Doc gave a humorless chuckle. “It’s also only been one day. Hardly enough time for anything to take hold.” He blew out his breath. “I have a feeling I’ll be spending the rest of the day looking through a microscope.”
“Barry Landrieu was a known drug user,” I said. “And Evelyn Stark was an alcoholic.”
He gave a nod. “My investigator told me that Landrieu went to jail a few years ago, and when he got out he supposedly cleaned up and was doing the whole straight-and-narrow thing.”
“You don’t see that very often,” I said.
“Well, apparently his little sister died of an overdose while he was in prison. Guess that was his wakeup call.”
Shock and regret coiled through me. I made it out of that life and never looked back. But what could I have done for her? Given her pep talks? Pressure her to get into rehab? No way to know if anything would have helped, but once I had my own act together surely I could have tried.
Doc was still talking, thankfully oblivious to my reaction. I yanked my attention back to him and did my best to shove down the guilt.
“Anyway, I’ll put a rush on the tox screen. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that’s what it is.”
I gave him a dutiful nod in response. He had his avenues of investigation, and I had mine. Now I knew for certain that the two deaths were related and not simply by coincidence. My next hunch was that the presence of the graa was connected. Now I simply had to hunt down a summoner.
Easy.
Chapter 9
I left the morgue, still wondering how the hell I was going to accomplish my grand goal of finding this other summoner. We were private people out of self-preservation, and there wasn’t exactly a local directory. I fully intended to check and see if my aunt had any leads, but other than that I didn’t know what else I could do except wait for the summoner to tip his or her hand again.
By the time I made it to the station the sky had cleared to the kind of brilliant blue that only happened in southern winters when it was stupid-cold outside. No snow anymore, which was a relief, but the chill wind that swept around the building was anything but brisk and refreshing. Stabbing-icy-knives-of-death wind was probably a better description.
I made sure the cuff was concealed under my coat sleeve as I hurried up to the building. The last thing I wanted was to deal with questions about it. Actually the last thing I wanted was to have to keep wearing the damn thing. This whole mild nausea thing was a real downer.
I gave myself a mental slap and scowl as I entered the door marked “Investigations.” Yeah, I didn’t care to feel crummy. But getting summoned to the demon sphere? That was a whole ’nuther level of Do Not Want. I could deal with a bit of queasy stomach.
Warm air wrapped pleasantly behind me, and I quickly pulled the door closed to block out the wind.
“Damn, Gillian, afraid of a little cold weather?”
The nasal tenor startled me. I spun to see Detectives Boudreaux and Pellini sitting in the cramped waiting area usually reserved for people who had appointments to see one of the investigators. I straightened, instantly annoyed that I’d allowed my surprise to show.
“I’m a delicate southern flower, Boudreaux,” I said to the detective who could best be described as weasely. Skinny to the point of emaciated, he looked like a meth addict, but not as healthy. It didn’t look like he’d shaved in at least two days, but he was in no danger of growing anything resembling an actual beard. The patchy stubble on his chin looked like a fur coat left for a month in a moth factory. The stains on his khaki pants indicated he was in the long habit of wiping his hands on them instead of a napkin, his shirt had more wrinkles than a smoker’s lips, and his tie looked like it had been knotted with a square knot. Yet despite his complete lack of professional demeanor, he managed to close enough cases to stay on in Investigations. He was lazy, couldn’t investigate worth a shit, and was annoying as all hell, but rumor had it that he was a brilliant interrogator and could finesse information and confessions out of the most hard-core and stubborn types. “The chill does terrible things to my sunny disposition,” I added.
Pellini shifted on the ancient couch and pulled his belt further up under the pudge of his belly. “Delicate, my ass,” he said with a snort of sour amusement from beneath his mustache. “You could take Boudreaux here down with your eyes closed.”
I blinked. Had that been a compliment? From Pellini? Our conversational exchanges usually involved various insults, not-so-veiled slurs, and generally disagreeable banter. I had no doubt that he would have been more than happy in the “old days” of police work when respecting a suspect’s civil rights was a laughable concept. “What are you two doing sitting out here?” I asked, deciding to pretend the possible compliment hadn’t happened. Too many weird things were happening lately. A Nice Pellini would put me right over the edge.