“The weird part is, I get the impression she sort of thinks she’s in charge.”
“I got that feeling too.” He nodded. “She did have an interesting reaction when you mentioned the Fangshi.”
My phone rang. “It’s Mez.” Into the phone I said, “What’s up?”
“I got the results on Franklin’s samples. Mr. Kostorov’s blood has traces of the two ingredients of the red pills plus the yohimbe.”
“You’re sure it’s the same?”
“The results are consistent.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “Two cases just became one.”
Beside me, Morales shot me an interested look as finished off his sandwich.
“You tell Franklin yet?” I asked Mez.
“Yep. He said ‘shiiiiiit,’” he said, doing his best impersonation of the M.E.
“Sounds about right. Did you fill in Gardner?”
“She seemed pleased, for Gardner. Something along the lines of ‘They better not fuck it up now.’”
“Talk about a vote of confidence.” After that, I quickly hung up with him and filled Morales in on the situation. By the time I was done, he’d finished his beer and mine was growing warm.
“So, Valentine was peddling a bad potion that caused killer erections. He got the ingredients for some of that potion from the Chinese coven. My guess is the Chinese found out he was screwing up their potion and decided to take him out of the equation.”
“Right. We really need to talk to that widow.”
“But we can’t talk to her unless she gets in touch with us. So, we’re basically at another dead end.”
I took a long swallow of room-temperature beer. “What do you think about setting up surveillance at the massage parlor?”
“I’ll call Shadi. Gardner already okayed the manpower.”
My phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but with so many balls in the air, I never knew who would call. “Prospero.”
“Leave me alone,” a raspy female voice yelled.
I hesitated. “Um, you called me. Who is this?”
“Mona Kostorov.”
“Oh, hi, ma’am. Thank you for calling.”
She made a disgusted sound.
“Anyway,” I said slowly, “it’s really important that we have a chance to talk to you. Is there any way we could set up a place to meet? We’d be happy to come to you.”
“I said, leave me alone!” She hung up.
I looked at the phone for a few moments, as if it might offer some sort of clue about what just happened.
“Who was that?” Morales asked.
“The widow Kostorov.”
“How’d it go?”
“She yelled and hung up on me.”
“So, she goes in the hostile witness column, then?”
I tossed my phone on the table. “What a pain in the ass.”
“Kate, her husband just died.”
“She called me.”
“Well, you have her number now. We can try again tomorrow. But maybe next time, I should do the talking.”
* * *
When I arrived home that evening, I opened the door into a kitchen filled with smoke.
Through the haze, I located a backside sticking out of my oven. “Damn it all to Hera!” the voice echoed from inside.
“Baba?” I called. “Are you okay?”
“My pierogis are burned, but otherwise I’m hunky dory.” She pulled her body out of the oven and held out a tray bearing a dozen blackened lumps. She tossed it on top of the stove with a muttered Polish curse. “Now what am I going to take?”
I set my bag on the table and went to open the window over the sink. “Take where?”
She tossed her long gray braid over her shoulder. That evening, she was wearing a purple tie-dyed T-shirt that read, Don’t Be A Basic Witch. Beneath that, she wore a pair of denim shorts that hung down to her knees, and a pair of Birkenstocks with purple socks that came up to mid-calf. “One of my friends’ husbands died last night.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “What happened?”
“I haven’t gotten the whole story, but it’s probably the usual—ticker gave out.” She delivered this news in the same tone someone might use to share the time.
Living with a septuagenarian meant I got a whole new perspective on mortality. It seemed like every few weeks, one of Baba’s friends passed away. If my friends were dying that frequently, I’d be a wreck. But Baba and the rest of her buddies took it all in stride. I asked her about it one time and she said, “Well, I don’t understand how you see all that violence every day, but you manage.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “me and some of the other ladies are organizing a food delivery.” She glanced at the remains of her efforts. “Luckily, I made some cookies earlier and I can take over one of my special medicinal teas.” She held up a large mason jar filled with a liquid the color of swamp water. “I call this one Widow Juice.”
I stifled a groan. Baba wasn’t an Adept, but she was a witch. It’s sort of the difference between a professional chef and a home cook. She made all sorts of home remedies, including therapeutic teas and bath oils, as one might expect. But she also had this weird hobby of making strange teas that she claimed cured everything from psoriasis to being unattractive to the opposite sex. With a name like Widow Juice, I was too scared to ask what it did.
“That’s nice,” I said diplomatically.
She shook her head. “Poor Mona,” she said, half to herself. “Sergei died on their anniversary.”
I froze. “Mona?”
She nodded.
“Your friend’s last name wouldn’t be Kostorov, would it?”
“How did you know?”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “I had a chat with Mona earlier.”
She held up a hand. “Back up—how do you know them?”
I sighed and threw the bills on the table. “I can’t get into particulars, but we have reason to believe Mr. Kostorov’s death is tied to one of our cases.”
She gasped and put a hand to her chest. “He was murdered?”
“No, nothing like that.” I had to tread carefully since I was pretty sure Mona wouldn’t appreciate me starting a rumor about the manner of her husband’s death. Baba was great, but she was a terrible gossip. “I tried to connect with Mona about meeting with us, but she seemed…reluctant,” I said diplomatically.
“I’m sure she’s a wreck right now.”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “It’s just, we think Mr. Kostorov saw something that could help up put a pretty bad guy away.”
She nodded as if she understood. “I’m sure if you tried again in a few days…”
“The problem is, we don’t have a few days. The guy in question did murder someone and he’s putting some bad potions on the street, so more could die. I don’t suppose—” I cut myself off.
She looked up, her eyes hawkish. “Don’t play your cop tricks on me, Kate Prospero. I might be old, but I’m still wily.”
I laughed. “I know, I know. Look, I know it’s an imposition, but if you could maybe just mention that you know me? That might grease the wheels a little next time I try to call.”
She crossed her arms and huffed out a breath. “What’s in it for me?”
“Free rent,” I said, pointedly.
She snorted. “I already get that. What else?”
“What do you want?”
She pursed her lips and thought it over. “I want you to go easy on the boy for this school thing.”
I sighed and held up my fingers in a mockery of a scout salute. “I promise I’ll be fair, but I won’t promise he’ll go totally unpunished.”
She nodded resolutely. “Throw in a bottle of that cheap whiskey I like and we’ve got a deal.”
I laughed. Staying mad at Baba was impossible. “Fine.”
“All right, I’ll ask her tonight.” She held up a hand when I started to celebrate. “But don’t expect a miracle. The woman’s grieving hard.”
“Understood.”
She tossed down the dish towel she’d been toying with. “Okay, I need to go put on my nice clothes before I meet up with the ladies. You going out with that hunk tonight or what?”
“The hunk is on a stakeout. I’m reading up on high schools.”
“Oh.”
I nodded.
“Kate, listen,” she said, “if you ever want me to make myself scarce, you just have to say the word.”
I frowned at her. “I’m not mad enough to kick you out, Baba.”
She waved a hand. “No, I mean if you and Macho want some time alone. I don’t want to be in the way.”