holidays.” I gazed at the rows of sleek sports cars and rugged-looking SUVs gleaming in the

tequila sunset. Palm trees rustled overhead. Tinny Christmas carols issued from the

loudspeakers in not-so-subliminal messaging.

I watched Jake’s blond and buff reflection materialize behind me in the windshield.

“Eight hundred bucks? You have eight hundred bucks to throw around?”

I shrugged. “I’ll write it off as his Christmas bonus.”

“Uh-huh.” I felt him study my face. “Well, Mr. Trump, is there any point in our going

inside?”

“Did you never hear of the great American tradition of financing?”

He snorted. I met his tawny gaze. “How the hell is running away supposed to solve

anything?” he asked, and for a second, I thought we were talking about something else

entirely.

“I wasn’t looking for a long-term solution.” Before Jake could answer, I added, “I doubt

if I need one. They’re kids. They have the attention span of…what is it? One minute for each

year of life. We’re looking at twenty minutes of terror. Tops.”

Jake’s lips twitched, but he said, “These kids are all part of a witch’s coven based out of

Westwood?”

I stroked the hood of a silver Subaru Forester. “New meaning to the words ‘Teen Spirit,’

huh?” I studied the sticker price on the window. “From what I’ve picked up, they all took

part in a class on demonology or witchcraft about a year ago. I guess somebody inhaled too

much incense during the lab.”

“They went off and started a coven?”

“I’m guessing. It’s not like Angus has been forthcoming on the subject. Revealing

Count Chocula’s secrets carries a stiff penalty.”

Red and green Christmas lights strung across the lot flashed on. They reminded me of

glowing chili peppers, but maybe I was subconsciously influenced by the Mexican restaurant

across the street. I remembered I hadn’t stopped for lunch. My stomach growled. I wondered

if Jake could take time for dinner.

If I whined about being hungry, he’d make time. He was appalled by my eating habits,

being one of these fitness fanatics who believes the rule about three balanced meals a day is

engraved on a stone tablet. We hadn’t seen much of each other lately. I was willing to risk

another lecture on the benefits of complex carbs.

“You shop around, you compare prices, you get the vehicle right for you,” he observed,

watching me linger over the Forester.

“Sure.”

“You don’t need another gas guzzler. How about a coupe? How about pre-owned?”

“Used?”

At my tone, a muscle tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctantly I moved down the

aisle of cars to a blue two-door. Tinted windows, power sun roof, Bose speakers. The price

was right, too. Climate controlled. What did that mean? Air conditioning?

Jake said suddenly, grimly, “Believe it or not, this kind of shit can get way out of hand.

Hollywood PD turned up a Jane Doe in the Hollywood Hills about a month ago. Word is she

was the victim of a ritual killing.”

“You mean, like, devil worshipers?”

I was mostly kidding, but Jake said thoughtfully, “I kind of wish you hadn’t sent the kid

out of town. I’d have liked to talk to him.”

“You can’t think Angus is involved in that,” I protested. “He’s a bit odd, granted, but

he’s a decent kid.”

“You have no idea what he is, Adrien.” Jake, a ten-year veteran of LAPD, used that cop

tone when I exhibited signs of civilian naivete. “You’ve employed him for a few months,

that’s all. You hired him through a temp agency. You think they ran a serious security

check?”

“You think it’s necessary for working in a mystery bookstore?”

He wasn’t listening. “There’s this whole satanic underground we’ve been hearing about

since the ’80s. There might not be evidence of an organized movement like certain religious

groups claim, but we’ve seen plenty of injuries and deaths resulting from people taking this

stuff seriously. And plenty of people turning up in psych wards. It’s ugly and violent, but a

lot of kids are attracted to it.”

“So hopefully this scares the hell out of Angus, and he gets it out of his system.” I tried

to picture myself behind the wheel of the coupe, gave it up, headed back to the silver

Forester.

* * * * *

When I finished signing the loan docs, Jake and I went across the street to grab dinner

at the cantina. I had traded in the Bronco, and since the dealership was going to install a

stereo system in the new vehicle, I needed a ride back to my place. Jake let himself be

coerced.

While we waited for our meal, I watched him put away two baskets of tortilla strips.

He munched steadily, as though he were being paid by the chip, gaze fastened on a wall

planter bristling with plastic bougainvillea.

Still crunching, he paused mid-reach for his Dos Equis. “Sure. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem preoccupied.”

“Nope.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer, eyes on mine. “Everything’s cool.”

Our relationship was not an easy one. Jake was deeply closeted. He claimed it was

because he was a cop – that the job was tough enough without having to go to war with the

guys who were supposed to be on your side – but I’d come to believe that it was more

complicated. Jake despised himself for being sexually attracted to men. Though he had been a

good friend to me and was a physically satisfying lover – when he was around – there was a

certain tension between us that I sometimes feared could never completely be resolved.

Which was a damn shame, because I cared for him. A lot.

When we’d first met, he’d been active in the S/M scene. I thought – hoped – maybe

he was less active in the clubs these days.

What I did know for sure was that he was dating a woman, a female cop named Kate

Keegan. He’d been seeing her longer than he’d known me; I didn’t think it was just a cover

relationship. But he didn’t discuss it much with me.

“So I hear Chan’s writing a book.”

A few months earlier Jake’s partner, Detective Paul Chan, had joined Partners in

Crime, the weekly writing group I hosted at the bookstore.

“Yeah, a police procedural.”

“Is it any good?”

“Uh, well…”

Jake laughed, shoved the basket of chips my way.