Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(49)
Jackaby shrugged. “Possibly. But I’m not here for that.”
“Then, why . . . ?”
“This time, I am here to pay my respects.”
Marlowe was at the front door, giving instructions to a few of the uniforms when we arrived. He spotted our approach and held up a finger for us to wait while he wrapped up with the officers. Once he had sent them on their way, he turned and fixed us with a stare for several long seconds.
“I told that boy to go get some rest, and we’d release you two in the morning. I swear, before you got involved, Cane was one of my best detectives. Reliable. Loyal to a fault. He would never ignore a direct order. You’re a bad influence.”
“I do what I can.”
“Well, try not to ruin him, would you? He still has a sense about these things. He was first on the scene again, did he tell you?”
Jackaby shook his head.
“Got a funny look on his face just as we neared the building. He yelled something about the fourth floor and bounded up the stairs three at a time. By the time we caught up with him, he was at their door, and that O’Connor woman was answering. She didn’t even know. She said she felt something was very wrong . . . but so did we all, I guess. She had been in the next room, and she didn’t even know what had happened until Cane pushed open that bedroom door. Hell of a sight. She let out a scream and just fell to pieces. Can’t say I blame her. Like I said, this sort of thing is not for the female temperament.” He directed that last sentiment at me, making eye contact for the first time.
“I dare say you’re right, sir,” I conceded, meeting his gaze. “Out of curiosity, though, is there someone whose temperament you do find suited to this sort of thing? I think I would be most unnerved to meet a man who found it pleasant.”
I wondered if Marlowe was going to tell me off for my forwardness, but he only grunted and shook his head. “Nothing pleasant about any of this.” He fell silent again for several seconds. Finally, he sighed, and his eyes cast upward for a moment before turning back to the door.
“Come on, then.” He trudged inside the building without any further explanation or invitation. Jackaby, not needing any to begin with, was right behind him, and I jogged through before the door swung closed.
I was alarmed to find Mona O’Connor still in her apartment. Someone had draped a thick quilt over her shoulders, probably the officer standing stiffly behind her, and she sat on the well-stuffed sofa, staring blankly into space. Her hair was disheveled, and several curly red locks hung across her face. She had the dull expression of one who has been scooped out entirely, and does not know what to do with the emptiness. No, not emptiness, exactly. Somewhere, through her eyes and deep inside the hollow, there was an ember of something just beginning to glow. It reminded me of Jackaby’s oblivious intensity, but with a far more dangerous edge about it.
“Should she be here?” I asked Marlowe in a whisper. “Wouldn’t it be kinder to take her away from . . . from the scene?”
The chief inspector nodded. “We tried.” His eyes darted to the officer, who, I noticed, had a bit of gauze wedged up each nostril, and a bluish bruise blossoming across the bridge of his crooked nose.
Marlowe stepped toward the bedroom door and waited. Jackaby did not follow immediately, but went first to the sofa and knelt beside Mona. He spoke so quietly I could not hear a word, and he pulled from his pocket something that clinked gently in his palm. Some lucidity eased into her eyes for a moment, and she met his gaze and nodded, almost imperceptibly. He stood and crossed to the bedroom door. Marlowe opened it to admit the detective.
I did not follow. From the doorway, I could just see the woman’s silvery hair, and I watched as Jackaby placed two coins gently over her eyes. I was grateful Marlowe had once again positioned himself to block the scene as much as he could. The smell of blood was cloying, even from a distance, and I did not wish to see the state of the poor old woman’s body.
Jackaby murmured something that sounded like Latin, and then stepped out of the room. The chief inspector closed the door behind him. As both men made for the exit, Mona reached out and brushed Jackaby’s arm. He turned, and she fixed him with a solemn stare.
“Kill him,” was all she said.
My employer swallowed hard and met Mona’s eyes, but he gave no reply.
We descended the stairs and reached the lobby in silence. Marlowe was the first to speak. “They’re getting worse,” he said. “The bastard’s rushing, getting sloppy.”
“He wouldn’t have bothered to soak up Mrs. Morrigan’s blood, anyway,” said Jackaby, quietly. “Not the sort he needs, but you’re right. He knows we’re closing in.”
“I must admit, Jackaby, I was hoping for a little more.”
“Inspector?”
“That was a kindness, back there. I think you did right by the old lady, don’t get me wrong. But the first time I actually invite you into a case, you barely glance at the scene at all.”
“Marlowe, do you mean to say you are you finally enlisting my services?”
The chief inspector shuddered involuntarily at the question, clenched his fists, and cracked his neck. “Something happened this afternoon that I can’t explain. People are dying. I don’t believe in you, or your ridiculous claims about magic and monsters, but you have a way of making things turn up, things like that map. I can’t ignore that just because you’re a lunatic and I don’t like you.”