David Coe: Spell Blind

I shook my head. A white sheet lay over Gracia’s body, but I could still see her ravaged face in my mind. In fact, I still can see it to this day. “I have no idea,” I told her at the time.

The second body was discovered about a month later. Also a young woman, also killed by magic, her face mutilated in the same way. Others followed, some of them men, though most of the victims were women. All of them were young, and all of them died the same way. And, it turned out, all of the killings took place about a week before the full moon. Sometimes it took longer to find the bodies, but always the coroner put the time of death around the first quarter moon. I still have no idea what this means, but I know it’s important.

Each body had been found in either Red Mountain Park, east of Mesa, or in South Mountain Park, on the west side of Tempe, so those of us working the case referred to our perp as the East Side Parks Killer. But the media fixated on the ritual aspect of the killings-the facial mutilation-and dubbed the killings the Blind Angel murders.

There had been no shortage of media coverage of the killings, but now that Claudia Deegan had been murdered it was likely to turn into a frenzy. Randolph Deegan, Claudia’s father, was Arizona’s most powerful and popular politician. Word was that he was running for governor this year, and that a presidential run might be in his future. Everything the Deegans did was news. Claudia’s death would be on the front page of every paper in the country; the Arizona papers wouldn’t be covering anything else.

Reading the article left little doubt in my mind that the Deegan girl had been murdered by the Parks Killer. The medical examiner claimed that she’d died two nights ago-the night of the quarter moon. Her body had been found yesterday in South Mountain Park. The article also mentioned that like so many of the other victims, Claudia Deegan had drugs in her blood and on her person at the time she died. Spark to be specific, which in addition to being addictive and expensive, also happened to be one of the drugs some weremystes used to suppress the effects of the phasings. As to the rest, the paper dealt with the details as delicately as it could.

A spokesperson for Senator Deegan’s family refused to comment on the condition of Miss Deegan’s body. However, sources within the police department confirmed that her face had been disfigured in a manner consistent with past Blind Angel killings.

The paper said nothing about magic, of course. It never did. No one at the scene would be able to confirm that magic had killed the Deegans’ daughter. That was why Kona needed me.

For the second time that day, I drove back toward Scottsdale, this time heading into the foothills near the city. Traffic was starting to build again, but aside from the stop-and-go, the drive from my place in Chandler to the Deegan estate wasn’t a difficult one. Still, judging from the difference between the neighborhood where I have my office, and the community in which the senator and his family live, you might have thought I’d entered another country.

The estate was located on a twisting road with more million-dollar houses than you could shake a stick at, all of them gated, all of them with clear views of Camelback Mountain.

As I rounded the last turn before the Deegan house I found the road half-blocked by a huge mob of reporters and cops. More than a dozen news vans lined the road; state patrol cruisers had been parked strategically to control traffic in both directions. There were sound booms and cameras everywhere-still and video. I slowed the Z-ster and crept past it all. As I did, the media people peered into the car, hoping to recognize someone famous. They all looked vaguely disappointed when all they saw was some guy in an old bomber jacket with wild hair and a three-day beard.

A uniformed cop stopped me and signaled for me to lower my window.

“You live up here?” he asked.

I almost laughed. “No. I’m a PI. I’m on my way to the Deegan place. Kona Shaw asked me to come. You can call ahead and check with her if you want.”

He shook his head, straightened, and waved me on.

The Deegans’ driveway was maybe thirty yards beyond the mob scene; nice for them, but I doubt their neighbors were thrilled with the arrangement. I guess it paid to be the most powerful man in Arizona.

The wrought-iron gate in front of the senator’s place was guarded by two guys in navy slacks and powder-blue, short-sleeve dress shirts with the insignia of some security company I’d never heard of emblazoned on the sleeves. They were built like linebackers, with necks about as thick as my thigh. I also noticed that they carried.40 caliber Glock 22s in their shoulder harnesses. A good choice; that’s what I carry, too.

“Can I help you?” one of them growled at me through my driver-side window as the Z-ster idled in front of the gate.

“Jay Fearsson to see Detective Kona Shaw.”

“License?”

I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my driver’s license and handed it to him. As an afterthought I took off my sunglasses. Most security guys want to see your eyes.

He studied the picture, looked at me, and handed back my wallet. “They’re expecting you.” He nodded to his partner and a moment later the gate slid open with a low electrical whir. “Everyone’s in the main house.”

I nodded and steered the Z-ster to a spot next to about nine other cars. Four of them were worth more than I make in a year, even a good year. Of the other five, two were police cruisers and two of the others were cheaper models with police tags.

I didn’t like this. Not at all. Aside from Kona, most of these people thought the worst of me. Many of them had nothing but contempt for what they thought I’d become; others pitied me, which might have been worse. A voice in my head screamed at me to leave now, while I had the chance. If not for the way Namid had pinned me with his stare when the phone rang, I would have. I got out of the car.

The driveway, if you could call it that, was an enormous cobblestone courtyard with a small bronze statue and fountain at the center. On the south side of the courtyard, arrayed in a semicircle, stood three buildings: two smaller ones-guest houses probably-flanking the main house. All the buildings were built in Spanish Mission style, which was popular among homeowners in Paradise Valley and throughout the Phoenix area. A cobblestone path to the front door of the mansion wound past an elaborate desert garden; hummingbirds darted among an array of glass feeders.

The door opened as I approached the front landing. I expected to see Kona. Instead, two people I didn’t know emerged from the house. One was a short, slender man with thinning hair and tortoise shell glasses. He was wearing charcoal suit pants and a white dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened. He had dark rings under his eyes and a deep crease in his forehead, as if his face was stuck in a permanent grimace. He struck me as someone in the midst of a really bad day. Still, he managed a smile as he extended a hand to the woman standing beside him.

She was taller, and very attractive. She had long, curly brown hair that she wore pulled back from her face, and she wore dark-rimmed glasses with those small rectangular lenses that college professors tend to like. They were cute on her, though they made her look way too intelligent for a guy like me. Call it a cop’s instinct, but I had a feeling that she was every bit as smart as she appeared.

“Thank you for coming, Billie,” the man said. “I trust you’ll be kinder to the senator than you’ve been recently. At least until we’re through this.”

“No promises, Mister Wriker,” the woman said, smiling at him. “But I hope that you’ll convey my condolences to Senator and Missus Deegan.”