Bad Blood Read online

  Jesus (ironically pronounced “Hey-Zeus” and, again, no relation), the part-time assistant I’d inherited from my uncle along with the fichus, the caseload and the rent on a second-floor office in a historic building downtown, was gone by the time I arrived. Uncle Christos had described the place as charming—and it was, if charming meant cracked tiles in the entryway, cracked paint on the walls and nary a closet. I couldn’t help but think that any one of those noir detectives whose exploits I’d devoured in my youth—Marlowe, Archer, Hammer, Spade—would have been at home in the seedy surroundings.

  On the upside, we had high ceilings, honest-to-God moldings and warmly painted walls that I called buttermilk, but that Jesus assured me was “crème anglaise”. Since Jesus, as the only one who understood our filing system, was the keeper of all knowledge, it wasn’t wise to cross him. I let him have his little victory. The sepia-tone pictures of old L.A. Uncle Christos had spaced around the office added class, but did nothing to liven the place up.

  Just to thumb my nose at all the gravitas, I’d added touches to my own office, like the singing fish mounted above my door, which for sanity’s sake I’d removed the batteries from within a week. I’d also strung chili-pepper lights above my windows for the pleasingly tacky effect. There didn’t seem to be any good place for fuzzy dice.

  It was going on three months since Uncle had bolted for parts unknown, leaving the whole kit and caboodle—somehow the place made me think in words like that—in my lap. The winds of change, not to mention an actual color palette, were due to blow through at any moment. Must and dust and gravitas were not my bag. There had to be a way to mod the place up on a budget and still impress the clients. I’d just been too busy to take matters in hand.

  I headed straight for the coffeemaker in the kitchenette off Uncle’s office and busied myself with getting a pot started, psyching myself up to dash my client’s hopes and dreams. It wasn’t that I wussed out over delivering bad news—that was an occupational hazard—more that it was his case that had put me face-to-face with a killer and I was in no mood for an argument over whether or not I’d earned my fee. The retainer was non-refundable, said so right in the contract, but when the chips were down, the haggling would commence and any balances due were hell to collect.

  Five minutes later I was playing Freecell on my computer, not as a stalling technique—perish the thought—just as something to do while I got a bit more caffeine into my system and gathered my thoughts. But my concentration was shot all to hell and after being stumped two games in a row, I had to admit defeat or further blow my statistics. Sighing, I closed down the game and opened my Rolodex.

  Kasim King answered on the very first ring, making me wonder whether Circe’s death had already hit the news or if he was just anxious for her reply.

  “Mr. King?” I asked, just to be sure.

  “Speaking. Ms. Karacis?”

  He’d heard my voice once, two days ago when he hired me. Either he was, as I suspected, waiting for my call or he had a good ear for voices even when distorted over phone lines.

  “That’s me. Have you heard the news yet?”

  A beat, and then, “What news?”

  “Mr. King, I’m afraid I was unable to present your proposal to Ms. Holland. She was killed today.”

  “Killed? She’s dead?”

  I’d expected dejection, resignation maybe, but not wonder and even, maybe, hope.

  Puzzled, I answered, “Yes, sadly, I can confirm that personally. Would you like me to return your proposal or is there someone else at her company you’d like me to approach?”

  Circe, it was well-known, had clung tightly to the reins of her talent agency, never letting anyone else’s star shine brightly enough to wash out her own, but there’d been rumors recently of a partnership—all very wink, wink, nudge, nudge in the trade magazines Jesus left around the office.

  “Circe’s dead?” he repeated, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t know it was even possible.”

  “Mr. King?”

  “Sorry. Sorry, I was just—thinking. Well, I guess that changes everything. No need to return the envelope. Just, I don’t know, burn it. Shred it. Whatever.”

  O-kay, I thought. “There’s one more thing,” I continued, hating to kill the odd relief Circe’s death seemed to have inspired, “since I was on the scene, the police may be interested in the case that brought me there. Unless you want to come forward, I’ll continue to keep things confidential until I’m hit with a warrant.”

  Another beat. “Thanks for the warning. How about I come by and relieve you of that envelope and you do whatever else you have to do?”

  Definite caution there. Curiouser and curiouser. I’d assumed the envelope contained pages from a screenplay or maybe headshots—though given Mr. King’s apparent age and, er, weathered condition, my money was on the former—certainly nothing that needed to be burned, shredded or kept from the police. Maybe King was paranoid, though that wouldn’t explain his strange reaction to Circe’s death. Then there was that odd comment about how he “didn’t know it was possible”. A million questions vied for attention, but none that I could focus on if I expected to keep up my end of the conversation.

  “That sounds fine. When would you like to come by?”

  “How about now?”

  “I’m just on my way out,” I found myself saying. “Tomorrow would be better.”

  “What time do you open?”

  After I’d hung up, I pulled the envelope from inside my jacket pocket and sat it on the desk in front of me. Somewhere along the line, my subconscious, knowing that my conscious would object, had taken Armani’s words “seals can be broken” straight to heart. I picked up the envelope again for study—sturdy, manila, a bit mangled from the alleyway scuffle, sealed solely by the gummy backing. Not exactly high security; easy enough to open and reclose with no one the wiser.

  I struggled with myself. On the one hand, the contents could have nothing to do with Circe’s murder—which nobody was paying me to investigate in any case. King was clearly surprised to hear of the death and didn’t even pretend to sorrow, which surely he would have done had he been guilty, unless he was being far too clever. On the other hand, there was that whole curiosity thing. Was I actually capable of turning it over to King without looking inside?

  I tabled the question in favor of another. Could King really believe that Circe was the Circe of myth and legend? It would explain the surprise about her death, but come on. I mean, sure, I’d flippantly thought of Circe that way, partly based on the infectious ravings of my grandmother, who fervently believed the gods walked among us, and partly because the Hollywood scuttlebutt seemed to confirm that whatever Circe was, it was both more and less than human. Still, it seemed about as likely as—well—me truly turning a man to stone. Or a scaly mutant murderer? my inner devil’s advocate taunted.

  Okay, imagining for a moment that we were dealing with that Circe, didn’t goddess-hood go hand-in-hand with immortality? I racked my brain, wishing I’d humored Yiayia a bit more when she went on and on about the Olympians. If I remembered correctly, pantheonic history, mythology, whatever you wanted to call it, was pretty inconsistent on the invincibility of gods, goddesses and their progeny. The gorgons, supposedly of my own family tree, were sisters born of the same divine mother (Ceto) and father (Phorcys), yet two were immortal and the third, Medusa, inexplicably was not. Come to think of it, Circe’s own brother Phaethon had been killed when Zeus struck him down for driving Helios’s sun chariot too close to the Earth. So, either there were levels of immortality or all it really meant was that you lived until someone was properly motivated to see you dead.

  In that case, the amazing thing was not that Circe had been murdered, but that it had taken so long. Just off the top of my head, I could think of a number of people she’d pissed off, perhaps mortally: Odysseus, who she’d held for over a year after turning his men to swine; Penelope, his long-suffering wife;
Poseidon or Glaucus, depending on whose “history” you read, because Circe’d turned the beloved nymph Scylla into a multi-headed monster; Scylla herself; even Picus, who she’d morphed into a woodpecker (of all things!). But these grudges were centuries old.

  The envelope called to me. I tried to drown it out, searching the Internet for more recent references to Circe. It was fascinating reading. In the now, Circe Holland had been linked to everybody from Michael Eisner to gag-me-with-a-silver-spoon child stars Mary Jo and Katie Mann. Based on the numerous articles that took her name in vain, she’d poached stars from other heavy hitters like CAA and ICM. By all accounts, this was not a woman anyone wanted as an adversary. Her list of enemies read like an L.A. phone book.

  I’d fiddled, I’d futzed, but still the envelope called. I knew there was no way short of knockout drops that I’d be sleeping tonight without a peep at the contents. So, I started the coffeemaker up again, this time without grounds, to work up some steam.

  In the meanwhile, as penance, I flipped through the Strohmeyer file looking for inspiration. I’d hit a wall in the search for Mrs. S’s missing hound, Honey, which had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth around the same time her husband had jumped ship. When she’d come in a week ago bearing a dog carrier and a, pardon the phrase, hangdog expression, I’d been all ready to tell her I didn’t do missing pooch cases. Unfortunately, pride didn’t cover office expenses. Plus, it might have been just the least big intriguing that she didn’t show any concern over the absent Mr. Strohmeyer and that the carrier was so new it bore the remnants of the sale tag. I wasn’t sure how exactly it added up, but that part of me that had devoured Nancy Drew, Nero Wolfe and everything in between smelled a mystery and, as experience had shown, I was constitutionally incapable of walking away.

  Only now that I’d run through the retainer was it clear what I’d let myself in for. Dogs didn’t leave paper trails—at least not the bureaucratically traceable kind. AWOL husbands who might know their hound’s whereabouts were another matter. Or should have been anyway. Only this one refused to be so cooperative. No, he had to be clever and pull a complete Houdini. I was stumped.

  I scanned my notes and the photos Mrs. S had supplied, but I just couldn’t seem to focus. Still, I knew there was a part of my mind taking it all in. Processing. Maybe this time something would click.

  Backbrain whirring like my computer hard drive, I carried the envelope into the kitchenette to check on the building steam. Water filled the carafe and condensation fogged the glass. We were good to go.

  I removed the carafe from the machine and sat it on the counter with the top open to release the steam. Then I held the flap of the envelope above the mist—close enough for effect, far enough to keep away the telltale warpage from moisture. Uncle’s desk was closer and cleaner than mine, so I set the envelope down on the surface, grabbed his silver letter opener and painfully slowly eased it under the flap. Success!

  Now the trick was to disturb the contents as little as possible. I fled back to my office for a pair of gloves and my digital camera, just in case the contents were interesting enough to record for posterity. The gloves, which we bought in bulk, were not the sturdier and more expensive surgical models, but cheap plastic disposables that felt, more or less, like wearing sandwich bags. Prepped now, I regained my seat and gently slid the single sheet of paper from the envelope. When I finished reading, I started all over again.

  Dear Circe:

  Neo Cain here. Excuse the unorthodox communiqué. If only you’d return my calls…but I know how precious your time is, so I’ll get right to the point. I have a proposal: my life for my daughter’s. Despite all my warnings to her, my daughter Elyssa signed one of your damned contracts. I know that I no longer, thanks to my own stupidity and your persuasion, have my own youth and vitality and so I’ll have to offer more to compensate. What I propose is fifteen of my years for ten of Elyssa’s. I know I can’t appeal to your compassion, so let me appeal to your pocket. This will keep my daughter, your investment, young, beautiful and earning you megabucks longer than under your current agreement.

  I couldn’t convince her that the Big Break wasn’t worth her life, but I can correct that failing if only you’ll let me. The paperwork is enclosed, lacking only your signature and whatever voodoo you do to enforce it. You know how to reach me with your decision.

  Neo Cain

  The big quake could not have caused greater shock. Never in a million years would I have guessed that Kasim King and Neo Cain were one and the same. I mean, he’d seemed a bit familiar, but lord he’d gotten old. And Circe prolonging her life by stealing years from others in exchange for fame and fortune? It boggled the mind. Was it possible that immortality came free, but youth cost? If so, Circe’s death could only be a boon to society. Presumably, the drain on Circe’s victims would end with her death.

  That was an awful lot of motive for murder—salvation or revenge—assuming her victims knew what they were agreeing to. Clearly, Neo Cain had, either before or after the fact. If Circe’s contract spelled it out, why wasn’t she denounced as a lunatic? Was her success enough for people to sell their lives short for the promise of glitz and adoration? Or was it in the fine print, something unread or easily laughed off as an eccentric delusion?

  My camera mocked me from the desktop. There was no point in photographing the letter and attached agreement. Who would I show them to? It might make a good case for my client’s insanity should he be implicated, but the police weren’t likely to pursue the whole magical angle.

  And there it was, the three-hundred-pound gorilla, glaring me in the face and daring me to look away. One wacko client, a few rantings—oh yeah, and a freakish killer—and I was ready to be fitted for my straightjacket and padded cell. Magic and divinity time-sharing our mundane little world. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, only to be instantly squelched by lack of air. I gasped, trying to suck oxygen past the sudden vise around my lungs. A panic attack? Me? Surely I was made of sterner stuff. I fought it down, doing my best to clear my head, slow my inhalations.

  I’d been so smug all this time, laughing at my family’s quirks, humoring Yiayia when she talked about the origin of her beard or the power my mother had to stop men in their tracks or how so many famous people were really gods in disguise come to Hollywood to regain a measure of their former adoration, and here it was…

  My natural cynicism reasserted itself. None of this could exactly be called conclusive. My client could be passed off as a madman. Circe’s name might be no more than coincidence. And the fish-man? B-movie extra. Sideshow freak—we had several in my family alone. Yeah, how do you explain being flung into Circe’s minion without so much as a touch? my inner killjoy asked. Special effect, I answered defiantly. After all, this was Holly-weird. Probably all this wasn’t even abnormal. I’d moved here less than a year ago; it wasn’t as if I’d seen all the town had to offer.

  It was thin and I knew it, like putting my hands over my ears and la-la-la-ing the nastiness away, but I was able to breathe again. Undoubtedly, there’d be a limited shelf life on my willful ignorance. I needed a serious dose of normalcy to stave off its expiration.

  Carefully, I slid the papers back into the envelope and used the lingering steam to moisten the glue so that I could refasten the flap. Then I carried the envelope back to my desk, locked it in the top drawer and reached for the phone to call my best friend, the most normal person I knew, Christie Rostenkowski.

  The phone rang just as my hand landed.

  “Karacis Investigations,” I answered.

  “Ohmagod, did you hear?” Christie gushed without so much as a hello. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Circe Holland was murdered practically around the corner from me! I literally could have walked right into it. I pass that alley every day. And in broad daylight!”

  Christie was like that, phased by all the wrong things, untouched by others. Between her parents’ money and her own blonde-hair-blue-eyed supermodel looks,
people fell all over themselves to shelter Christie from reality’s little speed bumps.

  That was, in fact, how we’d met, when I’d backed down two bozos who were hassling her in a pizza parlor. She made me think of Cindy Lou Who. Faced with the Grinch himself, she too would have been mollified by a lame story and a pat on the head. I liked her because it was near impossible not to; she got a kick out of me because I was “like, so totally yourself”. I never had asked her who else I was supposed to be.

  Anyway, she’d paused and needed an answer. “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Well, isn’t it awful?” she moaned.

  “Did you know her?” Christie was an actress/model of the commercial, catalogue and occasional walk-on variety.

  “That’s kind of a non sequitur, isn’t it? I mean, is it any less awful if I didn’t?”

  Points for her. “No,” I answered, drawing the word out. “I’m just saying that not every death is necessarily a tragedy.”

  Christie gasped, and I wondered if I shouldn’t maybe have kept that thought to myself. Moral ambiguity was probably not a common visitor to her world.

  “What I mean is, what if cutting short one life prolonged others?” I realized even as I said it that Circe’s scheme had essentially been this in reverse. Was I really on the moral high ground here or had I just argued shades of the same crime?

  “You know something,” she accused.

  Damn, I had to watch myself.

  “I was there,” I admitted.

  Immediately, Christie’s voice changed. “Oh, you poor thing. Do you want me to come over? I could bring chocolate or something. I was going to ask if you wanted to come clubbing with me tonight. A friend got me on the list for Ondago’s.”