Diana Rowland - Blood of the Demon

I took an uneasy breath and slowly sat up, images and sensations from the dream shimmering through my head and already beginning to fade like fog under a rising sun. Had that really been just a dream? He’d seemed to know that I was about to feel like shit. But, then again, I could think of countless times when my alarm clock had been incorporated into my dream right before I’d woken, so maybe that was the same kind of thing.

Through my bedroom window I could see that dawn was turning the eastern sky orange and purple, and I abruptly realized what had happened. The potencies had shifted from lunar to solar, and my link with Kehlirik had to re-form. I took another deep breath, nausea all but gone now. Okay, that sucked major ass. Did Kehlirik feel that too?

I glanced at my clock and sighed. It was barely past six a.m., which meant that I’d managed to get only about four hours of sleep.

Complete with a dream about Rhyzkahl. I’m dreaming about him only because Kehlirik mentioned him. That’s all. He was just on my mind .

Suuuure.

I thought about sticking my head under the pillow and trying for more sleep, but the beeping of the pager on my nightstand derailed that line of thought.

I sighed and scrolled through the message: Signal 29, Ruby Est . A death—but at least not a murder, since the signal for that was a 30. So it was someone who had died from either an accident or illness. Hopefully that meant it would be a nice and simple open-and-shut case, but even as I thought it, I knew I was probably jinxing myself.

THE ADDRESS WAS for a section of Beaulac that I very seldom had cause to go into. Ruby Estates was the elite neighborhood for people who had more money than they knew what to do with. It was a gated community with its own security service—though, like any other security service, it was mostly staffed by the kind of people who could be hired for eight dollars an hour. All of the lots were on or near the lakefront, at least an acre in size, and the neighborhood in general was lovely, wooded, and quiet. I had no doubt that there was a fair measure of drug use and domestic violence within the walls in this subdivision, but it was kept quiet enough that we seldom got called out to deal with it.

The address wasn’t hard to find. It was the one with several police cars and an ambulance in front of it—far more attention than any regular person would ever get for a slip and fall. But this was the house of Parish Councilman Davis Sharp and a stunning example of what shit-loads of money could do for you. Davis Sharp had cleared the majority of the trees off his land so that everyone driving by could see his three-story mansion—complete with an absurdly broad staircase that swept up to the second level like some plantation gone mad. Personally, I thought it was a hideous waste of what was surely a few million dollars. But, then again, I lived in a house with peeling paint in the middle of nowhere, so who was I to judge?

In addition to being a parish councilman, Davis Sharp was a prominent restaurateur and had been making noises about running for the open congressional seat in the district. He was charismatic and well connected, and his restaurant, Sharp’s, was where people went to be seen in St. Long Parish.

It wasn’t technically a crime scene, but the front yard had been cordoned off anyway, yellow crime-scene tape flapping sluggishly in the dull breeze that drifted off the lake. I had to admit it was a lovely view, though the serenity of the lake stood in sharp contrast to the police vehicles lined up along the driveway. I also couldn’t help wishing that the breeze would pick up a bit. I’d thrown on my standard detective garb of dress slacks and tailored short-sleeved blouse, accessorized with gun and badge. No jacket. Not in this heat. It was barely eight a.m., and already I could feel sweat prickling under my arms.

I ducked under the tape, eager to get inside the house—more for the promise of air-conditioning than from a desire to get started on the investigation. A uniformed officer stood by the door with his arms crossed over his chest and an intensely bored expression on his tanned face. Allen Demma had close to twenty years with the department—a corporal who would probably never be promoted any higher. In fact, he’d been a corporal when I first started on the road. He was great at following orders and abiding by the rules, but he just didn’t have the drive to be a leader of others. Personally I didn’t think he’d be with the department much longer. I knew he was approaching burnout and was frustrated at being repeatedly passed over for promotion. On the other hand, he wasn’t old enough to draw retirement yet, and I had no idea what someone like him—who’d been a cop his entire life—would do for a living if he left law enforcement.

I didn’t like thinking about what I would do if I ever decided to stop being a cop. It was so much a part of who I was that I had a hard time imagining doing anything else.

“Hey, Allen,” I said. “Whatcha got?”

Allen gave me a small nod of greeting as he pulled his notebook out of the pocket in his shirt. “Davis Sharp was last seen alive by the maid, Auri Cordova, last night. She cooked dinner, then left at about six p.m.,” he recited, tone flat and clipped. “At approximately five this morning, she returned and let herself in and found Sharp on the floor of the shower in the master bathroom, the water still running. She shut the water off and realized that he was dead, at which time she called 911.”

I made notes of my own on my pad. “Thanks, Allen. Is there a Mrs. Sharp?”

He glanced at his notebook again. “The maid said that Mr. Sharp informed her that Elena Sharp left the day before yesterday to spend some time at their condo in Mandeville. The coroner’s office has already been in touch with Mrs. Sharp and made notification.”

I frowned. “Do you know if Mrs. Sharp is on her way back?”

“No idea. Sorry.”

“All right. Well, I appreciate it. You’ve been a big help.”

He gave a short nod of response. I bet he was recently passed over for promotion again . I couldn’t think of anything I could say to him, so I took the easy way out and said nothing as I continued on into the house.

There were a couple of uniformed officers inside, who directed me upstairs to the master bedroom, then returned to their deep discussion of LSU football. The house was even more impressive on the inside. Wallpaper that looked like expensive fabric, marble floors, dark-wood molding, and all of the lovely decorative pieces that were perfectly placed to draw the eye to the next lovely decorative piece. The stairs were grand and sweeping—the sort you see in movies where the beautiful woman comes slowly down while being admired by everyone below. I made my way up the stairs, feeling oddly conspicuous and out of place—grimacing at the way I clumped and certain that everyone was watching me. I even glanced back when I reached the top and was stupidly relieved to see that no one had paid the slightest bit of attention.

The second floor was more of the same as the first, with window dressings that matched the bedding in the master bedroom, and a bathroom that seemed to take up one entire side of the house. It was to that bathroom that I was directed now.

I’d never met Davis Sharp in person and had never been flush enough to be willing to drop the cash that an evening at his restaurant would cost me, but I’d seen enough pictures of him in the society section of the newspaper to know that he’d been a well-styled man with a very professional appearance, as one would expect of an aspiring politician. Which, of course, made his current situation all the more jarring and definitely snicker-inducing, though everyone on the scene was being exceedingly careful not to let their amusement show, at the risk of being slammed for it later.