Blood of the Demon (21 page)

There was a brief pause, then, “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m good to drive.”

“Okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

He was silent again for several seconds. “Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “See you later.”

I didn’t look back until I heard the front door close. Then I stopped blinking and allowed the tears to come.

AFTER RYAN LEFT, I ALLOWED MYSELF A HALF HOUR OF sniveling, then washed my face, changed clothes, and buried myself in work—my tried and true way to avoid thinking about things that upset me. Or, rather, I
tried
to bury myself in work. Unfortunately there really wasn’t much work that needed doing. I was already caught up on my paperwork, and I didn’t feel like driving over to my aunt’s house to get started on the arcane research I needed to do.

I finally went down to the basement and set up the next stage of the ritual to call Tessa’s essence back. This stage required more than an hour of channeling potency into the diagram, which ended up having the welcome benefit of tiring me out. I needed only
two
glasses of wine to fall asleep.

Yet, even exhausted, I still had chaotic and unsettling dreams of Ryan and Rhyzkahl. I couldn’t remember much beyond a few snatches of scenes—images of the two facing each other in arcane conflict, surrounded by demons.

I woke late, mood not improved when my coffeemaker refused to turn on. I tried a variety of methods to make the damn thing work—including yelling, crying, and cursing—but it still stubbornly refused to produce coffee.

I finally gave up and headed to the coffee shop and its overpriced product. Without coffee, the day had a good chance of sucking, and I really didn’t need any more suck in my life at the moment.

I FUMBLED IN the glove box of the Taurus for sunglasses, jamming them onto my face with one hand while trying to adjust the sun visor with the other. The mid-morning sun speared relentlessly through the windshield at the absolute perfect height to evade the sun-blocking powers of the visor. I had the air conditioner cranked all the way up, but the air it produced was only slightly below tepid and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I’d briefly experimented with driving with the windows down, but even at ten in the morning the outside air was hot enough to make that pointless. At least the minimal air-conditioning wouldn’t turn my hair into a tangled mess the way open windows would. And since the day’s agenda involved driving down to Mandeville to interview Elena Sharp, I figured it would be best if I avoided arriving with bride-of-Frankenstein hair.

Sure, she can pop on up to Beaulac to lurk outside Brian Roth’s funeral
, I thought sourly,
but she’s still going to make me drive to Mandeville to interview her?
And I was willing to bet that the AC in her car worked pretty damn well. On the other hand, the trip to Mandeville would conveniently keep me out of the office for the rest of the day. That was a win.

The drive to Mandeville was uneventful, and it didn’t take me long to find the complex where she lived. I pulled in and realized quickly that even though it wasn’t a three-story house on the shore of Lake Pearl, Elena Sharp’s new residence was by no means a mere apartment. From the gated entrance—complete with a security guard who actually checked my credentials—to the lushly landscaped surroundings, the entire complex screamed wealth.

I spied Elena Sharp’s distinctive red Mercedes, parked between a Lexus and a BMW. I stuffed my grungy Taurus into a spot next to an Audi, then walked down a path shaded with flowering crape myrtles to her unit. I rang the doorbell and heard the deep, sonorous tones vibrate beyond the oak and glass door, followed by the sound of heels on marble. A few seconds later the door was opened by Elena Sharp.

She was a few inches taller than me and wearing heels as well, which gave her enough of a height advantage that she was most definitely looking down at me. She wore a strapless mid-calf-length formfitting dress that molded over a flat stomach, narrow hips, and generous tits that I had a feeling were not factory originals. On her the dress looked elegant and expensive. On me it would have looked tawdry and pathetic. Actually, on me it would have looked stolen as well, since I figured it probably cost several hundred dollars. Not that I knew that much about fashion, but I could tell what was way out of my price range.

“Ms. Sharp, I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the Beaulac Police Department,” I said as I extended my hand. “As I stated on the phone, I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding your husband’s death.”

Her eyes flicked over me, taking in my clothing, my gun
and badge, even my hairstyle—or lack thereof. I had a fleeting sensation of being cataloged, and I had to wonder if she could tell that I shopped mostly at stores that ended in
Mart
. Her eyes went back to mine, and she reached out and clasped my hand in a brief shake. Her manicure was perfect, her hand cool and smooth in mine. “Detective Gillian,” she said, polite smile curving her lips. “Please come in.” She stepped back and motioned me in. I obliged, then followed her as she turned and led the way to a sitting room.

The sitting room was about the same size as the one in my house, except that in my house it was called a living room and definitely looked lived in. This was a room where one was expected to sit and perhaps sip tea and speak of lovely things in soft and cultured tones. Everything here looked expensive and elegant, with sleek furniture that exuded an aura of quality, fresh flowers on the coffee table, and a rolltop desk beneath a window that offered a stunning view of Lake Pontchartrain. It was beautiful, but I had a hard time imagining anyone spending much time in the room.

She sat smoothly on a sleek couch that I figured cost more than every stick of furniture in my house. The only other place to sit in the room was a large wingback chair that I knew without a doubt would swallow me whole, but I didn’t really want to sit on the couch with her if I was going to be questioning her. I gave a mental sigh and sat carefully on the forward edge of the wingback, telling myself I didn’t really look ridiculous. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I began, setting my notebook on my lap.

Elena Sharp crossed her legs and laced her fingers over
her knee. “And I appreciate you making the drive to Mandeville, Detective Gillian,” she said, with a slight nod as if to say,
There now, we have the pleasantries out of the way
.

“So, Davis was murdered,” she continued, mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “I take it I’m a suspect?”

Oh, yeah, she wasn’t stupid by any stretch. “You understand that I can’t rule you out.”

“Oh, I know.” She closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head and sighed. “One more way for Davis to screw me.”

“You moved out and filed for divorce the day before his death,” I said, glancing at my notes. “How long were you two having marital difficulties?”

She gave a breathless laugh. “Oh, no.
We
were not having marital difficulties at all.
I
was. I … didn’t want to be with him anymore.” An odd mixture of pain and fear flickered across her face, quickly smoothed away into a polite smile—though the echo of it lingered in her eyes.

Interesting. Had she been afraid of her late husband? Enough to leave him? Or have him killed? “Yes, ma’am,” I said, glancing again at my notes. “You called the police twice in the last three years for domestic violence complaints.” I watched her face, keeping my expression friendly and neutral.

“Yes,” she said. “So I did.”

“You never pursued charges.”

She stood and walked to the window, folding her arms across her chest and almost hugging herself as she gazed out at the lake. “I know that everyone thought I was just a stupid trophy wife. And you know what? I was—the trophy part, that is.” She ran her hands unconsciously over her dress, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles. “But I’m not stupid. I grew up in a trailer, went to the public high
school, and learned pretty early on that what money and influence couldn’t get, a blow job and a fake orgasm could.” She shrugged and gave a self-conscious laugh.

I suddenly felt better about my own financial situation. “So you married Davis for his money.”

She gave me an
oh, please
look. “Well, duh. He was almost twenty years older than me. But I’m not a total mercenary. We actually had a lot of fun together, and I never really expected him to ask me to marry him.” A faint smile flickered across her face. “Shocked the shit out of me, to be honest.”

“So, now that he’s dead, you’re pretty well set, right?”

Elena shook her head. “I’m all right, but if you’re thinking that I inherited the massive Sharp fortune, then you’re sadly mistaken. I signed a rock-solid prenuptial agreement with that man.” She lowered her head and looked at me. “I had my own lawyer look it over damn carefully too, and a few changes were made, but we managed to come to some agreeable terms and went ahead and hitched on up.”

“It sounds like a corporate merger,” I said before I could censor myself.

She gave a small bark of laughter. “It was, in a way. Like I said, we had fun, but I also looked out for myself. And Davis was the same way. Who knows; maybe that’s what he liked about me. I’m attracted to powerful men. I guess that’s my downfall.” A look of regret crossed her face, then she shrugged her bare shoulders and it was gone. She moved to the desk and opened a drawer, removing a manila envelope. “Anyway, in a divorce, this is what I would get,” she said, as she pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope and passed it to me.

I skimmed the page from her prenuptial agreement
quickly. “That’s … a pretty decent sum of money,” I pointed out, trying not to look as boggled as I was.

She gave me a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. Trust me, I remember where I came from. Unlike a lot of the rich bitches that I’ve hung around with, I can appreciate how rare this sort of lifestyle is. I’d have been able to live the rest of my life in pretty decent comfort.”

“And what do you get now that he died before your divorce was final?”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Well, he has two kids from his first wife, and they get most of his estate.” She pulled another sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it to me. “I get a lump sum, plus a monthly stipend for the rest of my life.”

I glanced over the numbers. Pretty much the same that she would have received in a divorce. I doubted that she’d faked the documents. It was far too easy for me to check—and I would—and she wasn’t that stupid.

But there were plenty of other possible motives for murder besides greed. “Can you tell me more about the 911 calls?”

She looked at me, green eyes bright in the sunlight that streamed in through the high window. “We had arguments sometimes—when he wanted me to do something or go somewhere, and I’d made other plans or that sort of thing. He told me that it was my
job
to be with him and look good, 24/7. And … he got jealous too. He wanted me to be beautiful and charming, but he also didn’t want me to pay too much attention to other men. Even his close friends.” She sighed. “Davis would occasionally get physical. I got scared the first time.” She shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been smacked before, but I just didn’t expect it from him. It wasn’t even
hard
. My pride was
bruised more than anything. Anyway, I locked myself in the bedroom and called the cops.” She brushed her hair back from her shoulders, an expression that might have been embarrassment coloring her features. “They came, took statements, told him to leave for the night.” She gave me a rueful smile. “He came back the next day with an armload of presents.”

“That’s a pretty standard pattern for an abuser,” I said evenly.

“Oh, I know,” she said, with an unapologetic shrug. “And if he’d been slapping me around on a daily basis, I’d have been out of there in just my underwear, if necessary. I’m a mercenary, but, as I told you, I’m not stupid. In the five years we were together, he slapped me only twice.” The look she gave me was challenging. “That’s hardly a standard pattern for an abuser.”

It was two more slaps than I would ever put up with. “So why did you leave him?” I countered.

There it was again—the pain and fear. Her gaze flicked around the room, refusing to light anywhere. She swallowed and smoothed her hands over her dress again, then sat back down on the couch and clasped her hands together in her lap. She took a breath to settle herself and looked up at me, a smile that was clearly artificial sculpted onto her face by sheer will. “I found out he was cheating on me.”