Diana Rowland - Secrets of the Demon

“All right, well keep in mind that there’s a lot of attention on you and that task force now. Make sure that you have justification for whatever you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave me a wave of dismissal and I made my exit, mulling over what he’d said. I’d been a cop long enough to be unsurprised that someone with social or political clout would try to influence an ongoing investigation. Yet I could understand why Lida’s uncle would try and do so. If his niece truly had participated in something as boneheaded as a publicity stunt—and, to make matters worse, one that got out of control—it was no surprise that he’d want to shield her from repercussions that would no doubt destroy her career and affect her future.

I’d also been a cop long enough to know that the world was not fair and just, and that people with money and influence often did not have to suffer the same tribulations that the “common” folk did. I still vividly remembered an incident from my days as a road cop. My sergeant had asked me to stay after roll call, and after everyone else had left, he’d handed me a speeding ticket that I’d written the day before. With a tight expression, he’d then asked me to please change it to a ticket for not wearing a seat belt.

“So, who is it?” I’d asked.

He’d sighed and shrugged. “Who knows. It came down from someone in the upper ranks. Someone they don’t want to piss off.”

And, I’d dutifully crossed out the speeding charge and written in the one for seat belt use. Sure, I could have made a stand against influence and the good ol’ boy network. But I also knew you had to pick your battles, and I didn’t want to stay a road cop forever.

The chief’s comment about the task force bothered me, though. What if he was pressured to take me off it? A pang went through me at the thought. Even though I had no desire to leave Beaulac PD, working with the task force gave me—and my abilities—a feeling of legitimacy that I’d never had before. Now I summoned demons for good reasons—to find missing people and stop killers and protect potential victims. I liked that. A lot.

But he’s not the type to bow to political pressure, right? The chief was good people. I had a huge amount of respect for him. But the chief of police is an appointed position, I reminded myself. If push came to shove, I doubted he’d be willing to sacrifice his job so that I could stay on the task force.

My gut was churning at the direction my thoughts were taking. And when I returned to my office there was yet another note on the door, though this one told me to go see my sergeant, Cory Crawford. Continuing down the hall to where his door stood open, I looked in to see him reading what looked like a report, a baffled expression on his face. Crawford was a stout man engaged in a constant battle with a midsection that wanted to be more than stout. His hair had gone gray long ago, but he continued to dye it a dull brown—an almost perfect match to the color of his eyes. He was similarly unimaginative in his wardrobe—brown, brown, and more brown—except when it came to his ties. Those were always wild and psychedelic, in eye-bleeding colors and patterns. He’d recently grown his mustache back—which was, of course, also dyed. I’d never tell him, but I actually thought he looked better with the mustache. There weren’t too many men who could pull it off, but he was definitely one of them.

I tapped on his door frame. “You wanted to see me? I can come back if you’re in the middle of something.”

He glanced up, then waved me in. “Nah, come on in. Glad for the break. I’m trying to decipher Pellini’s report. Makes me wonder if English is really his first language.”

I resisted the urge to snicker or make any other sort of commentary and dropped into the chair in front of the desk.

Crawford rubbed his eyes. “God, his reports give me headaches. You already went to see the chief?”

“Yes, he’s recognized my innate brilliance and intends to promote me to deputy chief.”

“Good, then you can approve my vacation time,” Crawford said without missing a beat. I laughed and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Funny, I figured it had more to do with the whole Lida Moran thing.”

“Yeah, well, that might have come up too,” I said with a casual shrug. Then I made a face. “You know how it is. People with pull will pull.”

Crawford’s expression soured. “At least you understand. It sucks, but you’re usually pretty good at keeping your head out of your ass.” He turned and shuffled through papers on his desk. “Anyway, I need you to take some cases. I hate to throw you the boring shit, but it’s your own damn fault for not being an incompetent fucktard.”

“Sorry, Sarge. I’ll have to work on that.”

Crawford scowled as he handed two folders to me. “Spare me that, please. We already have our quota in this department. Now get out.”

I gave him a sarcastic salute, then retreated to my own office with the folders.

I skimmed them quickly—one was a supposed burglary, but on closer reading it became clear that it was a property dispute related to a divorce and that the “burgling” wife still had legal access to the residence in question. That one was easily resolved—at least for now—with a few phone calls to the respective lawyers of the divorcing couple.

The other was a missing person report that had come in only about an hour ago. Victor Kerry, white male, fifty-six years old, hadn’t shown up for his regular training session at his gym last Friday or this morning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I started to toss the report back onto the desk, then paused as the name of the reporting person caught my attention. Roger Peeler? That’s the drummer from Lida’s band. I vaguely remembered Lida’s comment about him being a personal trainer. I went back and read through his statement more carefully, though still with an admittedly jaundiced eye. Personally I saw absolutely nothing strange or suspicious about skipping out on a session with a personal trainer.

I finished reading the report, still far from convinced that there was anything to justify the complaint. From what I could determine, Victor Kerry was a financial planner and CPA with no family in the area. Roger Peeler had stated that Mr. Kerry was extraordinarily diligent about his workouts, and when he’d failed to show up for two sessions in a row Mr. Peeler had gone to Mr. Kerry’s residence and his office, but had failed to locate him at either place.

“Wow, talk about your stalkers,” I muttered. It seemed far more likely to me that Mr. Kerry had gone away for the weekend and had seen no reason to notify his personal trainer. In other words, the probability is high that this is a bullshit case.

On the other hand, the universe was gifting me with an opportunity to question one of the members of Ether Madhouse. I wasn’t about to let that pass that by. Even if it did mean going to a gym.

Magnolia Fitness Center was the largest gym in St. Long parish, and the only one of any decent quality in Beaulac. I was a member there, though calling my attendance “sporadic” would have been generous. I tended to go through spasms of desire to get fit that usually lasted about two weeks and would then die down for several months. I was quite sure that Magnolia Fitness absolutely loved me, since I was kind enough to allow them to deduct the dues from my checking account every month, and I avoided adding any wear or tear to their equipment by the clever technique of remaining on my couch at home.