found a spot of sorts. I could just squeeze the rental car between a monstrous black SUV and a pickup truck.
“By the way, I’ll be getting the new car on Tuesday,” Ari said. “I’m not sure if it’ll be easier to handle or not.”
“Am I going to be allowed to drive it?”
“Oh, yes. I made sure to ask.”
We walked a couple of blocks to Burnside’s address, a big white corner building housing a pair of flats above a laundromat. As we headed for the street door, I noticed an obvious unmarked squad car, black and bulky, parked nearby. A man in a sports jacket and open-throated white shirt sat behind the wheel and read a newspaper. Ari glanced his way.
“Sanchez’s man, I assume,” he said.
Since Ari stood between me and the car, I could throw an unobtrustive Chaos ward. It bounced off the car door with no effect. “Yeah,” I said. “Must be.”
When we rang the doorbell, Caroline Burnside buzzed us in. A narrow flight of stairs, covered in ratty brown carpet, led up to the landing where she stood waiting. I’m not sure what I expected Sweetie to be, but it wasn’t the amazon who greeted us. Dressed in a black tunic, caught with a silver concho belt at the waist over a long black skirt, she stood at least six feet tall, and was heavyset without being fat, with broad shoulders and long legs. She had a shoulderlength mop of curly blonde hair which she wore pulled back from a square, strong-jawed face. Her voice, however, was high and girlish, though I put her age at about forty.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Karo. That’s what everyone calls me, Karo like in the syrup.”
Hence the nickname of Sweetie, I assumed. Ari and I brought out our IDs, which she inspected with some care.
“Looks like you’re real cops,” she said. “Come in.”
She ushered us into a room crammed with brightly colored stuff. It took me several minutes to sort out the sight—piles of books on the floor, knickknacks and more books on shelves and the mantel over the gas heater. Blue-andyellow paper lanterns, some with sun-and-moon faces, hung from the ceiling. Patchwork pillows lay piled on the two wicker chairs, on the floor in corners, and on the long cedar chest that sat in the big bay window, which was partly covered by green-and-purple brocade swags of curtain. Karo waved vaguely at the chairs.
“You can sit there, I guess,” she said. “Just throw the pillows on to the floor if there’s too many.”
There were, and we did. Karo pulled over a huge red-and-blue paisley floor pillow and sat on that.
“So,” she said, “what do you want to ask me about? Bill?”
“Evers, you mean?” I said. “How deeply addicted to heroin was he?”
Karo grimaced and looked at the floor. “Real bad,” she said. “He kept fooling himself, saying he could handle it, because you snort Persian instead of shooting it, but he got to be a world-class junkie by the end.”
“Do you think that’s what prompted his suicide?”
She looked up and considered me. “I don’t think he committed suicide.” Her voice rang with defiance. “I think he was murdered. I just can’t see how they did it.”
“They?”
“Whoever it was.” She shrugged. “I don’t mean ‘they’ like in ‘I know who it was and there were a couple of them.’ Just they.”
“Okay. What about this Brother Belial?”
“Bill told me he’d spilled the beans about that.”
“He did, yeah. Celia LaRosa wonders if Brother B was really human.”
“I heard her say that maybe a hundred times, but I didn’t buy it. I think he was loaded, is all, and talked funny. And he always hid his face and wore gloves, so it was easy to make up stuff about him and what he must have looked like under all of it. Doyle always said Belial had a phobia about germs, but then, you couldn’t trust a damn thing Doyle said, so who knows.”
“I can see why everyone speculated about Belial.”
“Elaine agreed with Celia, sort of. They used to like to scare themselves,
“By the way, I’ll be getting the new car on Tuesday,” Ari said. “I’m not sure if it’ll be easier to handle or not.”
“Am I going to be allowed to drive it?”
“Oh, yes. I made sure to ask.”
We walked a couple of blocks to Burnside’s address, a big white corner building housing a pair of flats above a laundromat. As we headed for the street door, I noticed an obvious unmarked squad car, black and bulky, parked nearby. A man in a sports jacket and open-throated white shirt sat behind the wheel and read a newspaper. Ari glanced his way.
“Sanchez’s man, I assume,” he said.
Since Ari stood between me and the car, I could throw an unobtrustive Chaos ward. It bounced off the car door with no effect. “Yeah,” I said. “Must be.”
When we rang the doorbell, Caroline Burnside buzzed us in. A narrow flight of stairs, covered in ratty brown carpet, led up to the landing where she stood waiting. I’m not sure what I expected Sweetie to be, but it wasn’t the amazon who greeted us. Dressed in a black tunic, caught with a silver concho belt at the waist over a long black skirt, she stood at least six feet tall, and was heavyset without being fat, with broad shoulders and long legs. She had a shoulderlength mop of curly blonde hair which she wore pulled back from a square, strong-jawed face. Her voice, however, was high and girlish, though I put her age at about forty.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Karo. That’s what everyone calls me, Karo like in the syrup.”
Hence the nickname of Sweetie, I assumed. Ari and I brought out our IDs, which she inspected with some care.
“Looks like you’re real cops,” she said. “Come in.”
She ushered us into a room crammed with brightly colored stuff. It took me several minutes to sort out the sight—piles of books on the floor, knickknacks and more books on shelves and the mantel over the gas heater. Blue-andyellow paper lanterns, some with sun-and-moon faces, hung from the ceiling. Patchwork pillows lay piled on the two wicker chairs, on the floor in corners, and on the long cedar chest that sat in the big bay window, which was partly covered by green-and-purple brocade swags of curtain. Karo waved vaguely at the chairs.
“You can sit there, I guess,” she said. “Just throw the pillows on to the floor if there’s too many.”
There were, and we did. Karo pulled over a huge red-and-blue paisley floor pillow and sat on that.
“So,” she said, “what do you want to ask me about? Bill?”
“Evers, you mean?” I said. “How deeply addicted to heroin was he?”
Karo grimaced and looked at the floor. “Real bad,” she said. “He kept fooling himself, saying he could handle it, because you snort Persian instead of shooting it, but he got to be a world-class junkie by the end.”
“Do you think that’s what prompted his suicide?”
She looked up and considered me. “I don’t think he committed suicide.” Her voice rang with defiance. “I think he was murdered. I just can’t see how they did it.”
“They?”
“Whoever it was.” She shrugged. “I don’t mean ‘they’ like in ‘I know who it was and there were a couple of them.’ Just they.”
“Okay. What about this Brother Belial?”
“Bill told me he’d spilled the beans about that.”
“He did, yeah. Celia LaRosa wonders if Brother B was really human.”
“I heard her say that maybe a hundred times, but I didn’t buy it. I think he was loaded, is all, and talked funny. And he always hid his face and wore gloves, so it was easy to make up stuff about him and what he must have looked like under all of it. Doyle always said Belial had a phobia about germs, but then, you couldn’t trust a damn thing Doyle said, so who knows.”
“I can see why everyone speculated about Belial.”
“Elaine agreed with Celia, sort of. They used to like to scare themselves,
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