Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

The two men continued down the street, Lister occasionally glancing over his shoulder. It struck Richard that maybe there were others watching the men, security men like the gorillas he’d laid out. He checked, but saw no sign of anyone, either on foot or in slow-moving vehicles.

When the men turned right into a side street, Richard got worried that he might lose them and ran across the road. Luckily, there was a gap in the traffic, but he warned himself to be more careful. If a driver had hit his horn, Lister’s attention would have been attracted. The two men were still in sight, deep in conversation. They stopped outside a building for a few moments, still talking, and then went in.

Richard strode up the street, examining the building. There was a panel of buttons and names to the right-lawyers, accountants and the like. He waited until someone came out. A blonde woman, speaking into her cell phone, paid no attention when Richard slipped in past her. The two men were by the elevators, the taller of them moving his right hand up and down animatedly. Richard decided to get closer, trusting his changed appearance. Lister’s expression was tense, his eyes locked on his companion’s face.

“…the camp,” the tall man said. “Everyone is in place. What about your people?”

Lister’s voice was barely audible. He lowered his gaze as people came out of another elevator. Richard took out a newspaper and opened it in front of him, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.

“You know they’re ready.” Gordy Lister’s tone grew sharper. “But what about the killer?”

“We can’t risk the operation by taking everyone off it.”

Lister shook his head. “So we run the risk of being screwed by one of our own?”

“We have no idea of who might be the next target?”

“Same as before, I reckon-there’s no shortage of occult weirdoes in this city.”

“Gordon,” the tall man said, lowering his voice. “The company must be protected at all costs.”

“What do you think I’m do-” Lister broke off when he saw that his companion had turned toward the street door.

Richard heard the loud click of heels to his left. He watched as a striking woman with short brown hair approached. She was wearing a sober pantsuit.

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” The man in the gray coat lifted his head. Richard saw that the skin on his face was tight and unnaturally smooth. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Sorry. A meeting ran late.”

Lister pressed the call button. When the elevator came, the three of them went inside.

Richard Bonhoff watched the doors close behind them. He couldn’t risk joining them in such an enclosed space. In the meantime, his mind was jumping hoops, trying to make sense of what he’d overheard. Gordy Lister had said people here were ready. Who? The twins? And who was the killer? Could that be the one the papers were calling the Occult Killer?

Jesus Christ, he said to himself. What have I got myself into? And what has happened to Gwen and Randy?

Joe Greenbaum was sitting in an interview room on the fifth floor of the MPDC building. He’d been there for half an hour and the plastic cup of thin coffee he’d been given had long gone cold. He was beginning to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He had tried to talk to one of the detectives on the Singer case over the phone, but the man had insisted Joe come to headquarters to give a statement. That was all very well, but he had work to do. The deadline for his article on high-level corruption in the U.S. automobile industry was only a week away and he hadn’t even started pulling his notes together.

The door opened and a heavily built black man came in.

“Mr. Greenbaum? I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He sat down opposite Joe and eyed the untouched cup of coffee. “I’ve gotten used to it over the years. The good lord knows what it’s done to my innards.”

“Probably killed off all the bugs from the burgers in the cafeteria.”

Clem Simmons laughed. “You eaten down there?”

“No, but I’ve heard stories.”

Simmons’s expression became more severe. “So, you’ve got some information on the Singer murder.”

Joe Greenbaum raised his shoulders. “Information? I suppose you could call it that. It’s just background, I’d say.”

The detective opened his notebook. “I’ll take anything you’ve got.”

“First of all, I want to ask you about Matt Wells.” Greenbaum shifted his bulk on the chair and grimaced. “Is this thing an instrument of torture?”

Simmons smiled briefly and looked at him with more interest. “What about Matt Wells?”

“He can’t really be a suspect like they’re saying in the papers. It’s ridiculous.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Come on, Detective. I know Matt Wells. No way would he have killed that poor man.”

“You know Matt Wells.”

“Sure. I saw him several times in the weeks before he disappeared.”

Clem Simmons kept his tone neutral. “You a friend of his?”

Joe Greenbaum smiled. “Yeah. I first met him at a crime-writing conference here a few years back. He can drink almost as much as I can.”

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me, sir. What exactly is it you do?”

“Freelance journalist. I specialize in corporate and organized crime.” He could see what the detective thought about that. Journalists were only a few rungs up the ladder from mass murderers.

“So when you saw Matt Wells, was it business or pleasure?”

“Oh, both, I’d say.” Greenbaum stretched backward and the chair creaked ominously. “We have similar interests. He writes a crime column for a British daily.”

Simmons already knew that-he’d done an Internet search after Wells first became a suspect for the Monsieur Hexie murder. “Why are you so sure he’s innocent? His fingerprints were found at the scene.”

“Give me a break, Detective. We both know prints can be transferred. It’s obvious that Matt’s being framed. I mean, there’s no evidence tying him to the other so-called occult murders, is there?”

“I can’t confirm or deny that,” Simmons said.

Joe Greenbaum smiled. “That’s okay, Detective. I can see that you’re not exactly sold on Matt’s guilt. Is it true that he was spotted in Maine yesterday?”

“That’s way outside my jurisdiction.”

“All right.” The reporter’s expression grew more serious. “Listen to me now. Matt Wells’s life has been under threat for three years. Have you heard about the Soul Collector?”

“His ex-girlfriend? Yeah, I read the reports.”

“Okay. So you know she’s gunning for him. I’d say you should be trying to nail her for these murders. She’s been involved in that kind of thing before in the U.K. and she’s likely to have samples of his fingerprints.”

Clem Simmons chewed the end of his pen. He had wondered about the woman called Sara Robbins. The problem was, absolutely no evidence pointed to her involvement.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she was behind the disappearance of Matt and his policewoman lover,” Greenbaum went on. “I know, there’s no proof. But she’s definitely capable of killing savagely and with the utmost precision.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any leads on her.”

The reporter rubbed his unshaven cheek. “It’s not really my area. I’m asking around, though. You can be sure I’ll pass on anything I hear.”

Simmons nodded. “All right, sir. Now, what about Professor Singer?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s nothing concrete, like I said, but you should check his e-mail correspondence from around a year ago.”

“Why’s that?”

Greenbaum’s tone suddenly grew sharper. “Because some far-right assholes started threatening him and his family.”