Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell #3)(48)

Hajo is a death dowser. That’s his Earthbound knack. He can track death trails all over the city and pinpoint where bones are buried. Though he’s tall, dark, and handsome, he spends most days being miserable, highly aware of every dead rat in the sewer.

Hajo is also a dick with a capital D.

Lon hates his guts, and he has plenty of reasons to resent the guy. Hajo has few scruples. He can’t keep a girlfriend because he has a fatalistic notion of fidelity and will f*ck anything that doesn’t have the backbone to fend off his less-than-romantic come-ons. And yet, he’s too depressing and brooding to be a swinging, happy-go-lucky playboy. You almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Around seven that night, I pulled the Jetta into the high-class parking garage below Hajo’s building. I was surprised Hajo was actually allowing me there, as he’s fiercely protective of his privacy. Like I’ve said, he won’t discuss anything illegal on the phone and prefers to meet in shady places. Comes with the territory, I suppose; drug dealers have to be on guard. And judging from the fancy digs, he was way better at his job than I’d first imagined.

I tried to text Lon and tell him about the change in the meeting place, but there was no reception in the elevator. He could’ve come with me, but in the end we decided that it wasn’t cool to ask his in-laws to babysit Jupe while we headed off to meet a drug dealer. Better to tell the smaller lie that I had to step out and take care of something related to the bar. He did warn me, as he always did when I met Hajo, that if I wasn’t back in two hours, he was coming to get me and possibly calling the police. I’d never tell Hajo this, of course; he’d probably take it as some testosterone-fueled compliment that Lon saw him, however remotely, as a potential threat.

The penthouse hallway had a modern art deco feel to it, with plush green carpeting and gold chevron uplit sconces on the walls. An even fancier gold elevator sat in the middle of the floor, manned by a building attendant. I found Hajo’s condo and swung the gold knocker against the door several times. It opened, and some waif of a girl stood on the other side. She looked up at my halo and said in an unidentifiable European accent, “Oh. He’s inside.”

Low, atmospheric trance music pulsed as I entered. I expected to see a few people. I didn’t expect to see a freaking party. Then again, it was the holidays. Thirty or forty people were buzzing around the large, dark apartment. The only light came from scattered candles, a few low-light lamps, and the entertainment: a video projector shining a Kenneth Anger film ten feet high across one wall. Jupe would shit a brick if he could see this setup. It was like the kid’s beloved drive-in, just indoors.

Damn, Hajo. His drug den was ten kinds of awesome: big and showy, with high ceilings and a long balcony stretching over a stunning city view. Way nicer than Peter Little’s place, actually. Lots of rich purple and golden green. Low, sleek furniture and pillows scattered everywhere, like some Middle Eastern palace. I wondered how many of the girls walking around with no shoes were part of his harem.

The waif left me on my own. I felt a little nervous around people who were way richer and hipper than me, drinking and smoking God knew what. I smelled valrivia, and weed, but I didn’t smell the very distinct burnt-soil scent of sømna, the highly addictive fungi-derived drug that Hajo was addicted to. Possession of any amount of the drug would get you slammed with the harshest drug laws in the state. He told me he never smoked it at home for that reason. He also told me he was in control of his addiction. I had no idea how true that was, but I never saw him out of control or strung out.

I asked someone if they knew where he was and was pointed in the direction of a room next to the balcony. A long column of golden light stretched from a crack between double doors. I figured if he wanted privacy, he’d shut them all the way, so I pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside. It looked like it was supposed to be a library or home office, with built-in bookshelves, crown molding, and a Persian chandelier in the center of the ceiling. Only, the bookshelves were filled with objets d’art instead of books, and there was no desk. Just some stuffed chairs and more floor pillows.

Three large paintings of women were propped against the bookshelves at the far end of the room. With his short, dark hair combed back all Rebel Without A Cause, Hajo stood in front of them, his tall, lean frame dwarfing a man at his elbow. The waif who’d answered the door was draped around his shoulders, her small halo looking pale against Hajo’s ultra-watt blue one.

“I like them all, but I only have room for one,” he was telling the guy, who was either the artist or the art dealer. From the way he was dressed, in expensive slacks and a button-down shirt, I was going to assume the latter.

The paintings were life-sized: a redhead, a blonde, and a dark-haired Asian woman wearing a surgical mask and a nurse’s cap. They were painted with angry strokes, and none of them were particularly attractive. In fact, I’d go so far to say that they were dark and depressing.

“I like her the best,” I said.

Hajo turned to look at me, dark, heavy brows lifting. He had great bones and miles of sooty lashes that ringed his eyes like kohl. “Hello, Bell. Which one?”

I pointed to the painting of the Asian nurse.

“Interesting. Why her?”

I studied the paintings. “She doesn’t seem as lost as the other two.”

“Interesting,” Hajo said. He kept his dark sideburns styled into diagonal points, which seemed to stretch when his chiseled face drew up into a slow smile. Then he spoke to the buttoned-up man. “Let me look at them tonight and I’ll give you a decision tomorrow.”