Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Pookie bumped fists and nodded. “Word is bond.”

The fortune-teller then held a fist out to Bryan. WORD IS BOND?

Bryan rolled his eyes. “What are you, sixteen years old? I’m not bumping fists, for fuck’s sake.”

Biz-Nass didn’t move his hand. Bryan looked to Pookie.

“Just do it,” Pookie said.

Bryan sighed, then bumped fists. “Word is bond.”

Biz-Nass nodded and smiled. THE GUY’S NAME IS ALDER JESSUP.

Pookie’s skin tingled. Now they really had something. “Biz, if Alder Jessup makes the arrows, who shoots them?”

I NEVER FOUND OUT THAT PART, I SWEAR.

Bryan reached out and gently took his phone. “That’s okay. Know where this Alder Jessup lives?”

Biz leaned forward, waved his right hand over the blue crystal ball. I SEE SOMETHING IN YOUR FUTURE, OFFICER DICKER PRICKER FUCKER SUCKER . SOMETHING WE MYSTICS CALL A GOOGLE SEARCH.

He looked up. THAT’S ALL I KNOW. GOOD LUCK.

Bryan offered his hand. “Thank you.” Biz-Nass shook it, then raised his palm and extended it toward Pookie.

UP HIGH, MY NIZZLE.

Pookie gave Biz-Nass a high five, then followed Bryan out of the office.

Pookie already had his cell phone in hand. “No coal for the choo-choo today, Bri-Bri. I’m calling Black Mister Burns and telling him to get anything he can on this Alder Jessup.”

Bryan nodded. He seemed to be focusing on staying calm — as if he had to focus or he’d wind up kicking the holy hell out of the first person to cross his path.

Alder Jessup

For the first time in his career, Bryan hoped things would go bad. He hoped this Alder Jessup would start some shit, or maybe just turn tail and run. That would give Bryan an excuse to take him down. Someone had to pay, and if Jessup wanted to find out how bad Bryan could hurt someone, well, Bryan would be happy to oblige.

He and Pookie sat in the parked Buick, looking out at Alder Jessup’s residence — 1969 California Street. The place stood out like a road whore at a convent. The wall-to-wall line of houses on that street all wore colorful paint — white, yellows, pastels and terra-cotta brick. Nineteen sixty-nine, on the other hand, was gray — completely devoid of color. It looked like a haunted English mansion taken from some soggy countryside estate and jammed into the neighborhood like a fat man dropping his big ass onto an already packed bus bench.

Half of an English mansion, that was. Just the left half. The right side of the house rose to a peak that just stopped . Below that peak was a half-arch that once might have been intended as an entryway for servants or horses. Where the mirror half of the gray mansion should have been sat a modern three-story brick apartment building trimmed in white.

“Peppy,” Pookie said. “Martha Stewart doesn’t use dungeon-gray enough for my taste.”

“Looks expensive,” Bryan said. “What do you think it’s worth, two million?”

Pookie laughed. “You don’t get out much, buddy. This thing is fifteen mil if it’s a penny. And it’s not a penny, in case you suck at the multiple choice. Black Mister Burns said Alder Jessup has lived here for at least sixty years. That’s all we have for now.”

Sixty years? Well, maybe Bryan would have to cool his jets. No matter how churned-up he felt inside, it wouldn’t be cool to beat the shit out of a senior citizen.

“It’s enough to get started,” he said. “Ready?”

Pookie scooped up his stack of manila folders. “Yep, let’s go.”

They slid out of the Buick and crossed the five lanes of California Street. Four concrete steps led to an archway door that looked like it belonged in a church. An intentionally rusted gate made of crossed diagonal half-inch iron bars blocked the archway. Behind the gate, more stairs, at the top of which sat a fancier door into the house proper.

The gate looked like a high-security rig, although you could reach right through the diagonal spaces between the rusted bars. In the middle of the gate was a small, cast-iron image of Sagittarius — the half-horse, half-man archer.

Pookie gripped the iron bars and gave the gate a shake. “It would take a tank to get through this.”

There was a buzzer to the right of the door. Bryan pressed it.

Moments later, the interior door at the top of the internal stairs opened. The man that descended was not what Bryan expected to see greeting them at a multimillion-dollar Pacific Heights mansion. The man stopped behind the gate. He looked at Pookie, he looked at Bryan, then he sneered.

“Who the fuck are you two ass-clowns?”

He was in his early twenties, five-eight, about a buck-fifty. He wore a black KILLSWITCH ENGAGE concert T-shirt. A black belt with a silver skull buckle held up heavy black jeans. Black combat boots completed the ensemble. His short sleeves showed off intricate tattoos running up both arms. Silver bracelets decorated both wrists: some thin loops, some thick bands with detailed engravings. A dozen small, silver earrings pierced each ear. He also had a silver loop in each eyebrow, one through his lower lip, and a thick one dangling from his septum. His pitch-black, sculpted hair hung down over his left eye.

“San Francisco Police,” Pookie said. “I’m Inspector Chang. This is Inspector Clauser. We’d like to talk to Alder Jessup.”

“About what?”

“About a murder.”

The tattooed man sneered. “Got a warrant, bitch?”

Bryan instantly disliked this kind of person, the type that hated cops for the intolerable sin of enforcing the law. Best to let Pookie handle this, or Bryan knew he’d want to rub the guy’s face against the concrete sidewalk.

“We don’t have a warrant,” Pookie said. “But if we have to go get one, someone is going in the back of a marked car, in cuffs, in front of the whole neighborhood.”

“You think I care if any of the zombies around here see me in a cop car?”

“Are you Alder Jessup?”

“No,” the tattooed man said. “I’m his grandson, Adam.”

Pookie rolled his neck, like he was trying to loosen a deep kink. “Adam, no offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’s familiar with the back of a squad car. Am I right?”

Adam nodded.

“I’m guessing Grandpa Alder isn’t. Am I right about that one, too?”

Adam stared hatefully, then nodded again.

“Fine,” Pookie said. “Now, unless you want me to come back here and haul Grampy Alder off in cuffs, stop busting our balls and let us come in.”

Adam thought it over for a second, then he opened the metal gate. He led Pookie and Bryan up the steps, through an ornate oak door and into a foyer.

“Wait right here,” Adam said. “I’ll go get Grampa.”

Bryan watched Adam bound up a beautiful staircase, the railing of which was so lacquered and polished it could pass for wood-toned glass. The man’s piercings clinked as he ran.

The foyer’s furniture, paintings and sculptures looked expensive. Bryan felt like he was standing in a museum wing. Everything, from the art to the marble floor to even the intricate wood trim on a velvet couch, exhibited some kind of archery theme: bows, arrows, arrowheads, archers.

Moments later, Adam Jessup helped his grandfather down the stairs. Alder wore an immaculate brown three-piece suit. He walked with a long wooden cane topped by a silver wolf’s head. Most of his hair was long gone, leaving a mottled scalp and a ring of fine white around his temples.

“Inspectors,” Alder said in a light, airy voice. “You need to speak with me?”

Pookie introduced himself and Bryan again, then got to it. “We’re looking for information on an arrowhead that you may have made.”

Bryan watched the Jessups carefully. Alder showed no reaction, but Adam’s eyes dilated a little — he was nervous.