Текст книги "Secrets of the Demon"

Автор книги: Diana Rowland

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

I sighed. And that was the problem. He acted worried and caring and all of that, like the absolute bestest of best friends. And I liked that we were such good friends, I really did. Or rather, I would like it more if I didn’t want so much more, and if I could get rid of the niggling sense of uncertainty about him. Aaaand we’re back to me being whiny and neurotic!Full circle on the emotional roller coaster.

Besides, as harsh as it might sound, there was little that Ryan could do if I told him, other than worry.

Rhyzkahl might be able to do something.Even as the thought whispered through my head I couldn’t help but feel as if I was somehow betraying Ryan by even considering another summoning of Rhyzkahl. But the demonic lord would be far more able to tell me if it had been some sort of directed attack or simply some random ripple of arcane weirdness.

My thoughts continued to tumble in jagged discord for the entire drive home. Full night had descended by the time I pulled up to my house, with the waxing moon hanging above the trees, mocking me with its not-fullness . Still, it’s less than a week until the full,I thought as I entered my house and locked the door behind me. And summonings of Rhyzkahl were always easier than traditional summonings since he was willing to be drawn through.

I descended the stairs to my basement and looked down at the storage diagram, uncertainty coiling through me. Unfortunately, I had no way to measure how much power was stored beyond a general sense of fullor not full.I was fairly sure that I had enough to perform a summoning of Rhyzkahl.

But I’d been a summoner long enough to know that “fairly sure” was a good way to die a screaming death. If I ran out of power partway through the forming of the portal, it would latch onto the next closest source—me—and would then collapse in on itself while merrily reducing me to the smallest possible pieces.

I fought back the spurt of panic the mere thought of that had produced. No. It would be the height of idiocy to attempt a summoning without being absolutely positive that I had sufficient power. There was no such thing as screwing up a little when it came to that.

Not to mention I’m not exactly calm and focused right now.

I turned away from the diagram and returned upstairs. It looked like I was on my own for a little while longer.

Chapter 14

Needless to say, the next morning I was in the perfect state of mind to attend an autopsy.

As usual, the outer door of the morgue was propped open with a chunk of concrete. I stepped in, automatically breathing shallowly until I could get used to the odor—a strange combination of bleach and other sanitizers, with the faintest underlayer of rot. Carl kept the morgue as pristine as possible, but I’d seen the way bone dust and blood flew everywhere, and I knew there was no way to ever get the place truly clean.

Carl was already in the cutting room, setting out the equipment that would be needed for the autopsy. I went ahead and donned the plastic smock and gloves, earning me a slight smile and a raised eyebrow from him.

“So eager to dive into the gore today,” he murmured as he headed off to the cooler.

“Are you referring to me or you?” I shot back.

“Either will do,” he replied.

I grinned. I was used to Carl—or as used to him as anyone could get. He was quiet and dour—or at least that’s how he came across to most people. I’d had the chance to get to know him a bit more personally in the past few weeks—due in no small part to the fact that he was dating my aunt.

Yeah, I was still getting used to that. My aunt had a boyfriend. The morgue tech. Not only that, there was something odd about Carl when it came to arcane powers. Protective wards didn’t work on him. It was as if he didn’t exist. Moreover, when he’d been attacked by a creature with the ability to eat souls, he’d been unaffected. Does that mean he has no soul? Or does he simply have some sort of super-resistance to what we call magic?

Either way, it was enough to make me treat him with newfound respect and caution. It helped that, as quiet and dour as Carl could be, he seemed to be a pretty nice guy, and my aunt was apparently quite happy to have him around.

And if he’s with her, then I don’t have to be around as much,the thought snaked through my head, and I felt a quick flash of guilt for thinking it. I loved my aunt. But sometimes lately it was a little creepy and unsettling to be around her.

I pulled my attention back to the present as Carl pushed a laden stretcher up next to the metal cutting table, then unzipped the body bag to reveal the body of Vic Kerry. “Another day out there and it would have been fairly disgusting,” he commented, as if making note of the color of Vic’s underwear.

I thought he was fairly disgusting anyway, with the bloated face and maggots crawling around his eyes and nose. Carl photographed the body while it was still dressed, then I gritted my teeth and helped Carl remove the man’s clothing. Carl held out a bag for me to put the clothing in but I paused.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Sorry. I was looking at the dirt.” Like handprints, as if someone with dirty hands had picked the man up. Or with hands made of dirt.The tiny bit of lingering doubt dissipated. Now if I could just figure out what exactly the golem-thing was.

Carl tilted his head. “I take it you feel this is unusual? He was lying in bushes for several days.”

“It goes along with what I felt up in his office,” I said, oddly relieved to know I could be more forthright with Carl. “There was a strange resonance there. I think Vic Kerry was murdered and I think it’s connected to the attack on Lida.”

“Interesting. Have you spoken to your aunt about it?”

I shook my head and went ahead and put the clothing into the bag. “Not yet. Haven’t really had the chance.” It hadn’t even occurred to me to go talk to her after last night’s incident. Had I lost that much faith in her? No, I was simply preoccupied,I tried to reassure myself. That’s all.

Silence fell for a few minutes while we finished undressing the body and prepping it for autopsy.

“She’s still your aunt,” he said abruptly.

I grimaced. “I know. But—”

“She was changed. Subtly,” he continued. “She was in the void for long enough that she absorbed aspects not of her original nature.” Then he shocked me by saying, “Just as you were changed by your time in the void.”

I stared at him, literally openmouthed. “I wasn’t changed!” I finally managed. “I mean, I—”

“You were in the void for two weeks before you were called back,” he said, eyes intent on me in a manner that was beginning to seriously creep me out. “The changes are subtle, but there for those who can sense them.”

I could feel gooseflesh spring up on my arms. “Can you sense them?”

I expected him to confess to great arcane knowledge, or admit that he had othersight or some such thing. I didn’t expect him to smile and shake his head. “No, but I see how the changes in you have affected those around you who can sense them. Whether they realize it or not.” He shrugged. “Most don’t realize it. But I listen and watch a lot.”

“Ryan?” I said before I could think.

His smile widened very slightly. “He is one.”

The banging of the outer door interrupted the odd conversation, and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

“Morning, boys and girls,” Doc said with a cheerful grin as he strode into the cutting room. Dr. Jonathan Lanza was the forensic pathologist for the St. Long Parish Coroner’s Office—a slender man about my own height, with dark hair and eyes, and a nose that betrayed his Italian heritage. He’d come to St. Long Parish after working in both Las Vegas and Houston, which meant that he had a wealth of knowledge that we were deeply fortunate to have access to.

“So, this is the guy who decided to try to fly?” he asked, gaze skimming over the body on the table.

“Yep,” I said, “but I think he was helped along.”

He picked up his clipboard and peered more closely. “Hunh. Well it definitely looks like he was attacked.” He pointed to Vic’s neck. “Carl, clean that dirt off please?”

Carl obligingly stepped forward with a wet towel and carefully wiped away the smears of clay.

“A bit easier to see now,” Doc said, pointing to the marks on Vic’s neck with the end of his pen. “Here you can see bruising—from the fingertips of whoever grabbed him by the throat.” He frowned. “Looks deep too. His attacker was pretty damn strong.”

I kept the interested look on my face and didn’t offer any possibilities.

“And your boy here tried to escape,” Doc continued, indicating several scratches. “Those look like fingernail marks—his own as he tried to get the attacker’s hand off. I’ll do scrapings from under his nails in case he managed to scratch the other guy as well.”

“Sounds good,” I replied. I’d be shocked if anyone else’s flesh was found though. I glanced at Vic’s hands and could easily see the dirt under his nails.

I watched as Doc and Carl took scrapings and clippings from the nails and sealed them in a small envelope. It would be forwarded to the DNA lab, but I felt no need to put any sort of rush request in.

They proceeded with the autopsy and Carl made his usual attempt to convince me to stick a needle in the eye to retrieve the vitreous fluid. Thanks but no thanks. There was a lot of gross I could handle, but that went way beyond my squick tolerance.

Doc began to peel the skin of Vic’s neck back. “Good god, this was one strong son of a bitch!” He shook his head in amazement and when I looked I could see large clots of blood where the creature’s fingers had dug in. “Carl, get pictures of this, please.” He paused long enough for Carl to get the pictures, then continued peeling back the layers of muscle. He carefully palpated the throat area and let out a low whistle.

“Hyoid bone broken?” I asked. I didn’t have much knowledge of pathology and anatomy, but I knew that the hyoid bone was often broken in cases of manual strangulation.

Doc snorted. “Broken? That’s putting it mildly. The whole trachea is crushed, thyroid cartilage is broken.” He shook his head again in disbelief. “This guy was dead—or at least well on his way there—before he was helped out the window.”

I couldn’t completely control the shudder. Poor guy.

Doc moved with careful efficiency through the rest of the autopsy—removing and examining organs and taking samples of blood and urine for toxicology testing. Finally he glanced up at Carl. “Let’s get him sewn up. I’m going to want to do a posterior neck dissection to get a better look.”

Carl removed the block beneath the body, then pulled out a thick, curved needle about three inches long and a ball of nylon string. He cut off about a yard of string and threaded the needle, then extended the needle to me.

“Care to help?” Carl asked, face impassive. “It will go faster with two of us sewing.”

I reluctantly took the needle. “This is so disgusting.”

His lips twitched. “Be careful,” he said. “The needle can get slippery, and you don’t want to poke yourself. And it doesn’t have to be pretty or neat. The funeral home will take it out anyway.”

I cringed as I pushed the needle into the flesh at the edge of the long incision. It didn’t matter that I knew Vic Kerry couldn’t feel anything anymore. It still sent a chill through me every time I pierced the skin. I definitely didn’t have it in me to do the kind of ritual torture that the Symbol Man had performed.

I quickly discovered that “slippery” was an understatement. Even though Vic Kerry had lost massive quantities of weight and was fairly trim, he still had a thin layer of fat in his midsection. After a couple of passes through that fat, the needle was slick and damn near impossible to manage.

“Thanks for the help,” Carl said. I looked up to see that he’d started from the other end, completely sewing up the rest of the incision in the time it had taken me to do three whole stitches.

I gave him a black scowl. “You did notneed my help,” I accused. “You only wanted me to do more gross stuff.”

“Your perception astounds me,” he replied with a dry chuckle. “But I coulduse your help turning the body over.”

“I think I need to start filling out a time sheet for the coroner’s office, Doc,” I said over my shoulder.

The pathologist smiled and continued to jot notes. “It’s not enough that you’re my favorite detective?”

I hid my smile and made a rude noise. “Yeah, yeah,” I said as I helped Carl flip Vic over. “I’ve heard that tune before. Money talks, Doc!”

Doc gave a low laugh. “Worth a try.” He stepped up to the prone body and made a careful slit along the spine from the nape of the neck to a point between the shoulder blades.

“Unbelievable,” he murmured after a moment of examination.

“Doc? What did you find?”

“Kara, whoever did this was unbelievably strong. You have shearing of discs of upper cervical vertebrae. Marked hemorrhage along vertebrae and into posterior neck muscles. Ligaments from vertebrae to base of skull are ruptured.” He kept pointing at globs of blood that apparently meant a great deal to him, but simply looked like a gory mess to me. He straightened. “I mean, it’s as if something grabbed this guy by the neck and just squeezed, breaking and ripping everything back here.”

“And then threw him out the window in the hopes of making it look like a suicide,” I said.

“There’s no way that these injuries came from a fall,” Doc said flatly. Then he gave me a wry smile. “My advice is to keep an eye out for a big, strong, dirty giant.”

I gave him the chuckle he was expecting. Good thing he doesn’t know how close he is to the truth.

Chapter 15

After leaving the morgue I called Roger, relieved to discover that it was his day off, which meant I could avoid walking through the gym again. I arranged to meet him at his apartment, then called Adam Taylor while I was on my way to Roger’s. Adam seemed unruffled at my request to come talk to him, merely stating that he was in New Orleans in meetings with the band’s label, and that he’d be more than happy to meet with me at the studio later in the day, perhaps five-thirty?

I agreed and disconnected, taking note of the fact that he’d been unsurprised at the request for an interview. It might mean nothing, or maybe Roger had given Adam a heads up about Vic Kerry’s death. I sent a quick text to Ryan to update him and arrange to meet him at the studio at five, then headed out to see Roger.

Roger lived in a relatively new apartment complex on the north end of town, and about as far away from the lake as you could get and still be within Beaulac city limits. It looked like a decent enough place, though I was fairly sure I’d go nuts having neighbors on all sides. The complex was large—almost a dozen buildings—and each building had what I estimated to be about fifteen apartments. I had a hard time believing that there were that many people in the Beaulac area who needed rental space, but as far as I could tell the majority of the units had residents.

Roger answered the door with a wan smile. “Detective Gillian,” he said. “Have you found out anything?”

“A few things,” I replied. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

He stepped back to allow me to enter. “It’s no problem.” He closed the door behind me then led the way down a short hall and into the living room. Or perhaps it was the dining room, or an extension of the kitchen. It was a bit difficult to tell where one room ended and another began. It was tidy, though, and the furniture was arranged in what was probably the best way to take advantage of the strange floor plan. It felt comfortable and welcoming, and even the drum set in the corner seemed to fit into the flow of the room. I had only the barest knowledge of feng shui, but I somehow had a feeling that this room would be a perfect example of how to do it right.

Roger didn’t seem very comforted at the moment though. He turned troubled eyes to me. “So, um, I’m guessing that the fact you want to talk to me means you don’t think Vic committed suicide?”

“You’re right,” I said evenly. “It’s been ruled a homicide.”

He seemed to fold in on himself as he sank to sit on the couch. “That’s so hard to believe,” he said, voice hollow. “Vic was such a cool guy. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” I pulled out my notebook and found the photocopy I’d made of the paper that had the initials and the dollar amounts. “Just so you know, I’ve already submitted subpoenas for Mr. Kerry’s bank statements and financial information, but I found something during my search of the office, and I’m wondering if you can help me figure out what it means.” I passed him the copy of the paper, watching him carefully for his reaction, but to my surprise he merely nodded.

“I can tell you exactly what this is. Well,” he amended, “I can tell you what the ‘R. P.’ stuff is. I mean, that’s me, as I’m sure you guessed.” He looked back up at me. “And he loaned me fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I want to open my own gym,” he said, leaning forward, suddenly earnest. “Not a fitness center like Magnolia, but a real gym for people serious about working out. No spa or any of that crap.”

“Surely you need more than fifteen thousand dollars.” Doubt colored my voice. “You have other investors?”

He sat back. “Not yet. No one’s going to want to invest in a nobody without any seed money. But Vic really believed in me, which was why he loaned me the money. He put me on to some really good investments, and by the time I’m ready to go forward with the gym, I figure I’ll have enough to be able to attract some serious investors.”

“What kind of investments?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. Vic said he’d loan me the money and would take care of all the investment stuff. He had me sign some papers for him so that he could take care of everything.”

I blinked. Was he truly this naive? “You mean a power of attorney?”

An expression of chagrin crossed his face. “Um, well, I guess it was kinda like that. I totally trusted Vic, though. And since it was his own money, it wasn’t like I was worried about him taking it, y’know?”

“Did you ever get the feeling that anything about the situation wasn’t completely legit?” I asked, doing my best to keep the dubious note out of my voice. It shrieked not legitto me, but then I was more cynical than most when it came to this sort of thing. Probably because I’d seen so many cases of fraud.

He shook his head firmly. “Never. Vic’s known about my plans for the gym for close to a year now, and has always said he’d support me any way he could.”

It was possible that there was nothing hinky about the whole deal, but now I was itching to find out more about these investments. “Roger, did Vic ever give you any paperwork showing you how he invested the money?”

The first shadow of doubt briefly clouded his face. “Well, no. But maybe he hadn’t had a chance to do anything with the money yet. I mean, it was only a couple of weeks ago.”

I nodded to let him think I accepted that as a possibility, even though I most certainly did not. “All right. One more question: Did you ask to borrow the money, or did he offer to loan it to you?”

“He ... offered,” Roger said slowly, then his face abruptly paled. He clearly wasn’t stupid—simply completely unwilling to consider that Vic might have had anything but his best interests at heart. “Shit,” he whispered. His eyes snapped up to mine in desperation. “Am I in trouble? Did Vic do something illegal in my name?” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my god. I trusted him.”

He’s not worried about being accused of murder,I noted. “I don’t know, Roger. I’m looking into it.” I paused. “But every bit of information you can give me will help me find his killer.”

He gave a vigorous nod. “Anything. God. Just ask. I swear, I have nothing to hide.”

“Would you be willing to allow me access to your bank and investment accounts?” I wasn’t surprised to see him nod again. Good, that saved me the trouble of getting a subpoena.

“What do I need to do?”

I glanced at my watch. Where the hell had the day gone? “It would be easiest for me if you could go down to your bank and arrange for me to have full access. Then I can simply swing by and pick it all up when it’s ready.”

“I’ll go down there right now.” He paused, swallowed hard. “Am I a suspect?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

I knew what I was supposed to say. I knew I should say that I hadn’t ruled anyone out and that the investigation was ongoing.

“No,” I said instead. The look of relief on his face was almost painful to see. I hated that I had to prick that bubble of relief. “Roger, I should tell you that I also haven’t ruled out that Vic wasn’t the intended victim.”

Fear flickered in his eyes. “Oh, god. Because I work out there sometimes. And if he did something illegal in my name ...” He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

I touched his arm. “Look, I’m not trying to spook you. But be careful, all right? Try to be with someone else at all times until I can find out more.”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay. Watch my back.” He still looked spooked, but I hoped that was better than him being oblivious.

“How well did Adam Taylor know Vic?” I asked, as much to distract him as to dig for more information.

He blinked, clearly surprised at the question. “I wasn’t aware that they knew each other at all.” Then his eyes dropped to the paper. “Ooohh, you think ‘A. T.’ is Adam Taylor.”

I shrugged. “It’s only a theory at this point.” This was why I’d made a copy. I didn’t want to have his answer influenced by seeing the copies of the returned checks that had been on the other side of the original.

Roger pursed his lips into a thoughtful frown. “Actually, that would make a lot of sense. Adam’s been having a lot of financial problems. He owns the studio where we rehearse, and his business has kinda been sucking ass. I know he’s been wanting to find someone to invest in it so that he can upgrade and attract more business.”

Well, it looked like I was going to have a very interesting talk with Adam Taylor later today. I stood. “Roger, I appreciate you talking to me. You’ve been a huge help.” I handed him my card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be of use.”

He nodded as he took my card. I was pleased to see that he didn’t look as freaked as he had before. He was tough and smart, even if he was more than a little naive. “I will. Thank you.”

I gave him another reassuring smile and departed, thoughts churning as I returned to my car. Vic Kerry had been up to something dicey, and it had earned him a flight out the window.

Now I merely had to figure out what his scheme could have been. And how it could be connected to the attack on Lida Moran. And what the hell the creature was.

And while I was at it, I could go ahead and bring about world peace and end world hunger.

I returned to the station and headed straight to my office. After locking the door behind me, I plopped into my chair then winced as the damn spring poked my backside again. You’d think my backside would have enough padding for that not to hurt,I grumbled to myself as I logged on to my computer.

Google was going to be my best friend for a while I decided as I plugged in searches on Ether Madhouse, the band members, Adam Taylor, and Vic Kerry. As expected, the searches on the band and the members turned up a zillion results, with about half being websites with general information about the band, and the rest articles and blog entries about the incident at the concert. I skimmed a few of the blog entries, but the opinions and analysis of what had happened ran the gamut from “people are stupid and it was a crazy stalker fan” to “what a lame-ass and dangerous publicity stunt.” There was nothing that even suggested that it might have actually been something demonic or arcane, which actually surprised me considering the level of Crazy that usually existed on the Internet.

The search on Adam Taylor pulled up some old biographical information. I was surprised to see that he’d once been a major player in the New Orleans music scene as musician, producer, and songwriter, and had even been appointed to the Louisiana Music Commission back in the nineties. But apparently he’d had a run of ventures gone sour, and then had lost his home and studio during Katrina. He’d dropped out of sight until about a year ago when he began promoting Ether Madhouse and had opened a studio in Beaulac.

He probably has everything pinned on this band making it,I realized. Sank all his money into the studio in the hopes of recapturing his former success.

I sent the page to the printer, then searched on Victor Kerry’s name with meager results. A few scattered name mentions—usually connected to local social functions. Nothing that leaped out about financial misconduct or fraud. Oh, well. I couldn’t have everything handed to me.

After making certain that my door was locked, I started searches on anything I could find related to golems or arcane constructs. I found a number of excellent websites with information about the golems of Jewish legend, but the more I read, the less I felt that the creature I’d encountered was that sort of golem. In the Jewish legend the creature was inscribed with magic or religious words to keep it animated—either with a holy word or name written on its forehead, or a word or incantation written on paper and placed in the creature’s mouth. I’d only seen the face of the thing that attacked Lida for a few seconds, but I was fairly positive that there’d been nothing written on it, and there’d been nothing in its mouth. But more than that, the golems of legend were said to be clumsy and slow, and the one I’d encountered had been anything but.

I spent close to an hour doing more searches and poring over websites. Oddly, it was a site catering to fantasy role-playing games that gave me the first pingof possible recognition. A golem was listed in the pantheon of monsters, but instead of being animated by religious ritual, it was basically a statue of clay “possessed” by an earth elemental.

I sat up straighter. There’d been something about earth elementals in one of the books I’d taken from my aunt’s house, but I’d skimmed right over it since there’d been no accompanying reference to golems or constructs. My knowledge of elementals was rudimentary at best. I’d always assumed that such things didn’t really exist anymore, or if they did, there was no one left who knew how to control them. Kind of a boneheaded assumption, now that I thought about it.

For over a decade I’ve been operating under the concept that the only “magic” in the world was the kind I dealt with—using the natural power of the world to summon otherworldly creatures. And that’s stupid.I scowled at my own rigid thinking. I was too used to automatically assuming that the majority of the people who claimed to have “powers” of some sort or another were full of shit. And how was that attitude any different from someone assuming that my skills and abilities were bullshit, or, worse, due to some sort of evil pact with Satan?

And what about the essence eater?I reminded myself. A few months ago I’d tracked down a murderer who’d been consuming people’s souls, or essences. In fact the reason I was now sworn to Rhyzkahl was a direct result of the confrontation with the killer—the only way I’d known to save Ryan’s essence from being consumed as well. That killer was hardly the sort of arcane practitioner I was used to.

I frowned, the memory of a conversation with Rhyzkahl suddenly bubbling to the surface.

“There are many humans with the ability to shape and manipulate potency,”Rhyzkahl had told me. “Some can open portals. Some can draw power from essence. A rare few are little more than parasites. You are all descended from the same source.”

There’d been no time to press him for more details, and then I’d forgotten all about it in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So, perhaps calling and controlling an earth elemental was simply another way of manipulating potency. And what had Rhyzkahl meant about “the same source?”

The buzzing of the phone on my desk sent my train of thought crashing into a deep ravine and I barely managed to resist the urge to snatch up the receiver and yell, “What?”Instead, I took a deep breath and gently picked up the receiver.

“Detective Gillian,” I said, tone nicely crisp and professional.

“This is Mayor Fussell, Detective Gillian. If you have a few minutes, could you come by my office? I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

Nonplussed, I actually stared at the phone for several heartbeats before returning it to my ear. “Mayor Fussell, I’m sure I can make time to meet with you. May I ask what this is about?”

“We can discuss that when you get here, Detective,” was the curt reply.

I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. “Certainly, sir. I’ll be right on my way.”

I hung up, fighting down anger by running through a few mental calming exercises. I had a damn good feeling I knew what this was about.

I shut down my computer and exited my office, then headed straight for my sergeant’s. He looked up from his computer as I swung into his doorway, his eyes narrowing at the expression on my face. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t controlling my anger as much as I’d hoped.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I took another deep breath. “I’ve been called to the mayor’s office,” I said. “Is the chief here?”

Crawford scowled blackly. “No, he’s in Baton Rouge for a meeting.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “And I’m sure the mayor knows it. Did he say why he wanted to meet with you?”

I shook my head. “No, but he didn’t sound as if he wanted to give me a puppy and flowers. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about.”

“Ben Moran,” Crawford said, yanking his jacket on. “And yes, I’m coming with you. What a complete crock of shit.” He glanced at me. “You have a voice recorder on your phone?”

I blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good, and I have one too. We’re gonna nip this shit in the bud.”