When the Badger gets her teeth in something, she doesn’t let go. “It was a job and a half to find out who holds title to that goddamn house.” Behind her, another phone rang, and I heard Sullivan’s big voice raised. He was probably cussing at his coffee. The way Homicide bitches about the coffee, you’d think someone would have brought in some decent beans by now.

Other than that, it sounded like a cubicle farm on speed. Which is to say, a usual morning in Homicide.

“Huh.” I closed my eyes. It was easier that way, with the outside world shut out. “In what way?”

“I had to go rousting.” She sounded almost indignant. “It wasn’t in the usual databases. I had to go down to the tax assessor’s office, they sent me to some goddamn basement. Had to pull records from 1930, can you believe that? They haven’t got around to putting that slice of the city in the databases, he said. Weird, since every other district is.”

Well, isn’t that interesting. “And the winner is?”

“Someone named Ruth Gregory. Utilities, phone, garbage pickup, all under the same name—there were bills in the house. But here’s some other weirdness: Ruth Gregory doesn’t exist.”

“If she gets bills, she must exist.”

“That’s the thing. None of her information’s anywhere we can find it, no DOB, no nothing. But she got bills and paid them. Has a bank account, but if it wasn’t for paper statements we wouldn’t know, her bank doesn’t have her on electronic file. There’s not even a listing in the phone book. This woman just came out of nowhere, and she doesn’t show up in the databases.”

That’s voodoo for you. The electronic stuff is easier for the loa to affect than paper. Dammit. Ruth Gregory. “What’s her middle initial?” It was a small question, but I needed something I could feel good about anticipating.

“Ruth R. Gregory. Why?”

Ruth R. Arthur. A little fuck-you from Mama Zamba. Just like a supervillain. “I don’t suppose you’ve found any hints of other houses?”

“I ran a check. Guess how many Ruth Gregorys there are in the good old United States.”

How the hell should I know? But it was just like her to run it into the ground. “Thousands?”

“Less than four hundred. Four in our state. None with the middle initial R. And no hint of a separate identity, though it’s a good bet that if she had one we wouldn’t be able to find it electronically either. It could take us weeks of sifting paper—”

We don’t have weeks. “That’s not necessary. If any scrap of another identity comes up from processing the house, let me know. Otherwise, just keep identifying those stiffs. Okay?”

“All right.” She sounded almost disappointed. She would run Zamba into the ground over weeks if she had to. Months. Or years.

“Good work.” And I meant it. “Did you get everything you needed out of the house?”

“Boxes of paper. She was a real pack rat, our Miz Gregory. We left everything not needed for Forensics there and closed it up. Should we go back?”

No way. “No. God, no.” I didn’t mean to sound horrified. “Stay away from there. Just keep processing that paper and buzz me if anything else tingles your weird-o-meter, okay?”

“You got it.”

“Any ID on the other bodies yet? Other than Trevor Watson?” At least, the zombies that weren’t Zamba’s followers?

“Not yet. They’re pretty spludgy.”

Well, that’s one word for it. “Okay. Thanks.” I dropped the phone in the cradle, considered screaming and shooting something.

Prioritize, Jill. Get your head straight.

It was a good plan. I just wasn’t sure I could do it.

What next? Come on, what are you going to do next?

There was only one thing to do. And it wasn’t going by the Cirque, thank God, or standing around yelling at Saul. I looked up, but the bookshop was deserted. Nothing but empty aisles faced with stuffed-full bookshelves, boxes on the floor, the antique cash register sitting stolidly, gathering dust. “Saul?” The word quivered. Was he gone?

Oh, fuck. I stood there with my hand on the phone, my hip against Hutch’s desk, and my heart twisting itself like a contortionist inside my chest. “Saul?”

I checked the kitchen and the EMPLOYEES ONLY room. I even checked the goddamn bathroom.

He was gone. I hadn’t even heard him leave.

God. I swallowed something hot and nasty, paced through the entire shop one more time. Blinked several times. My cheeks were wet.

This is one less thing for you to worry about. Get back up on the horse, Jill. Do your job.

It was time for me to visit Melendez.

If Zamba was the reigning voodoo queen, Melendez was the court jester. Don’t get me wrong—anyone who bargains with an inhuman intelligence is suspect, and just because I hadn’t heard of Melendez doing anything even faintly homicidal or icky didn’t mean he didn’t dabble.

But it didn’t mean the little butterball was harmless, either. Any more than the mark on my wrist meant I was a Trader.

Only I was, if you thought about it a certain way. And while Melendez didn’t go in for the theatrical horror and power games Zamba did, he also didn’t go out of his way to make things easier on people. Live and let die, that was probably the closest thing to a motto he would ever have.

Saul had left me the car. Awful nice of him. I told the sharp spearing ache in my heart to go away and made time through midmorning traffic, brakes squealing and tires chirping. The shadows leapt and cavorted in my peripheral vision until I began ignoring them, even the colorless crystal eyes and the glass-twinkle teeth. I caught the flow of traffic like a pinball down a greased slide, all the way across town to the northern fringe of the Riverhurst section.

A nice address, all things considered, clinging to rich respectability like cactus clings to any breath of moisture. The houses are old, full of creaks, fake adobes and some improbable Cape Cods. They had bigger yards than anything other than the rest of Riverhurst, and most of them were drenched green. I even saw some sprinklers running, spouting rainbows under the heaving, cringe-inducing glare of dusty sunlight.

Melendez didn’t hold his gatherings in his home. He owned a storefront on the edge of the barrio, with a trim white sign out front announcing the Holy Church of St. Barbara, nonprofit and legitimate under a 501(c)(3). His own private little joke, I guess. Seven nights a week you can find drumming, dancing, and weird shit happening on the little strip of concrete that had pretensions of being Pararrayos Avenue.

Mornings, though, he could be found here. It’s a good thing the streets are wide even on the edge of Riverhurst, because his followers usually come out for consultations, filling up his driveway and the street for a block or two. Quarter-hour increments, donations optional—nobody leaves without paying something—and results guaranteed.

You don’t last long in that business unless you have the cash to back the flash.

Today, though, the street was clear and I parked right near the front door. Melendez’s faux-adobe hacienda sat behind its round concrete driveway with the brick bank in the middle, holding still-blooming rosebushes, a monkey puzzle tree, and a bank of silvery-green rue. Lemon balm tried its best to choke everything else in the bed, but aggressive pruning had turned it into a bank of sweetness.

I was relieved to see his tiny garden was tiptop. The fountain—a cute little chubby-cheeked cherub shooting water from his tiny wang—was going full-bore. I wondered if there was a homeowners’ association in this part of town, and what they thought of his choice in lawn decorations. Not that there was much lawn to speak of. The largest part of his lot was out back with the pool.