San Francisco Night (20 page)

The man’s eyes sparkled and he nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s the only way, Joshua. He knows something.”

Wainwright sighed. “I’m not happy about this. But fine, he can pay me what I paid for it. Three hundred thousand. But his information had better be worth it.”

The line went dead and Nightingale put his phone away. “Mr. Wainwright will sell you his copy for three hundred thousand dollars,” he said.

Dukas beamed.

“Now spill the beans,” said Nightingale. “Tell me what you know.”

“Forgive me if I don’t tell you everything until the volume is in my hands,” said Dukas. “But I shall tell you a little. There is an old ritual, one I have never studied though it had a connection with my family over a century ago. It is horribly dangerous. A while ago I heard rumors that a group intended to enact it, but I dismissed it as idle talk. Lately I have felt vibrations, as if a very strong Magik were imminent. One senses these things from time to time, but I never dreamed of...this.”

Yet again Dukas failed to get to the point. Nightingale sighed but tried to remain patient.

“Of what? Please, I need to know.”

“So you keep saying, sir,” said Dukas. “What is your interest in this? You are walking a dangerous path, which is likely to end in your death, or worse. What brings you into this?”

 Nightingale ignored the question. “At least tell me about the group you mentioned.”

“Again, I hesitate to do so. These are powerful people who would not wish to be spoken about.”

“There are two children’s lives at stake here.”

“Hah! What of it?” said Dukas. “The world has no shortage of children. Most of them of no value whatsoever. Do you know how many of them are slaughtered in the womb every day in America?”

Nightingale had no idea, and it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. Changing the subject when faced with a difficult question was a favorite tactic of his, but he didn’t appreciate it in others.

“The group? Please?”

“Very well. A year or so ago, some tentative overtures were made to me, a vague offer to join a group of like-minded Adepts working to a common purpose. It was not a purpose that appealed to me, it appeared fraught with danger, involved almost unspeakable evil, and I wished to hear no more of it. My interests in the Occult tend towards the Right-hand Path, and I am too old and wise to change direction. I rebuffed the offer, as diplomatically as I could, since these are not people one rejects with impunity. Fortunately for me, the whole business was vague enough not to involve any rancor on their part. As witnessed by my continued survival.”

“I need to know who this group is,” said Nightingale.

Dukas shifted in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained completely motionless for three minutes. Nightingale said nothing. Finally Dukas opened his eyes, and appeared to come to a decision.

“They call themselves The Apostles. Twelve of them who take the names of Christ’s Disciples in a blasphemous parody of his followers. Their leader is a very powerful Adept, at least a Magister Templum, more likely an Ipsissimus. A Satanist of immense power.”

Nightingale’s heart raced. “I need a name,” he said.

“I have no name to give you, I have never heard the real name spoken. I suspect I would be dead now if I knew it. I do know the name he uses, the one by which his followers call him.”

Nightingale said nothing.

“Abaddon, Mr. Nightingale, Abaddon. The ancient name of the Angel Of Death.”

So far Nightingale had stuck to the most basic of the interrogator’s skills, asking only questions to which he knew the answers, encouraging Dukas to talk. Now it was time for him to give out a little information, perhaps gain the man’s confidence.

“I know a little about the Apostles. I spoke to a young man a few days ago who had been a member. He told me about two sacrifices he’d been at. He wanted to help, but was very frightened.”

“I assume he is dead now?” said Dukas. “These are not people who would tolerate treachery.”

“He’s dead,” said Nightingale. “I was talking to an Abbott, and when I mentioned the word ‛Apostles’ he started talking about the early Christian martyrs. Apparently Thomas was killed with a spear, and Peter was crucified upside down. Young Mitchell described similar murders, by group members who used those names.”

“Mitchell? Lee Mitchell?”

“You knew him?” asked Nightingale.

“Slightly. He had bought books from me, and occasionally asked advice, but he made no mention of this. So...so...each initiate sacrifices the victim in the way the original Apostle bearing that name was killed? That’s what he told you.”

“He only saw two killings, but it seems too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

“It fits.” said Dukas. “Many Satanic rituals involve a perversion of traditional Christian ritual, the inverted crucifixes, black candles, feasting before a ritual instead of fasting, sexual release afterward, defiling communion wafers and now this. A mockery of the original Apostles’ deaths.”

“And I think it’s all leading up to those kids being slaughtered on the thirtieth. A white cock and a black hen.”

“Walpurgisnacht. The most important night of the year for Occultists. And it’s a Wednesday and a Blue Moon. All those things are important by themselves, but taken together with the kidnappings and the virgin sacrifices, it all points to something huge. And awful. And I fear it is something that has happened before, with tragic consequences.”

“Before?” asked Nightingale.

“I believe so. Over a hundred years ago in fact, April 18 1906.”

“That’s very precise,” said Nightingale.

“The date means nothing to you?”

“Should it?”

“Every resident of this city would recognize it,” said Dukas. “The day of the great San Francisco earthquake. A natural disaster. Followed by a fire. It caused three thousand deaths. Or five thousand if you include Chinamen. The city authorities didn’t at the time.”

“Caused by a ritual? That’s not possible.”

“Who are we to say what is possible and what is not? It was a rumor, nothing more. If I am to provide you with the information you wish, I must break a promise I made to my father. On his deathbed he told me of a book in the library which described this ritual, and made me promise never to open or read it unless extreme danger threatened, and never to let anyone else read it under any circumstances. He had made the same promise to his father, and kept it until his death. The book remained unopened for three generations. It seems I must now open it, and read what lies within.”

“What is this book?” asked Nightingale.

“It is called The Grimoire of Hippolyta, written by a Greek witch in the fifteenth century. I am told I own the only copy in existence.”

“Hippolyta,” echoed Nightingale. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name.”

“Possibly, said Dukas. “The original bearer of that name was a Queen of the Amazons, and a famed sorceress, though that aspect of her is not generally known. The Greek witch would have taken her name when she was rebaptised into the Old Faith.”

“Could I read this book?” asked Nightingale.

“Hardly,” said Dukas. “I assume you don’t read Greek and it is not the type of book to be read by the uninitiated.”

“What is a Grimoire? I’ve not heard that word before. Is it a how-to guide?”

“Mr. Nightingale, you’re coming at this from the wrong direction. Grimoires aren’t recipe books. They’re not the result of experimentation, they’re revelations.”

“From who? How?”

“From the entities that Black Magicians aspire to communicate with.”

“So the demons tell people how to summon them?” asked Nightingale.

“Of course,” he said. “Demons, abhumans, elementals, servants of Lucifer, call them what you want, it all comes from them. Did you ever hear of Dr John Dee?”

“Yes,” said Nightingale. “He came up in some research I did. A sixteenth century English Satanist?”

“Welsh actually, and ‛Satanist’ might be a little harsh. ‛Occultist’ sounds better. He used an Irish medium called Edward Kelley to look into a scrying glass and to write down what he saw there. It’s said that Dee and Kelley wrote books in a language called Enochian, which gave instructions in how to raise Choronzon, the Guardian of the Abyss. Aleister Crowley is said to have tried that ritual, and sent two of his followers insane when it failed. There are lots of different ways to contact the servants of Satan, and they’re always happy to help people bring about their own damnation. I’m sure that Hippolyta never once attempted the Ritual that’s described in her Grimoire, it was revealed to her and she wrote it down.”

Dukas placed his tiny hands on the desk in front of him. “I have said enough, Mr. Nightingale. I will tell you more once I have the book.”

“I’ll get it to you, hopefully by tomorrow.”

“Then return tomorrow,” said Dukas. “You can give me the book, I will give you the three hundred thousand dollars, and I will finish my story.” As Nightingale stood up and headed for the door, Dukas chuckled. “Look at the second shelf from the top on your left-hand side. The small bird next to the badger. You might find it of interest.”

Nightingale examined the bird, but couldn’t see much to interest him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A type of mockingbird,” said Dukas.

 “I thought it was a sin to kill a mockingbird?” he said.

“Possibly it is,” said Dukas. “Though, I suspect, not a mortal one. This specimen is called the Northern Mockingbird, Mimicus Polyglottis. It has the most beautiful song, so much so that it is often referred to as ‛The American Nightingale’. It is the nearest we have, since European Nightingales never normally visit the United States. Possibly it would be better if you had followed their example, sir. Better for you and for me.”

Gabriel Starr was in the back room of Written In The Stars, packing some of his more precious charts and apparatus into a wooden chest when he heard the bells over his shop door chime. He frowned. Sundays were usually very quiet. The shop was open but customers tended to be thin on the ground and he generally used the day to catch up on his bookkeeping and stocktaking. He walked out into the main store.

His new customer was a short woman. She was probably in her mid-fifties, a little chubby, dressed in a green tweed suit and sensible brown shoes. Her brown hair was flecked with gray and cut in a style that hadn’t been fashionable since the days of Ladybird Johnson. The large bag she was carrying might have suited a younger, more fashionable woman better, but maybe it held her knitting as well as the normal female necessities. She looked like a history teacher in a private school.  “Good afternoon, Mr. Starr. What a lovely day it is for sure. I wondered if you might have time for a private consultation.”

Starr smiled at her and walked round the counter into the main area of the store.

“Certainly,” he said. “Just pop into the back room for a while, and I’ll see that we’re not disturbed.”

Starr showed her into the back room, then walked to the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, flicked the snib on the door and shot the bolt. 

Nightingale walked over to Chen’s Mustang and climbed in. “How did it go?” asked Chen.

“It was all a bit strange,” said Nightingale. “It looks as if he was approached to join the Apostles when they first started off.”

“By who?”

“He wasn’t specific. He’s a dwarf.”

“A dwarf?”

“Yeah, as in Snow White and the seven.”

“I don’t think you can call them dwarfs these days,” said Chen. “They’re referred to as little people.”

“Yeah? Well he’s definitely a little person. How much do you know about the 1906 earthquake?”

“Only what I learned at school,” said Chen.

“Dukas said there was a connection between what happened then and what’s happening now.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. It sounds crazy. But we can use your computer when we get back.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” said Chen. “But you’re right, it sounds crazy.”  She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

She drove confidently and without a SatNav and twenty minutes later they arrived in

Pacific Heights, one of the city’s most upmarket areas. Lucille Carr’s mansion was at the top of Pacific Avenue, one of the many sloping streets that gave the city its distinctive feel and breath-taking views. There were the usual high walls, security gates and CCTV systems that kept the common folk away from the mega-rich, but after a few words into the intercom and a flash of Chen’s SFPD badge, the gates swung open. Kent Speckman’s mansion had been impressive, but Carr’s home was in a different level, a true movie star mansion, with fairytale turrets, wraparound terraces, buttercream walls and huge windows to take advantage of the spectacular views of the bay. The house was surrounded by large bushes that had been carefully sculpted into the shape of animals. There was an elephant, a leaping tiger, an ostrich, and several dogs. To the right of the house was a helicopter pad and beyond it was a tennis court. “I’m frightened to ask how much a place like this would cost,” said Nightingale.

“They don’t come up for sale that often,” said Chen. “But I read that she paid more than twenty-five million for it.”

“How the other half lives,” said Nightingale.

Chen shook her head. “Could you live here?” she asked. “You’d lie awake at night, wondering who else was in the house. You’d need cleaners, maids, gardeners, a cook, you’d need an army of people just to keep the place clean. And you’d spend all your time moving from room to room. I’m happy with a place where I can get from the kitchen to the bedroom in under five seconds.” She pulled up in front of a garage. “Mind you, that is one hell of a view,” she said, looking out over the bay.

“It’s the same bay you look at from your window,” said Nightingale. “I like your apartment.’

“Yeah, so do I.” She turned off the Mustang’s engine. “This time, let’s stick to that plan we had where you don’t say anything,” she said. “I don’t want to go explaining why you have an English accent.”

Nightingale threw her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’m serious, Jack. Lucille Carr has a lot of fans and if she gets wind that this isn’t official, she could make life very difficult for me.”

“I hear you, Amy. I’m just being flippant. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Just remember I’ve got a gun on my hip.”

They climbed out of the car and a black man in a suit with a transceiver in his hand walked over. He was big and broad shouldered and when he smiled he showed a gold tooth at the front of his mouth. Chen pulled out her shield again. “We’re here to see Miss Carr,” she said.

“She’s in the solarium,” said the man. “I’m to take you through.” He turned and headed towards the main entrance. Nightingale was just about to ask him what a solarium was when Chen flashed him a warning look.

There was a flight of pristine white steps leading to a double-height front door that in turn led to a huge hallway the size a ballroom, around which were dotted life-size marble statues of naked men in various poses all of which involved showing how well-muscled they were. There was a fountain with dolphins and mermaids in the middle of the hall and beyond it a huge marble staircase.

“Wow,” said Chen.

The man with the transceiver took them down a long corridor. To their right was a huge room overlooking the bay, with a grand piano, massive sofas and huge modern art canvases where the artist appeared to have just thrown his paint from a bucket.

From the end of the corridor came the sound of running water. The man stepped aside to allow them inside. “The police, Miss Carr,” he said, and then went to stand in the corridor.

The solarium was about the size of Chen’s apartment and filled with enough vegetation to give it the feel of secondary jungle. Three of the walls were glass, the top half shielded from the morning sun by bamboo blinds. The other wall was made of rough granite and water trickled down it, helping to cool the air but also making a relaxing gurgling sound that added to the jungle feel.

Lucille Carr was sprawled across a white sofa, and gave the impression of having arranged herself for a photo shoot. On the white marble table in front of her was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a pitcher of orange juice, and she was holding a crystal champagne flute filled with what the British called a Buck’s Fizz and the Americans referred to as a Mimosa. Her long red hair was loose around her shoulders, casual but the sort of casualness that took hours to achieve. Her make up was flawless and clearly professionally-applied, and her fingernails were the same subdued red as her lipstick. Nightingale found himself staring at her green eyes that were almost feline, and the longer he stared the harder he found it to look away.

“Officers,” she said, raising her glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from SFPD’s finest?”

“It’s about your car, Miss Carr,” said Chen. She smiled as she realized how that sounded. “No pun intended.”

“They send out detectives on a Sunday to chase up parking tickets? What’s the world coming too?” She smiled at Nightingale and his heart lurched. He had a sudden urge to kneel down in front of her and beg her to marry him. He smiled back and felt his lips slide awkwardly across his teeth. He realized he was still staring into her eyes and her smile widened

“It isn’t about parking tickets,” said Chen. “I work for Missing Persons.”

“Do you, now?” said the actress. She turned her attention to Chen and waved a languid hand in the air. “How does that involve me?”

“Can you tell me what car you usually drive? When you are out alone?”

“A Lexus,” said Carr.

Chen took out her notebook and made a show of flicking through it. “And what color would it be?” she asked.

Carr frowned. “White. Why?”

“We’re looking into the disappearance of a young boy and shortly before he disappeared neighbors report seeing a woman in a white Lexus in the area. It had a broken tail light so we are just checking the tail lights of every white Lexus.”

“Where was the child?”

“We’re keeping that information to ourselves at the moment, until we have checked all the vehicles.”

“Well I can assure you my car doesn’t have a broken light.”

“That’s fine, Miss Carr. We just need to check for ourselves. The we can get out of your hair.”

“Do you have a card, Inspector?”

“Of course,” said Chen. She took out a small wallet and handed over a business card. Carr studied it for several seconds, then nodded thoughtfully and waved it at Nightingale. “He doesn’t say much, does he?”

“He’s the strong silent type,” said Chen.

“The best sort of man,’ said Carr. She called for the security guard and told him to take them to the garage. There was no “please” or “thank you”, just a curt command.

“Yes Miss Carr,” he said. He waved at the door. “If you would come with me, officers, I’ll show you the way.”

The actress sipped her orange juice and champagne as Chen and Nightingale followed the man down the corridor.

“What was that about, Jack?” whispered Chen.

“What?”

“You were staring at her like a love-sick teenager. Practically drooling.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“She’s your type is she? The glossy man-eater.”

“Amy, I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even though I wanted to.”

“She has an aura, that’s for sure.”

He gestured at the man in front of them. “Let’s talk about it later,” he said.

They went outside and around to the garage. The door opened to reveal a curving driveway that led to a subterranean parking area large enough for half a dozen vehicles. There was a powder blue Rolls Royce, a silver Mercedes sports car and a white Lexus.

“Do you have the keys?” asked Chen.

“Keys are inside,” said the man. “Do you have a warrant?”

“No,” said Chen.

“Then you shouldn’t be looking inside the vehicles. You can look through the windows, obviously.”

“Or you could open the doors for me so that I can look inside.”

The man shook his head. “Not without Miss Carr’s permission, and I didn’t hear you get that.”

“Are you a lawyer?” asked Chen.

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m in charge of Miss Carr’s security. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I allowed you to search her vehicles without a warrant or without her permission.”

Chen looked as if she was about to snap at the man, but then she relaxed. “Were you on the job?” she asked.

The man nodded. “LAPD, five years,” he said.

Chen nodded. “I guess guarding a movie star is less stressful than patrolling the streets of LA.”

“This has its moments,” said the man, dryly.

“You’re right, of course. Without a warrant or express permission of the owner I can’t go looking inside the vehicles. It’s not a problem, all we need to do at this stage is to confirm if there has been damage to the tail light.’  She moved to her left and the man’s eyes followed her, giving Nightingale the opportunity to slip a tracking unit under the offside wheel arch of the Lexus. Chen walked around to the rear of the car and bent down. “Looks fine to me,” she said. She straightened up, and just to confirm, this is the vehicle that Miss Carr usually drives when she’s alone.”

“She sometimes takes the Mercedes out. But yes, the Lexus is her first choice.”

Chen looked over at Nightingale and narrowed her eyes, ever so slightly. He got the unspoken message. She wanted a tracker on the Mercedes, too, just to be on the safe side.

Nightingale walked nonchalantly around the Lexus and over to the Mercedes. Chen moved as well, putting herself between Nightingale and the security guard. Nightingale put his hand in his raincoat pocket, switched on the second tracker unit and deftly slipped it under the rear offside wheel arch.

“Does anyone else ever drive the Lexus?” asked Chen.

“No. Just Miss Carr.”

“Okay,” said Chen. “The tail light is fine, and there was never any real question that Miss Carr would be involved with an abduction. We had to check.”

“Sure,” said the man, his face impassive.

Chen looked over at Nightingale. “All good?”

Nightingale nodded.

Chen smiled at the security guard. “We’ll leave you to it,” she said.

“I’ll show you out.”

He escorted them out of the garage and over to the Mustang without saying a word, then watched them drive out. Chen saw him in the rear view mirror, staring at them until the gates had closed.