Spell Blind (13 page)

CHAPTER 10

The idea came to me in the middle of the night. One moment I was sleeping, deep and dreamless. The next I was awake, my mind racing.

A few months before, when I was working on a corporate espionage case and trying to learn what a suspect employee had been up to the day he disappeared from his office, I tried some new magic that Namid had taught me. I went to the employee’s office, and, using my scrying stone and holding something that belonged to the guy, I was able to see in the agate an image of him stealing the files and then concealing what he had done by altering the user logs on his computer.

So why couldn’t I do the same thing with Claudia Deegan? Why couldn’t I go back to South Mountain Park and scry what she had seen in the last moments of her life?

All I needed was some way to link her to my scrying.

I managed to get back to sleep for a few hours, but was wide awake by six. I went for a run to clear my head, and after a shower, a bite to eat, and two cups of Sumatran, I checked the time again. Eight fifteen. That would have to be late enough. I called Howard Wriker’s cell. He answered on the third ring.

“Wriker.”

“Mister Wriker, this is Jay Fearsson.”

It took him a minute. “Mister Fearsson! The PI, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have some information for me?”

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid.” I still wasn’t ready to share with him what little I knew. I didn’t want the Deegans to crush Robby Sommer and leave me without any way of tying the other Blind Angel victims to a potential drug source. Better to lie to the man, at least for now. “I’m still looking into it and I need a little help from you.”

“From me?”

“It’s nothing difficult and nothing that will link the senator to the investigation. I simply need Claudia’s address. I’d like to . . . to search her place for anything that might help me.”

“Yes, all right.” He sounded uncertain, and I wondered if he regretted asking me to learn the truth about Claudia’s drug use. “Ah, here it is,” he said after several moments. “She lived with a girl named Maddie Skiles.” He gave me the address and phone number, both of which I wrote down in my note pad, along with Maddie’s name.

“Thank you, Mister Wriker.”

“You heard that the police made an arrest?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“It’s a great relief for all of us. For all of Phoenix, really. At least the madman who did this is off the streets.”

I should have agreed and hung up, but I couldn’t help thinking about what Kona had told me the night before. Someone close to the Deegans needed to hear that the pressure they were putting on the PPD wasn’t helping matters. “We can hope, sir,” I said.

“You don’t think they have the right man?” He sounded defensive. I wondered how much of that pressure had come from Wriker himself.

“No, sir, I don’t. I know that he threatened Claudia, and that he hated the Deegan family. But for three years the Blind Angel murders had nothing to do with the Deegans. To assume that this man is responsible for all those killings, just because he had it in for Claudia, doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Well, Mister Fearsson, it would seem that the Phoenix Police Department disagrees with you.”

“Yes, sir. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “Yes . . . well . . . good day, Mister Fearsson.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Not the most comfortable phone conversation I’d ever had, but I’d gotten the information I needed. I gathered a few items in a backpack—two water bottles, my knife, my scrying stone, and a couple of granola bars. Then I left the house and drove back to Tempe.

Claudia had lived east of the campus, near Hudson Park, in a neighborhood that most college students couldn’t afford. The small yard needed some work—the flower gardens were overgrown with weeds and the grass was wispy and baked brown—but it was a nice house.

There were a few press people camped out front, but most of them ignored me, even after I parked in front of the house.

“Who are you?” one woman called to me.

I ignored her and strode up the walk to the front door. I got out my wallet and rang the bell. After waiting a bit, I rang it twice more and was ready to give up when at last the door opened a crack.

“Yeah?” said a young woman. Her hair was a mess, her face pale and puffy, like she’d just woken up, or maybe like she’d been crying. She wore a pink t-shirt and drawstring pajama pants.

“Miss Skiles?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jay Fearsson.” I showed her my PI license. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been asked by the Deegan family to investigate the circumstances surrounding Claudia’s death.”

She frowned. “Claudia’s parents hired a private eye? I don’t believe it.” I had a feeling she was about to close the door on me. I’m sure she’d had to put up with a lot of crap the past few days.

“Howard Wriker did,” I said the words tumbling out of me. “I talked to Randy and Tilo yesterday.”

She chewed her lip for a minute, and opened the door a hair more. “You did?”

“Yes. They even invited me to see them play Thursday at Robo’s. They want to know where Claudia got her drugs,” I said, my voice as gentle as I could make it. It was like trying to get a skittish dog to eat from my hand. “Do you have any idea?”

She eyed me for a minute, then nodded, her gaze flicking toward the cluster of reporters. “Yeah, I know,” she said. She wiped a tear off her cheek. “I don’t want to get in any trouble, you know?”

I nodded. “I understand. I’m sure this has been a rough time for you. I’m sorry for your loss.” I waited a moment, and then asked, “When did you see her last?”

“That morning. She left here saying she was going to the library. But I’m not sure she went there.” The door was opened halfway now and she was leaning against the edge, relaxing a little. “She wasn’t the studious type, you know. She didn’t have to be. She was really smart.” She bit her lip again. “Most of the time.”

“Sometimes smart people do stupid things.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That was Claud.”

I nodded. “Listen, I’m sure the police have searched this place top to bottom—”

“They have. It’s been, like,
such
a pain in the ass.”

“I don’t doubt it. But could I take a quick look around? I won’t take long, and it could be a big help.”

She tipped her head to the side and twisted her mouth. But she’d stopped crying, and I could tell that I’d won her trust, at least for the moment. “Yeah, I guess,” she said. She opened the door the rest of the way and stepped back to let me in.

It was a typical college student’s house, although a bit nicer than most. The furniture was all good quality, but nothing matched. The kitchen, which was off the living room, was filthy. The dish drain was full, as was the sink, and the entire house smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and rotten vegetables.

“This is a nice place, Miss Skiles.”

“Thanks. And it’s Maddie, all right?” She walked into the kitchen. “I’m going to have some coffee. You want anything?” She turned to me, and I could see that she was holding a jar of instant.

Coffee sounded good, but not that coffee. I admit it: I’m a coffee snob.

“I’m fine thanks.” I peered down a corridor. “Which room was—?” I stopped, seeing the yellow crime-scene tape stretched in a large “X” across the doorway on the left side of the hall.

“Yeah,” she said from behind me. “That’s Claud’s room. I wish they’d finish up already, you know? That tape creeps me out.”

“Have they searched in there a lot?”

“A couple of times. But they haven’t taken much away.”

No doubt they were hoping to uncover something that would link her to the other victims. If my experience working on the case with Kona was any guide, they’d find nothing.

I started down the corridor.

“You’re not allowed in there!” Maddie called after me. “They told me that it was against the law even to open the door.”

“I know,” I said, smiling back at her. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I could tell she was unconvinced, but I didn’t wait for her okay. I had enough experience with crime scenes to know what I could get away with and what I couldn’t. I even went so far as to untuck my shirt and put it over the knob so that I wouldn’t leave prints on it when I opened the door. Then I slipped through the lower part of the “X” and shut the door behind me.

I wasn’t stupid. I had no intention of touching anything, at least not anything important. But I needed something small of Claudia’s for the scrying I planned to do at the crime scene.

Her bedroom had a lot in common with every other college kid’s bedroom I’d ever seen. There was a futon in the far corner on a simple pine frame that must have cost three hundred dollars at the Futon Shoppe in Tempe. The walls were covered with posters, some of them political, others showing various alternative rock groups—Psychic Currency, Stealth Hype, TorShun. Her stereo sat on a peach crate near the bed, and a set of cinder block and pine bookshelves lined the wall beside an old desk. There were a few framed photos of her and Tilo on a dresser opposite the door, but none of them could have been too recent; in all of them her hair was blonde, and his was to his shoulders.

Some of the drawers in both the desk and bureau were half-open, and her closet door stood ajar. Several pairs of shoes lay scattered on the floor. Most of them were high-top sneakers and combat-style boots, but a few might have been dressier. I wasn’t really an expert.

I found what I needed on her bureau. A hair brush sat next to one of the photos, a tangle of black hair caught in the plastic bristles. I pulled out several strands, all of them blonde near the root, wound them around my finger, and placed them in one of the small plastic evidence bags that I still carried in my bomber pocket. Old habits die hard. I scanned the room one last time, then let myself out, again taking care not to disturb the police tape.

Maddie was waiting for me in the hallway outside the door, her forehead creased. “I shouldn’t have let you in there,” she said, as soon as she saw me. “You’re going to get me in, like, so much trouble.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not. I promise.”

Her frown deepened.

“I used to be a cop. I know how to treat a crime scene. I didn’t touch anything. No one will ever know I was in there.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You find anything?”

“Not really. But I didn’t search as thoroughly as I would have liked.” I smiled. “Because I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

That coaxed a reluctant grin from her. “Thanks.”

“You said that you knew who had sold Claudia her drugs. Can you tell me now?”

Her smile disappeared and she seemed to shrink back from me.

“Was it Robby Sommer?”

She gaped. “You know him?”

“I busted him once. Did Claudia buy drugs from him?”

“All the time,” she said. “He’s a creep. I told her to stay away from him, but she couldn’t, you know?”

“Did she buy from anyone else, or just from Robby?”

“I think just from Robby. But I don’t know for sure. We didn’t talk about it, because she knew I didn’t approve.”

“All right. Thanks.” I pulled a card from my wallet and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else that might help me out, give me a call, all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. She glanced at the card. “Justis?”

“Yup,” I said, walking to the door.

“Weird name.”

“I know. Bye, Maddie.”

“You going to bust Robby again?” she asked, stopping me.

“I’m not a cop anymore. But Robby isn’t the smartest guy on the planet. He’ll get himself busted before long.”

She grinned, and I left.

I drove to the south end of South Mountain Park and hiked into the center of the preserve, where Claudia had been found. It was a warm, clear morning, and usually I would have enjoyed being out. Rock wrens scolded me from atop boulders by the trail, bobbing up and down and flitting into the brush whenever I stopped to rest or take a drink of water. Tiny blue butterflies fluttered around the brittlebush and rattleweed.

But this wasn’t a walk to be savored. Too soon I reached the ravine where, two and one half years ago, the Blind Angel Killer left the body of Maria Santana, his fourth victim.

About two hundred yards farther up the trail, I saw the crime scene tape marking the spot where Claudia had been found a few days ago. It shone in the desert sun, shockingly yellow, strung among the palo verde trees. No one else was around, though the trail was lined with fresh bike tracks. I pulled out my scrying stone and the evidence bag that held those strands of Claudia’s hair.

The magic I’d come all this way to try was called a seeing spell. Like scrying, it was a kind of divination magic; if it worked it would allow me to see what Claudia had seen the night she died. As always with magic, though, there were a couple of catches. To cast the spell correctly, I needed something that belonged to Claudia. That was why I had taken those strands of hair. Clothing would work, too, but hair was better, and body parts probably would have been ideal. Don’t laugh. Over the years, sorcerers had resorted to all sorts of stuff.

The other catch was that the spell only worked if Claudia had been in this place, alive. I couldn’t do a seeing spell for Claudia from my house, because she’d never been there, and standing here in South Mountain Park, I couldn’t scry what Claudia had seen, say, at her parents’ home. Seeing spells were specific to a given place.

I knew that Claudia had been here, on this trail. I didn’t know for certain if she’d been alive at the time, or if the weremyste had killed her before bringing her here. All the forensics from the other killings pointed to her being alive up until the moment that the sick bastard burned the eyes out of her skull. But I couldn’t be sure until I tried the spell.

Holding the scrying stone in my hand, with the strand of her hair coiled beneath it, I cleared myself and summoned a vision of what she had seen. Three elements to the spell: Claudia, this place, and my stone. As simple as a spell could be.

The blue and white lines in my piece of agate faded, so all that remained was a reflection of the blue sky and dark leaves above me. And then the image darkened. At first I thought that I’d wasted my time, that she was already dead. I saw nothing in the stone, heard nothing in my head. Or did I?