“More than enough. You really think he killed Blackburn? I studied people a long time. He’s a fool, not a murderer.”
“We’ll see,” says Wells. He goes to the door and holds it open for me.
I turn to the Shonin.
“See you around, dead man.”
“Keep your nose clean, dumb-ass.”
IT’S A LONG walk to Wells’s office. The silence is different this time. It’s not the general silence of people going quiet as I pass. Now it’s Wells’s silence as he walks slightly ahead of me so he doesn’t have to speak or look at me. This is truly fucked and potentially dangerous. But I have my na’at, my gun, and my blade. If things go bad for me, I’ll make them worse for everybody else.
Wells’s office is at the far end of the Vigil clubhouse. There’s a plastic Christmas wreath on the door. Inside it’s all wood paneling. A desk big enough you could rodeo on it. A Marshals Service seal and Vigil sigil on the wall behind. A cross on his desk. Everything you need to put the fear of God and Gitmo into anyone he drags in here. There’s also something very loud in the room and it’s in a really nice suit.
“Marshal, I want you to place this man under arrest right now,” says Audsley Ishii.
Wells goes around his desk and sits in his leather executive chair. I’m betting he’s not getting comfortable, but positioning himself so he’s in reaching distance of his Glock.
“Based on what evidence?”
“Don’t talk to me like you don’t know Stark. Living in Hell. Playing the Devil. It’s driven him insane. Don’t forget that a few months ago he broke into the Augur’s home and threatened him.”
I look at Ishii.
“And I saved his wife and him from Aelita. How did he die?”
Ishii raises a righteous finger.
“Don’t play detective, like you’re investigating a crime you don’t know about. It was a Saint Nick killing. You have a history of cutting people up, don’t you? Story is, you cut off a friend’s head and still have it in your house.”
Wells picks up a pen and puts it back in the holder on the edge of his desk.
“We know all about his relationship with Aldous Kasabian. Do you have any actual evidence that Stark was at the murder scene?”
Ishii takes a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and drops it on the desk.
“We found this.”
Wells has a look and hands it to me. It’s the torn edge of a receipt from Max Overdrive. There’s a mark on it like it was stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe. Or marked to look that way.
I say, “Seriously? You think I wouldn’t check myself over before running off to kill the king of the Sub Rosa?”
“Blackburn told me that he was afraid for his family’s safety,” says Ishii. “He invited you over and a couple of days later he’s dead and this is at the scene. You can’t dismiss that.”
I look at Wells. He’s the sphinx. I don’t get anything from him at all.
“I was there for him to offer me your job, asshole,” I say, and wait for Wells to reprimand me. He’s doesn’t, which can’t mean anything good. “What does Tuatha think? Does she think I’m Saint Nick?”
Ishii takes back his evidence bag.
“She’s distraught. She doesn’t know what to think.”
“Meaning she doesn’t think it was me. You’ve always had it in for me and now’s your chance to prove you’re the investigator to the stars.”
Wells looks at me, then at Ishii.
“Is it true that Blackburn offered Stark a job?”
“According to him.”
“Ask Tuatha,” I say. “She was there.”
“Where did the murder take place?” says Wells.
“In his office at home,” Ishii says.
“What time?”
Ishii pulls out his phone and checks a note.
“The doctors say yesterday between eight and eleven. The necromancers say closer to ten.”
Wells shakes his head. Leans back in his chair.
“Then it wasn’t Stark. He was with my team on official Vigil business all morning. Sorry, Mr. Ishii, but you’re looking at the wrong man.”
Ishii closes in on Wells’s desk, stabbing the top with his finger.
“No, I’m not. Saint Nick is clearly working with powerful magic forces. Stark is an accomplished magician. He could be fooling all of us. Played with time. Killed from a distance. Or possessed someone to kill for him.”
Wells leans forward, glancing at the fingerprints Ishii left on his pristine desk.
“I have a dozen accomplished magicians on my staff. Not all of them are pleasant people. Personality defects seem endemic among the Sub Rosa. But it doesn’t make them killers.”
“Maybe it was you, Audsley,” I say. “You knew your days with Blackburn were numbered, so you flipped out and killed him by mistake. Maybe you’re the thing that was making him nervous for his safety. Then you go Jack the Ripper on the corpse to make it look like Saint Nick.”
“That’s an interesting point,” says Wells. “Blackburn was a scryer. Why wouldn’t he have seen who was coming after him or the time of the attack?”
Ishii gives me a look.
“More proof that it would take a very powerful magician to hide both his identity and his intentions from the Augur.”
Wells nods.
“And you just said that Saint Nick was a powerful magician.”
Now Ishii shoots Wells a death-beam look.
“I have the entire Sub Rosa board on my side. If you don’t arrest Stark right now, I can’t guarantee his safety.”
Wells stands up and comes around his desk.
“You let me worry about his safety. And his criminal tendencies. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a lot of work to do.”
He goes to the door and holds it open. Ishii doesn’t move.
“The chief of police is with us, Stark. There’s nowhere you can hide in L.A.”
I look at him for a minute.
“What size uniform do you wear? After your bang-up job protecting Blackburn, I’m picturing your next gig as a rent-a-cop guarding a Denny’s in Fresno.”
“That’s it,” says Wells. “Stark, you shut up. Mr. Ishii, thank you for the sad news about the Augur’s passing and your concerns about his death. The Vigil will do whatever it can to aid in the investigation.”
I know Ishii wants to say something more, but Wells looks like he’s one deep breath from pepper-spraying the guy. Ishii turns and leaves.
Wells goes back to his desk. Takes out a handkerchief and wipes off Ishii’s prints.
I say, “You finally convinced I’m not Saint Nick?”
“Not by that scene,” Wells says.
He takes a print out from a manila envelope on his desk. It’s a drawing. A crude map.
“Washington convinced me you’re innocent. Their psychics are sure they’ve tracked down Saint Nick and he’s not where you’re standing.”
“Where is he?”
Wells turns the drawing around. I was right. It’s a map, probably drawn by one of the psychics. A long street dotted with what look like office towers.
“He’s in the Pickman Building on Wilshire. They don’t know if he’s a guest or a prisoner, but they’re sure he’s there on the top floor.”
He points to a building marked with a crude star, like something someone would draw while in a trance.
“You’re going to go and get him,” says Wells.
I look at the map. The mark looks like it’s around the corner of Wilshire and South Robertson.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re good at getting in and out of places. You’re going to use that power for something useful and end this maniac’s run once and for all.”
“Do you have anything more than this map? It’s pretty, but office buildings tend to have a lot of rooms in them.”
Wells shows me another drawing with a room marked on the top floor of a ten-story building.
“We know right where he is. And you won’t be going in alone. An agent from our special operations team will be going with you.”
“I’m not Saint Nick, but you still don’t trust me.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” he says. “But this isn’t a matter of trust. It’s a matter of skills, which the agent has. Also, it’s a matter of judgment. Like what happened in the Shonin’s room today.”