LITMIR.BIZ

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and don’t want to have to explain anything. Do me a favor and call Vidocq. Tell him I want in on the case. I don’t like threats and I hate crank calls.”

      Candy puts her robot glasses on.

      “At least whoever it was thinks I’m pretty.”

      “Even assholes can have good taste.”

      THERE’S A PARKING lot less than a block from the Beat Hotel. Vidocq hates riding in stolen cars, so I look for one that will make him the least unhappy and settle on a brown Volvo 240, one of the most boring cars in the world. No one, especially a cop, will look twice at a Volvo, especially one the color of a Swedish turd.

      I leave Candy in the idling car, go into the room at the hotel, and ditch my burned shirt for a clean one. I always have the knife and na’at with me, but on the way out I grab the Smith & Wesson .460. You don’t have to shoot an elephant with a gun this big and powerful. You just hit it on the knee with the butt and the elephant will give you all of its lunch money. When he sees me slip the gun into my coat pocket, Kasabian shakes his head, which, in his case, is his whole body.

      “I knew they’d drag you in. You can’t stay away from trouble.”

      “Can I help it if trouble has me on speed dial?”

      “Have fun, sucker.”

       “Vaya con Dios, Alfredo Garcia.”

      Sola already gave Vidocq the Sentenza family’s address, so I pick him up and we head north on the Hollywood Freeway.

      STUDIO CITY IS the kind of place where the poor have to settle for two-million-dollar “luxury properties” instead of mansions. The only difference between them and the genuinely rich in the hills is that they have to get by with one pool and they can’t park a 747 in their two-story living room, though they can probably squeeze in a decent-size blimp. There are fake villas with fake Roman mosaics out front and fake castles with wrought-iron gates like Henry VIII is going to stop by with guacamole for the keg party.

      Lucky for everyone, the address Julia gave us belongs to a place on Coldwater Canyon Avenue with nothing but a long snaking driveway. No monarchist gates, armed guards, or a giant hermetically sealed Jetsons dome.

      At the end of the drive, a gold Lexus is parked next to a clean but well-used Ford pickup. There are streaks of mud and dried cement around the truck’s wheel wells. We get out and follow a stone path to the front door. I ring the bell.

      A woman opens the door a second later. She’s obviously been waiting for us. She’s about fifty and pretty, with short dark hair and a high-quality chin tuck.

      “Oh,” she says, all the hope and brightness disappearing from her eyes.

      It’s Hunter’s mom. I can see the resemblance from one of the photos back at the bar. Mom takes one look at my scarred face and I can practically see the words home invasion with multiple fatalities spinning around her brain like the dragon in a Chinese New Year’s parade.

      I say, “Mrs. Sentenza. Julia Sola sent us.”

      She relaxes. The storm in her brain clears and her blood pressure drops to below aneurysm levels. Her little freak-out probably shaved a good five years off her life, but they’re the shitty ones at the end, so no big deal.

      “Oh. You must be Mr. Stark and Mr. Vidocq. Julia said you’d be dropping by.” She stops, staring at Candy in her robot sunglasses.

      I say, “This is my assistant, Candy.”

      Mrs. Sentenza gives Candy a thin smile.

      “Of course she is. Please come in.”

      The inside of the house is bright, with light coming through a million windows and reflecting off the polished tile floor. Obsessive California chic. Like they own the sky and are goddamn well going to use every inch of it. Hunter’s father is waiting for us by the stairs leading to the upper floor of a two-story living room. (I told you.)

      “This is Hunter’s father, Kerry.”

      “Nice to meet you all. Call me K.W.”

      Handshakes all around. His grip is firm and serious. He has rough laborer’s hands, like he actually works for a living.

      “Are you three exorcists, too?” he asks.

      “No. Father Traven holds the prayer beads. We’re more like spiritual bouncers.”

      “Well, if you can fix this, we’re willing to try.”

      There aren’t any hoodoo vibes coming off these people. Nothing shifty and hidden. They come across like straight-arrow civilians who wouldn’t know a Hand of Glory from an oven mitt. They’re not responsible for calling a demon into the house. Unless they’re a lot more powerful than they look and can throw up a glamour powerful enough to even fool the angel in my head. Their eyes are dilating and their hearts are racing. I smell Valium and alcohol in Mom’s sweat. Most of what I’m getting off them is heavyweight fear for their kid and confusion and a meek mistrust of us three. No surprise there. They don’t run into people like us on the golf course at the country club.

      Vidocq looks around the place. Like me, he’s looking for any traces of magic, in his case mystical objects.

      “You have a very lovely home,” says Candy. “It looks like a happy place.”

      “It was,” says Mom.

      I say, “Can we see the room?”

      “It’s Hunter’s room. His name is Hunter.”

      “Hunter. Got it. Can we see Hunter’s room?”

      Mom isn’t sure about Candy and Vidocq, but I can tell she hates me already. I’m not sure about Dad. He looks like the kind of guy who didn’t come from money, and now that he has it, he’s always a little on edge waiting for someone to try to take it away. That means he’ll have a handgun or two in the house.

      K.W. leads us to Hunter’s room while Mom trails behind.

      “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did Hunter take anything like antidepressants? Or was he ever locked up for, you know, behavior problems?”

      “You mean, was our son crazy?” asks Mom.

      “Was he?”

      “No. He was a normal boy. He ran track.”

      So that’s what normal is. I should write that down.

      “Did he take any recreational drugs?”

      Mom’s attitude has gone from hate to stabby.

      “He’d never touch those. He’s an athlete. Besides, when Hunter was a boy he saw Tommy, his older brother, destroy himself with drugs. He hallucinated. He was scared all the time and couldn’t sleep for weeks on end. And it kept getting worse. Then Tommy died. Hunter saw all of it.”

      “He didn’t die. He hanged himself,” says Dad. His face is set and hard, but it’s clear that admitting this hurt.

      “Don’t say it like that,” says Mom. The tears come fast, an automatic reaction when her other son’s death comes up.

      These people are unbelievably easy to read. They don’t have any magic. There aren’t any spells that will hide it this thoroughly.

      K.W. puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

      “Jen, why don’t you put on some fresh coffee for our guests?”

      Mom nods and heads down the hall.

      When she’s gone K.W. turns to us.

      “Sorry. This thing has us both a little crazy, but it’s hit her worse. How are you supposed to live after one son’s suicide and your other son’s … well, whatever the hell this is. What’s normal again after that?” he says. He swallows hard. “I still don’t know what we did to ruin our boys.”

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