Defender (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 11) Read online

  “Well, hopefully it won’t come to that,” she said lightly, then headed off to the bathroom.

  The shower did feel good. Jack had decent water pressure in his apartment, unlike hers, which could be temperamental if anyone else on her side of the building also decided to shower at the same time she did. Even so, she didn’t linger for very long, just made sure her hair and body and face were clean, and then got out and dried off.

  Since she didn’t have to be anywhere, and in fact was probably going to be stuck in the apartment all day, Kate didn’t bother with the blow dryer, once again working serum through her hair to keep it from frizzing as it air-dried. Quick makeup of a little blush and mascara and gloss, not a full face like she’d put on if she was going to work. Then her jeans and the short-sleeved embroidered blouse she’d brought, reminding her that she really needed to put together a list of things to get from her apartment. Her cheeks heated as she thought of Jack rummaging through her underwear drawer to fetch her more bras and panties. She only had enough to get through another day, however, which meant he’d have to fetch those items for her, no matter how embarrassing it might be.

  When she came back to the living room, it was to find him sitting on the couch, talking to someone named Larry. His boss? Possibly.

  Jack gave a brief nod to acknowledge her presence, but clearly he was going to be occupied for the next few minutes. Well, that would give her a chance to compile the list of things she needed from her apartment. Since he’d already called her and she therefore had his number stored in her phone, she could simply text the list to him and be done with it.

  She pecked away at the screen on her phone, the list getting longer than she’d first imagined it would. Problem was, she really didn’t know how long she was going to be here, how many days she’d have to make her wardrobe last. Of course there must be a laundry room here at the complex, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t be allowed outside alone to handle even that menial task. It seemed safest to have him bring enough items to get her through a week. She prayed that this situation wouldn’t take any longer than that to sort itself out — no matter what Jack said, she couldn’t see how they’d be so forbearing at her job as to let her take a whole week off without some kind of repercussions. Anyway, she’d be completely stir-crazy by then, even if Jack would have retrieved her laptop from her apartment by then.

  You’ll probably have jumped Jack’s bones out of desperation by that point, she thought as she went back over the list. Sexual tension could be a real bitch. Or at least, she was just discovering that fun little fact. With Jeff, she hadn’t waited long enough for any tension to even build. They’d met at a party when they were both going to ASU, and back then he’d been much trimmer, although thick with muscle because of being on the football team. She’d thought him handsome, and very different from the skinny, not-quite-nerdy guys she’d preferred up until that point, and they’d progressed from dating to sleeping together to moving in together in a scant six months. Too bad she hadn’t stuck with her previous type, though. Several of those semi-nerdy dates of hers had later become geologists and engineers, people with whom she’d have had much more in common.

  She’d never thought she’d ever be attracted to a cop, either, but here she was. Then again, Jack Sandoval wasn’t your ordinary garden-variety beat cop. She doubted there were too many homicide detectives who also happened to be warlocks.

  He ended the call and looked over at her, one eyebrow slightly tilted, as if asking what she’d just been typing on her phone.

  “I’m putting together the list of things I’ll need from my apartment,” she said. “Actually, I think I’ve got it all figured out. Okay if I text it to you?”

  “Sure,” he replied, although he didn’t sound too thrilled.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he said at once, and offered her a smile. “Yes, send it over. I’m just irritated with Larry, my department head. He got the brilliant idea last night that I should be interviewing every scumbag who’s gotten caught in the last eighteen months painting satanic graffiti or who’s been involved in any kind of a crime that had some sort of occult element to it. Total waste of time.”

  “You’re sure it couldn’t be anyone like that?” Even as she asked the question, she realized it was a foolish one. No high school kid dabbling in black magic had caused her car to crash. Trying not to sigh, she touched the screen on her phone to send the list to Jack.

  “Positive. We’re dealing with real magic here, not some punk who looked up The Satanic Bible on the Internet and now thinks he’s some kind of bad-ass.” His phone binged, and he glanced down at it where it sat on the coffee table. “Got your list. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to swing by, but I’ll figure it out. Hopefully I won’t have to waste my day interviewing kids who got a little too carried away playing Call of Cthulhu.”

  Despite the situation, Kate couldn’t help grinning at that remark. She could just see Jack looming over some high school kid who thought he’d score some cool points by drawing pentagrams in the bathroom of the local AMC Theatre or something, his impatience ratcheting up with every moment he had to spend on that sort of nonsense rather than trying to find the real killer.

  “Hopefully not,” she agreed.

  Someone knocked at the door then, and Jack was on his feet at once to answer it. Kate got up from the chair where she’d been sitting and slid her phone into the pocket of her jeans, even though it was really too big to fit properly, and she’d have to take it out before she sat down again.

  On the landing outside were a man and a woman Kate had never seen before but guessed must be Caitlin and Alex. He looked to be around Kate’s age, or close to it, while she guessed that Caitlin was probably a few years younger. Her bright, coppery hair had been pulled back into a loose French braid, and she was casually dressed, in a T-shirt and jeans and flats. Alex also wore jeans, but with a polo shirt and running shoes. They both looked as if they were on their way to a shopping expedition at Costco or something, rather than providing protection to someone who was being stalked by a murderous warlock.

  “Kate, this is Alex and Caitlin,” Jack said, somewhat unnecessarily, since she couldn’t think who else it might be. Still, Kate supposed it was a good thing that he’d made some sort of introduction.

  “Hi,” Kate said, as the couple also offered their greetings.

  They came inside, and Jack shut the door behind them. “I need to get going,” he went on, very crisp and businesslike. “Just a couple of rules. Stick together, no matter what. It’s better if you stay here and order in lunch — there are a bunch of menus in the drawer in the kitchen next to the fridge — but if you do go out, don’t get separated, and don’t go any farther than the shopping center down on the corner. Keep the windows shut. If it gets too hot, turn up the air.”

  Alex, who was darkly handsome like his cousin Jack, raised an eyebrow. “You’re not fooling around, are you?”

  “No,” Jack said, his tone just this side of curt. “And neither should any of you. I still don’t know exactly what we’re up against, but so far, he — or she, or it — makes Matías Escobar look like Mr. Rogers. This apartment is safe. Your car should be safe. But don’t pretend that anything else is.”

  Caitlin, who had the fair complexion of a redhead to begin with, looked even paler. “We understand, Jack. We’ll be careful.”

  “Good. I’m off shift at seven, but if I have an opportunity to swing by during the day, I will. If anything looks or feels or even smells weird to you, call me.” His gaze traveled from Caitlin to Alex and finally to Kate, who did her best not to flush under that piercing regard. Something about the hard set of his mouth softened slightly, and he went on, “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m just being careful. I do need to get going, though.”

  “We’ll be fine, Jack,” Kate told him. “You go and do what you have to.”

  He nodded, looked over at Caitlin and Alex, and said, “Thanks,” and then grabbed
his suit jacket from where it had been draped over the arm of the couch and put it on, concealing the shoulder holster he wore. A final “be careful,” and he was gone.

  Kate and Alex and Caitlin looked at one another, and for a few seconds, no one said anything at all. Then Caitlin gave a lopsided grin. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use some more coffee. Then we can all sit down and get acquainted. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Kate said. Anything to get the ball rolling. Even so, as she had them come into the kitchen for her so they could make their selections from the rack of Keurig cups, she had a feeling this was going to be a very long day.

  9

  Jack was already in a foul mood that morning, and it didn’t improve when he saw the group of misfits Larry had pulled in for questioning. While he knew that Alex and Caitlin were both capable, and that probably the worst thing any of them, including Kate, would be subjected to was unfortunate choices in their Netflix binge-watching that day, he still felt on edge, worrying that he had missed something, that despite his efforts to reassure himself everything would be fine, something awful would happen while he was stuck here at the station, talking to some of Scottsdale’s worst dregs.

  A lot of people might have been surprised to learn that Scottsdale had dregs at all, but even the most affluent communities had their fringe dwellers, and that was who Jack would have to deal with today. Six of them in all, ranging from nineteen to thirty-nine. Each one had priors — vandalism, or minor dealing, or, in the case of Bret Harkins, the oldest of the bunch, breaking and entering, which had led to an eighteen-month stint in the state prison in Florence.

  The kids — the ones under twenty-two — Jack spoke with briefly and then had released, since they had alibis that matched the time frame of Jeff Nichols’ murder. A couple of the older ones were definitely shifty, but even they passed the sniff test when it came to the timing of the crime, so after a bit more in-depth questioning, they, too got released back into the wild.

  Harkins, though…of course he wasn’t a warlock, any more than Jack was the star of the latest Fast and the Furious movie, but he’d done time in Florence, which just happened to be the same prison where Matías Escobar had been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Now, it was most likely that a two-bit criminal like Harkins had never crossed paths with Escobar, a lifer, but if he had, well, there was a connection that needed to be explored. Especially since Harkins’ last run-in with the police had been out of character, for a domestic disturbance during which his girlfriend claimed he’d gotten violent after she threw out some “devil books” she’d found in their apartment.

  At first glance, Bret Harkins wasn’t terribly impressive. A good six inches shorter than Jack, with a lined face that belied his thirty-nine years, he slouched into the interview room and gave some serious side-eye to the deputy who’d escorted him there before transferring his baleful, pale stare to Jack.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Harkins said.

  Which, if Jack wanted to get snarky about grammar, meant that presumably he had done something. However, pointing out that detail would only get this interview started off on the wrong foot, so he decided it was best to take the high road. “I just wanted to talk to you, Mr. Harkins,” he said, his tone pleasantly neutral. “Once you settle my mind on a few points, you’ll be free to go.”

  “What points?” Harkins asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Can you tell me where you were on the evening of April fourth?”

  “I was home. Damn parole doesn’t let me do anything except go to and from my job.”

  “Ah.” Jack opened the file in front of him and scanned its contents. “So you’re working for Arroyo Waste Management?”

  “Yeah. It was the only thing I could get.”

  Harkins was actually lucky to get that job. While waste management wasn’t exactly most people’s dream career, it actually paid decently and offered benefits. The ex-con could have done a lot worse. “Is there someone who can vouch for your being at home? Your girlfriend?”

  The other man’s scowl creased itself further into his lined forehead. “She bailed last month. I’m by myself, unless you count the cat. She left the damn cat because she couldn’t take it with her to her new place.”

  Poor cat. Harkins didn’t look the type who was much into cuddling fluffy animals. “So you don’t have anyone to verify that you were actually home between six-thirty and seven-thirty on the evening of April fourth?”

  “No. Except….” The man paused there and scratched behind his left ear, his gaze sliding away from Jack’s.

  “Except what, Mr. Harkins?”

  “I was online. On my computer,” he added, as if that phrase needed some kind of clarification.

  Probably watching porn, Jack thought wryly, but he didn’t mention that possibility, only waited in silence. People tended to hate quiet, would do whatever it took to fill it.

  Clearly, Bret Harkins was typical in that regard, because he shifted uneasily in his chair and then said, “I was in a chat room. Sometimes that’s the best way to meet people, you know?”

  By “people,” Jack assumed Harkins meant women. No doubt he’d told whoever he was chatting with that he was a six-foot-two lawyer, or something along those lines. Anything to make himself more appealing. Usually, Jack wouldn’t care one way or another what kind of lies people told each other online, since eventually they’d be found out if the decision was ever made for them to meet in person.

  “No, I wouldn’t know,” Jack said. “I don’t hang out much online.”

  Harkins frowned, his eyes narrowing as he took in the detective who confronted him. His nostrils flared slightly, as though he wished he could come up with a satisfying rejoinder but knew he was outmatched. “Anyway, I should be able to prove that, right? Time stamps or whatever?”

  That sort of thing should be easy enough to follow up. Jack doubted it would be necessary, though; the ex-con’s offer of information that could be verified without too much trouble pretty much guaranteed he was telling the truth. He could be bluffing, but his attitude didn’t have that particular smell about it. “Yes, the chat program would show when you logged in and logged out. I’ll let you know if we need to follow up on that.” Jack opened the file in front of him and pretended to read its contents, although he already knew what it contained — and which questions he wanted to ask. “Can you tell me something about your arrest on December fifteenth?”

  The scowl was back, this time digging itself so deeply into Harkins’ forehead that Jack was sure it must be creating new lines in addition to worsening the ones which were already there. “Ellen and I got in an argument. That’s all. She blew things way out of proportion.”

  “In what way?”

  Harkins crossed his arms and settled back in his chair. “Why you asking me about this? The cops questioned me and let me go, since they could tell I hadn’t touched Ellen, that everything was fine in our apartment.”

  “Because it’s relevant information, Mr. Harkins. Or would you prefer that I make a note that you’re being uncooperative? It’s something your parole officer might want to hear about.”

  “Fine.” The ex-con might as well have spat the word. “Ellen was getting on my case anyway — she got into all that Jesus stuff while I was in Florence, tried to make it sound as if her praying every day was why I got out with only half my time served.” A crooked smile touched Harkins’ thin lips as he added, “Maybe Jesus had something to do with all the overcrowding, which was the real reason I got let out early. But I didn’t have the energy to argue with her about it.”

  “So she was getting on your case about going to church?”

  A crafty look entered the other man’s eyes, and he glanced away for a second. Then he lifted his shoulders, but the shrug looked too practiced, as if he was doing his best to appear as if he wasn’t truly concerned about the current topic of conversation. “Sort of. I’d never been into that kind of thing anyway, and I learned a few things whi
le I was inside that told me how much of a waste of time it really was.”

  “Such as?”

  “Just things.”

  Jack tapped his pen against the file folder in front of him. “When you were in Florence, did you ever meet a man named Matías Escobar?”

  At once Harkins went rigid. He’d already given every indication of being a shitty liar, but this tell was even worse than some of the others Jack had observed. “Who?”

  “Come on, Bret. You’ll need to do better than that. When I said Escobar’s name just then, it looked as if someone had goosed you.”

  That same wary gleam came and went in Bret Harkins’ eyes. “I heard of him,” he said after a discernible pause. “Doesn’t mean I met him, or knew him.”

  A lie, but Jack decided to go with it for now, to see how much he could get out of Harkins by going at this by an oblique angle. “So you heard of him. What did you hear?”

  “Things. He was in for killing a girl. Some kind of satanic crap, I guess. I heard about it on the news not too long before they sent me away. I guess he shanked a guy while he was in there, but his posse covered it up.”

  Posse? It was Jack’s turn to frown, although he did his best to smooth his expression as soon as he could. The last thing he wanted was for Bret Harkins to see that he’d struck a nerve. Still, it bothered him that Escobar had insinuated himself with one of the prison’s gangs. His talent for bending everyone around him to his will had been stripped from him, but apparently he still possessed enough native charisma — and toughness — to get close to some of those who wielded their own power while behind bars. Right then, Jack wished he’d done more to keep track of the disgraced warlock, because maybe then he would have gotten word of his doings in prison, would have had a better idea of exactly what he was up to.