I guzzled the last dregs of coffee from my thermos and stepped out of the car. One drawback to mainlining caffeine on a daily basis was that you build up a tolerance. Stubborn bastard that I am, I kept hoping the next cup might somehow miraculously get the job done.
A fine drizzle shrouded me as I made my way down the sidewalk, one laborious step at a time. Ever since the Crimson Circle’s ritual punched a hole into reality, the weather in this city has gone to shit. We have more rain and fog than nineteenth century London. Under normal circumstances I would’ve found the light rain unpleasant, but I welcomed it in my current groggy state. It proved a hell of a lot more effective in clearing my head than the coffee surging through my system.
Flashing squad cars greeted me at the main entrance of Gabriel Horne’s apartment building. Uniformed cops swarmed the crowded lobby and struggled to keep a throng of reporters at bay. The Horne family was a constant fixture of both the tabloids and mainstream press, so this murder story was going to make some waves. An officer I’d seen a few times, but whose name I could never remember, waved me over.
Fortunately the reporters barely paid me any attention as I navigated the gauntlet of snapping cameras. Certain articles had mentioned my name over the past year, but I’d made a concerted effort to avoid follow-up questions. Weirdly enough, the Sea of Solomon helped me maintain my anonymity. The few journalists who’d tracked me down would be hard pressed to describe me. Don’t ask me how, but the magical ring dulls people’s memories of my appearance, and cameras have a habit of taking blurry pics around me. The ring finds ways of keeping me safe from demonic as well as more mundane dangers. Good thing too. It’s difficult enough doing this job without having to worry about the media hounding you. Skulick and I liked to operate behind the scenes as much as possible. “Shadow detectives” as he likes to call us, which is as good a name as any.
Even if any of the reporters recognized me, they had bigger fish to fry at the moment. Some occult expert with questionable credentials who looked like he just rolled out of bed couldn’t compete with the story of the year.
Officer Forgot-His-Name greeted me with a curt nod. “Benson is waiting for you upstairs,” he said as he escorted me to the elevator.
Catching a glance at myself in the elevator door made me flinch. I was suddenly doubly grateful that nobody wanted to take my picture. I looked like shit. Run-down, sleep-deprived shit.
The elevator doors split open and erased the scary fella staring back at me.
I followed the officer into the lift, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for what awaited me on the top floor. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Less than a minute later, I was inside Gabriel Horne’s penthouse residence. The photograph Detective Benson had sent me didn’t do the place justice. Organic textures like stone, weathered wood, and glass dominated and defined the space. A stunning three-sixty view created the impression of being inside an observatory. The polished China clay floor, the artfully twisted and curled industrial lighting fixtures, and the tasteful black and white furniture all discreetly whispered that the people who lived here were obscenely wealthy.
Just inhaling the rarified air in this place could get you laid.
I vaguely recalled that Gabriel Horne had held a cushy position in one of his daddy’s media companies. Nothing wrong with nepotism, but I doubted that a father willing to sell his daughter’s soul to a demon did anything out of the goodness of his heart. Gabriel Horne’s gig had no doubt come with strings attached. Maybe Daddy Dearest had just wanted to keep tabs on his first-born.
Detective Benson could be found, as always, at the center of an active crime scene. Tall, African-American, and somewhere north of his mid-thirties, he looked like he could have owned the penthouse, or at least been invited here for drinks once in a while. Some cops let the stress of their work eat them up; bad lifestyle choices are common. Comfort food and alcohol are much needed and often abused psychological Band-Aids for many. Throw in the long hours, the lack of exercise, and other questionable habits, and it wasn’t surprising that many cops looked like crap. Benson was different. He wore a sharp designer suit that fit his athletic physique like a glove. There was an admirable sense of discipline and self-control about the man. Standing next to him in my wrinkled trench coat and tieless shirt, I couldn’t help but feel like a bum.
“About time you showed your face, Raven,” Benson said. “I was starting to get worried.”
“Have I ever stood you up, Benson?”
Benson eyes narrowed. He doesn’t really like me too much but he knows he needs me. And I know that he knows it. Ours is a complicated relationship.
“Want to bring me to speed? Who found the body?”
“The maid. She cleans the place on a daily basis,” he said. “Only access to the penthouse is by private elevator or emergency stairs.”