Free Witch House by Dana Donovan Page A

finger at me. “Mark my
words.”
    “Sure,” I said, and after checking my watch,
I gestured toward the car. “In the meantime, let’s take a ride out
to Pete’s Place. I want to know what the last person to see Landau
alive has to say about things.”
    “You want me to drive?”
    “No, I’ll drive. I want you to call Spinelli
and see if he can dig up anything else on Kemper and Stiles. I
don’t know if they are guilty of murder, but both are hiding
something from us, and I want to know what.”
    “Do you want him to plant a little birdie
outside her condo to see who comes and goes from there?”
    I shook my head. “A spotter? No, I don’t
think our level of suspicion is high enough to warrant putting a
man full time outside her apartment.”
    “Not a man,” he said, “a birdie.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Dominic has this tiny remote camera thing
that can send wireless signals to his laptop. He just sets it up in
a tree or on a telephone pole and it transmits a live video stream
twenty-four-seven.”
    “Are you kidding?”
    “No, he calls it a birdie. We use it all
time.”
    “Why am I just finding out about this?”
    He winced a bit. “We don’t usually mention
stuff like that to you, `cause you don’t get it—electronics, I
mean.”
    I planted a playful slap on the side of his
head, but hard enough that I suspected it hurt. “Get this,” I said,
“and stop keeping stuff from me.”
     
     
     
SEVEN
     
    I have been to Pete’s Place a number of
times, though mostly in my younger days. I used to think that loose
women and cheap whiskey were legitimate distractions for a cop with
better sense than to settle down with a wife and kids. I know
that’s cliché, and I totally disagree with that philosophy now, but
it is easier on the nervous system when emotional attachments
outside the work place are disposable. It is a high price to pay
for longevity in the field, one Carlos and I have both realized, if
only too late. But for the love of the job, I suspect we would do
it again, a thought I fear most. Dealt now with a new beginning and
the benefit of hindsight, I pray I will see that Lilith is the only
distraction I need for consoling wounds previously un-reconciled. I
may love detective work almost more than life itself, but this time
around, I hope to love another more.
    Pete recognized Carlos as soon as we walked
in the door. Of course, he did not recognize me, as I had not been
there since my return to prime. He looked up at us and smiled
before going back to swabbing the bar with a still steaming
dishrag. We crossed before him and took the last two stools at the
bar closest to the back door. Except for an old man sipping suds at
the opposite end, we had the place to ourselves. Carlos snagged a
bowl of shelled peanuts from the drip ledge and reeled it in,
tipping it toward me for first offer. I declined.
    “So, Pete,” he said, “I see you’re still
tappin` them kegs, eh?”
    Pete wadded up the dishrag and tossed it into
the sink. “Yeah, Rodriquez, and I see you’re still flat-footin` it
in the rain. A little early for a beer, ain’t it?”
    He shoveled up a fistful of peanuts and
popped them in his mouth. “No beer,” he said, still chewing, “we’re
working—”
    I reached up and touched him on the arm to
stop him. “We’ll have a couple of Cokes, Pete,” I said,
“thanks.”
    Carlos finished chewing and swallowed hard.
“Oh, hey Pete, this here is Tony’s kid, Tony Jr. I don’t think you
two met.”
    Almost immediately, Pete gave me that same
look that Jack Cruz gave me earlier, the one where I thought he
recognized me, but I knew he could not have. He smiled a curious
grin, wiped his hand on his apron and offered to shake. “Tony’s
kid?” His smile grew much wider now. “Sure, I see it. I didn’t know
Tony had a kid. How are ya?”
    We shook. “I’m good. You?”
    “All right, I guess. How’s your dad? He still
down in Florida?”
    “Yes, he is.