Free The Witch's Key by Dana Donovan Page A

more. Her little whisper box in the
fridge had given me an idea, that and something Leona Diaz
said.
    I ran back to the bedroom, grabbed her laptop and
headed out to the cyber Café. From there, I rode a virtual witch’s
broom all over the world, sweeping through Witchit dot com and
every other witch friendly site I could find until I had what I was
looking for.
    I did not returned to the apartment until after
midnight. Lilith was in bed by then, sleeping soundly. A note on
the fridge said, Thanks for doing the dishes , and below
that, a smiley face. I laughed at that and tossed the note in the
trash. My nerves were wired, my brain frazzled and my wits at their
end. But I felt alive, and glad to be home where I knew that a hot
shower and a cold beer would make everything all right—well, almost
everything.
    After my shower, I tiptoed into Lilith’s room, kissed
her on the top of her head and then retired to my own bed. By dawn,
I was up and out, long before Lilith awoke. It’s not that I wanted
to avoid her. I didn’t. But I had told Carlos and Spinelli to meet
me in the parking lot of the justice center early, and that meant
sunrise. So, I left the coffee on warm, the newspaper on the table
and a note on the fridge that read simply, You’re welcome ,
below that, another smiley face.
    I met up with the guys in the employee parking lot of
the justice center. A couple of uniforms mistook them for vagrants
and had momentarily cuffed them. As I got closer, I could see why.
Carlos was dressed like a derelict whore in a rumpled knitted
sweater, baggy yellow slacks with patches on the knees and a maroon
kerchief around his head. Spinelli presented a less menacing
threat, though with his smaller frame garbed in a heavy wool
overcoat, Panama hat and sandals, he looked more like an old bag
lady than he did a transient.
    By the time I got there, they had just about
straightened the whole thing out. One of the detectives from
narcotics recognized both and vouched for their clearances, which
worked out well for me. Without proper ID, I needed Carlos and
Spinelli to vouch for mine. After a quick run back into the
building so that the guys could retrieve their badges and wallets,
we were on our way.
    Because Spinelli’s car looked the rattiest, we all
piled into it for the ride across town. I was not going to say
anything about the get-ups, but I just could not resist when we got
out at Minor’s Point and even the street corner bums there began
laughing. Naturally, Carlos was first to take offence.
    “Hey, I’m sorry,” I said. “But you two do look
ridiculous. Is that your idea of working undercover?”
    “Better than yours.”
    I looked down at my attire: faded blue jeans with
holes in the knees, a New England Patriots sweat shirt (slightly
tattered, but not over the top) and work boots, well worn but
watertight. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
    “Oh, it’s fine if you’re going to a pep rally.”
    “A pep rally?” I looked over at Spinelli. For Carlos’
sake, he didn’t say anything, but when he shed his wool overcoat
and pitched his Panama hat, I knew exactly where his allegiance
lay.
    We kicked our way up Dutton Street first, a curvy
little road that leads to the train yard at Minor’s Point. We
figured we would see many transients along the way, but strangely,
at every bend we saw just a glimpse of men in dark clothes slipping
from our sights. The few that did not disappear on us were too
drunk from the night before to try. Eventually we came across one
old guy sitting in an alleyway between two warehouses, clutching an
empty bottle, but awake enough to talk. Carlos asked him if he had
a minute. The old fella took one look at us and spat on the
ground.
    “Bug off, oinkers,” he growled, and he spat again.
“Got no need for pigs here.”
    I stepped closer, but still maintained a respectful
distance. “Do we look like cops to you?”
    “That one does.” He said, pointing his bottle