Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society by R.D. Hunter (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

people. If they didn’t want to be caught doing something, they shouldn’t have been doing it in the first place.” I all but gagged at this lesson in morality from the cretin seated in front of me.

“What did you see?” Bill asked, getting us back on track.

“It was about three o’clock in the morning. I was getting ready to pack it in, when suddenly your gal comes out into her back yard carrying a bowl with something in it, some rocks and a black candle. She sat ‘em all down on this little folding table she had with her, lit the candle, then started chanting or praying or whatever. I wasn’t close enough to hear what she said, but after a while she gathered her things up and went back inside.”

I recognized all the signs of the malicious detection spell Beth told me Nichole had cast a few days prior. It always worked better when cast under the light of the moon. If Hawkins or anyone else had meant her any harm at the time the spell was cast, the candle would have flared up, signaling hostile intent. The brighter the flame, the closer and more potent the malice. The fact that it failed to react at all told me Hawkins truly was just a low-life peeping tom, in it for the money.

“What did you do then?” I asked.

“Nothing. I went home, compiled my report and turned it into my client. I could have milked it for another week or two, but I was tired of chasing after these freaks and weirdos. I cashed in, got my money and never looked back.”

I was caught somewhere between horror, panic and outright rage. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to inflict grievous injury on the little pissant in front of me for what he’d done. But, in the end, the more rational part of me knew it wouldn’t do any good and I swallowed those urges. They went down bitterly.

This is what every member of the Fringe was most afraid of; someone being in the right place at the wrong time and exposing us for all the world to see. Doing so would end our lives as surely as any bullet or knife, but this had the added consequence of implicating our friends and families as well. Not to mention hardcore proof of the supernatural would almost certainly kickstart a massive witch hunt in both the figurative and literal senses of the word. A lot of innocent folk as well as Fringe would find themselves in the cross hairs of an angry mob at the slightest provocation. This had to be shut down and it had to be shut down now. Which meant I had only one question left to me.

“Who?” I asked. “Who was your client?” Hawkins crossed his arms and set back in his chair; a defiant look plastered across his face.

“Come on, you know I can’t tell you that,” he said. “It gets out I’m giving clients info to the cops, I might as well nail a CLOSED sign to my door.”

“Here’s what I know.” I leaned forward intensely. When I spoke, my voice was as cold as a snowman’s heart. “In about ten minutes, I’m going to be at my desk typing up a press release on Nichole Barret’s death. Now, it can either say we are diligently pursuing our investigation and will follow any and all leads to their conclusion, or it can name you, personally, as a person of interest who is cooperating fully with the police. It’s your call.” I felt a flush of satisfaction as I watched Hawkins’ face go pale at my words.

“But that’s…that’s slander. It’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true enough. You are a person of interest in this investigation, Hawkins. Specifically, I’m interested in who your client is. Now, once I have that information, I’ll no longer be interested in you, so there’ll be no reason to mention your name. How does that sound?”

I watched his thought process as it took shape. It was a safe bet that Hawkins performed plenty of work for some unsavory characters; characters that wouldn’t want the nature of their business exposed if the police took a closer look. As unprofessional as Hawkins may have been, even he had to keep records, and there was no telling what was in those records.

In order to keep their dealings on the hush, these unsavory types might find it in their best interest to eliminate Hawkins all together, after obtaining whatever info he had on them and making sure there were no copies laying around, of course. And when I mentioned that he was cooperating fully with the police, as was only fair and proper, he could kiss any future business dealings goodbye. No one wants to hire a snitch.

Hawkins must have come to the same conclusion I did, because a second later he said, “Okay, you win. I was hired by Harold Mason.”

Bill and I both stared at him for several seconds.

“Harold Mason?” I repeated. “The Harold Mason?” He nodded glumly.

“Yeah, that’s part of the reason I could milk this gig for two- or three-weeks’ worth of retainer without him batting an eye.”

Harold Mason was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city. Every week there was something in the paper about some new deal he was backing, charity drive he was organizing or political candidate he was endorsing. His million-dollar smile and striking good looks were only a touch less dazzling than the expensive suits he wore, and he had a different model on his arm for every social function. All he needed was a cape and a penchant for fighting crime and he’d have been Bruce Wayne.

If Hawkins was lying, it would look very bad for the department if I questioned him regarding an ongoing murder investigation. Worse yet,