“Working.”

“Would you like to drive out to Oliver Garibaldi’s house in Pacific Palisades? Maybe

stop for lunch?”

As far as I recalled there was no actual rule against mixing meals with sleuthing in the

Boy’s Official Guide to Detection.

“Sure.”

“Be sure to bring that photo of the sigil left on your doorstep. Oliver is interested in

seeing it.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll pick you up around ten tomorrow.”

I cast a guilty look at poor Velvet, innocently ringing purchases at the register. The

sleuthing was becoming an obsession. Not only was it cutting into all my free time, I was

actually putting it before my livelihood.

I was pretty sure that it didn’t boil down to wanting to see Guy again.

I replied, “It’s a da– deal.” Then I couldn’t help asking, “By the way, has Betty Sansone

shown for class?”

“Certainly.”

“Didn’t the police interview her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was she there on Wednesday?”

“You sound surprised. Why shouldn’t she have been?”

Always eager to practice my diplomatic skills, I said, “I figured she might have been

worn out from murdering her pal the night before.”

Dead silence.

Finally Guy said briefly, “Well, she’s an excellent student. I imagine she doesn’t cut

class regardless of how little sleep she gets.”

“The fast track for success.”

“I appreciate that you prefer to believe that my classes are full of psychopaths and devil

worshippers.”

How had we got off onto this? How many times had I heard Jake state that it was

crucial an investigator kept his own feelings and beliefs to himself when dealing with

potential witnesses? Knowing this, I still said, “I think the subject matter may attract certain

people for the wrong reasons.”

“I see,” he said dryly. “Knowledge should be reserved for the chosen few?”

“I didn’t say that, but you can’t be unaware that on occasion this stuff has influenced

more than a few unbalanced kids.”

“Here’s the part where you bring up Joseph Fiorella and his mates.” Guy sounded

bored.

“Why, were you their teacher?” I shot back.

Fourteen-year-old Joseph Fiorella and two of his friends had murdered – and then had

sex with – a fifteen-year-old girl with whom Fiorella was obsessed. They had claimed they

were inspired by the heavy metal band Slayer and that they had to make a virgin sacrifice to

Satan in order to get their own band on the road to success.

After an affronted pause, Guy said in more normal tones, “As you’re no doubt aware, in

the Fiorella case the blame is being placed on the band and their nihilistic message. Which is

not to say that in other circumstances an instructor or a local church mightn’t as easily be

made the scapegoat by a grieving family.”

“Look, for obvious reasons I don’t want to see the First Amendment undermined. This

is a different issue.”

“Is it? Well, it should be no surprise to hear that the cops agree with you. I’ve had a

couple of interviews with that son of a bitch who was investigating Zellig’s death –”

“His murder,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Tony Zellig was murdered. He didn’t just die in a car accident or from natural causes.

Someone butchered him and buried him in a park.”

“Yes, someone that the cops believe I inspired and possibly influenced, whether

deliberately or not.”

And the Zellig kid’s fate had been the same as Karen Holtzer’s – and who knew how

many others. But I didn’t say that. I felt my popularity index dropping fast as it was. Oddly

enough, I regretted that.

“But regardless of what you or the police or the school administration think,” Guy

continued in that chilly voice, “I believe that the examination of the occult is valuable for

many reasons, including the fact that it encourages kids to challenge their dearly held knee-

jerk assumptions about the world they live in. Knowledge is power.”

“Yeah, but does everyone need to know how to build an atom bomb?”

“Perhaps if everyone knew how, no one would make them any longer.”

“Or maybe we’d blow ourselves into oblivion.” This was stupid. I was arguing with Guy

the way you argue with potential – scratch that. I reminded myself that I was not trying to

get to know Guy; he was a source of information. He was a lead. It did not matter what he

thought or I thought. I said, trying to mollify, “It’s not that I disagree with you, I just think

there’s a certain responsibility that goes with sharing this information.”

“I agree – which is why I’m taking you to see Oliver.” He added curtly, “I hope I don’t

regret it.”

I hoped not too. I was very much afraid that Guy had at least one friend who did not

deal well with betrayal – whether real or imagined.

* * * * *

It was getting close to four o’clock by the time I made it over to the Biltmore,

negotiating crowded streets decked with gnarly fake holly boughs and giant silver bells. Even

the pawn-and thrift-store windows in the surrounding streets sparkled with colored

Christmas lights. Skid Row putting on its holiday finery.

While Bob did not exactly look rested, he looked like he had paused long enough to

bathe and ingest something solid. He was dressed, and other than a nervous tic beneath one

eye, seemed pretty normal.

“How about a drink?” he suggested as I sat in the chair I’d occupied the last time.

“Not for me, thanks. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on tonight.”

“Right, me too.” He gave me an uncertain smile. “I have to apologize for Wednesday. I

realize I said a lot of crazy things. I’m not used to drinking like that. It was the stress.”

“Sure, I understand.”

“When I remember what I said…” He laughed, a ghostly echo of a funhouse laugh. “It’s

embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Like you said, you were stressed about Gabe.”

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “I’m sure I alarmed you, too, with my…my wilder accusations,

which is why I wanted you to know that it’s okay. Everything is okay. Gabe is fine.”

“He is?”

He nodded, smiling, the tic beneath his eye beating away. “I got a postcard from him