The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

believed to have occult significance. Similar symbols were found

on the victim’s body. A source close to the investigation

confirmed that the heart of the victim had been removed.

Detective James Riordan of the Pasadena Police Department

refused to speculate on a possible link between this death and the

discovery of a woman’s similarly mutilated body in the

Hollywood Hills last month.

As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.

Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

Chapter Five

“I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday

night’s Partners in Crime writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

“You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my

handiwork.

“I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”

I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.

I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the

group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some

claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and

humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.

“Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You

hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”

Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite

knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of

relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual

friendship – which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.

“A task force?”

“Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave

me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers

were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.

If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree

and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl

found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained

how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything

remotely occult-oriented.

I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder – let alone two murders. I

mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same

church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.

The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion.

The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about

writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I

considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own

unexpected and slight literary success – although ironically it was my “cred” as a published

writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in

crime.

They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the

triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and

Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.

I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping

my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which

effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts

on whether – should the situation deteriorate further – I could track Angus through his

girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of

this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and

conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.

I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if

he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as

I knew, Wanda lived at home with her parents, so maybe there was a lead there.

I realized Jean had stopped reading. The group was ready for discussion. The Finches

have been working on this monsterpiece for the past two years. The latest revision had to do

with turning a relatively minor character, Avery Oxford, into the protagonist. I had a lot of

problems with Avery, not so much because he was a gay stereotype, but because I feared he

was based on me. True, he was a Hollywood gossip columnist, but he was thirty-three, five-

eleven, slender, had black hair, blue eyes, and a friend on the police force named Jack

O’Reilly – and he kept showing up in my clothes. In the scene I’d just read, he was wearing

“a favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a black lambswool sweater over a crisp, white T-shirt” –

pretty much what I’d worn to last week’s meeting.

I said, trying to be tactful, “I could be wrong, but I don’t think turning Avery into the

protag is a good idea, Jean. I think you should stick to the original plan. Kill him off in

chapter seven. Or even sooner.”

“I don’t know,” Max mused. “He’s an amusing twerp.” Max was a rugged forty, with

yellow shaggy hair and yellow shaggy beard. Attractive, I guess, if you don’t mind a guy who

sees deodorant and razors as a threat to his masculinity. He was aggressively heterosexual

and made a point of dating every unattached woman who joined the group. Since his regular

pillow pal was Grania Joyce, another of our partners in crime, it made for an interesting

dynamic.

Ted turned to Jean, whose face had fallen at my words. She faltered, “We’ve already

rewritten those first nine chapters to reflect the new character dynamic.”

“I don’t think he’s a strong enough character.”

“You could go with the cop,” Chan suggested. “O’Reilly’s a strong character.”

“If you don’t mind the testosterone overload,” Grania sneered. Grania was tall and

rangy, with an unruly mane of sorrel hair: your basic warrior princess model.