"I did decline, yes. And I was quite insulted by the assumption the man was making. I do not dabble in black magic, nor will I – for any amount of money."
"Because you're such a law-abiding citizen," Karl said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
The look Trombley gave Karl this time was definitely of the turn-you-into-a toad variety, but his voice was mild when he said, "That's right, Detective. But more to the point, I am not subject to self-delusion."
"Meaning what?" I asked.
"Meaning I do not assume that I could make a pact with any of the Dark Powers without eventually paying the ultimate price."
"Your life, you mean," Karl said.
"No, Detective. My soul. Unlike some foolish practitioners of the Art, I have never forgotten that when you make a deal with the devil, the notes come due in brimstone. Invariably."
"All right, you didn't take the job," I said. "But somebody did."
Trombley looked at me more closely. "Yes – I should have seen it sooner. You've had a brush with the Reaper recently. Clearly he came in second best." It was hard to tell whether his voice contained relief or regret.
"Well," he went on, "I have no idea who among my fellow practitioners might have accepted that commission. I could give you a list of names, but you're as familiar with the local magic community as I am. Perhaps even more so."
"What about the guy who tried to hire you?" Karl asked. "Did you get a name?"
"He called himself Thomas L. Jones," Trombley said, deadpan. "Do you suppose that could have been an alias?"
"How about a description?" I said.
"White male, mid to late twenties," Trombley said with a shrug. "Well built, average height, brown hair cut conventionally, clean shaven, rather attractive brown eyes." He looked at me. "I realize that probably describes about five thousand of the local residents, but I may be able to narrow the field for you. Excuse arl t moment."
He stood up smoothly and left the room for what I assumed was the kitchen, judging by the clinking of glass that soon followed. I had a feeling that the wizard wasn't planning to offer us refreshments. Just as well – I hate to be rude, but I wouldn't eat or drink something this guy gave me if it came with a nihil obstat from the pope himself.
Karl and I were exchanging silent "What the fuck?" looks when Trombley came back into the room.
"Here you go," he said, and gently tossed a glass in my direction. I picked it out of the air and saw that it was the kind of squat, wide glass people often serve booze in. I think it used to be called an Old Fashioned glass, after the drink. Maybe it still is.
"When the gentleman called on me, I offered him some hospitality," Trombley said. "I didn't yet know what he wanted, and so treated him like any other potential client." He nodded at the glass in my hands. "After I learned what 'Mr Jones' had in mind, and asked him to leave, I thought I'd best put that glass aside without washing it. It should now have three sets of prints on it, Detective. Mine, which are on file with the application for my magic license, your own, and those of the elusive Mr Jones. Perhaps you'll be able to identify him from those."
As we got to our feet, Karl asked him, "How come you waited until now to share this information with the police?"
Trombley gave us a nonchalant shrug. "Until now, I had no reason to believe he had found someone to indulge his foolishness. As far as I knew, no crime had been committed."
Karl looked at me, and I gave him a shrug of my own. If Trombley wanted to play innocent, there was no way we could prove otherwise. And he had provided us with the glass.
As he saw us to the door, Trombley said, "Regardless of how the prints work out, don't bother to return the glass. I'm sure it will make a nice addition to one of your kitchens."
Then we were on the porch, the door closing firmly behind us.
Snotty bastard.
We didn't even have to send the prints on Jonas Trombley's glass to the FBI. They rang the cherries in the Scranton PD's own fingerprint files.
"Jamieson Longworth?" I looked at the mug shot on my computer screen, full face and profile. The image seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't say from where.
I turned to Karl, sitting next to me. "Who the fuck is he?"
"Let's find out," Karl said. "Keep going."
I clicked a couple of times, and there it was: an arrest report. And it was recent.
"Holy shit," Karl said softly. "He's one of the cultists. From the warehouse."
"And now he wants payback?" I said. "I've busted people who ought to hate me a hell of a lot more than him, and none of them tried to get me turned into stone."
"I'm surprised the guy's not still in County, awaiting trial," Karl said. "Assuming what's-his-name, Trombley, wasn't yanking our chains. Because of the hooker, those cultists were all charged with felony murder, haina? They should've been looking at some pretty high bail."
"Let's find out," I said. I clicked my way to the case file and started scrolling.
It didn't take long. "Yeah, old Judge Rakauskas set bail at half a million each, fifty-K cash equivalent," I said. "Either way, that's a lot of green for your average lowlife to come up with."
"And only one of them did." Karl was looking at the screen.
Jamieson Longworth.
"Okay, that puts the bastard on the street," I said. "But it still doesn't explain why he-"
"Wait," Karl said. "Scroll down some more."
"To where?"
"To the name of the guy who ended up as Purina Demon Chow."
I'd heard that, on the advice of their attorneys, the surviving cultists had clammed up tighter than a banker's wallet. They weren't saying anything about anything, including the name of their buddy who Karl had thrown to the demon. They weren't even admitting that there was a demon. And any ID the guy had been carrying had been consumed, along with the rest of him.
I sat there frowning at the monitor until Karl said, "Try the M.E. He might have something."
It took a few seconds to find the medical examiner's report. In one of the appendices, it said that forensics had found enough DNA to make an identification of the deceased.
Ronald Longworth, age twenty-one. Same address as the cultist who had made bail.
Jamieson Longworth's brother.
I started to say something, but then my computer made a ping and a little tab appeared on the bottom of the screen. It read, "New mail from Vollmanex@aol. com."
I looked at Karl for a second, then clicked open my mailbox. Sometimes when it rains, it pours.
Nobody would ever accuse Vollman of being verbose – not online, anyway.
I have examined, with considerable difficulty, a copy of the Opus Mago. Only one spell in it calls for the sacrifice of Nosferatu. The one attempting to cast this spell must not succeed. He must be stopped, at any cost.
The number of Nosferatu sacrifices required for the sacrifice is 5.
"Five vamps," Karl said. "Which means two to go."
"You can do subtraction," I said. "That's a good start. We'll have you up to the multiplication tables by next week."
"Yeah, if any of us are still here next week. What do you figure the Big Bad is – the one Vollman says is gonna happen if the spell goes off as planned?"
"The End of the World as We Know It, maybe? I think I've heard that one a few times before. And the World as We Know It is still here."
"Yeah, but maybe that's because the good guys always stopped the bad guys who were gonna cause it," Karl said. "You ever think about that?"
"Right now I'd rather think about how to find Jamieson Longworth, before his tame wizard manages to do us in. We can't save the world if we've been turned into lawn furniture."
I turned back to the computer. "Last known address for both these guys is in Abington Heights."
Karl snorted. "That explains where he got the money to make bail. Dude's got some coin, if he lives up there."