Page 19 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Damon

N eed a favor there are shadows under his eyes and he’s taken off his headband, so his hair is hanging around his face, lank and not too clean.

On his way in, I don’t catch his usual hint of lavender under the smoke.

There’s nothing floral, and no lightness in his step, either.

“This woman’s been driving me crazy,” he mutters, and while the logical response would be to ask what the hell he’s talking about, I stay quiet.

“She’s here.” He opens one of the coolers and pulls out the tray. “Grab a seat. I’m going to do my thing and you’re just here in case Geneva—”

I grab one of the rolling chairs, unsure how close is too close. “I get it.”

His answering nod is more of a jerk. The harsh fluorescents give his skin a grey cast, like one of the bodies he prays over. He reaches for the zipper, his hand shaking. The urge to ask what’s really going on almost overpowers me. Only his grim determination keeps me quiet.

Ezra starts to mumble. I catch “our father” and “kingdom come,” I think. Something else about peace and pawning his soul. My shoulders tighten while the tremor in his hand has spread to his whole body. He folds forward, hands pressed to his face, and keeps talking, the words muffled, indistinct.

The pain that they hold, though, is pretty fucking clear.

Some kind of weird energy sets my teeth on edge. I want it to stop. I want him to stop. “Hey, Ezra, come on, man.”

He tips his face to the ceiling. Holds up a hand at me. Silence falls and his body jerks once. Hard. “Amen.”

His anguished cry drags me out of my chair. He’s still got his hand up, so I don’t get close enough to touch him. I’m frozen, struggling to make sense of what he’s doing. This wasn’t just praying over a corpse , or whatever he claimed.

I’m stuck in indecision when he reaches into the zipper bag, pulls something out, and stuffs it in his mouth.

“What was that?”

His jaw’s working and then he swallows. “Sorry,” he says. “We should head out.”

I can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t look like he can stand, let alone head anywhere.

He does, though, gripping the side of the gurney like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He gets the bag zipped up, though when he tries to slide the gurney back into the cooler, his legs come close to giving out.

I shove a chair under his ass, push the corpse into the cabinet, and fix him with as steady a look as I can manage.

“We’re going back to your apartment, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

His eyes slide shut. His head bows. “Only after some Jack,” he says.

“Great.” I don’t try to hide my eye roll.

He struggles to his feet. “May as well get drunk,” he says in an undertone, “since it ain’t like we can have sex.”

Right at this point, I can hear my sister’s voice telling me to leave this dude to his fate.

There’s gotta be a limit, Damon Jeraldo.

Even for you . I don’t entirely ignore her but he’s weaving on his feet.

I get a hand under his elbow to keep him upright.

He shakes me off and, steadier than I would have thought, goes to the door.

My head is a mess of thoughts and feelings when he flicks the lights off. Grabbing hold of listen to your sister, dumbass I follow him out, ready to keep right on going. I lock the door behind me, turn around, and have to brace myself on his shoulders to keep from running him down.

He’s as hard as stone.

“Ezra?”

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” He gives a little cough, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “You are going to take your hot body home—your home, not mine—and I’m going to drink myself into a coma.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not joking. He hasn’t moved out of my grasp, and though he may need his own space, I’m perversely reluctant to let him go.

“I know what you’re thinking, Damon Clemens. You’re basically a decent man, and I’m an asshole.”

“You’re not.”

“Go home, dude. I’ll be okay.”

I make a show of releasing my grip on him and shift my weight back until I’m propped against the door. For a second, my gaze is caught on his lips. Am I ever going to kiss him again? Doesn’t seem likely. “Text me tomorrow.”

“Why?” He bends the word, like he’s about fourteen years old and caught in the grip of adolescent rebellion.

“So I know you’re not in a coma.”

He nods, takes a step back, and reaches into his backpack, pulling out a cherry red sucker. “Thanks, dude. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He sticks the sucker between his lips and leaves me standing there with no idea at all what just happened. That seems to be a recurring theme in the ballad of Ezra Morgue. Huckaby. Whatever.

The whole train ride home, I go back and forth between telling Dorinda what happened and keeping my damn mouth shut, so obviously I run into her on the street outside our building.

“Good,” she says as soon as we lock eyes. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Sort of? I had a late lunch from the Brew so I’m not starving.” It’s dark and cold and the last thing I want to do is walk to the nearest restaurant, even if it is only a couple blocks away.

“I should probably save the money.” She’s wearing a black wool coat with a scarlet scarf doubled up around her neck. Her perfect lipstick is the same shade of red; she either just fixed it or she’s got some kind of superpower.

“Long week?” I offer her my arm. “I’ll treat you to dinner.”

As expected, she smacks me. “Dumbass.”

“I’m serious.” Seriously laughing, maybe, and glad my sister’s around to distract me from whatever just happened back at the hospital.

“Nah, I’ve got half a burrito in the fridge from the other night. I won’t starve.”

Since she won’t let me treat her to dinner, I can at least open the door for her. Waving her through, I half-expect another swat. Instead, she’s eyeing the stairs. “Someday I want to live someplace with an elevator.”

She sounds tired. Hell, I’m tired too. I could offer to carry her up the stairs, or something equally stupid. Nah . Instead, I say, “I’ll race ya,” and take the first two steps in a single bound.

“Asshole.” Laughing, she grabs my jacket and elbows me out of the way, and like a couple of kids, we make a run for it.

I let her win because I’m not completely stupid.

The apartment door is open when I get there. Dorinda’s blocking my way, so I give her shoulder a push. “Lemme in.”

“Wait.” She manages to load that one word with a whole lot.

I peer over the top of her head. The door opens directly into the living area, a small fixture immediately overhead lighting the entry while streetlights shine through the windows.

The L-shaped couch splits the space, with the kitchen to my right and the television and small fireplace to the left.

Everything looks pretty much like it should. “What?”

“Look.” Dorinda points to our small dining table.

There, in the center of the table, is—

“What the hell?” I shift her to one side and cross the room to the corner floor lamp.

Old building. Few overhead light fixtures.

Fewer wall sockets. I get the place as bright as possible and there, on the dining table, is a framed photograph of a woman, the word murdered scrawled across the glass in what might be lipstick. “Who is that?”

My reach for the photograph stops short when Dorinda grabs my arm, her long, acrylic nails making a compelling argument. “Call the cops,” she says.

Which makes sense. Someone must have broken into our apartment, but—“We should look around some first.”

“And contaminate the crime scene?”

That tells me how stressed she is. If she had her public defender hat on, she’d know SPD couldn’t give two shits about a home break-in. “Let’s read the note, at least.”

There is a note in front of the picture, written on a torn sheet of lined paper.

You’re the one looking for information on James Smith. Well, I know he killed the woman in this picture. He got drunk down at MacCready’s and told me but the cops need to hear it from someone legit. Find out who she was.

Cat.

I read it out loud, interrupted only by a single “for fuck’s sake” from Dorinda.

“This is the thing you wanted me to look into, isn’t it?” She sounds tired. “The cold case?”

“The one.” I get my phone out. “Let me call Ezra. He might remember the name the cop who came to the hospital.”

“This the guy you were with last Saturday?”

I give her a half shrug in acknowledgment, which makes her purse her perfectly red lips. “Whichever detective he talked to probably isn’t on duty at this time of night, but it makes sense to loop him in. Go ahead and call him. I’m going to change.”

She wrestles her boots off and disappears into her bedroom. I start to compose a text, then decide a phone call is in order. The phone rings half a dozen times, and I’m ready to hang up when Ezra says, “What?”

There’s a heavy bass beat in the background.

“Where are you?”

“What?”

“Turn the music down or step outside.”

“Fuck.” He fumbles something and the volume drops. “What can I do for you, Damon Clemens?”

He’s speaking so carefully I figure he’s pretty drunk. I decide to keep things simple. “Do you remember the name of the cop who came to the hospital, asking about James Smith?”

“No.”

“Okay, well, sorry to have interrupted—”

“I got his card in my wallet.”

“Great. I need his contact info.”

“Why?”

I take a minute to weigh the pros and cons of telling him the truth. Fuck it. He’s in this too. “Someone, uh, broke into my apartment and left a picture of a woman—”

“What does she look like?” No longer careful but not slurring his words either.

I glance at the picture again. “Pretty, blond hair, lots of makeup. Looks like one of those glamour shots they used to take back in the day.”

“Fuck. What’s your address?”

“Can’t you just give me the cop’s name and phone number?”

“I need to see the picture. Text me your address and I’ll be there as soon as Uber can bring me.”

Dorinda comes out of her room, wearing Lululemon’s finest. “Just get the number,” she hisses.

I wave her off. “Okay, I’ll see you soon, I guess.”

He clears his throat. “Thanks, Damon. I owe you one more.” With that, he hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone.

Shaking my head, I text him the address, ignoring Dorinda for the moment.

I can tell by the intensity of her stare that she’s got questions, and I’ll answer as many as I can.

I just need to find some level of chill first. This night has taken more than one crazy twist, and—”Hell, it’s not midnight yet. We’ve got time.”

“I’m going to pour some wine,” Dorinda says. “I have the feeling we’ll both need it.”

“What about the crime scene?”

The slow shake of her head tells me that I shouldn’t have asked and that she doesn’t give a fuck. “Pour me a double.”