To Dance With the Devil

“We have video of Bubba relieving Kevin at six o’clock, and of Kevin leaving the building with Paulie. And the guy in the kitchen is too short and dark to be Kevin.” The way Alex said it, I could tell she’d told him before—and probably more than once.



What was his problem? I used telepathy to ask Dom and Alex simultaneously. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but he really was starting to get on my nerves. It was a good thing Fred and I had stopped for food for me on the way in or I might be getting really irritable.



“My problem,” Shea said, “is that every time you get involved in a case, bodies start stacking up like cord wood.”



I sighed. He was right. But it wasn’t my fault. It was my line of work and the level of bad guys I was going up against. This particular batch seemed to think that their people were as disposable as tissues. Somebody needed to stop them. I knew the police were trying, and now the feds were involved. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to have faith in them. Besides, the bad guys had singled me out for their attention from the start. Call it intuition, or paranoia, or whatever the hell else you want, but I had this sinking feeling that I was going to be involved in this to the bitter end.



I spoke clearly, enunciating enough that the answer wasn’t quite insulting. “Not … my … fault.”



Roberto, my attorney, spoke up. “I think we’re done here. My client has been most cooperative. She’s given a statement. She was not physically present at the scene, and you have nothing that could connect her to any crime.” He rose. I rose.



“We’re not finished until I say so,” Shea snarled and gestured for me to sit back down. I didn’t and he took a threatening step toward me.



Dom straightened up. That’s all. He didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything other than move away from the wall. But Shea subsided.



Roberto opened the door and we left, walking along a wide hall that led to the fire stairs at one end and the cubicle farm at the other. We hadn’t quite reached the cubicles when Dom’s voice stopped me.



“Yo, Graves, hang on a minute.” I turned back as he stepped out of the interrogation room and started walking toward me; we met in the middle of the hall. Roberto waited nearby, still within earshot, ready to do his duty if need be but giving me at least the illusion of privacy if the conversation with Dom wasn’t business.



“What’s up?” I asked.



“Glad to see you looking so much better.”



“Thanks. I got the flowers. They were great.”



“Yeah, the wife picked them out.” He shifted his weight a little uncomfortably. In the better light of the hallway I saw he looked tired, and while his suit was still crisp, it fit loosely, like he’d lost a little weight. He sighed. “Look, Shea’s an ass, but he isn’t wrong. The body count is climbing and we’re no closer to solving this than we were when we started. These guys have no limits. They attacked a freaking hospital, for Christ’s sake.”



“I know. I know.” I met his gaze. “I have some ideas, but nothing solid. What I’d really like to do is change things up—go on the offense. Because, frankly, playing defense just isn’t working.”



“No shit,” Alex agreed, joining us in the hall.



“What do you have in mind?” Dom asked.



I told him.



“You don’t ask much,” he said sourly. “Give me your number. I’ll let you know what I find out.”



23



When Gilda Levy hadn’t been able to reach me by phone or e-mail, she’d contacted Dawna. Isaac was missing. I called Gilda right away. She said Isaac had been terribly upset since I’d spoken to him. He’d left the shop abruptly, shortly after noon yesterday, telling Gilda he had urgent business to take care of. No one had heard from him since.



Did I know where he’d gone? No. But I had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with our meeting—and with Connor Finn. I was worried. Isaac is a skilled mage and he’s a tough old coot. He’d taken the news that something might be going on in the territory he was responsible for very seriously. I just hoped he hadn’t done something foolish as a result. Because tough as he was, and powerful as he was, he was still an old man. He’d never told me his age, but he had to be close to eighty.



I felt physically ill from worry and stress by the time I reached the Furnace Creek exit.



Isaac, where the hell are you? I thought hard, trying to picture him in my head. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Please don’t let him be dead. It wasn’t like him to disappear without a word. He would never have missed Gilda’s birthday lunch. He wouldn’t worry Gilda like that.



I wished there was something I could do, but there wasn’t.



I was meeting Dom Rizzoli for breakfast at Irma’s Diner, a little place just off the expressway, nestled between diesel pumps and a car wash sized to accommodate semis. It had taken Dom some time to get things arranged, but he’d managed it.



Irma’s had the design of a classic fifties diner: a long narrow building with rounded windows and lots of chrome. Three different colors of neon chased around the upper trim and lit the big sign that showed a waitress holding a full tray. I pulled into the only empty spot in a large parking lot, slathered myself with sunscreen, and steeled myself for a dash through the sunshine.



The inside of the building was just what I’d expected. There was a long counter, with seats at fixed intervals. Booths lined the outside wall. The seating was all covered in bright turquoise vinyl; the low ceiling and walls were made of bright white plastic that shone in the light from the windows.



Rizzoli occupied a booth just steps away from the emergency exit, near the narrow hall that led to the restrooms—the only shady spot in the place. He wore jeans, a leather bomber jacket, and a sour expression. On the table in front of him was a white ceramic cup filled with coffee and a saucer with a half-eaten piece of cherry pie smothered in whipped cream.



“Hi, Dom.” I slid into the booth across from him.



“Celia.”



The waitress came over, an older black woman with broad hips and a ready smile. She set down a steaming cup of coffee and a little metal carrier filled with plastic tubs of cream and packets of sweetener. Dom raised his eyebrows when I ordered, but I ignored him. When the waitress left, he spoke.



“Explain to me again why we’re doing this?” Dom looked across the table at me, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen it. Since we’ve been through some hellish times together, it hit me hard that I had pushed him to his limits.



“Connor Finn has found a way to work magic from inside the Needle.”



Rizzoli shook his head. “Not possible.”



“He’s done it, Dom. I don’t know how, but he has. And he’s planning a big curse to wipe out the last of the Garzas. My source says he has to do it on the full moon.”



“So, Monday night. Your client is the Garza girl?”



“Yes, but she’s not the only person with Garza bloodlines.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was almost too hot to drink and strong enough to stand on its own without the cup. Perfect.



“Our records indicate she’s the last.” Dom quirked an eyebrow at me.



I dropped the bomb. “Connor Finn and his son, Jack, have Garza blood. They just don’t know it.”



His eyes went wide. For a long moment he just stared at me. Finally, he spoke. “You’re sure?”



“A ghost told me.”



“And ghosts can’t lie.” He took a bite of pie. His expression was thoughtful. “Connor won’t believe you. It’ll just piss him off if you tell him.”



“Maybe, but I’ve got to give it a shot. Lives are at stake. And while I couldn’t care less whether or not he survives”—in fact, I’d soooooo much rather he didn’t, but I wasn’t about to say that out loud—“Michelle’s just a kid. And then there’s his son.”



“What do you know about Jack Finn?”



“Not much, but I’ve met him. He’s one of the men who left me on the beach to burn.”



Rizzoli’s eyes darkened to almost black, his expression hardening to stone. “Sounds to me like the world might be better off without him.”



I certainly wouldn’t miss him. But I wasn’t the one we needed to worry about. “I’m hoping his father doesn’t agree with you.”



Dom was saved from framing a response to that by the arrival of my order, a heaping bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup. He gave a snort as I dug in. “I still can’t believe you ordered that.”



“Hey, it’s comfort food. I need comfort.”



“Well, when you’re finished being comforted, we’d better get moving. I had to pull a hell of a lot of strings to arrange this. We don’t want to be late.”



I took a couple more bites before shoving the bowl aside.



Rizzoli reached into his wallet, withdrawing a twenty. Slipping it under the edge of his saucer, he rose. “Let’s do this.”



The Needle is in the middle of nowhere. It’s surrounded by inhospitable desert, where the temperature rises into the triple digits. The heat is brutal, the landscape sere. There is only one road to the tall, narrow tower that rises from the heat shimmers. Made from smooth concrete, its construction had been no ordinary feat. Magic had been combined with skilled workmanship to make it an inescapable fortress. The tower gleamed silver in the blinding light of the morning sun. It was thirty stories tall, with a row of windows every ten floors.



I expected to feel the protective magics woven around the Needle from miles away, and I did. But it was not the burning pain that it should have been. The spells I felt were weak, like delicate spiderwebs brushing against my senses.



That was very bad. I turned to Dom. “Something’s wrong.”



Rizzoli glanced at me. The dark sunglasses he wore made it hard to read his expression, but at a guess he was worried. He should be. There were supposed to be concentric rings of wards surrounding the prison, stretching out for miles.