Diana Rowland - Mark of the Demon

“So how did this artist encounter him?” I murmured to myself as I did another search on the artist. On a whim I pulled up LexisNexis.

I narrowed my eyes at the information on the screen. Now, wasn’t that some shit? Not only was there actually a person named Greg Cerise, but—surprise, surprise—he lived in Beaulac.

A thrill of excitement ran through me. I could go talk to him, find out what he knew about Rhyzkahl—get a viewpoint other than my aunt’s. And I could even justify going while on duty, since I knew that the murders were connected somehow to the arcane, right?

Okay, so that was a stretch. The guy drew pictures of my demon lover. That hardly qualified as a connection. I suppressed my insistent twinge of guilt and tried to ignore the voice that reminded me that the chief had recently chewed me out for acting like a nutjob. Yeah, well, the chief has no idea that the Symbol Man is working in the arcane .

I allowed myself a smug smile as I quickly printed out the address information. Being a nutjob might prove to be a job requirement .

The house didn’t look like much, just a single-story brick thing with unadorned windows and lackluster landscaping. The lawn had been mowed in the past few days and there was no trash in the yard, but it had a kept-up-just-enough look that made me suspect Mr. Cerise rented the place. A dark-blue Toyota Corolla with two flat tires was parked in the driveway, and a quick peek inside revealed what looked like a gym bag in the back seat, a pile of papers that looked like they might contain drawings, and several crumpled bags from various fast-food establishments. I jotted down the license number in my notebook on the off chance I might need it later, then made my way up the cracked walkway.

“He’s not there during the day,” I heard from behind me before I could ring the bell.

I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of a driveway on the opposite side of the street. She was easily well into her eighties, dressed in bright yellow velour sweatpants and jacket, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight that I decided the woman probably had twice as many wrinkles as were immediately evident.

“He’s usually gone all day,” she said, glancing up and down the street before crossing, chin up and a fixed smile on her face. I could see the woman’s eyes flick busily over me, from my clothing to my badge and gun, all the way down to my shoes.

I could peg this one. The ultimate in nosy neighbor. As a detective, I usually loved this sort. As a person, this was why I had a house twenty minutes away from civilization.

I gave the woman a bright smile. “I appreciate the information. I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the PD. Do you know where he works?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”

I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”

“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.

That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”

Ms. Dailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, he sits at that place and doodles in a notebook, sometimes talking and joking with those drug addicts.” She made a disgusted noise. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up just like them!”

Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone to actually reach out to those people . I knew the center she was talking about. A couple of years ago, several of the local churches had cooperated to create a community outreach center that I had to grudgingly admit was proving to be pretty effective. Though I was about as far from a churchgoer as one could be, even I had occasionally steered people who were having trouble coping toward the place. It had also become the “in” thing to be involved with for local politicians, and just about anyone of any importance was on the board of directors in some capacity.

But now I was intrigued about Mr. Cerise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said, being deliberately obtuse. “He does drugs with them?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, it’s possible! It’s not just that outreach center either. He wanders in bad sections of town, hangs out in the park, gives money to bums …” She gave a not-so-delicate shudder. “Plus, he dresses like a hippie, and with that long hair of his …” She gave a sniff. “I’ve called his landlady several times about him, but all she says is that he pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems.” She made a face. “I don’t know why she won’t listen to me.”

“Did she ever live here?” I had a suspicion as to why the landlady didn’t pay much heed to Ms. Dailey.

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, for several years. Then she got married and moved to the other end of the parish. She put the place up for rent, and he moved in near the beginning of this year.”

No wonder she doesn’t listen to you. She’s dealt with you in person , I thought, controlling my urge to snicker.

“Is Mr. Cerise in trouble?” Ms. Dailey continued, her expression eager and hopeful, very obviously wanting it to be true so she could have proof that all her suspicions were correct.

“Oh, no!” I said with wide-eyed disingenuousness. “I’m just here to talk to him about his volunteer work with crippled children,” I lied smoothly.

Her smile turned rigid and forced. Ms. Dailey’s disappointment was obviously crushing, but she put on a brave face. “Ah. I see. How nice.”

“Is Mr. Cerise a bad neighbor?”

Ms. Dailey wagged her head. “Oh, he just worries me to death.” Now she was changing her act to Concerned Neighbor. “He comes in and out at such strange hours.” Then she leaned close and lowered her voice. “But at least he isn’t black,” she said, giving me a knowing nod. “I was worried when Dana told me she was renting the place out, and I even asked her to make sure she didn’t rent it to any of the wrong sort.”

I somehow managed to keep my face immobile. “Well, don’t you worry about anything, ma’am, and I appreciate the information about where to find him.”

Ms. Dailey gave a sniff, then spun and marched back across to her house, bright yellow velour swishing with each step.

I watched her go, feeling ever so slightly soiled, then returned to my car. If I were that landlady, I think I’d have been tempted to rent to the “wrong” person just to annoy Ms. Nora Dailey.

Most of thechurches that had sponsored the outreach center were in the middle of town, a lovely area with clean streets and flowering trees and a pleasant view of the lake. The outreach center was nowhere near there, since the nice people who diligently attended worship didn’t care to have the tourist section of town marred by such a thing and didn’t want to have to actually see any of the people who used the center. As a result, the outreach center was located several miles away, on the outskirts of town, well away from the lake and any possible contact with tourists.

Trash lingered a bit longer in the streets here, the sidewalk was cracked, and the few trees were scraggly, pathetic things that did little to improve the looks of the area. The stores were a far cry from the dainty antiques shops and upscale clothing stores that could be found in midtown. Instead, there were scatterings of secondhand-clothing stores, pawnshops, and the occasional bail bondsman. A diner of questionable cleanliness did a fairly steady business across the street from the center.