The Devil Is a Gentleman Read Online Free PDF Page B

that these people had money. A lot of money. Lights seemed to be on in every part of the house, lighting up the copious front lawn.
    I rang the bell and heard the deep barking of a dog muffled behind the thick door. I half-expected a butler in tails and a bow tie to answer, like in the old black-and-white movies, but instead it was a woman in a T-shirt and fitted jeans. I recognized her from T.V., although her short black hair was mussed instead of combed down and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She was very attractive all the same. She was holding a Rottweiler by its thick collar, the dog looking more liable to lick us to death than attack. In her other hand she held a large glass of red wine.
    “Mrs. Bradley?” I said.
    She narrowed her eyes at me and then Gage. She looked back at me. “I know you,” she said. “You’re that detective woman. Slobodian. Your father’s famous.”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “Bet you get that a lot,” she said. She was examining me. “Ever get tired of it?”
    “You have no idea,” I said.
    “I think I probably do,” she said. “I’m married to a politician.”
    “Right. I’m sorry,” I said. “Can we speak to you about your husband?”
    She sighed. “If it’s blackmail again, no. I don’t give a shit what my husband’s done. Go find him and try to get money out of him. I’m done with it all.”
    “It’s not blackmail,” I said.
    “Then come in, but I don’t have long. I’m headed out.”
    We entered the hall facing a wide, sweeping staircase, and followed Mrs. Bradley through a gigantic parlor and down a hall. The dog loped along beside her, his tongue lolling. She opened a door on the left and we entered a room that wasn’t a whole lot different from my own living room: An old, worn-looking couch covered with a crocheted afghan; a few overstuffed chairs; and a scratched coffee table. There were some expensive paintings on the wall, but between these were old posters for rock concerts in plastic frames.
    “I don’t really spend a lot of time in the rest of the house,” she said, settling herself into a chair and tucking her legs under her.
    “Looks like an apartment I had in college,” said Gage, plopping down on the couch. I followed, sitting next to him.
    “Can I get you something to drink?” she said. She was still eying us coldly.
    “No thanks,” I said. “This is a lovely house.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “I’d like to burn it down.” She took a sip of wine and looked back at me. “They say things about you, you know.”
    “Do they?” I said, feigning surprise. “And what do they say?”
    “Your father was a devil-worshipper,” she said. “They say you got off the Registry because he used magic.”
    “Is that all?”
    “No,” she said. “They say you’re dangerous, too. Just like your father.”
    “What do you think?” I said.
    She smiled drily. “ They have always been full of shit,” she said. “I think you scare them because they can’t buy you.”
    “They haven’t tried,” I said.
    “Are you sure about that?” she said. I remembered Eliza Michaels, trying to hire me. She hadn’t struck me as a New Government type, but I supposed she must have been. She couldn’t have gotten that job without a little New Government ass-kissing.
    “No,” I said, “I’m not sure.” Gage cleared his throat next to me and raised an eyebrow. I turned back to the woman. “You haven’t been watching the news, have you?”
    “I hate TV,” she said. “Why? What’s Frank done now?”
    I shifted uncomfortably. “Mrs. Bradley, have you seen your husband lately?” I said.
    “Call me Olivia,” she said, taking another drink of wine. “And no. I haven’t seen that bastard in a month.”
    “A month?” said Gage.
    “We’re not on what you might call good terms,” said Olivia. “But if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I’ll destroy you both.”
    “We don’t really work that way, lady,” said Gage.
    “Just covering the