Hex on the Ex (19 page)

“Covering her bases, putting the pressure on us for a meeting, or both. Sit tight. We’ll talk later.”

Erzulie hopped on my desk for a scratch and some attention as I dialed Mom.

“I drew the Seven of Swords in my tarot reading this morning, dear,” she said. “Sneaky. Lies. I can’t wait to talk to that lowlife Jarret.”

“You don’t need to call him anymore. I found out his lawyer’s name this morning.”

She sighed. I shared her disappointment—Jarret deserved a dose of Mom’s wrath.

“I left him another message an hour ago,” she said. “I almost hope he doesn’t call me back. I’m too angry to be civil.”

“I wouldn’t worry but if he does, don’t let him rattle you.”

“Your father and I are going downtown to talk to the people in the coroner’s office then have lunch at the Pacific Dining Car.”

I pictured Mom decked out in one of her pink suits and designer handbags, hanging out at the morgue. “Why is Dad taking you to the coroner’s?”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice,” she said. “Either take me along or let me go to the hotel to confront Jarret. He decided on my company. But I’m worried about you, dear. What are you doing today?”

“Nick and I are meeting with the devil worshiper.”

“You’re going along?”

“Nick didn’t have a choice either.”

Bustling to the kitchen fueled by nervous energy, I took my backpack to the laundry room, put my dirty gym clothes on top of the washing machine, and cleaned out Erzulie’s litter box. Then I puttered in the kitchen until I ran out of counters to wipe and dishes to wash. I was unpacking a box of winter sweaters upstairs in the guest bedroom when Nick texted he would pick me up at noon to meet Horus. Get ready in ninety minutes? Gee, I could try.

What would one wear to meet a devil worshiper? Red? Nick came with a colorful and unusual array of associates and I had to admit, the few I met fascinated me. The voodoo
priest and Santeria
santera
I befriended through him turned out to be lovely people.

Robin called while I stood at the dusty mirror in my bathroom, adding a second layer of mascara to the slowest makeup job on record.

“You’re going to love this,” she said. “The gal I called at
Atlanta Wife Life
told me your Billy Miles is a fake.”

I put the mascara down. “A fake what?”

“Producer. William H. Miles, the producer of
Atlanta Wife Life
, is fifty and lives in Bel-Air with his second wife and their daughter, a freshman at USC Film School.”

Her description didn’t fit the Billy Miles I talked to at the gym earlier. “Then who—?”

“
Billy
Miles is William’s nephew and a professional slacker. Billy had one shot at a production and failed miserably. Uncle William demoted him to a useless job at the network to keep him out of trouble. Now Billy is little more than a gopher riding the nepotism train.”

“I spoke to Billy. He acts and talks like he’s connected.”

“Oh, he’s connected. Billy can speed-dial every maître d’, car service, and florist in town.”

“He told me he spends half of his time on the set in Atlanta,” I said.

“Right. With William. Billy tags along to drive the uncle around, scout restaurants, get the laundry done. He’s sort of like his uncle’s road manager.”

“What about the party Billy threw at Dodger Stadium? Kyle was there.”

“The ATTAGIRL sales staff threw the party for advertisers. Billy has access to tickets to the ATTAGIRL suite at every sporting event,” Robin said.

“I can buy a pretense of importance. Billy Miles isn’t the first person in Hollywood claiming to be something he’s not. Can he audition actors for the ATTAGIRL shows?”

“They won’t let him near the cast,” Robin said. “Everything you heard about Billy Miles is a lie.”

N
ick stopped his SUV at my curb at noon and I climbed in, neck damp from waiting in the sun, my jeans already sticking to my thighs. Cool and relaxed in a gray NoHo T-shirt, he leaned over and kissed me. “What happened to your eyes?”

I flipped down the visor mirror. Yikes. My over-mascaraed lashes framed my big browns like black centipedes. “Nothing. What time is our meeting?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

Twirling my hair into a knot at the back of my neck, I grabbed Herrick Schelz’s pamphlet off the console and fanned my face. “I thought you gave this to Eagleton.”

“I included photos of the cover and the page with the symbol in an e-mail to him with my report. He still hasn’t replied yet.” Nick made a U-turn in the middle of my block and drove toward Moorpark Street. “I want Horus to check
out the actual pamphlet. Either Pratt and Eagleton don’t consider it relevant or they pulled me out of the loop because of you.” He patted my thigh affectionately. “Pratt knows I’m in your gang.”

“You’re always
my
first choice as an accomplice,” I said. As we traveled east on Moorpark to Vineland, then north to Riverside Drive and the entrance to the 134 East, I told him what I learned from and about Billy Miles.

“Billy Miles can describe his job any way he wants to. He’s a fraud, but does that connect him to the crime?”

“I’m grasping for leads, Nick, so far we’re getting a lot of information about nothing.”

“We’ve been at this less than twenty-four hours. Maybe Dave came up with something.” Nick autodialed the hands-free phone on the dashboard. On Dave’s answer, Nick said, “Any luck getting Herrick Schelz’s visitor list from the Indiana State Prison?”

“Waiting for a fax,” Dave said over the speaker. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get it. But I was about to call both of you. Seven years ago, Kyle Stanger was arrested and charged with misdemeanor assault in Georgia.”

“Kyle and Jarret were in a bar brawl with a man in Atlanta,” I said as we curved onto the Golden State turnoff heading south. “Jarret wasn’t charged. Kyle took all of the blame.”

“There’s more,” Dave said. “Three years ago, Stanger got arrested in Atlanta again, that time for possession and intent to sell Schedule II and III drugs—cocaine and steroids.”

“Did he serve jail time?” I said.

“His lawyer convinced the judge to suppress the evidence
and the charges were dropped. Stanger moved to Los Angeles two years ago and applied for a business license.”

“And opened Game On with Jarret,” I said.

Nick glanced at me. “Do you think Jarret knew about the drug arrest?”

“I doubt it. Jarret is protective of his image. I doubt he’d risk going into business with a known drug dealer. Then again, he always felt guilty for letting Kyle take the assault rap for him.”

“How about this—Forrest Huber was Stanger’s lawyer in the drug case,” Dave said.

I tapped my lip. “I knew Kyle got chummy with the Hubers at my parties in Atlanta. I was curious why he and Laycee stayed in touch. If she threatened to tell Jarret that Kyle was dealing drugs again in L.A.—”

“Kyle wouldn’t have taken her to the bar to meet Jarret or let her leave with him,” Nick said.

“True,” I said, then added into the speaker before we hung up, “Good work, Dave.”

“I know. You’re welcome.”

I stared at the passing roadside, puzzled by Kyle’s relationship with the Hubers. Something didn’t fit. “Nick, I’d bet anything Forrest had no idea that Laycee and Kyle were close. He wouldn’t like it.”

“Why?” He changed lanes and took the exit through a canopy of trees bordering the edge of Griffith Park toward Los Feliz Boulevard. “How jealous was he?”

“Edging toward morbid—the extreme version that can lead to stalking and violence. Although I’ve seen Laycee play on his jealousy and provoke him. I remember how she flaunted their age difference to make him crazy, making
jokes about their sex life and wearing revealing clothing. Forrest fumed over her flirtatious behavior at our parties. If Laycee and I went out together, he called every ten minutes asking when she’d be home. It wasn’t much of a surprise when he phoned me Wednesday morning looking for her.”

“Did he abuse her?”

“I can’t say for certain. I didn’t see visible bruises, but there were signs. After their arguments, she’d lock herself inside for days. Then a new car, new clothes, new vacation, or new pet would appear.”

“Could be Forrest discovered her lie about the trip and used the call to you Wednesday morning as a cover.” Nick turned south on Griffith Park Boulevard. “The question is, how would Forrest track his wife to Jarret’s, and who let him in? Laycee?”

“Forrest and Laycee both knew our garage code in Atlanta, and Jarret still uses the same code. As Dave implied at dinner last night, tracking her movements would be tough, though not impossible. Laycee was a talker. Even if the bartender at the hotel didn’t know where she went with Kyle Tuesday night, she might have told someone else she was going to the game—the bell captain, the desk clerk. Forrest would take extreme lengths to find her. Violence wouldn’t shock me, especially if he caught her cheating. I can envision him parked on the street all night waiting for Laycee to come out.”

“He sees Jarret leave in the morning, goes in the house, and finds Laycee in bed—his worst fears confirmed.”

Nick turned right on Hyperion into the Silver Lake business district, cruising by a tattoo parlor, a dance studio, three auto repair centers, and a string of hipster restaurants. He
parked in front of a one-story black building with a spectacular art deco starburst etched on the stainless-steel door in the center.

I picked up the pamphlet and got out of the car, approaching the building with curiosity. No windows. No address. “Horus works here?”

“This is her studio. She’s an artist.” Nick pressed the mother-of-pearl doorbell.

“She?” I stepped back. “Horus is a woman?”

“I didn’t mention that?”

A whirring sound drew my attention above the door. A small camera mounted over the doorjamb rotated until the lens focused at our heads. Nick waved and the door lock clicked open. We entered a black vestibule four feet deep, as wide as the building, and as cold as an ice cave.

Nick grasped my hand before the outside door swung closed, leaving us in blackness. He rustled along the back wall, and then pushed open a swinging door into a large, dimly lit room.

A lone candle flickered inside a hurricane lamp on a black iron floor sconce in the far corner. Good thing I didn’t wear a skirt—my jeans kept the lower half of me warm while every hair on my arms stood on end from the chill. We crossed the room and sat on two black folding chairs next to the candle.

As my vision adjusted to the dim light, I noted the bare walls around us. I crossed my legs and cradled my arms, leaning forward to protect my body heat and wondering if I could see my breath. Too dark to tell.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” I said in a whisper.

“Anything for you, baby,” Nick said.

“Where’s her art? The room is empty.”

“
She’s
the art.”

Hinges squeaked. A door on the far wall swung open and Horus, slim as a boy and barefoot, entered the room wearing nothing but a string bikini bottom over her tattooed body. Rings pierced the nipples on her small breasts. Blue-and-black snake tattoos coiled up her calves to her thighs and hips, the snakeheads licking orange-and-red flame tattoos rising from her groin to her navel.

Nick stood and accepted her hug, gingerly patting his fingertips on her back. “Thanks for seeing us.”

“It’s about time I get to meet your lover.” She stood, smiling, in the candlelight. Her sapphire blue eyes were framed with long black lashes and lightning-bolt tattoos instead of eyebrows. Holding out a slender blue hand to me, she said, “I’m Horus. I’ll take him after you’re done. He’ll make pretty babies.”

“I won’t be done for a long, long time. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Liz.” I shook her hand, fighting not to stare at the horns implanted on her temples or her fringed black bangs, the only hair on her tattooed face and skull.

“Your hands are freezing. Is it cold in here? I can’t tell,” she said. “I’ll get you a sweater.”

“Please don’t bother,” I said between chattering teeth. “The cool air is a nice change from the heat outside.”

“This is why I called you.” Nick handed her Herrick Schelz’s pamphlet.

Horus sat down and studied the booklet under the candlelight. She paged through, reading and rereading sections. Pointing at the title page she said, “I’ve seen a few of these
old American pamphlets before. The devil made a big comeback—not that he was ever really missing—in the late sixties. Schelz’s ramblings twist the hell out of LaVey’s tenets, and not well. Why the interest in this guy?”

“A murderer used the inverted pentagram with a five and three crosses to mark his victim.” He took the pamphlet and opened to a page. “Exactly like this.”

“The fifth Satanic Statement. Vengeance,” Horus said. “An eye for an eye.”

“Or a twist of the fifth commandment,” Nick said. “Thou shalt not kill.”

“The fifth satanic sin—herd conformity.”

“The fifth deadly sin,” Nick said. “Lust.”

“My favorite.” Horus beamed with delight. “Perhaps the fifth satanic rule against unwanted sexual advances. Was the victim male?”

“Female,” I said.

“Crowley’s Libre five,” she said. “The ritual of the mark of the beast.”

Nick shook his head. “The killer used the pentagram, not a unicursal hexagram.”

“Then perhaps wrath, the fifth heavenly vice,” she said.

“Jealousy,” Nick said. “The fifth poison in the Buddhist Mahayana tradition.”

“Doubt,” Horus countered. “The fifth defilement in Vasuhandhu.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but it sounds like there are endless possibilities for the motive or message hidden in the five. Nothing for us to identify the killer. We don’t even know if we’re on the right track with Schelz’s version.”

“True,” Nick said. “We can’t rule out Schelz, however, until we’ve exhausted every effort to find out if his pamphlet went into circulation.”

“Horus, you said you’ve seen other pamphlets like this. Locally?” I said.

“Like this, but not
this
pamphlet. I’ve seen similar,” she said. “Fanatics with time and money have been printing religious propaganda since the fifteenth century. Before that, ink on scrolls, and before that, carved into stone. I’ve seen every variation. So have you, Nick.”