Touching Evil (3 page)

The sauce on his pasta was perfect, and Greg moaned over his
cannelloni. They fought over chunks of bread, flicked olives at each
other, poured one glass of wine after another. Even the salad was
perfect, both of them devouring it. The habit was threatening to become
a tradition, the wine and the food and the idle chatter about movies
and books and Duke.

"You know I'm gonna have to take him that white tuna stuff. He's
pissed at me." Two nights in a row with no Swanson fried chicken? Oh,
yeah. Duke was gonna piss on his bed for sure.

"Tuna's bad for him. He'll get crystals in his urine." Oh, no. No biological professor urine bullshit talk at he table.

"That's gross. And sorry, but he's too damned tough for anything
like that." Oh, those olives were good. Green and salty. Almost
squeaking in his teeth.

"He is a hard old bastard. You're well-suited. Hand me some bread."
Greg could hold his liquor in that way that rare, super-tall,
super-skinny men had, eyes as sharp and quick now as they'd been at the
beginning of the bottle.

He tossed over a slice, heavy on the crust like Greg liked it, using
his own to mop up the rest of his white sauce. God, that was a heart
attack on a plate, but Mario's made it taste like heaven would be worth
it. Artie figured he'd had enough of the damned wine that he might have
to crash out in the Professor's front room.

"So nothing showed up in the mail today, right?"

"I didn't check." Greg shrugged, the motion deceptively casual. "Alice and Mitch watched the store today."

"Oh. Well, good." He'd go check later. Alice would have left it on
the counter; she had been the first person to pull him aside, point out
that Raleigh PD or not? Proof or not? Bullshit or not? The Professor
was the real deal. He looked Greg over, noting the tapping fingers and
twitchy mouth. "What else?"

"For someone who swears not to be psychic, you always know." Greg looked over, shook his head.

"No, I just read body language. And you're vibrating." The bread had
a nice crust on it that was just perfect for that last noodle to stick
to. "Did you say cheesecake?"

"I did. Chocolate." Greg stood up, grabbing two plates from the refrigerator. "Alice's mother made it. It's good."

He hid a grin in his wine glass. "Maybe you should make coffee. And it's not gonna get you out of telling me."

"Someone would think you were a detective, the way you ask
questions." The coffee pot was started with a touch, Greg beginning to
flutter again. A nightmare maybe, or something Greg remembered.

"Sit. Tell me. You'll need the chocolate after." Yeah. That look, the haunted one, flashed across that narrow face. Damn.

Greg sat beside him, long body settling easily in the high backed
chair, leg thrumming. "I ... I heard him. I could hear him telling her
about things. About what he wanted to do. He wants to do things to
them. Then I heard more. About me. He told her about me."

Oh, fuck a duck. "What did he say, Greg? What does he know?"

"He knows I'm here. He told her about the copper pyramid in the
shop. The one that Cat Peterson made for me. About how he was going to
leave bits of her here. About how I look when I sleep." Those eyes
stared at him, into him. Not even seeing him anymore. "Tell me I have
an overactive imagination, Artie. Tell me I'm just spooked, because
this time the evidence came to me."

Damned if he didn't wish he could. But this guy was already fitting
the kind of psycho profile that would do exactly what Greg had
described. He reached out for Greg's hands, stopping right before their
skin met.

"I don't know, Greg. I ... I think we can't be too careful. You're gonna start locking that door."

"Unless you're coming up with Italian, it's a deal." He almost
laughed. A deal until Greg started working or reading and forgot. A
deal until somebody said the right series of things and whatever it was
in the Professor's mind that fired wrong went batshit crazy and Greg
did ... Who the hell knew what.

The man was a menace to himself. "Okay. And I'll have a uniform pass by every so often. Make it a known presence."

"You don't have to. The neighbors cluck their teeth and get all paranoid."

"What neighbors, Doc? The tattoo parlor on the corner? The bead shop
next door? This isn't Hayes Barton." He could hear Greg's bare feet
tapping on the wood floor, and it was enough to drive a sane man batty.
"It's going to happen. Cope. Tell me more and don't worry about the
roaming flatfoots."

Greg steepled his fingers, chewing on his lip. "The book isn't rare,
particularly. It had layered drawings of musculature, veins, skeletal
systems. It wasn't exact by modern standards, but it was what
physicians had."

"Had when? When did they use a book like that?" Something was
niggling at him. Something that teased the crime film historian in him.

"Late nineteenth century. 1880-1892. I don't have the publication date, so I used the title.
Greune's Physician Guide
."

"But you don't think it was a reprint?" The lab never told him
squat. He always had to send Leah, and she'd been in Missing Persons
all day. It would help had he not sort of threatened the little shit
that ran DNA over the Bigger's case. Still, rules got broken where kids
were involved. Damn it.

"It could have been. It seemed old. It was from a library, wasn't it? Hundreds of people touched it. Hundreds before he did."

"It was, yeah." That much he knew. It had stamps and labels inside
it. One of those pockets. "They think it was cleaned out in a book
sale. When they cleared out the outdated books. They're working on
seeing what library it was, but it's all blacked out with black marker."

"Shit. I was hoping it would be easy, you know? Library card.
Address. Bad guy. Little blonde reunited with her parents. Happy
ending." Greg stood, pacing a little, going to look at the heaven
picture, all dark and haunted in comparison with the blue-eyed blondes
on the canvas.

"No. Sorry, man." Time for cheesecake. Artie put the dishes in the sink and started cutting. "Is that homemade raspberry sauce?"

"Yes. The delivery from the farmer's market came. I got too many
raspberries to eat on my own." Greg moved slowly, distracted, distant.

They passed as Greg got plates down, and Artie let his fingers brush
Greg's shirt, just barely, assuring himself the guy was really there.
It seemed like he was a galaxy away. "I like raspberries."

"Yeah, but not blueberries. They give you hives."

He blinked. He couldn't remember ever telling ... Yeah. "They do. And oranges make me itch."

Greg nodded, pulling out the coffee cups, the sugar, the white mugs
almost disappearing on the white stone countertops. "There's something
about orange juice that clears my head. I think I'd drink it even if it
made me itch."

"It's good for you. I like grape juice." Well. That was banal. The
coffee stopped perking and he poured, the brew rich and dark, clearing
his head. "Look, that wine was hefty. You mind if I hang out a bit?"

"Of course not. Your chair is free, always." His chair, the
comfortable, deep, charcoal one with the heavy quilt over it. He'd
never seen Greg sit in it. Of course, he'd only made the mistake of
sitting on the long white sofa once before Greg had explained.

Well, yelled, more than explained.

He'd never done that again. The chair had an ottoman, or what he
called a footstool, and was almost as comfy as a bed. "Cool. Just let
me call Leah and let her know where I'll be."

Greg nodded and started on the dishes. "I'll bring the coffee and sweet. You set up the backgammon board."

That he could do. Even if he did have to fight the urge to take the
cheesecake with him. Greg liked to do. And if he could do even
something as small as make a nice tray to put on the coffee table, so
be it. Artie called his partner, got settled, got the board going,
smiling at Greg as he came over.

"Now, no cheating this time, detective. We'll share the dice and
I'll know." Greg put the tray beside them, long legs curling up under
him as he settled. The jazz changed to something like bluegrass, but
not quite.

"I didn't cheat." Maybe he knocked a piece to a different sliver of board, but hey, he had big hands.

"Of course not. You? Are honest as the day is long. You can go first." Man, sugar wouldn't melt in that man's mouth.

It did him no good to let his thoughts linger on Greg's mouth,
though. Especially if they were going to be touching the same things.
That was a thought for late at night, sprawled in his bed, when even
Duke couldn't see. He took the first move, getting several pieces in
play.

Greg rolled well, rebutting easily. They'd played on this board a
hundred times, maybe more, drinking coffee and bantering like old men.

It was hard to believe, sometimes, that they'd known each other as
long as they had. The cheesecake went down easy, the chocolate dark and
smooth, the raspberries just biting. "So did you ever fix that thing
with the distributors or whatever?"

Greg laughed. "Alice did. You should have seen her screaming and
throwing things at the poor rep. I quite enjoyed the show. So much for
peace-and-new-age-light. That woman? Is all about the profit margin."

Oh, Christ. Alice was a harridan when it came to Greg and twice as bad when it came to the store.

"Yeah? She's got brass balls, that one." The round little redhead
had come after him once in the very beginning, after he'd dragged Greg
down to the station and they'd ended up calling an ambulance for the
guy. Christ, Greg had been convulsing, flailing around on the ground
like a landed fish. She'd come down that hospital corridor like a flash
of light, all teeth and claws, and so damned loud that Artie'd wanted
to curl up and whimper. He'd deserved it. "You ever wonder why it is
the women are so good at shit like that?"

"Must be the maternal instinct. My mother could scream like a
banshee." Greg bumped one of his pieces, smiling. "How about Leah? Do
you ever let her play bad cop?"

"She doesn't really have to." The woman had a way. Quiet. Just
staring. "She has that natural guilt factor. They start babbling."

Greg chuckled low. The professor and Leah had a healthy respect for
each other; she'd been faster to believe Greg than Artie had, even if
she'd never been able to get an iota of info from the man in babble
mode. "I can believe that. Although you're the one who always gets me.
Always."

"You don't need what Leah has. You need pushing. But just the right
way. Someone who knows what questions to ask." His teeth clicked
together as he bit off all sorts of stupid shit.

Greg nodded, rolled the dice, and groaned. "Even when I don't want to hear and you're cursing my dice rolls."

"Me?" He raised a brow. "Now, you know I would never wish you ill, not even in backgammon."

"Not even toward the end of the..." Greg tilted his head, blinked. "Did you hear something?"

Artie stopped, listened, slowing his breathing to hear. "No. Did you?"

Greg nodded, standing up and heading for the rickety old elevator
that the fire marshal should have condemned twenty-five years ago. "I
think I did. I should go and look."

"No!" The man had not a lick of sense. "You stay out of that
elevator." Heaving up out of his chair, Artie grabbed his jacket and
yanked his pistol out. "Stay. I'll go check."

"It's my shop. I'm going with you. It's probably Alice, forgetting
her thermos." Greg even looked like he knew he was lying. Stubborn
bastard. Oh. Oh, that was the door. Damn it.

"Then stay behind me and don't get in my way. And we take the
stairs." If someone had gotten in meaning harm, that damned elevator
could be a menace. One way or the other, it was a dead giveaway that
they were coming. Artie headed down, slow and easy, letting his eyes
adjust to the gloom.

Greg jittered along behind him, bare feet padding on the stairs, hand sliding on the rail. Always moving, always making noise.

Damn it. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, holding up a hand for
Greg to be still. He searched the dark, trying to make out distinct
shapes. Books, shelves, counter, register, leaning card table with
Mitch's tarot cards. Wind chimes, crystals, that stupid fucking
pyramid. Man, the whole place reeked of incense. Mitch must have been
here all day.

He could feel Greg vibrating, shivering, hand reaching for the
lights. He made a soft noise, knocking Greg's hand away. Not yet. Not
until he had checked all of the danger areas. Ceiling, corners, doors,
floors, right? Cautiously, slowly, he stepped down into the back of the
shop, seeing nothing. No darker shadows, nothing moving. The pyramid,
though. There was something there.

A small package wrapped in brown paper, not big enough to be a pipe bomb, almost inconsequential.

Weird.

Too fucking weird.

The shop phone rang, making Greg jump, curse and step back, move toward the light switch again.

He let Greg go this time, heading for the door to see how the
deliverer of the package had got in, closing his eyes a split second
before the light went on so he wouldn't be blinded. The lights flooded
the store, dozens of crystals catching the light and sending rainbows
everywhere. Adorable.

Greg headed for the phone, barking out a hello and then going
silent. The door had been popped, the ancient lock pretty well hanging
out of the jamb. But as bad as the wood was, it might not even have
made a noise. No matter how much he lectured, Greg and Alice just kept
talking about the damned historical value, the beauty of the handiwork.
It just wasn't worth this sort of risk and...

Greg's voice, low and stressed, pushed into his attention.
"...understand. No. No, I won't ignore the mail again. There's no
reason to escalate things." Greg was staring at the counter, scribbling
furiously, the man gone as white as that damned sofa upstairs.