"Maybe she reported what she saw, or maybe it's something else. We'll have to find out. Her report to Whitney's pretty cut and dried. At one hundred thirty hours, September 22, 2058, she observed DS Wojinski seated at a private booth with known chemical dealer Selina Cross. Wojinski exchanged credits for a small package, which appeared to contain an illegal substance. The conversation and exchange lasted fifteen minutes, at which time Cross moved to another booth. Wojinski remained in the club another ten minutes, then left. Detective Burns tailed the subject for two blocks at which time he engaged a public transport."
"So she never saw him use."
"No. And she never saw him return to the club that night or on any subsequent night during her watch. Burns goes top of our list for questioning."
"Yes, sir. Dallas, since Wojinski and Feeney were tight, wouldn't it follow that Wojinski would have confided in him? Or failing that, that Feeney would have noticed… something."
"I don't know." Eve rubbed her eyes. "The Athame. What the hell's an athame?"
"I don't know." Peabody pulled out her palm PC and requested the data. "Athame, ceremonial knife, a ritual tool normally fashioned of steel. Traditionally the athame is not used for cutting, but for casting or banishing circles in earth religions."
Peabody glanced up at Eve. "Witchcraft," she continued. "That's quite a coincidence."
"I don't think so." She took the note from Alice out of her desk drawer, passed it to Peabody. "Frank's granddaughter slipped this to me at the viewing. Turns out she works at some shop called Spirit Quest. Do you know it?''
"I know what it is." Troubled now, Peabody set the note down. "Wiccans are peaceful, Dallas. And they use herbs, not chemicals. No true Wiccan's going to buy, sell, or use Zeus."
"How about digitalis?" Eve cocked her head. "That's kind of an herb, isn't it?"
"It's distilled from foxglove. It's been used medicinally for centuries."
"It's what, like a stimulant?"
"I don't know that much about healing, but yeah, I'd think."
"So's Zeus. I wonder what kind of effect you'd get combining the two. Bad mix, wrong dosage, whatever, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get heart failure."
"You think Wojinski self-terminated?"
"The commander suspects it, and I've got questions," Eve said impatiently. "I don't have answers. But I'm going to get them." She picked up the note. "We'll start tonight, with Alice. I want you there at eleven, in civilian clothes. Try to look like a Free-Ager, Peabody, not a cop."
Peabody winced. "I've got this dress my mother made for my last birthday. But I'll get really pissed off if you laugh."
"I'll try to control myself. For now, let's see what we can dig up on this Selina Cross and The Athame Club."
Five minutes later, Eve was smiling grimly at her machine. "Interesting. Our Selina's been around. Spent some time in a cage. Just look at this yellow sheet, Peabody. Soliciting sex without a license, '43, '44. Assault charge also in '44, subsequently dropped. Ran into Bunko in '47, running a medium scam. What the hell do people want to talk to the dead for, anyway? Suspected of animal mutilations, '49. Not enough evidence for arrest. Manufacturing and distribution of illegals. That's what tagged her and put her away from '50 to '51. All small-time shit, though. But here in '55, she was brought in and questioned in connection with the ritual slaying of a minor. Her alibi held."
"Illegals has had her under observation since she was sprung in '51," Peabody added.
"But they haven't brought her in."
"Like you said, she's small-time. They must be looking for a bigger fish."
"That would be my take. We'll see what Marion has to say. Look here, it says Selina Cross owns The Athame Club, free and clear." Eve pursed her lips. "Now, where would a small-time dealer get the credit power to buy and run a club? She's a front. I wonder if Illegals knows for who. Let's take a look at. her. Computer, display image of subject, Cross, Selina."
"Whew." Peabody gave a little shudder as the image floated on-screen. "Spooky."
"Not a face you'd forget," Eve murmured.
It was sharp and narrow, the lips full and vibrant red, the eyes black as onyx. There was beauty there, in the balance of features, the white, smooth skin, but it was cold. And as Peabody had observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.
"What's that symbol?" Eve wondered. "Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent."
"A pentagram." Peabody's voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. "Inverted. She's not Wiccan, Dallas." Peabody cleared her throat. "She's a Satanist."
– =O=-***-=O=-
Eve didn't believe in such things – the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.
"Be careful what you discount, Eve."
Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn't complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.
"What do you mean?''
"I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there's a reason for it."
"Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I'm going to find out if someone exploited Frank's."
She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn't tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.
"You're a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you're too good a cop and too sensible a woman." He stopped for traffic, turned to her. "I'm asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this."
His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. "You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we're into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ's sake!" She pushed her hair back from her face. "What the hell do they think they'd do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.
"Devils exist." Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. "And they're flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them."
She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.
Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soy-dogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.
Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.
The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.
She would have hated to live there.
"We're early," she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. "Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They're open." On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. "You game?"
"You want your palm read?"
"What the hell." She grabbed his hand. "It'll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they'll cut us a deal and do yours for half price."