Hex on the Ex (20 page)

“Not everything,” he said. “I searched the library then online for numeric adaptations of the inverted pentagram, pre and post Schelz. Nothing.”

“Go see Vic Walkowiak. If this pamphlet or a new version of the same is floating around, Vic will know. He collects religious propaganda. He owns the comic book store a few blocks north. Tell him I sent you.” Horus reclined in her chair, stretching her legs. “Is that all?”

“Are there any new devil worship covens or cults in the area? Any rumors you care to share?” Nick said.

“As much as I lust over every inch of you, dear Nick, you know I can’t break the code. You’ll have to accept my word that none employ your symbol.” She traced her fingers up the snake tattoos on her thighs with her eyes fixed on him. “Unless you’re willing to barter your body for more information.”

Nick glanced at me.

Seriously? He was thinking about it?

“Horus, I don’t share,” I said.

“Self-preservation and lust. You’re a true lioness, Liz. I like you.” She rose, walked over to Nick’s chair, and
straddled his legs. I watched, startled, as she wrapped her fingers around the back of his head and kissed him hard on the lips. She left the room without a word.

I
stood outside on the sidewalk letting the sunlight thaw my body. Horus’s horns, tattoos, and offensive, overt sexual innuendo created a massive shield, making it impossible to ignore her and a challenge to like her. Yet I sensed fragile vulnerability behind her toughness.

“Slut,” I said when I got into the car.

“Don’t buy into her sex-and-shock act, she’s quite a genius,” Nick said quickly. “She was a different person when we were in school together at Oxford. I’d always find her sitting at a table in the library, translating ancient Middle Eastern religious texts. She wrote one of the most compelling analyses of the Virgin birth I’ve ever—”

“Not her. You.” I poked him. “You actually thought about having sex with her? Because if—”

“To keep you from getting arrested?” Nick made a half shrug with a
so-what?
look. “Damn right it crossed my mind—for a second. The tattoos don’t bother me, but I draw the line at horns.” He started the car and made a U-turn at the stoplight, driving north.

“So, if she didn’t have horns, you—”

“Watch for a comic store. We didn’t get the address.”

I rubbed his knee. “You would have laid your body on the line for me? I think I’m getting teary.”

“She didn’t give us the shop name.” Red-faced and ignoring me, Nick’s eyes darted from the traffic ahead to the storefronts along the sidewalk. “What if there isn’t a sign?”

“I think I see it. Pull over.”

He parked at the curb then looked over his shoulder. “Where?”

“The white building three doors back.”

We got out of the car and strode down the empty sidewalk past a manicure shop and a deserted dance studio. I stopped at a window filled with action figures from Star Wars to Harry Potter, Spider-Man, Superman, and Iron Man poised for combat on glass shelves. Nick nudged me when we entered, pointing to a small, red-neon sign on the rear wall. “THE COMIC STORE.”

Packaged action figures hung on the walls above rows of white bins filled with alphabetically filed comic books encased in plastic. Featuring characters from comic book–action movies of the past three decades, the shop appeared to be nothing like the comic book store in the valley Dave and I frequented in grade school. Where were the dusty, dog-eared stacks of used
Donald Duck
comics? Where were Archie and Veronica?

“We’re here to see Vic Walkowiak,” Nick said to the clerk, a thick, freckled man with a combover and beard eating a burger behind the counter.

“That would be me.” Vic popped a fry into his mouth and washed it down with a long draw from a Super Big Gulp, then wiped his hands on his Justice League T-shirt.

“Horus sent us,” Nick said.

“What do you want?” Though Vic seemed to be a man of few words, at least he was fully clothed.

Nick gave him a business card. “We’re researching the devil-worship renaissance in the sixties and seventies. I hear you collect religious propaganda.”

“Some.”

“Ever seen this before?” Nick laid Herrick Schelz’s pamphlet on the glass countertop.

Vic glanced at it then scratched his chin. “What are the odds? Follow me.”

V
ic Walkowiak led us to a back room papered with comic convention flyers, autographed photos, and vintage Marvel Comics calendars. Around and above us, hundreds of pamphlets encased in plastic and separated in groups by yellowed paper tabs filled the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Nick and I squeezed between stacks of open cartons of action figures and comic books and past a wastebasket overflowing with take-out cartons and crumpled bags. The air, thick with the odor of old paper and dust, tickled my nose. I sneezed.

“Excuse me,” I said, reaching for the open tissue box on the scarred wooden desk tucked in the corner of the room.

“This is my collection.” Vic swept his arms toward the shelves. “Twentieth-century handouts are my specialty.”

I read the section titles closest to me. “Spiritism,” “Kabbalah,” “Voodoo,” “Satanism,” and “Necromancy.”

Nick put on his glasses and sifted through booklets. “Amazing,” he said as he slid out samples from the “Illuminati” section and studied them. He stood back, taking in the full array. “I’ve never seen a private collection this extensive. How did you find all these?”

Vic bared yellowed teeth in a proud smile. “Online, rare bookstores, religious rallies, yard sales—you know. Sometimes even at comic conventions. Two months ago, I would’ve paid you fifty bucks cash for your Schelz pamphlet. If you’re looking to get rid of it now, I’ll give you twenty.”

“It’s not for sale,” Nick said. “What changed?”

Moving around us to a shelf tabbed “Devil Worship,” Vic leafed through a row of plastic-covered booklets and slid out a copy of the Herrick Schelz pamphlet. “I found this baby.”

I shuddered at his delight over the product of a madman. “Where did you get it?”

“There’s a guy who collects spell-casting and witchcraft publications. You know, candle burning, scrying—the airy-fairy stuff. He knows I like the darker occult themes, like this.” Vic pointed at the Schelz pamphlet. “Talk about twisted. Hell, I didn’t know about Schelz’s background until I bought this and did some research. What a find. A zealot turned murderer. This pamphlet is as rare as they come. The publisher went out of business in the nineties. How did you get your copy?”

Nick began to describe his Indiana gas station encounter. My phone rang in my purse. I pulled it out, saw Jarret’s number on the screen, and silenced the ringer.

Vic tugged at his beard as Nick told his story. “No kidding. He knew Schelz?”

“And his family,” Nick said.

“Do you mind if I take a closer look at your copy?” I said. At Vic’s nod, I slid the pamphlet out of its plastic bag and paged through, searching for a handwritten name, date, or notes. The unmarked contents were in pristine condition. The stapled pages were stiff and wouldn’t open flat, as if never read.

I handed the pamphlet back, ignoring the now vibrating phone in my purse. “How can we reach the man who brought this to you?”

“Why the interest in him?” Vic creased his brows, turning to Nick. “You said you were researching propaganda.”

“Intellectual curiosity,” Nick said. “We heard a few Schelz pamphlets were floating around. I’m curious who renewed the interest in his rantings. If you read the pamphlet, you have to agree Schelz lacks credibility.”

“Yeah,” Vic said. “Most propagandists do. I read through a few of Schelz’s pages but I collect pamphlets for art, not rules to live by.”

“I’m interested in the formation of belief systems and the origins of cults,” Nick said. “I’d like to talk to the guy who sold you Schelz’s pamphlet.”

“I…don’t remember his name.” Vic slid the pamphlet back into place and then shut off the light. “He doesn’t come in much either.”

“If you hear from him in the next few days, tell him I’ll trade him cash for information.” Nick said at the door.

I traipsed back to the car with Nick, frustrated by what felt to me like a dead end. “I think Vic was lying. Did you notice how he shut down when we asked about his friend?”

“I told you the occult circles, and especially the devil-worship community, are closed to outsiders. Vic is either a member or he’s protecting his source.” Nick opened his passenger door for me. “Let’s give him some time to approach his pal with my offer.”

“I wish I had time to give. With Carla after me, I don’t.” I buckled my seat belt then took out my phone, turning the ringer back on. I opened voice mail and listened to Jarret’s message.

“Lizzie-Bear, please call me. I want to explain.”

Nick watched as I made a very unladylike gesture at the phone and hit “Delete.” He cocked his head.

“Jarret, trying to apologize.” I played the second message.

“This is Detective Pratt. I need to meet with you again, Dr. Cooper. Your attorney isn’t returning my calls. Let’s not make this difficult.”

I erased her message then smoothed the heel of my palm against my throbbing forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Nick said.

“That was Carla. I can’t avoid her for long. Maybe we should have told Vic about the symbol on Laycee’s body.”

“Bad idea.”

“You told Horus,” I said.

“I trust Horus. Putting word on the street about the symbol won’t score points with Carla and the LAPD.” Nick steered onto Griffith Park Boulevard.

I picked up my phone again and dialed Dad. As he answered, I heard people talking and dishes clattering behind him.

“Where are you?” I said.

“Eating prime rib sandwiches at the Pacific Dining Car,” he said. “We just left the morgue.”

Ribs? After the morgue? Theme lunch?

“What did you find out?” I said.

“The coroner’s office put a lockdown on the flow of information on the Huber case until after an arrest is made, though I did manage to dig up a few interesting bits of information,” he said.

“Wait. I want Nick to hear.” I hit the speaker button on my phone.

“Who’s on the phone, Walter?” Mom said in the background. “Is that Liz? Give me the phone. I want to tell her what—”

“Easy, Vivian. You can talk to her in a minute. Where’s the horseradish? I ordered extra horseradish,” Dad said. “Liz? Are you there? Can Nick hear me?”

Nick turned the car onto the Golden State Freeway entrance. “I’m here, Walter.”

“Good,” Dad said. “They did an autopsy on Laycee’s body yesterday afternoon.”

“That happened fast,” I said.

“Pratt requested the rush. They’re looking for fingerprints on the symbol on Laycee’s back, or a hair follicle dropped into her blood,” Dad said. “Smart thinking on Pratt’s part.”

“Don’t get so warm and fuzzy over Pratt’s cleverness, Dad. She thinks I’m the killer, remember?” I said.

“And if they find hair or fingerprints, you’re in the clear,” he said.

“Walter, give me the phone.” Another shuffle and Mom came on the line. “Your father is not telling you the best part.
I did my own detective work at the coffee machine with the coroner’s intern, a nice college girl from Pasadena.”

“And?” I said.

“Well, Forrest Huber made quite the scene when they told him he had to wait to view Laycee’s body.”

“He’s grieving. I’m sure he wanted to—”

“Not a grieving scene, an I’ll-have-you-fired-for-this scene,” Mom said. “Forrest wanted to transport her body to Atlanta, and blew a gasket when he heard about the autopsy. He insisted on being present.”

“Pratt, the field unit, and the medical examiner are the only people allowed at the autopsy,” Dad said in the background.

“According to my little intern, Forrest is the only bereaved person who’s ever asked to watch,” Mom said.

“Morbid,” Nick said.

“Or a strategy to cope with his disbelief,” I said. “As a lawyer, Forrest should know the coroner owns possession of the body until the death certificate is issued.”

“Well, listen to this.” Mom took a dramatic pause. “After he signed for Laycee’s things, he tore her purse apart on the counter, complaining about her missing phone. The police kept it, of course. Of all things, why be angry about her phone?”

“Maybe he needed a reason to lash out. Forrest loved Laycee but he didn’t trust her. His jealousy is a familiar feeling, easier to manage than his anguish over her loss.” I remembered the fury in Forrest’s eyes as he clenched my arm in the parking lot. “He might be searching for Jarret’s cell phone number so he can confront him.”

“Aren’t Forrest and Jarret staying at the same hotel?”
Mom said. “Should we warn Jar—never mind. Not our problem.”

I loved the new version of Mom. “Did Dad talk to his guy in the Field Investigation Unit?”

“Walter?” Mom repeated my question to him.

I sunk in my seat, listening to mumbles and fumbles on the other end of the phone—my parents at their chaotic best. “Remind me to teach them how to put a phone on speaker,” I said to Nick as we transitioned to the 134.