them, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ari said. “In the line of duty and all that.”
“You deserve a medal,” Mr. L put in. “In my opinion, anyway.”
Mrs. LaRosa’s facade cracked. Tears ran down her cheeks, tears gray with eyeliner that plowed little furrows into her foundation. LaRosa leaned over, put his hands on her shoulders, and rubbed them while he murmured a helpless “there, there, I’m sorry” over and over.
“I’m not upset over Johnson.” Mrs. LaRosa choked out the words. “I keep thinking of Elaine, dying like that, and she loved him so much, Doyle, I mean, she really did, and he killed her.”
She turned half away, then reached inside her shirt to pull a tissue out of her bra with delicate fingers. I waited until she’d gotten herself back under control.
“If there’s anything else you can remember about Belial,” I said, “when you’re feeling less stressed, please call Lieutenant Sanchez. He’ll see that I get the message.”
“I’ll do that, yes.” Mrs. L forced out a smile. “I do want to know the truth about this. I feel so foolish, now, that I trusted them.”
Agreeing with her would have been too rude, even though I wanted to. I stood up, and Ari followed. “We’ll leave you alone now,” I said. “Thank you for the information. And remember, if you think of anything to add, no matter how trivial it seems, please call homicide detective Sanchez down at the Police Department.”
“We will,” Mr. LaRosa said. “You can count on that. And they can always reach us by phone, even in Provence. I’ll leave the numbers before we go.”
We showed ourselves out. While we walked uphill to the spot where we’d parked, Ari stayed silent. Once we’d gotten into the car, he turned toward me.
“Do you think Belial was a human being?” he said.
“You’re getting the hang of this, aren’t you? At the moment, no, I don’t. The question is: if not, then what?”
“I don’t suppose there are actual demons involved in this case.” He paused to buckle up his seat belt. “Um, is there such a thing? As demons, I mean.”
“Well, it depends on how you define demon. What looks like a demon to some people might be a perfectly natural being in its own world. For all we know, Chaos masters live on some other world.”
“You’re having a joke on me, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Father was right.” Ari rolled his eyes. “I should have been an insurance adjuster.”
“You couldn’t carry a gun everywhere if you were an insurance adjuster.”
“I’ll admit it; that was one of the things that influenced my decision. But these Chaos masters. I’m assuming they’ll bleed if I have to shoot one.”
“As far as I know, yeah. But then, I don’t know much.”
“How reassuring.”
I smiled and started the car.
I’ve always hated the term “Chaos masters.” It sounds like something from a golf tournament. For all we know, these “masters” don’t exist as sapient beings. We may simply be personifying little vortices or knots of energy that strive to break up stagnant situations and other overloads of Order gone wild. The energy, however, is definitely real. It can form waterspouts and whirlpools of disruption that suck in the vulnerable and force them to do things that, left to themselves, they’d never even consider.
Like jumping into the bay fully clothed.
Still, in this particular case, we faced someone, human or not, who could pull a stocking over his face and put on a ritual robe. Whether he was a master or a minion—in fact, whether he was a “he” in any sense we’d recognize as a gender—were big questions.
We continued searching for answers that afternoon by interviewing the coven member called “Sweetie,” or, in more ordinary terms, Caroline Burnside. She lived in the Cole Valley neighborhood on the uphill edge of the old Haight-Ashbury. As usual, parking there proved to be an aggravation and a half. Eventually, we
“I’m afraid so,” Ari said. “In the line of duty and all that.”
“You deserve a medal,” Mr. L put in. “In my opinion, anyway.”
Mrs. LaRosa’s facade cracked. Tears ran down her cheeks, tears gray with eyeliner that plowed little furrows into her foundation. LaRosa leaned over, put his hands on her shoulders, and rubbed them while he murmured a helpless “there, there, I’m sorry” over and over.
“I’m not upset over Johnson.” Mrs. LaRosa choked out the words. “I keep thinking of Elaine, dying like that, and she loved him so much, Doyle, I mean, she really did, and he killed her.”
She turned half away, then reached inside her shirt to pull a tissue out of her bra with delicate fingers. I waited until she’d gotten herself back under control.
“If there’s anything else you can remember about Belial,” I said, “when you’re feeling less stressed, please call Lieutenant Sanchez. He’ll see that I get the message.”
“I’ll do that, yes.” Mrs. L forced out a smile. “I do want to know the truth about this. I feel so foolish, now, that I trusted them.”
Agreeing with her would have been too rude, even though I wanted to. I stood up, and Ari followed. “We’ll leave you alone now,” I said. “Thank you for the information. And remember, if you think of anything to add, no matter how trivial it seems, please call homicide detective Sanchez down at the Police Department.”
“We will,” Mr. LaRosa said. “You can count on that. And they can always reach us by phone, even in Provence. I’ll leave the numbers before we go.”
We showed ourselves out. While we walked uphill to the spot where we’d parked, Ari stayed silent. Once we’d gotten into the car, he turned toward me.
“Do you think Belial was a human being?” he said.
“You’re getting the hang of this, aren’t you? At the moment, no, I don’t. The question is: if not, then what?”
“I don’t suppose there are actual demons involved in this case.” He paused to buckle up his seat belt. “Um, is there such a thing? As demons, I mean.”
“Well, it depends on how you define demon. What looks like a demon to some people might be a perfectly natural being in its own world. For all we know, Chaos masters live on some other world.”
“You’re having a joke on me, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Father was right.” Ari rolled his eyes. “I should have been an insurance adjuster.”
“You couldn’t carry a gun everywhere if you were an insurance adjuster.”
“I’ll admit it; that was one of the things that influenced my decision. But these Chaos masters. I’m assuming they’ll bleed if I have to shoot one.”
“As far as I know, yeah. But then, I don’t know much.”
“How reassuring.”
I smiled and started the car.
I’ve always hated the term “Chaos masters.” It sounds like something from a golf tournament. For all we know, these “masters” don’t exist as sapient beings. We may simply be personifying little vortices or knots of energy that strive to break up stagnant situations and other overloads of Order gone wild. The energy, however, is definitely real. It can form waterspouts and whirlpools of disruption that suck in the vulnerable and force them to do things that, left to themselves, they’d never even consider.
Like jumping into the bay fully clothed.
Still, in this particular case, we faced someone, human or not, who could pull a stocking over his face and put on a ritual robe. Whether he was a master or a minion—in fact, whether he was a “he” in any sense we’d recognize as a gender—were big questions.
We continued searching for answers that afternoon by interviewing the coven member called “Sweetie,” or, in more ordinary terms, Caroline Burnside. She lived in the Cole Valley neighborhood on the uphill edge of the old Haight-Ashbury. As usual, parking there proved to be an aggravation and a half. Eventually, we
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