observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.
"What's that symbol?" Eve wondered. "Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent."
"A pentagram." Peabody's voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. "Inverted. She's not Wiccan, Dallas." Peabody cleared her throat. "She's a Satanist."
Eve didn't believe in such things -- the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.
"Be careful what you discount, Eve."
Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn't complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.
"What do you mean?''
"I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there's a reason for it."
"Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I'm going to find out if someone exploited Frank's."
She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn't tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.
"You're a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you're too good a cop and too sensible a woman." He stopped for traffic, turned to her. "I'm asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this."
His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. "You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we're into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ's sake!" She pushed her hair back from her face. "What the hell do they think they'd do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.
"Devils exist." Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. "And they're flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them."
She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.
Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soy-dogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.
Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.
The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.
She would have hated to live there.
"We're early," she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. "Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They're open." On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. "You game?"
"You want your palm read?"
"What the hell." She grabbed his hand. "It'll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they'll cut us a deal and do yours for half price."
"No."
"You never know unless you ask."
"I'm not having mine read."
"Coward," she muttered and tugged him through the door.
"I prefer the word careful."
She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was
"What's that symbol?" Eve wondered. "Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent."
"A pentagram." Peabody's voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. "Inverted. She's not Wiccan, Dallas." Peabody cleared her throat. "She's a Satanist."
Eve didn't believe in such things -- the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.
"Be careful what you discount, Eve."
Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn't complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.
"What do you mean?''
"I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there's a reason for it."
"Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I'm going to find out if someone exploited Frank's."
She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn't tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.
"You're a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you're too good a cop and too sensible a woman." He stopped for traffic, turned to her. "I'm asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this."
His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. "You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we're into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ's sake!" She pushed her hair back from her face. "What the hell do they think they'd do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?"
"That's the problem, isn't it?" Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.
"Devils exist." Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. "And they're flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them."
She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.
Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soy-dogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.
Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.
The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.
She would have hated to live there.
"We're early," she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. "Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They're open." On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. "You game?"
"You want your palm read?"
"What the hell." She grabbed his hand. "It'll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they'll cut us a deal and do yours for half price."
"No."
"You never know unless you ask."
"I'm not having mine read."
"Coward," she muttered and tugged him through the door.
"I prefer the word careful."
She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was
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