Kiss of Evil (19 page)

“Yes. It is the symbol for Ochosi.”

“Could you spell that for me, please?”

Moriceau does.

“What does it mean?” Paris asks.

“Ochosi is a hunter god. The bow and arrow are his tools.”

“What is it for?”

“For?”

“Why would someone pray to this god?”

“For many things, detective,” Moriceau says as he turns to the display case behind him, removing a small iron replica of the bow-and-arrow symbol. “It depends upon what is in the heart of he who prays. If you are a decent person, a law-abiding citizen, you might pray to Ochosi for bounty. If you are a thief, with the proper sacrifice, the hunter god Ochosi can ward off arrest, police, jail.”

Paris and Mercedes exchange a glance. “Sacrifice?” Paris asks.

Moriceau offers a sad, lopsided smile. “I’m afraid there are more misconceptions than truths about the Afro-Caribbean religions. The notion of human sacrifice is one of the most insidious.”

“I didn’t say anything about human sacrifice,” Paris says.

“You are a homicide detective,” Moriceau says. “I trust you are not here because of some disemboweled rooster.”

Paris doesn’t particularly care for the man’s attitude, but lets the snide remark slide for the moment. “I didn’t say there was a disemboweled
anything
. I’m here to ask some basic questions about Santeria. Mind if I continue?”

“Not at all.”

“Are there many followers of Santeria in Cleveland?”

“Yes. But Santeria is not a centralized religion. It is impossible to count the number of worshipers in this or any city.”

“Do you have any regular customers who’ve mentioned this Ochosi lately?”

“None that come to mind. There are many subtle variations in the Afro-Caribbean religions. Many different names for things.”

“So, there’s no way to pin down which sect might use this god for, say, darker purposes?”

“Not really. It is as if someone says that they are a practicing Christian. Are they Methodist? Baptist? Mormon? Adventist? Roman Catholic? If a
brujo
were to purchase items for an altar, there are many different combinations of symbols, candles, cards, incantations he might use. Brazilian Macumba, Haitian voodoo, Mexican Santeria. Santeria and its offshoots like Palo Mayombe are very complex, very secretive religions that differ from country to country.”

For some reason, Paris is feeling a bit defensive about Catholicism, even though he knows he hardly has the right. “And what exactly is a
brujo
?”

“A
brujo
is sort of a wizard, a seer. A male witch, to some. But these words have completely different meanings than they do in English.”

“Are there any of these
brujos
in Cleveland?”

“A few. Although, if I may anticipate your next question, I do not keep a list. We generally do not ask to what use our customers put our goods.”

Paris jots a few more notes in his book, liking Moriceau’s attitude less and less. “What sorts of items might a customer ask for if he were doing evil things?”

“Well, followers of Palo Mayombe sometimes ask for
palo azul
—blue stick. It is an item many botanicas do not stock. This one included. But there are many exotic things used for good and evil. One botanica in New York City regularly stocks dried cobra. Some stock something called
una de gato
—cat’s claw.”

“Have you had any unusual requests lately?”

“No,” Moriceau says. “Nothing like that.”

Paris closes his notebook. He looks at Mercedes, who shakes her head slightly, indicating she had no questions, nor anything to add.

Moriceau says: “Now, may I ask
you
a question, detective?”

“You can ask,” Paris answers, buttoning his coat.

“Obviously, there has been some sort of tragedy. A murder, most likely. My hope is that the police department is not going to conduct some sort of a witch hunt against the Hispanic and Caribbean people of this city. Most of the people who follow Santeria are peaceful, tax-paying citizens. They believe in the magic and the magic works for them. They just want to win the lottery. Or have a healthy child. Or hang on to their wife or husband for a few more years. These are not criminal acts.”

Paris leans over the counter. He brings his face to within inches of Moriceau’s. “If I’m not mistaken, witch hunts are where the authorities round up people with no evidence. Only suspicion. I’m here for a
reason
, Mr. Moriceau.”

The two men look at each other for a few hard moments, exchanging will. Paris wins.

“I did not mean to imply—” Moriceau begins.

Paris leans back, holds out his right hand, shows it empty, both sides, then produces a business card with a quick flourish. It is an easy sleight-of-hand, a holdover from his amateur magician days as a teenager.

“Very good, detective,” Moriceau says.

“But not magic, Mr. Moriceau. Merely a parlor trick. Which, upon closer examination, I have always found the supernatural to be.”

Moriceau takes the card and glances at Mercedes. He finds no quarter there.

Paris continues: “If you remember anything else, or if you have any customers who request paraphernalia relating specifically to this Ochosi, please give me a call.”

Moriceau examines the card, remains silent.

“One last question,” Paris says. “Is there a Santerian term for ‘white chalk’?”

“Ofún,” Moriceau says. “It is a chalk made from eggshells.”

Mr. Church, the weirdo who had phoned about the missing woman, had said:
“You will take her place in ofún
.”

The chalk outline.

This prick had
called
him.

“Thanks for your time,” Paris says, and turns for the exit, the
nag champa
filling his senses.

As Paris opens the door for Mercedes, and an icy wind greets them, he shudders for a moment. Not from the cold, but rather from the irony of Edward Moriceau’s words.

Brujo
, Paris thinks.

It might be a witch he is hunting after all.

27

The back room of La Botanica Macumba is a shambles, littered with wooden packing crates bearing seashell candles, Indian incense, and cheap T-shirts from Korea bearing African incantations. Amid the mess sits a slight brown man with graying hair, a rainbow skullcap on his head, his fingers and thumbs adorned with gaudy paste jewelry.

His name is Moriceau. He trembles before me.

Edward Moriceau is a man who, perhaps, once wielded some power in this life, once seduced young women with a flex of his back muscles or a wink at closing time. A man now reduced to a shuddering clerk amid a minefield of cheap trinkets and brightly colored trash.

“It is not something so easily obtained,” Moriceau says.

“I understand this,” I say. “But I have faith.”

“And you want it within three days?”

“No. I will
have
it within three days.”

I can see the resistance flare for a moment in Moriceau’s eyes. “And what is to stop me from calling the police?” he says. “They were just here, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why me? Why here? Go talk to Babalwe Oro.”

“The Mystic Realm? They are bigger charlatans than even you. The truth is, I am
here
and I am talking to
you
. I am asking you to perform a service for me, to obtain an item within your grasp, just like all the other items you have obtained for me over the past year. I am not asking for this thing for free. I intend to pay full price for it, as well as some reasonable surcharge for the rush service. Each day you stand there and you sell love potions to lonely
tías
who think they will win the heart of some elderly gentleman of means. Do you care that you sell them false hopes? No. You just pocket their money like a common thief.”

“Yes, but they
want
to believe it works. Are you saying there is no magic here?”

“I am not saying that,” I answer, knowing enough to fear even my own practice of the dark arts. “But your drugstore magic has no
true
power. This is Potions-R-Us. Don’t insult me again.”

“But what if I cannot get you what you want? What if it is completely out of my hands?”

I cross the room, towering over Moriceau. “Then I will visit you. Perhaps in a month. Perhaps a year. One day, I will be in the closet when you open it. One day, I will be in the kitchen when you descend the stairs in the middle of the night for a drink of water. One day, I really
will
be the man sitting behind you at the movies.”

I genuflect, kneel, stare into the man’s small, sable eyes.

“Listen to me, Edward Moriceau. If you do not bring me what I demand, I will be more than the sum of your earthly concerns.” I take my small knife from its ankle scabbard, touch its razor-sharp tip to my right index finger. Blood responds. I touch this shiny dot of scarlet to my mouth, lean forward, kiss Moriceau on the lips. “I will be the shadow within the shadow you fear the most.”

28

The building on East Twenty-third Street is a Veterans Administration–assisted nursing home, six stories of grimy brown brick, just west of a boarded-up factory that once produced ball bearings, just east of a failing discount tire mart. Behind it, the constant moan of the I-90 interchange. The address, almost faded to oblivion on the front of the crime scene photo Paris had found in Mike Ryan’s desk, hadn’t promised much in the first place, and, as Paris traverses the run-down lobby, he expects even less.

Mercedes Cruz is off to interview the other detectives at the unit. Before driving to East Twenty-third Street, Paris had checked in with Reuben. Still no word from his contact in the document division of the FBI on the strip of purple cardboard.

Paris badges the attendant at the front desk. The deskman—tattooed, late sixties easy—is watching a soap opera on an old portable. His name is Hank Szabo.

“These guys are mostly WWII and Korean vets,” Hank says, after giving Paris the basics, his GI-bill dentures slipping on every sibilant. “A couple of guys were in Nam,” he adds with a glare, a look that tells Paris that Vietnam was Hank Szabo’s war. Paris glances at the man’s left forearm tattoo. USS
Helena
. “But most of
us
ain’t quite old enough for the heap yet, I guess.”

“This is the heap?” asks Paris.

“This is the heap.”

“How many men live here?”

“Twenty-two, current count,” Hank says.

“Were any of these guys ever cops that you know of?”

“Yeah. Demetrius used to be a cop.”

“Demetrius?”

“Demetrius Salters. I think he was a sergeant in the Fourth District for a lot of years. Gone now.”

“I’m sorry. He
doesn’t
live here?”

“Oh, he lives here. Room 410. He’s just
gone
gone. In the head.” Hank points to his temple, rotates his finger. “Old-timers, y’know?”

“I see,” Paris says. “Does he still have contact with anybody at the department that you know of?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Does he have friends or family?”

“I don’t think so. Never seen anyone visit him.”

Paris scribbles a few notes. “And how long have you worked here?”

Hank Szabo smiles, gives his uppers a northward shove. “Let me put it this way, Detective Paris. I started the day they stopped shooting at me.”

Paris walks down the fourth-floor hallway, a grim, cracked-linoleum corridor decked with faded holiday decorations. From somewhere below, a scratchy-voiced Patsy Cline sings about life’s railway to heaven.

He finds 410 with the door open, knocks on the jamb, looks around the corner into the room, then steps inside.

The smell is almost a living thing, instantly bullying him back a step. Camphor and pea soup and feet. A half-century of filterless cigarette smoke. Paris adjusts somewhat, breathing through his mouth, then steps inside to see a gaunt black man in his seventies sitting in a wheelchair, a moth-eaten Afghan covering his legs. A bed, a small bookshelf, and a nightstand are the only other objects in the room. Sadly, Demetrius Salters is sitting by the window, equally inanimate. Another furnishing.

And, it is easily ninety degrees in the room. Paris begins to sweat for a wide variety of reasons. “Sergeant?” he asks, thinking that he is probably speaking louder than he needs.

Nothing.

Paris knocks on the jamb again.

“Sir?”

Demetrius Salters doesn’t move or acknowledge him in any way. “Sergeant, my name is Detective Paris. Jack.” He steps around to the front and holds up his shield. For a brief moment, the daylight plays off the badge onto Demetrius Salters’s face and, for that moment, Paris senses that the old man recognizes something. Then, a collapse of his features says no. Paris picks up the old man’s hand, shakes it gently, returns it to his crumb-littered lap. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Paris glances around the room, searching for a touchstone that might create a link to the here and now. On the bookshelf is a vintage framed photograph of a smiling Demetrius Salters standing on the bow of a destroyer. Another shows Demetrius in a different uniform, this one CPD dress blues. Demetrius is standing near a girder in right field at Cleveland Municipal Stadium, his arm around the slender waist of a pretty, toffee-colored woman.

“Back in the day, eh?” Paris says, wistfully, pointing to the photographs, trying to fill the room with noise, any noise, more for himself than anything. “Yeah, boy. I used to
love
seeing the Browns at the old stadium. Especially when it was cold as hell. Remember those days? The way the wind would cut off the lake?
Man
. My father took me to at least one game every year, right up until . . . yes, sir. Back in the
day
. The hawk was
out
.”