believe that I could have employed a serial killer for a year and never noticed any of the

symptoms.”

He forked a pile of greens neatly into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Maybe Wanda’s the mastermind?” I suggested, joking.

Guy made an expression of distaste. “Wanda’s sole interests are getting high and getting

laid. I can’t picture her wasting valuable stoner hours on murder.”

I selected another chip, then tossed it back in the basket. I didn’t know Wanda well,

but I thought his assessment accurate. She seemed to be strong-willed, but all her will was

concentrated on partying. I expected serial killers to have more of a work ethic.

Guy pushed his plate aside and folded his arms on the table. “The police are satisfied

that they’ve got the right person: one madman and his girlfriend involved in the occult,

picking and choosing their victims at random. They’re not going to keep digging.”

“That’s my guess.”

He sighed. “But you’re not satisfied. You honestly believe there’s an evil organization

out there, don’t you?”

“I don’t know how organized they are – if they’re anything like Angus.”

He made an exasperated sound.

I said, still keeping my voice low, “Look, the cult thing is probably a figment of a

writer’s imagination. But we both agree that we don’t believe Angus committed this murder,

which means someone else did. Someone vandalized my shop. Someone killed these other

two UCLA students. And your Betty Sansone may be Student of the Month, but she was

pretty damn close to committing assault yesterday. So maybe it’s not a cult. Maybe it’s a

clique. Call it what you want. Call it a social club, but at least consider the possibility that

there is one – and likely more – person out there with homicidal tendencies and an interest

in the occult.”

“The police may have arrested the wrong person, but to leap to the conclusion that

there’s an entire cult out there –” He shook his head.

“Forget about the cult,” I said impatiently, ignoring the interest this elicited at the table

next to us. “Say it is one person. Are you genuinely okay with knowing that this psycho is

still out there? You’re talking about someone who can carve another human into pieces –

and use her blood for writing deranged messages to the great beyond.”

Guy gave me an odd look. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

Had the papers not carried the part about the pentagram being written in the victim’s

blood? I couldn’t remember. I reached for my cappuccino, took a long drink. I set the cup

down deliberately and said, “Who’s this guy you said I should meet?”

He didn’t answer, instead drawing out a pipe. Then he seemed to recollect his

surroundings, putting it away again. He said at last, “Have you ever heard of Oliver

Garibaldi?”

“The Oliver Garibaldi? I ordered a copy of The Devil’s Disciple this morning.”

His eyebrows rose. “Did you?”

I nodded. “He’s pretty much acknowledged as one of the foremost living experts in the

occult, right?”

“Right. In particular, he’s an expert on Satanism.” He studied me thoughtfully. “He

lives part of the year in France and part of the year in California. In Los Angeles, in fact.”

“That’s convenient.”

He grimaced. “Please don’t place any sinister significance in the fact that Oliver lives in

a county of over ten million people.”

“I won’t. It is convenient, though.”

“Nothing happens on the occult scene that Oliver is not aware of. He’d be able to find

out if there’s any truth to this theory of yours about a secret cult – or whether these killings

are the work of one freak on acid. He’s helped the police once or twice in the past.”

I wondered if the police would be consulting him any time soon, and whether that

might let me in for another chat with Detective Rossini. I decided that the police were

content with Angus in the role of Public Enemy No. 1 and wouldn’t bother contacting

Garibaldi.

“When can I meet him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t discussed it with him yet. He’s out of town till the weekend.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

He looked faintly irritated.

“That was the idea, right?”

He leaned forward, said quietly, “You do realize what you’re asking of me, yes? You do

realize that if this – these murders culminated out of my course of study, I will be held

ultimately responsible. I’ll be ruined.”

“I thought they expected you to be controversial at UCLA?”

“I believe the Board of Regents draws the line at sacrificial murder.”

“I can’t do this on my own.”

He said resentfully, “I know. And that would be better for you. And better for me.”

“Not better for Angus.”

“Fuck. Does it occur to you that you could be wrong? We could both be wrong?

Perhaps Angus did snap. Perhaps he did kill those people. And if he didn’t, well, we have to

assume the police aren’t complete idiots. This is what we pay them for, isn’t it?”

“Guy –”

He made a brusque gesture, an I-Don’t-Want-To-Hear-It gesture.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Guy,” I said. “I think if you didn’t intend to help

me, you wouldn’t have shown today.”

The green eyes met mine. “I showed up today because I believe if you continue to ask

these questions you will put yourself in danger,” he said crisply. “I wanted to make sure you

realize what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Fair enough.”

A jazz rendition of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” filled the not-so-merry silence

between us.

He gave a peculiar laugh. “And…perhaps I wanted to see you again.”

I met his eyes, and my heart did one of those freaky triple beats – probably the

caffeine-laden cappuccino.

“Oh.”

I had sussed he was gay. I had even kind of thought there was maybe a spark of

electricity there. You can tell, although I’m not sure how it is that you can tell; it’s to do with

the release of pheromones or the dilation of the pupils or…well, you can tell, that’s all. Still, I

wondered. You date a cop for nine months. A little skepticism is bound to rub off.

“You intrigue me,” he added dryly.

“Uh, thanks.”

I intrigued him? You don’t hear a lot of that in my line of work. I admit that I was