“You two want to fill us in on who the hell that was?” Gardner demanded.
“Her name’s Fontina Douglas. Up until recently, she ran a sex magic temple in Atlanta. She’s Aphrodite’s cousin and I guess she’s taking over the day-to-day operation of the Temple of Cosmic Love once Aphrodite marries themself.”
“Hold up—who’s marrying who, now?” McGinty said.
We quickly gave the rundown. When we were done, Mez chimed in. “Ooh, that’s going to be interesting. Any of you been to an alchemical wedding before?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” Morales said.
I shook my head. Shadi and the others didn’t bother responding, since they didn’t move much in magical circles.
“They’re pretty rare,” he said. “On account of you have to have a sacred hermaphrodite to pull one off.”
“Wait,” Morales said, “I thought this would be like a typical wedding with Aphrodite wearing half a tux and half a dress like Victor Victoria.”
Mez shook his head, warming up to having the crowd’s attention. “It’s an alchemical wedding, not a Christian one. There’s a period of ritualistic preparation to achieve spiritual mastery.”
I nodded. “When we saw Aphrodite last, they were meditating and spouting a bunch of stuff about cleansing their karma and shit.”
“Right,” he said. “The wedding itself usually happens during a total solar eclipse.” He took my invitation and looked at the date. “Which there happens to be on the date of Aphrodite’s shindig. The ceremony itself will involve a lot of alchemical imagery and some ingesting of potions and stuff. Some people believe the hermaphrodite becomes immortal during the ceremony, but I think that’s mainly symbolic. More likely they just attain some new level of enlightenment. Anyway, it’ll be a gas.”
“And knowing Aphrodite, there will be a lot of dramatic flair to boot,” I added.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Mez said, “but I’m totally going.”
I exchanged a look with Morales. “I guess it’s safe to say we’ll be there too, considering Aphrodite basically had Fontina threaten us.”
Gardner cleared her throat and shot a pointed look at her watch. “If you’re all done with your wedding plans, we have a murder to solve and possibly two covens to take down for it.”
Mez ducked his head. “Sorry, sir.”
“Prospero, Morales. Head over and see if you can get a bead on Krystal. I want her in custody by end of the day.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Morales’s jaw clench, but I put on a smile. “Yes, sir.” To Shadi, I said, “Let us know if you find anything on Hung.”
“10-4,” she said.
“All right, team,” Gardner said. “Let’s roll. I want potions and money on the table and bad guys and gals behind bars ASA-fucking-P.”
Chapter Seventeen
The ride to the massage parlor was tense, to say the least. It took a good six blocks before Morales even acknowledged me.
“‘We’re on it, sir,’” he said in a mocking tone. Clearly, he was still hot under the collar over me talking over him when he was about to ask Gardner if we could have Hung duty instead of Shadi.
I pursed my lips and turned my best Prospero glare on him. “Don’t give me that shit. If it were up to you, we’d be on our way to antagonizing a man who has the power to destroy your career. At least this way, we’re able to keep an eye on his movements without him knowing.”
His jaw tightened dangerously—the way it always did when I was right and he didn’t want to admit it. “It wasn’t your call.”
I laughed out loud at his offended tone. “You don’t get to pull rank when it suits you, Macho. Unless you’re willing to come clean with Gardner, then this has the potential of blowing back on both of us—that means I get a say in how this plays out.”
He blew out a breath. “For the record, I really hate this case.”
“I hate to be the one to say this, but”—I reached out and patted his arm—“I told you so.”
He laughed out loud and shook his head at me. Once that subsided, he shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “Lord knows we’ve had cases that haven’t brought out my best, either.”
He snorted. “No shit.”
By that time, we’d turned onto the street near Krystal’s place. We parked down the street and walked toward the entrance.
“Is it just me,” Morales said, “or does business seem unusually slow for this time of day?”
The massage parlor’s neon sign winked suggestively from the front window. But when I tried to open the door, it was locked tight. I knocked on the glass and put my cupped palms to the pane to look inside.
“Don’t see any lights on,” I said.
Morales rapped on the pane to see if he could summon someone from the back. We waited a few moments, but no one ducked out from the back hall.
I checked my watch. It wasn’t even noon yet. “They should be open.”
Morales pulled his cell phone out and dialed the parlor’s phone number after reading it off the sign. After a few moments, he sighed and ended the call. “Voicemail. Let’s go around back.”
An alley behind the building gave us access to a gray metal door with the massage parlor’s name painted across it.
“Should I knock?” I asked.
He shook his head and reached around me. A quick tug and the door was open.
I frowned up at him. “That’s odd.”
“Look alive.” His expression took on deadly focus.
I pulled my salt flare from its holster. Morales pulled out his Glock and nodded. I opened the door wide enough for him to look inside. We paused to listen. When no sounds emerged, he ducked inside and I had his back.
The door closed behind me, blocking out the sunlight and leaving the space unnaturally dark even though it was just after lunchtime. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkened hallway to look for signs of a threat.
Even though I couldn’t see well, I could certainly smell. The acidic stench of vomit hit my nose like a punch.
All of the treatment-room doors were closed and no light came from below. We made quick work of clearing those just in case before we headed toward the storeroom and office. That doorway was open and light spilled from it into the hall.
Signaling to each other, we took position to execute a safe entry into the room. If someone was in there, and armed, they could easily set up facing the doorway and take us out. He nodded to me to begin the process.
“Babylon Police,” I called out. Since I was still a detective, I usually led with that because the MEA tended to make for itchy trigger fingers.
Morales grabbed a towel from a nearby table. He waved it across the doorway. When no shots rang out, he spun and fell into a crouch with his gun pointed into the room. “Clear,” he said, moving out of the death funnel.
We walked around the shelving and froze.
Krystal’s body lay in a puddle of yellow vomit. Blue light from the screens above her cast the body in a ghostly light.
“That explains the smell,” I said.
Morales tiptoed over the mess to squat next to her to check the pulse. After a moment, he shook his head and rose.
I didn’t see any signs of a struggle. But she had no wounds that we could see, and the broken teapot near the body had probably been knocked over when she fell.
We stepped out of the room so we wouldn’t contaminate the crime scene.
“I’ll call Gardner,” he said. “You call Duffy.”
I cursed under my breath. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”
* * *
Two hours later, Duffy was still not talking to us. As he watched Franklin and the CSI crew work, he would occasionally look over and shake his head. Meanwhile, Gardner and Eldritch were across the room, having a heated discussion that we’d probably be hearing about soon.
I couldn’t blame Duffy for being pissed, but I wasn’t feeling so chipper myself.
Morales took a sip of weak coffee and winced. “Think they’d notice if we snuck off to a bar?”