Including pictures of Rhyzkahl.
Okay, it probably wasn’t actually him, but how the hell had this guy managed to draw something so damn close? I hit the print button on my computer as I continued to scrutinize the pictures. I hadn’t examined the comic very closely at my aunt’s house, so I took the opportunity now.
It was him. The more I looked at it, the more certain I became. The white-blond hair, the Adonis-like build, the enigmatic smile, and the crystal-blue ancient eyes—holy shit, the eyes! Somehow this artist had seen or met Rhyzkahl before.
I clicked through the site, looking for information about the artist, but it was surprisingly bare. That was odd. You’d think that an artist would want to promote himself. Or herself. There was only a name: Greg Cerise.
But even if there wasn’t much artist information on the site, there was a page all about how to order and where to order from. To my surprise, the address for mail order was a local P.O. box.
“So how did this artist encounter him?” I murmured to myself as I did another search on the artist. On a whim I pulled up LexisNexis.
I narrowed my eyes at the information on the screen. Now, wasn’t that some shit? Not only was there actually a person named Greg Cerise, but—surprise, surprise—he lived in Beaulac.
A thrill of excitement ran through me. I could go talk to him, find out what he knew about Rhyzkahl—get a viewpoint other than my aunt’s. And I could even justify going while on duty, since I knew that the murders were connected somehow to the arcane, right?
Okay, so that was a stretch. The guy drew pictures of my demon lover. That hardly qualified as a connection. I suppressed my insistent twinge of guilt and tried to ignore the voice that reminded me that the chief had recently chewed me out for acting like a nutjob. Yeah, well, the chief has no idea that the Symbol Man is working in the arcane.
I allowed myself a smug smile as I quickly printed out the address information. Being a nutjob might prove to be a job requirement.
THE HOUSE DIDN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH, JUST A SINGLE-STORY brick thing with unadorned windows and lackluster landscaping. The lawn had been mowed in the past few days and there was no trash in the yard, but it had a kept-up-just-enough look that made me suspect Mr. Cerise rented the place. A dark-blue Toyota Corolla with two flat tires was parked in the driveway, and a quick peek inside revealed what looked like a gym bag in the back seat, a pile of papers that looked like they might contain drawings, and several crumpled bags from various fast-food establishments. I jotted down the license number in my notebook on the off chance I might need it later, then made my way up the cracked walkway.
“He’s not there during the day,” I heard from behind me before I could ring the bell.
I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of a driveway on the opposite side of the street. She was easily well into her eighties, dressed in bright yellow velour sweatpants and jacket, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight that I decided the woman probably had twice as many wrinkles as were immediately evident.
“He’s usually gone all day,” she said, glancing up and down the street before crossing, chin up and a fixed smile on her face. I could see the woman’s eyes flick busily over me, from my clothing to my badge and gun, all the way down to my shoes.
I could peg this one. The ultimate in nosy neighbor. As a detective, I usually loved this sort. As a person, this was why I had a house twenty minutes away from civilization.
I gave the woman a bright smile. “I appreciate the information. I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the PD. Do you know where he works?”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”
I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”
“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.
That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”