now, it did sound like I might be the kind of guy who wore aluminum foil hats in the

privacy of my own home.

“He writes about the occult. When he did a signing here last Friday night, he

announced that his next book would be an expose of a local cult.”

I saw the first glimmer of humor on Rossini’s morose puss.

“And you think the secret cult snatched this Gabriel dude?”

“I don’t think anything.” Well, that wasn’t exactly true. “He thought it. I mean, he

seemed fearful that something like that might happen.”

“He expressed to you a fear that he might be kidnapped?”

“Sort of. Nothing that concrete. He said stuff that –” I caught Jake’s chilly eye and

stumbled. “He mentioned a group called Blade Sable.”

“Say what? Black Sable? Sounds like a cartoon character,” Rossini commented. Adding,

“I think we’ll leave your mystery writer to the boys in Missing Persons.”

My face must have made my thoughts clear. He said affably, “You have to understand,

Mr. English. Cults are like big business. What we’re looking at here is more of a mom-and-

pop operation.”

There was a quaint analogy. Murder, Inc.

“You’re not exploring the possibility that these murders are cult-related?”

“We’re taking a look at a couple of scenarios. But you’ve got to remember that there are

more movies about cults than there are genuine real live cults. You can’t hide a whole cult,”

Rossini explained. “Nowadays you can’t really hide anything,” he finished, and glanced

briefly at Jake.

Something in that quick look, in the mildness of his tone, made me uneasy.

He asked more routine questions, while Jake preserved impassive silence, then finally

slapped shut his notebook, stood, and thanked me curtly for my time.

I moved to the door. Jake followed Rossini out without a backward glance.

I didn’t think much about Jake. I didn’t even worry much about whether I had

managed to convince Rossini that I was a harmless goof. My attention zeroed in on the sight

of Velvet hurrying up the aisle toward the front desk.

The self-conscious line of her back, the guilty haste with which she moved, gave me

the distinct impression she had been hovering outside the office.

Had she been listening through the door?

Chapter Twelve

“So they’ve arrested Angus,” Guy remarked at last.

I nodded, selected another home-baked chip from the sandwich basket.

We had agreed to meet for a late lunch at the Corner Bakery Cafe in Westwood. Guy

had an hour and a half before he had to head back to UCLA for his evening course on the

“History of Terror: Mystics, Heretics, and Witches in the Western Tradition.”

We’d ordered at the counter, found an empty table in the corner, wasted about ten

minutes in awkward small talk before Guy got down to it. I didn’t particularly mind. The

cafe smelled of warm baking bread, and the muted Christmas carols playing in the

background were sort of soothing. I was dead tired and glad for a moment’s respite.

I asked, “Did you know Kinsey Perone? The girl Angus is accused of murdering?”

“Know her? No.” Avoiding my gaze, he said, “She could have taken a class or attended a

lecture series. Her picture looked familiar, but then, they all look alike after a while.”

I described Kinsey’s accomplice right down to her pink heart-shaped glasses. “She was

in that lecture you gave on the occult in popular film and fiction.”

Reluctantly, Guy said, “It sounds like Betty Sansone.”

Betty? What kind of evil henchgirl is named Betty?

“Why?” Guy questioned, his gaze finally direct on mine.

I told him why. Sort of. I told him that Kinsey and Betty had paid me a visit the day

before. I left out how I spent my evening.

“That doesn’t sound like Betty. She’s smart and focused. I wish I had more like her.”

I let it go. “Guy, would you have a list of the students who were in the Practical Magic

class you taught a year or so ago?”

“No,” he said crisply. “As I explained to that cop investigating Tony Zellig’s death, roll

books are turned in at the end of the semester. I’ve got enough to do keeping my current

class load straight without hanging on to out-of-date seating charts and test scores.”

If by “that cop” he meant Jake, I had news for him. Nothing stopped Jake. He’d go

straight to the college administration to get what he needed.

I could be stubborn too, but I didn’t have Jake’s resources.

“Well, when you said you had talked to the kids who you believed were involved in

harassing Angus, who did you talk to?”

He shifted in his chair, an unconsciously evasive movement. “I spoke to one former

student. He denied any involvement, and I believe him. I gave his name to that asshole cop,

but I’m not comfortable sharing it with you. I feel that would be a breach of ethics.”

By which, I deduced, the student was someone with whom Guy had remained friendly.

I sipped my cappuccino, wondering if Jake had talked to this former student, and what the

result had been. It was a sure bet that he wouldn’t rely on Guy’s endorsement.

A group of students sat at a table close to us. I lowered my voice. “Have you ever heard

of a group called Blade Sable?”

“Blade what?”

“Sable.”

“No. What is it?”

“I don’t know. A secret cult?” I was smiling, and he laughed.

The laugh seemed genuine. Maybe Blade Sable really was a figment of Gabe Savant’s

vivid imagination.

“You realize that Christianity was once a secret cult,” he remarked.

We ate in silence for a few moments, then Guy said, “I don’t believe that Angus is

capable of…that.”

“Of murder? I think everyone is capable, given the right set of circumstances.”

“Of killing, yes. Of murder, no.” Those jade green eyes studied me. “I don’t believe you,

for example, are capable of murder.”

“You haven’t seen me when someone’s check bounces or customers put books on the

wrong shelves.”

His lean brown cheek creased in a smile. “Terrifying to behold, no doubt. But in fact, I

wasn’t thinking of murder. I was thinking about this whole situation. Angus is a follower. It’s

not in character for him to strike out on his own.”

No pun intended? I said, “I agree. Granted, my ego is involved. It’s hard for me to