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

apparently sealed Gabe’s fate.

I reached for the phone, then stopped.

Did this prove a connection between the two cases? If the police went to Bob

Friedlander, he would show them a postcard from Gabriel Savant, claim that Savant was fine

and that I was the wacko. Hundreds of people had been at the bookstore that evening. Betty

and Kinsey’s presence might have been a coincidence. Not that I believed that, but the police

would if Bob chose to play it that way. After our last conversation, I couldn’t imagine Bob

playing it any other way.

The desire to talk it over with Jake was nearly irresistible. But I couldn’t do that. Even

if Jake and I had still been on those terms, it wasn’t his job to fix my mistakes, to absolve me

of responsibility. Especially when he had been warning me from day one to stay out of it.

I shuffled through the photos once more. Did Kinsey and Betty’s involvement

automatically intimate Guy’s guilt? Jake believed that Guy was involved. Maybe Jake was

right; certainly the Amazing Kreskin had nothing to fear from my batting average.

But Jake had been skeptical when I’d told him about Blade Sable, and I didn’t think I

had learned anything that would change his mind. He would say Angus was playing me, and

he could be right there too. No, I didn’t believe what I had discovered would justify the risk

of contacting Jake.

Besides, Jake might believe I was using Angus’s story as an excuse to see him again.

If I was going to pursue this any further, it would have to be on my own. The question

was, did I want to pursue it any further?

“Hello?” called Velvet from the front.

I shoved the photos back in their envelope, put the envelope back in the file cabinet,

and relocked it.

* * * * *

I hadn’t put a lot of faith in Paolo’s promise to get me Peter Verlane’s private number

in exchange for being allowed to texturize my hair, but midmorning he called.

“Are you enjoying your hair, sweetness?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I have Peter’s cell number. Do me a favor. Don’t tell him you got the number from

me. He’s…quirky that way.”

“Fair enough.”

He quoted the number, and I wrote it out. “One other thing, sweetness. Don’t leave

your wallet lying around. Not that he’s not worth every penny, but…”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“You enjoy yourself, sweetness. You so deserve it.”

I hung up. Stared at the number. Swell. The guy was a hustler?

Assuming it was the right Peter Verlane, wasn’t he in Germany, sharing schnapps and

strudel with the folks? There probably wasn’t any point in calling.

Unless Guy had lied.

Did I want to know? Did I want to take this any further? It’s not like my sleuthing had

resulted in universal happiness so far.

I was still trying to come to a decision, when I realized I had dialed the number.

“Yeah?” a young male voice inquired.

“Peter?”

“Yeah.”

“I got your name from a friend. I wondered if maybe we could get together sometime.”

Silence.

“What friend?”

“Does it matter?”

He chuckled. “Maybe not. What did you have in mind?”

“Sex magick.”

I felt surprise in the static between us.

“You mean an initiation?”

Is that what I meant? “Right,” I said, with a certainty I didn’t feel.

Warily, he asked, “Are you craft?”

What did that mean? Was that like, are you a Top or a bottom? Did I see myself as an

Art or a Craft? Or was he asking whether I was a witch? Or maybe he wanted to know if I

was pro cheese-macaroni?

I fought a nervous desire to laugh and said, “No. I’m curious, and willing to pay to have

my…itch scratched.”

I thought of Jake’s face if he were to overhear this conversation, closed my eyes to

block the image.

“Wow,” Peter said. He sounded like he might laugh too. Probably not the desired

reaction. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m booked through the holidays, but maybe I can fit you

in after Candlemas.”

Candlemas? Wasn’t that in February? Maybe this kid really was worth pursuing.

I said, “That’s quite a wait. I’m impressed. I’m also impatient. Can you recommend

someone else?”

Silence. He said at last, “Perhaps we can work it out. What did you say your name

was?”

Good question. I opened my mouth. “Oxford,” I said at random. “Avery Oxford.”

“Where can I reach you, Avery?”

Another good question. Maybe I should have taken half a minute to inspect for rocks

before I dived in head first. “I’ll call you,” I said curtly, and rang off.

“What an idiot!” I announced to the room at large. Shaking my head, I tucked the

number in the Rolodex on my desk. I happened to notice the business card I had received

from the Wiccans at Dragonwyck. I inspected the silver scripted numerals. Dial M for

Magick.

Hadn’t I embarrassed myself enough for one day?

Any more of this and I’d believe some unseen hand was trying to give me a shove in

the right direction. I practically felt the palm print between my shoulder blades – or maybe

that was the lingering bruises from my visit to Hell’s Kitchen.

Which reminded me. Guy had lied about Peter Verlane being out of town.

* * * * *

I was having a BLT at Johnny Rocket’s when I happened to notice Jean Finch peering

in the front window. When she saw me gazing back at her, she ducked away. Then she

appeared in the window again, waved at me with frantic friendliness, and walked off

hurriedly.

Holy moly.

Leisurely finishing my sandwich, I paid the bill and stepped outside into the gloomy

afternoon. No sign of Jean. I started walking, stopping every so often to glance into a shop

window.

I finally spotted her, lingering several yards behind me.

I started back toward her. She froze in panic, then looked around as though planning to

flee. She didn’t flee, however; she stood her ground, practically trembling in her little white

trench coat.

“Jean, what are you doing?” I asked as I reached her.

“N-nothing. I was Christmas shopping. I saw you at Johnny Rocket’s. Is the food good