Home > The Brimstone Deception (SPI Files #3)(7)

The Brimstone Deception (SPI Files #3)(7)
Author: Lisa Shearin

Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height. Like his suit, Jesin Nadisu had gone out of his way to blend in.

With my seer vision, I saw a surprisingly young and unsurprisingly handsome goblin in his early twenties (or whatever the goblin age equivalent was) with sleek, shoulder-length, blue-black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, with large dark eyes. Elves and goblins age slower than humans, and do a better job of it while they do; no plastic surgery or Botox shots needed.

The goblin gestured. “This way, please.”

We took one of the elevators to the seventh floor.

“How long has Mr. Gedeon lived in the apartment?” Ian asked.

“Mr. Gedeon owns . . . owned the apartment,” the goblin said, “but he didn’t live there. He visited once or sometimes twice a week. He kept the place for a lady friend.”

“The name of the tenant?” Ian asked.

“Mara Lorenz. She went out of town two days ago.”

“Then why was Mr. Gedeon here?”

Jesin Nadisu’s professional reserve cracked and he smiled slightly. “The same reason he was always here. To get away from his wife.”

When we got to the seventh floor, the stench of sulfur smacked us all in the face.

The goblin unlocked the apartment door, but made no move to open it.

I didn’t blame him. He’d been there, done that, got the trauma.

Ian broke the silence. “Mr. Nadisu, I need you to return to the lobby and wait for our lab team.”

The goblin nodded with no small measure of relief and turned toward the elevator.

“And don’t let anyone in unless they live in the building or are from Sarkowski Plumbing,” my partner added. “They’re our lab team.”

“I wouldn’t anyway. This is a secure building.” The young goblin winced. “At least it was.” He swallowed in an audible gulp. “And on my watch.” He paused. “Would your non-admittance request include any of Mr. Gedeon’s business associates?”

“It would. And do not discuss what you have seen with anyone.”

“My discretion and that of the Murwood is assured for all of our tenants.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I noticed he never said he wouldn’t tell anyone, just that his discretion was assured. With goblins, you had to watch for the small print. Many of the top lawyers in the city were goblins—and more than a few of the politicians. I was sure Ian had noticed; he chose not to try to wrangle a promise out of him. A goblin could find ways to get around those, too.

But I still felt sorry for him. Contrary to what Ian had told him, he’d have to tell the owner of the building what had happened. I was sure we could count on their discretion as well. No landlord wanted to spread around that a murder had occurred in one of their buildings.

“Have any of the other tenants been asking questions?” Ian asked.

“No, just from the apartment one floor below, and the couple next door. They’ve since left for a luncheon engagement. I’ve called and told them that I’ve looked into it, and there’s no cause for concern.”

Goblins could spin a lie as easily as breathing. Like I said, they were great lawyers and politicians.

In my book, your next-door neighbor getting himself murdered was plenty cause for concern. Though if Sar Gedeon had been specifically targeted—considering what he did for a living, that scenario was highly likely—there really wasn’t any need for the neighbors to worry for their own safety. That is, unless they stuck their noses where they didn’t belong and the killer got wind of it. So, when you looked at it like that, the manager’s lie might have saved their lives. See? He lied and it was for their own good. It was all in how you spun it.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Ian drew his gun, which was loaded with silver-infused hollow points.

“Stay here,” he told me.

“I can do that.”

Not only could I do that, I was glad to do that. Running underneath the sulfur stink was an odor I could only describe as burned beef brisket. I wasn’t a math whiz, but the smell of burned meat coming from a room with a dead body? Those added up to a cause of death I was in no hurry to confirm for myself.

Ian opened the door and slipped into the apartment.

I had the smell of sulfur and burned flesh to keep me company while I waited in the hall. I didn’t know which one was worse; but since they were both here, I didn’t have to choose. Lucky me.

I was familiar with the smell of brimstone. I’d gotten a snootful of the stuff only once before, and that was one time too many.

My SPI training had included a class in what was generously called “Aroma Identification.” When tracking a supernatural suspect, let’s just say that sometimes visual contact didn’t come first.

One of the aromas covered in class was brimstone. Our instructor kept samples in airtight containers of substances we needed to immediately know when we caught a whiff of it.

Brimstone was the biggie.

Its presence at a crime scene or while in pursuit of a suspect indicated two things that set my survival instinct to twitching: demons and black-magic-spawned portals.

Neither were things you wanted catching you by surprise.

Two minutes and no shots fired later, Ian opened the door and I stepped in just far enough for him to close the door behind me.

4

WHEN a supernatural dies, any glamour they might have been using to disguise their true appearance fades within the first hour after death. A supernatural creature manifesting on a slab in the city morgue in front of a screaming technician was one of those awkward moments it was part of our job to prevent. The scene inside that apartment was bad, but wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen. Believe me, you haven’t seen a murder scene until you’ve busted into a room after a grendel has had ten seconds to rip arms, legs, and head off some poor sot, and dangle his intestines from an overhead light fixture like a party streamer.

   
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