Part 8 (1/2)
”Not hardly, which still makes me think there is a lot more to this case than meets the eye.”
I pointed at the sugar packs. ”If these people were all murdered, and their murders made to look like accidents, then we're working with professionals here.”
”A hit squad?”
”A very expensive hit squad. And if nearly everyone involved is dead, we have to look at who is still standing.”
”J.P. Ferguson is still standing.”
”Right. What do you say after we finish up here you get back to the office and dig deeper into Ferguson and Biocrynetix Laboratories? See what we're missing.”
”Got it. What will you two do in the meantime?”
I looked at Carlos. He had his soup bowl pressed to his lips. With luck, we would all finish eating about the same time. ”We're going to take a ride out to the hospital. See Mrs. Snow. Someone has to tell her about her husband. It might as well be Carlos.”
”What?” Said Carlos, as French onion soup dribbled down his chin.
Spinelli and I laughed. It was worth it for letting him off the hook. ”Relax. I'll tell her. She's not going to want to smell your onion breath anyway.”
We left The Percolator at 1:00, and were barely a block away when Carlos brought up Dominic and Ursula again. I really wanted to concentrate on the case, maybe sort a few things out in my head. But Carlos has a way of driving the topic sometimes. And sometimes it is best just to roll with it.
”So, did you notice?” He asked.
”What?”
”He didn't mention Ursula even once.”
”So?”
”Don't you think that's kind of strange?”
”How so?”
”He's getting married this weekend. You would think that is all he can think about.”
”Maybe it's all he can do to bury himself in his work to keep from thinking about it.”
”Huh, you know what I think? I think he doesn't want to go through with it.”
”The marriage?”
”Yup.”
”Why do you say that?”
”I think he's scared.”
”Well of course he's scared. It's a big step.”
”No, I mean I think he's scared of marrying a witch. Who knows what could happen if the two of them get into an argument. She might turn him into a newt or something.”
”She won't turn him into a newt.”
”How do you know?”
”Because Lilith and I argue all the time. She has never turned me into a newt.”
”That's 'cause you're a witch, too.”
”No, it's because deep down she loves me, and people who love each other don't go around turning their lovers into newts.”
He grimaced lightly, and I could tell he wanted to add something. I waited until it seemed obvious he was not going to say it, and so against my better judgment, I asked him, ”What's on your mind now?”
He looked over at me, his expression unchanged. ”What is a newt, anyway? Is that like a frog?”
”It's a type of salamander. Haven't you asked me that once before?”
”Have I?”
”I think so.”
”Oh, then I forgot.” He turned his attention back to the road and seemed to give it some serious thought before coming back. ”I see Dominic as more of a frog. Don't you?”
I shook my head and held my answer in reserve.
Walking through the hospital, I got an unsettling feeling, an uneasy sort of vibration inside me that I could not explain. I felt it once before at the cemetery. We were burying Manny Sung, a retired cop who died of a heart attack while making love to his mistress, a woman one-third his age. Lilith told me that restless spirits try to invade the living, and that I might feel it at places like that where souls and bodies are newly separated. Sometimes, the newly dead cannot accept that their vessel is gone, so they try to take over another that is living. Their attempts are feeble, though, because the soul occupying the live body is much stronger and easily evicts the invader. The battle is brief and only those with a keen sense of their inner light, such as witches, can detect the attempted coup.
I nudged Carlos with my elbow and said to him, ”Someone died here recently.”
He scoffed. ”Yeah, well it is a hospital, Tony. They can't save everyone.”
”No, you don't understand. This one I can feel. It wants me to know something, but I don't know what.”
”Maybe it's the Jane Doe I investigated earlier. She wants to tell you who swiped her body from the morgue.”
”Yeah, maybe,” I said, not ruling it out for a minute. ”I'll let you know.”
We stopped at the reception desk and identified ourselves proper. I asked if we could see Mrs. Howard Snow. From the look on the woman's face, I could tell that was not going to happen.
”I'm sorry, Detective,” she said. ”Mrs. Snow departed last night.”
”She checked out?”
”She died.”
”Died?”