Unclean Spirits

back to the issue at hand.”

“Well, I was feeling pretty screwed over,” I said. “And now I’m not.”

“Yeah,” Midian said. “That’s the part that’s confusing me. Because from here it’s still looking pretty bleak.”

I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin and leaned back in my chair. My backpack was on the counter by the phone book, and I reached for it while I spoke.

“When that fucking asshole Ex took off,” I said in my best calm, reasonable voice, “I felt like he’d taken my only shot at dealing with Coin. I didn’t have anything anymore. You know? But today I realized that’s not true. I’ve got the two of you.”

“Yeah,” Midian said. “And a powerful-as-fuck wizard trying to kill you. Is this a very special Blossom? Did I miss the part where we all learned and hugged and grew?”

“I can still tie you back up,” I said. Midian raised his hands in mock surrender.

“You were saying,” Chogyi Jake said.

“Right. Well, the two of you,” I said. “And I have these.”

I placed the rifle cartridges on the table with a soft tap. Midian moved back an inch or two, but Chogyi Jake scooped one up, rolling it in his fingers as he examined the graven symbols. When he looked over at me, his brows were raised, inviting me to go on.

“And,” I said, “I have a lot of money…”

Sixteen

I left the house in the best outfit to survive the shopping fiasco: a deep blue blouse with black slacks and a jacket. With my hair up and a little tasteful eyeliner and lipstick, I thought I looked the consummate professional. Right up until I reached my destination.

I drove carefully, one eye on the road, one on the rearview. Every time I stepped out of the house I felt like a field mouse watching for hawks. Every driver on the road might be one of Coin’s people. Every kid on the street could be watching for me. I hated it, but I didn’t let it stop me. I didn’t feel even vaguely safe until I got to my lawyer’s office.

It was as intimidating as anyplace I’d ever been. Stained walnut walls had the sense of solid wood. The receptionist dressed like she was running for president. The waiting area was discreetly away from the front door so that I wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of breathing the same air as the UPS guy. The couch was upholstered in raw silk and the coffee was served in a French press with almond cookies. The time-killing magazines on the table were no older than two weeks, and I counted six different languages and three alphabets. None of them had a “Best and Worst Dressed” feature on the front. I wondered whether the Economist ever had a fashion issue.

I felt like an impostor.

I’d been waiting twenty minutes, each one more nerve-racking than the one before, when my lawyer came in. She wore a gray suit with a shell-pink blouse and a smile that could have been genuine.

“Jayne!” she said, pronouncing it Jane. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was in a meeting.”

“It’s my fault,” I said, standing up. “I should have gotten an appointment. It was just-”

“Nonsense. You’re always welcome. Come back to my office and tell me what I can do for you.”

Her office straddled the line between reassuring softness and a level of intimidation that bordered on class warfare. Her desk was carved wood, her carpeting was soft and lush in a way that made me think of tapestries, the north wall was an apparently seamless sheet of glass that looked out over Denver only because there wasn’t anyplace grander nearby. There was no computer on her desk. She was apparently too important for things like that. The receptionist, or someone so like her I couldn’t tell the difference, put my coffee and cookies on the corner of the desk for me and vanished.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” the lawyer said, sitting at her desk. “There are a few things I’ll need your signature for. Nothing pressing, you understand. We just want to have everything in place before the quarterly statements are due.”

“Anything I can do to help,” I said.

If my fairy godmother had been a shark, she’d have smiled like the lawyer did then.

“Is everything going well, then?”

“Actually,” I said, “there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

She leaned forward, her expression calm and interested. I had the impression that if I’d read off the phone book, she could have quoted it back to me. My mouth felt dry.

“What we talk about,” I said. “What I say to you? It’s protected, right? Confidentiality and all that?”

“Yes,” she said. “So long as you weren’t actually planning to commit a crime. In the good old days, that was absolutely confidential as well, but rights erode, dear. It’s their nature.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “I think I know who killed my uncle. It was a guy named Randolph Coin. And I need to find out everything I can about him. The thing is…the thing is he runs some kind of cult called the Invisible College. I don’t want to take anything to the police, and I don’t want anyone to know that I’m looking into his stuff. Does that make sense?”

“Coin is spelled like nickels and dimes?” the lawyer asked.

“Yes. Just like it sounds.”

“Do we know anything else about him?”

“He was at a warehouse in Commerce City this weekend,” I said. “He has a lot of tattoos on his face, but…”

But he can hide them using magical spells, and he has a bunch of wizard-ninjas who do his bidding, and he’s not really human at all, because this evil spirit has actually taken over his body. I wondered if the lawyer could have me declared insane and take away all the money.

“…but he’s really good at covering them up,” I finished lamely.

The lawyer made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat before she spoke.

“All right. I’ll see what we can do. In the meantime, how’s everything else working out?”

“I was thinking that we could find out who rented the warehouse,” I said. “Even if it’s not him, it’s got to be someone connected to him. And I don’t know if it’s legal to track down what kind of plane tickets he’s bought, or if he’s even…”

She was looking at me with the kind of amused indulgence I was used to seeing on grandmothers watching puppies gambol on the lawn. I took a sip of my coffee. It was really good.

She tapped the top of her desk gently with her fingertips and mispronounced my name. I corrected her, and she didn’t miss a beat.

“Jayne,” she said correctly. “I don’t know how much you remember about Ronald Reagan’s tenure in the presidency?”

“I was four,” I said. “When he left office, I was four.”

Her brows rose about a millimeter.

“You make me feel old, dear. The phrase you need to know is plausible deniability. You’ve told me what you need. I’ll find it for you. The less you concern yourself with precisely how the information was gathered, the simpler it will be.”

“Um,” I said.

“I know some very talented people,” she said. “And really, I’m sure you’re much too busy to micromanage every step of something as menial as this?”

I suppressed a grin.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just got enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiasm is a wonderful thing,” she said as if she was agreeing. “As soon as I have anything that might be useful, I’ll have a report drawn up. I assume sooner is better than later.”

“Yes, please.”