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

The only thing I could figure was that I hadn’t been speaking to Rob Tillory on the other end of that telephone line. It had been Mason himself. While normally a connection had to be done in person, if you had enough mojo, it could be done remotely. And while Mason himself wasn’t a practitioner, Hawkins had been kind enough to supply him with several names, including Nichole Barret’s, that he could easily bribe into doing his magical dirty work.

This also gave me a possible motive. From the way Beth painted her, Nichole had been a good and honest person who wouldn’t hurt a fly. So, if Mason approached her with a job offer that violated her moral code, chances are she’d have told him to get bent quick.

I had it on good authority that rich snobs like Mason don’t do so well with rejection, either personal or professional. Usually, their retribution comes in the form of barely disguised libel, slander or financial ruin. But, considering Mason’s reputation as well as the fact that he knew the kind of forces he was dealing with, it wasn’t too hard to believe he had made the leap to murder.

Now, all I had to do was prove it.

I had a few hours to kill, so I cleaned the place up a bit, burnt some sage and sweet grass to get rid of the otherworldly funk left behind by the Smiling Man, and set out a fresh can of tuna for Tilly. She’d earned it.

Then I went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and about just gave up and went back to bed. The entire right side of my face where the Smiling Man had hit me was swollen and rapidly turning an impressive shade of purple. I looked like someone had hit me in the side of the head with a baseball bat and they’d aimed for the fences. No way my erstwhile partner would fail to notice that. Time for a little creative manipulation.

Even though I was well and truly running on empty in the magic department, I managed to scrounge up enough energy for a simple glamour spell. Glamour spells aren’t hard. Basically, it’s all about taking a certain image you have of yourself, then projecting it onto reality for everyone else to perceive. The greater the change, the more energy it took.

For instance, if I wanted to turn myself into a six-foot-tall model with long red hair and emerald green eyes, it would take a lot of juice and a hell of a lot of practice. But all I wanted to do was make my true, original form, minus the swelling, cuts and bruises, stand out for all the world to see. It didn’t take much, and I could offset the sleight discoloration around my eyes with makeup and some sunglasses. It should fool even Bill’s eye for detail.

We met at Headquarters and went over the game plan for our meeting. When Bill saw me, his eyes narrowed and I could almost feel his gaze trying to penetrate my glamour. I tensed. I hadn’t had a lot of energy to work with and I’d never put a lot of practice into glamour before, but I prayed silently that it would come through for me now.

It did. Finding nothing, Bill gave up his inspection and went back to preparing a list of questions for Mason. It was time to go.

Before we left, Calloway pulled me aside for a little heart-to-heart. It wasn’t unexpected.

“I just wanted to remind you to watch yourself around Harold Mason,” he said nastily.

“Gee, Lieutenant, I didn’t know you cared,” I said with a bright smile, even though I wanted to pinch his knobby little head off at the shoulders. From the sour look on his face, he wanted to do the same to me.

“I’m serious, Detective. Harold Mason contributes a lot of money to this department, money we desperately need. If he withdraws so much as a penny because you gave him lip, you won’t be able to get a job as night security at a construction site. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, Sir. I’ll be a perfect lady as I’m questioning him about his involvement in Nichole Barret’s murder and subsequent mutilation.” I thought about giving him an over-the-top salute, but thought that would be pushing things a bit far. His eyes were already as big as dinner plates and a dangerous red, glow had filled out his cheeks.

I beat a hasty retreat.

“You know,” Bill said to me in the elevator, “there’s a betting pool as to how long it’ll take you to make Calloway’s head explode?” I looked at him in surprise.

“Make his head explode?”

“Or maybe just give him a stroke or aneurysm. It’s all the same.”

“What’s the pot up to?” I asked.

“Two twenty-five.” I let out a low whistle.

“Let me know when it gets to three hundred. I’ll double my efforts and we’ll split the cash.” My partner shook his head and muttered something about reckless endangerment.

Mason Industries was headquartered in the top ten floors of one of the most prominent high-rise office buildings in Atlanta. It overlooked the city like a behemoth, gazing down at the poor, pitiful peons who could only stare up in dismay at its majestic architecture and shimmering windows. At least, that was how I looked at it.

To my surprise, we were greeted warmly by the front desk receptionist and immediately ushered into a waiting elevator. The ride up was smooth and quiet, and I used those seconds to focus on what I was going to say and even summoned a small trickle of my power to the surface, just in case. All that went out the window, though, as soon as the doors opened and we were greeted by none other than Harold Mason himself.

I think my jaw dropped a little. I mean, I’d