Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 Read Free Page A

stuck somewhere between
    ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Congratulations.’ ”

    “Stuck. I suppose that’s what I am, as well.”

    “What happens now?”

    “I assume the full time-debt for the child. A normal pire pregnancy is nine months, but the mother ages only four and a half; many couples accelerate the progress of the fetus to match. That’s what we did. But now that he’s dead . . . I don’t know, Jace. I just don’t know.” Her voice remains steady, but a second tear has joined the first. If I were to touch it, it would be as cold as a melted snowflake.

    “What did he do, Gretch? For a living, I mean.”

    She plucks a tissue from the box and dabs her face. “He was a geomancer. His specialty was talking to dormant volcanoes, locating kimberlite pipes for diamond speculators. Geological features operate on a very different time frame, so he would have conversations that would last for years. Sometimes they were fruitful, sometimes not.”

    I glance around the room. “Looks to me like he hit at least one jackpot.”

    “Yes, he was quite wealthy. He was a very patient man; I thought he would make a wonderful father.”

    “Who would do this to him, Gretch? Did he have any enemies?”

    “You should speak to Cassius about that.” Her tone is abruptly cool, and I think I’ve offended her before I realize she’s simply being professional. Whatever Saladin Aquitaine was into, Cassius knows more about it than Gretchen does—which means this case is getting more complicated by the minute.

    “I’ll do that. Hang in there, Gretch.” I give her shoulder a squeeze and then stand up.

    I stride back to the other room, where Eisfanger’s taking pictures of the vic. Charlie’s in exactly the same position he was when I left, hands clasped in front of him, feet slightly spread. He’s very good at being immobile. “Okay, what are we looking at here?” I ask Cassius directly. “There’s no local cops, so I assume this is off the books.”

    “Yes. This is going to be a closed investigation, Jace, and I want you to handle it.”

    “We’ll see. First of all, are we sure this is Saladin Aquitaine?”

    Eisfanger lowers his camera. “No fingerprints or DNA, but the remains still have a psychic residue. I’ll check it against our animist files.”

    “Okay. Second, who was Saladin Aquitaine and why would someone kill him?”

    “He was a successful geological surveyor, a geomancer. He made sizable donations to a number of political parties and organizations. He was fairly active socially. I don’t know why anyone would want him dead—which is why I called you.” There’s something he isn’t telling me, but with Cassius that was almost always the case. I’ll have to dig for it.

    “You think this is the work of someone mentally unbalanced,” I say.

    “Don’t you? I admit I don’t have your level of expertise, but this hardly looks like the work of either a professional assassin or a burglary gone wrong.”

    I shrug. “No? I’ll tell you what I see. Two shamans, some professional jealousy, and a magical pissing match that got out of hand. The other guy tossed a spell intended to be used on landscape instead of flesh-and-blood, and this is the result—Mr. Coppertop. Don’t tell Gretchen I said that.”

    As a theory it was full of holes, but I wanted Cassius to point them out—one of the best ways to get information is to make your source prove how smart he is.

    “Uh, there’s one big problem with that,” Eisfanger interjects. He’s waving a device that looks a bit like a cell phone with a dual antennae in slow circles over the corpse’s head. “This guy wasn’t killed by the lightning—or by having his bones transformed. Those were both done postmortem.”

    I frown at him. “Wait. So the whole scene was staged? The treadmill, the costume, the electric skeleton?”

    “I don’t know about the treadmill—”

    “Pires don’t exercise, genius. So what did kill