Chasen, locating Guzman’s parked car and noticing the wheel marks in the foundation planting bed, had no trouble discovering where Guzman had gone, but was delayed while he picked the lock. Walking silently into the loading bay, he saw the guard.

The guard had managed to use his spare handcuff key and had his hands free. He didn’t notice Chasen behind him. All he saw was Guzman, returning. He had his gun in one hand and with the other was struggling to free his radio from his belt.

"Stop!" the guard said.

"Help me!" Guzman called.

"Stay right there, fella. The police will be here in just a minute." He raised the radio to his mouth.

"Dammit," Chasen said. He foresaw a swarm of pesky humans interfering with his plans. He drew a knife from his sleeve and stabbed the guard in the shoulder, causing him to drop the radio.

The guard shot Guzman and slowly turned and faced Chasen, pointing the automatic at him.

Chasen killed him with a thrust into his heart. He stepped on the radio, then walked over to Guzman. Dead, worse luck. No books. Where was the man’s luggage?

Chasen looked around, then focused on the floor. There were faint wet and dirty tracks from the wheels, leading back into the warehouse. He followed them into the mailroom.

Books, boxes, and bins. The large suitcase was over by the table.

Chasen lifted the rolling case onto the work table and opened it. Clothes, but no books.

On the floor around one end of the long table were white packing peanuts. On the table itself were mailing boxes, an unsealed one back behind a number of sealed boxes. It was large, with the lid just folded down. He opened it, and found the carry-on, wrapped in bubble wrap and nestled in white hard foam peanuts. Opening the small suitcase, he saw a scroll case, about 13 inches long and 4 inches in diameter, of hard, smooth finished leather, with an unknown glyph stamped on the lid. With it was an untitled, leather-bound book, approximately 10 inches by 13 inches. Good. He closed the suitcase, and taking it and the larger case, returned to the loading bay, where he searched Guzman’s body, taking all the Peruvian’s papers: passport, wallet, plane ticket, international driver’s license, and the paperback book with the stamp marking it as property of the University of Lima.

In the underground parking facility of the Inn, Chasen drove past the candy-apple red SUV. Apparently the clansmen managed to return safely; with that thought, he dismissed the group from his mind. They had only been a means to an end and now he had no need to think about them at all.

He unloaded the wheeled suitcase, and taking it and the small carry-on, took the elevator up to the roof.

He ordered a martini and, taking a quiet table, sipped it. When it was half gone, he took out his mirror.

"I have completed your mission," Chasen said.

"Ah," Mekonnen said. "One moment."

Across the table, the air thickened, then opened. Mekonnen sat in the chair opposite Chasen.

Chasen rose, and placed the small suitcase in front of Mekonnen, who opened it eagerly. He took the leather book. He opened it, then let it fall back. He opened the scroll case, removed and unrolled its contents: a panoramic photo of the view from the top of Everest.

"What is this?" Mekonnen said softly. He opened the book and displayed its blank pages to Chasen. "This is not what I hired you to bring me."

Chasen stood and stepped back. "It is what the man was carrying, which is what you told me to get for you. You never told me the title, and you never mentioned the scroll at all. I brought them to you without even opening the book, which is what you told me to do."

"Liar and thief!" Mekonnen said, standing himself, and growing more massive and less human of face. Energy crackled around his hand as he raised it.

"None of that," the bartender said.

"Keep back!" Mekonnen said, turning to the bartender and pointing at him.

Chasen dived under a table as lightening flashed.

There was no thunder. Chasen, listening hard, heard nothing except a resumption of normal bar talk. He lifted his head and took a quick look around.

The bartender was back behind the bar, and Mekonnen was stone. The Innkeeper was surveying the new statue. He held his hands up, palm to palm, and slowly spread them apart. A glowing ring grew between his hands. When the opening he created was of a sufficient size, he turned his hands palm out to Mekonnen and pushed the ring over him; then he closed the portal.

The Innkeeper glanced around, gestured the tables and chairs into order, and vanished.

Chasen got up off the floor, took a seat at the bar and ordered another martini.

***

Chasen heard the phone ring. No one could avoid hearing that phone ring. He picked it up.

"Chasen, a problem has arisen with your bill, and the Innkeeper would like to speak with you as soon as possible."

Oh, damn. "Certainly. I’ll attend him as soon as I complete my ablutions."

"Thank you."

Shit, shit, shit. Chasen gulped down a pick-me-up from the small refrigerator, then took a cold shower.

He had realized as soon as Mekonnen had stood up that he was in real trouble. The demon thought Chasen had betrayed him or possibly just cheated him. Either way, Mekonnen was after his blood.

He had left the mirror on the bar when he had staggered to the elevator. Even if the Innkeeper had already released Mekonnen, the demon couldn’t use the mirror to track him. As long as he stayed at the Inn, he was safe. Outside, he had no expectation of safety.

***

"Chasen," the Innkeeper said, "Mekonnen has canceled your credit."

A good move, Chasen thought, and one he should have foreseen. "Ah," he said. "He is recovered, then."

"Yes."

After a brief silence, Chasen said, "I was wondering…"

"Should I understand that you find it inconvenient to leave the Inn at the moment?"

"Very inconvenient, yes."

"Your own account is not sufficient to maintain you in your current quarters, or for that matter, in any of the guest quarters. You’ve been overdrawn for several years."

"I see."

"However," the Innkeeper said, "I am not interested in turning you out."

"Thank you."

"Provided you work for your keep."

Chasen swallowed. "Fine," he said.

"Here’s your new room number. Move your belongings, then report to Chaldun, the maintenance manager."

***

Chaldun looked at Chasen. "Got any magic?"

"Ah, no."

"Then there’s your cleaning cart. Dust the tables and statutes in each hall first, use the yellow dust cloths on the tables, and the feather duster on the statutes. Then you use the carpet sweeper on the runner and the dust mop on the wood floors. Start at the top."

"Look, Ma, I have to go," Sylvia Corbin said.

"But are you coming down this weekend, Sylly?" her mother asked.

"Maybe, but it depends."

"On what?"

"Gotta go." Sylvia rang off. She hated being called Sylly. Her mother and all her high school friends still used her baby nickname. Syliva’s college years had been spent in northern California, far from home. Her mother still lived down in Oceanside, but Sylvia managed to avoid visiting more than once or twice a year. She insisted on driving, which kept the few visits even shorter than they could have been.

The phone rang again. Sylvia assumed it was her mother again and ignored it.

Her partner David Chang’s voice came out of her answering machine: "Sly, pick up."

Sylvia didn’t mind being called ‘Sly.’ She picked up the handset. "Hi. What’s up?"

"We got a call. Body in a warehouse. It’s on your way in."

"Where?"

"Walsh, off the San Tomas, near the airport, ‘Bookquest’ in big letters on the front."

"OK, it’ll be about half an hour, depending on traffic."

Walsh Avenue was just west of the airport, in the freight handling area: many sheet metal and concrete block warehouses, left plain and unadorned, and a few offices of sprayed concrete blocks, usually in pastel colors, with gratuitous redwood beams sticking out of the walls, sometimes supporting second floor decks or landings, often not, with radio and microwave receivers of various sizes and orientations on their roofs. These were often surrounded by landscaped berms with thumb-thick saplings stuck here and there amid plantings of salmon or magenta iceplant. The warehouses were surrounded by cargo containers, tractors, trailers, stacks of both wood and plastic pallets, forklifts and old fashioned closed delivery vans.

with large blue letters on the side of a typical corrugated metal warehouse, was towards the east end of Walsh.

Sly saw the coroner’s van waiting outside. She parked away from the activity and showed her badge to the uniformed officer who was acting as sentry. She ducked under the yellow tape and stopped, while her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.

Everything was apparently running in Chang’s usual orderly style. Sly signed in with the Recorder and was handed two pairs of paper booties.

"Two?" she asked.

"Change for the mailroom. The CS people are trying oblique lighting on some shoe prints there."

Sly nodded and, carrying the spare booties and carefully avoiding all the evidence markers, looked for and found David Chang looking at the first of a pair of male corpses.

"So what happened?"

"The way I see it, the guard shot this guy, and then was knifed by a third guy."

"Who is he?"

"No ID," David said.

"Anything?"

David indicated half a playing card in an evidence bag. The Queen of Hearts.

-----------------------

More to come in Chapter 3 

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