearing beige slacks and a loose-fitting black tunic that might have been silk. Her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was taller than I’d expected—almost my height. I couldn’t see much of her face—the blurring of her features was every bit as strong as Patty Hesslan’s had been.

“Mister Fearsson,” she said in that warm alto I’d heard in her online video. She extended a hand, which I gripped. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Missus Witcombe. I’m sorry to have come unannounced.”

“It’s my pleasure. Thank you, Andrew,” she said to the guard who had my glock.

She led me through an enormous living room and then a rec room, complete with pool table, wet bar, and a television that wouldn’t have fit through my front door, to an open patio that offered a breathtaking view of Camelback Mountain. More chollas and ocotillos grew in a pebbled garden that fringed the terrace. Anna’s and black-chinned hummingbirds buzzed around a pair of red glass feeders like winged, iridescent gems.

“Can I offer you something, Mister Fearsson? Wine perhaps?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She indicated a chair with an open hand and took a seat in the one beside it.

“Patricia says you and she share some history, though she wouldn’t tell me what kind.”

“Yes, ma’am. Our families are connected by a tragedy. None of us likes to speak of it.”

“She also said that you came to her under false pretenses. Was that why?”

A reflexive smile touched my lips. “I suppose. I used a false name. I worried that she wouldn’t agree to our meeting if she knew it was me.”

She tipped her head to the side; I could see her frown through the blur of magic. “And now you come to me, supposedly with questions about the flight I was on Thursday morning. I’m not entirely sure I believe that.”

“I understand your skepticism. But I assure you it’s true. Kona Shaw, a detective in the homicide unit, asked me to help her with the PPD’s investigation into the murder of James Howell.”

“The man they found in the men’s room.”

“Yes, ma’am. You can call Detective Shaw to verify this.”

“There’s no need for that. I read about you in the paper a couple of months ago. I know you’ve worked with the police before.”

“Yes, I have.” I pulled my notebook and pen from the pocket inside my bomber. “Did you know Mister Howell?”

She quirked an eyebrow, seeming to say,
Are you really asking me that
? “Yes, Mister Fearsson. He and his white supremacist friends are are on my board of directors.”

I smirked. “Forgive me. Let me rephrase that. Were you aware of him on the flight?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I might have seen him come through first class, after I took my seat on the plane. It’s not every day one sees a man with swastika tattoos on a commercial flight.”

“Did you see him deplane?”

“No. By that time I knew that Patricia was on board and I was watching for her once I was back in the terminal.”

“So you and she didn’t sit together.”

“No, we didn’t. She flies coach; I don’t.”

“Did you take notice of any of the other passengers?”

She frowned again. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Did you notice any other weremystes?”

“Ah,” she said with a sage nod. “I take it Mister Howell was killed with magic.”

Kona wouldn’t be happy with me, but I didn’t bother to deny it. “That’s right.”

“Your visit makes a bit more sense to me now. To answer your question, no, I can’t say that I noticed any other weremystes. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any, but I didn’t see them. And so, allow me to anticipate your next question. Patricia and I never went near the airport men’s room. We remained by the gate, and, after the body was discovered, were questioned by the police. Once they were through with us, we went to the club lounge, of which I’m a member. We stayed there—chatting, getting some work done—until our new flight finally departed late in the day.”

She was pretty convincing, and her story dovetailed perfectly with Patty’s. I wondered if they’d worked on it together, or if they were both telling me the truth.

“And how was your time in Washington?”

For the first time, I sensed a weak point in her armor. Her smile slipped momentarily and I thought I saw a flicker of unease in her blue eyes.

“It was fine, thank you.”

“You were there on business?”

“I’m not sure how this relates to your investigation, but yes, I was.”

“And so was Patty? Excuse me: Patricia.”

“I don’t know why she was there.”

I furrowed my brow. “Really? You spent hours with her in the terminal and then in the lounge, and it never occurred to you to ask why she was going to Washington?”

“Well, I’m sure I must have. I might . . . It was a business trip; I’m sure of that. I think she must have been meeting a potential client, someone who plans to move here in the near future. I was preoccupied with my testimony. I had some last-minute work to do before I appeared before the committee.”

She shifted in her chair, no doubt trying to look casual; it had the opposite effect. I’d managed to put her on edge, and I decided to push her a little harder.

“I saw you on television,” I said. “It must be quite an experience to testify before a Senate committee.”

Her laugh sounded tight, nervous. “It’s not really very exciting.”

“The last time I was in Washington, I wound up spending some time in Arlington and Alexandria. Nice area. Did you get over to Northern Virginia this visit?”

“No.” It was too abrupt, too final. I didn’t believe her for a minute. “Is there anything else, Mister Fearsson? My time is quite valuable.”

“I didn’t recognize the magic that killed James Howell,” I said, ignoring her question. “I used a seeing spell to try to learn what happened in the last moments of his life, but that didn’t tell me much either. And it occurred to me that there have been some odd murders committed in the Phoenix area over the past couple of months. Some in the police department have been talking about cults and ritual killings, but I’m wondering if it’s something else. Do you know anything about dark magic?”

She sat bolt upright. “Are you suggesting—?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m certainly not accusing you of anything. I was just wondering what you know about the darker side of what we weremystes do.”

“Nothing at all. And for you to imply otherwise is . . . is as ridiculous as it is insulting.” She stood, smoothed her slacks with a shaking hand. “Now, I think you should leave.”

I stood as well, knowing that I couldn’t stay without her permission, and reluctant to get into a fight with her security guys. Before either of us could say more, though, the cordless phone on the table by her chair rang. She glared at me for another moment, but then grabbed the phone on the second ring and switched it on.

“Yes?” Her gaze flicked in my direction like a snake’s tongue. “Yes, hold on.” She put a hand over the receiver. “Wait here,” she said to me. Before I could respond, she stepped back into the house and closed the glass door. She crossed through the rec room and out of sight, leaving me little choice but to remain there. Several minutes passed; I started to wonder if I wasn’t being a fool. If this woman was guilty of a fraction of what I suspected, I needed to get the hell out of her house. I recited a spell in my head; three elements: any magic Witcombe might try on me, a shield of power, and me at the center of it. On the third recitation, I released the spell and felt the warding settle over me like a winter coat. Wardings worked better when they were specific to the attack spell, but I wasn’t sure I would have that luxury if it came to a fight. This was better than nothing. With the spell in place, I checked the door connecting the patio to the house, half expecting to find it locked.

It wasn’t. But as I opened it and took a step back inside the house, Missus Witcombe appeared in the rec room doorway on the other side of the room. She still held the phone, but her conversation appeared to have ended. When she spotted me, she faltered, then strode through the room in my direction.

“Where were we, Mister Fearsson?”

“You were in the process of throwing me out of your house.”

She flashed a smile that made me shiver. “An overreaction on my part. Forgive me.”

I remained in the doorway. “Still, perhaps I should leave.”

“There’s no need for that. Come back outside with me. We’ll have a drink and discuss those questions of yours.”

“The ones that outraged you? The ones about dark magic?”

“As I said, I overreacted.”

I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have asked them, and I have someplace I need to be.” A lie, but I wanted out of there.

“But you did ask them, Mister Fearsson. And I feel that I should have the chance to respond.”

We stood there for a few seconds, her eyes locked on mine. Eager as I was to be on my way, I found it hard to argue with her logic, and harder still to imagine how I would get past her guards if she didn’t want to let me go. I acquiesced with a lift of my shoulder and backed out of her way. She crossed to her chair and gestured for me to do the same.

I didn’t trust this change of heart, and so I chose to stay on my feet, though I wandered a bit closer to where she sat.

“Dark magic is such an odd term, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“I mean, for centuries it was all considered dark, wasn’t it? The witch trials and all that.”

“I had something specific in mind, Missus Witcombe, and I think you understood that when I asked the question. Now, I don’t know who that was on the phone, and I don’t think I want to find out. Thank you for speaking with me. I’m going to leave now.”

I turned to go. But before I could take more than a step, the air around me chimed like a plucked harp. Magic. For a split second, I was glad I had warded myself. Then her spell took shape, and I realized once more the limitations of such a general-purpose shield spell. I’d protected myself from an attack. But she had cast a barrier spell on the door. I hit it and bounced back, feeling like I’d walked into brick.

I clung to that image—the brick wall—and added two more elements: a sledgehammer and me swinging it. Her barrier gave way, but by now she was on her feet.

“Andrew!” she called.

He must have been waiting for her summons, because almost as soon as she called his name, he loomed in the rec room doorway, also as solid as brick. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, but that hardly mattered.