Reliquary (Reliquary Series Book 1) Page 3

  She sighed. “Ms. Carver, we’ve already gone through all Dr. Ward’s contacts. If there’s an Eniro in there, we’ve already checked him out.”

  “But Ben might have been meeting him last Friday night. He didn’t mention it.”

  “O-kaaay.” The word was drawn out a second too long for my liking.

  “This could be something important, Detective. You said you had to cover all the bases.”

  “Ms. Carver, forgive me, but I’m going to be blunt. Please leave the investigation of Dr. Ward’s disappearance to us. Your amateur sleuthing might actually interfere with our ability to find your fiancé, assuming he wants to be found. And surely you’d be thinking more clearly if you took some time for yourself and got some rest instead of grasping at straws. I’ll be contacting you to schedule another conversation in the morning. If it still seems significant once you have a chance to sleep on it, I promise I’ll take a look.”

  The muted click on the line told me she’d ended the call. I looked down at the card again. “Yeah, right. I’m sure you’ll totally take it seriously,” I muttered as I headed back out to my car. “Screw sleeping on it. I’m in the mood for kebabs.”

  Alessandro’s had a plain, boxy facade, deep and narrow with little space between it and the buildings on either side. The area seemed kind of sketchy—on one side was an abandoned house with boarded-up windows. Still, there were lots of cars parked up and down the block and plenty of people around, so I parked across the street and headed inside.

  It looked like a busy Friday night, and all of the tables were full. When I said I wanted to order for takeout, a harried-looking waitress waved me over to the tiny bar at the back near the kitchens.

  Trying to be subtle, I snagged a menu and perused while glancing around. There were a few other customers around me, most glued to their phones. The wall was cluttered with framed photos, most including the same elderly man with bronze skin, a bushy mustache, and a shock of white hair. There he was posing in front of what might have been the Parthenon, grinning with his arm around a curly-haired woman in an olive grove, on the deck of a boat with an octopus dangling from his fist. Was that Alessandro? Or . . . Eniro?

  “It’s not going to be that easy,” I muttered aloud.

  “I always have a tough time choosing, too,” said a stocky guy leaning up against the counter. “But the lamb souvlaki’s hard to beat.”

  I smiled at him in a vague way that said I wasn’t looking for conversation. A rush of warm air fluttered my curls, and I craned my neck to peer down a side hallway with a door leading outside. The person who’d just come in from the alley didn’t come into the restaurant, though—he made a beeline for the end of the hall and stood there like he was talking to someone behind the door. Finally, he went inside and the door closed.

  “What can I get you?”

  My attention snapped back to the guy behind the counter. He looked college age, with curly, dark hair and a large, beaky nose that kept him from being handsome. “I’ll have the lamb souvlaki.”

  Curly scribbled the order on a pad. “Anything else?”

  “Um. Yeah. Do you know anyone named Eniro?” I knew it was a long shot. It wasn’t like these people knew the names of all their customers, and Ben probably hadn’t been meeting someone who actually worked here.

  But instead of looking puzzled, Curly furrowed his brow, and his gaze slid to the side hallway. “Eniro?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Uh . . . hang on.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen, and a moment later I heard loud voices in another language, probably Greek. The other waiting customers tossed me irritated looks, probably thinking I’d delayed their dinner. But after five minutes or so, Curly came out again, several paper bags in his hands. He ignored me as he rang up each order and handed out the food to the people who had been waiting, then pushed the last bag toward me. “Lamb souvlaki. That’ll be ten ninety-nine.”

  I dug in my purse and pulled out my wallet. When I opened it I realized it was still packed with bills—fifties, twenties, a few hundreds—all gifts from the engagement party. I hadn’t yet made it to the bank and had been walking around with nearly nine hundred in cash. Probably not the smartest thing. I pulled out a twenty and handed it to Curly. “So . . . did the guy in the back know where I could find Eniro?”

  Curly’s eyes flicked toward my purse, making me clutch it tighter to my chest. “Nah. There’s no one here by that name.”

  “Look, I really, really need to find him. My fiancé is missing, and I think he met Eniro here last Friday. He was kidnapped three days later. Please help me.”

  The guy took a step back. “Wish I could. But I told you—we don’t have anyone here by that name. Maybe it was just a customer. Or maybe you’re wrong about him meeting someone here.”

  “I know. I just . . .” My throat was getting tight. This was my only clue. I was one step away from losing it. “Please.”

  Just then the side entrance opened again, and another person headed back into the shadows to knock at the door at the end of the hall. Curly stepped to the side to block my view as I leaned to look. “I’m really sorry. I have other customers waiting,” he said, less friendly this time. He gestured at the line that had formed behind me.

  For a split second I considered mentioning the police investigation and how interested the detectives might be in this place, but if the restaurant staff did have something to hide, I’d essentially be giving them a heads-up.

  I took a deep breath and smiled at Curly. “Okay,” I said. “I must have been mistaken.”

  I took the food and trudged back out to my car. I didn’t start it, just sat in the driver’s seat and stared over at Alessandro’s. As I inhaled the scent of spiced lamb, I watched a middle-aged couple, her with capris and a mass of braids and him with twill cargo shorts and a smooth bald head, walk right past the front entrance. Just before they reached the alley, the man’s gaze darted up and down the street. And then he tugged the woman into the darkness between the buildings.

  “Go home, Mattie,” I whispered as soon as they disappeared. I turned the key in the ignition with a wrenching twist. “This isn’t your job. Go. Home.”

  Instead, I tooled around the block and parked on the other side of the road, right in front of the alley leading to the side entrance I’d seen from inside the restaurant. I edged down in my seat, fully aware of how ridiculous it was for me, Mattie Carver, to be on a stakeout. But the idea of going home to an empty house was unbearable.

  I picked at the lamb (stocky dude was right—it was awesome) and watched four more people disappear down that alley. No one came back out. And was it me, or had each person who’d sunk into the darkness looked nervous? I chewed on the inside of my cheek as yet another person, this one a woman who looked every inch the soccer mom, from her expensive highlights to her high-end running shoes, strode right past the entrance to the restaurant and slipped into the alley. I hadn’t found Eniro, but this definitely looked suspicious. This wasn’t the nicest part of town, and I was parked in front of what looked like an abandoned house, but none of the people I’d seen go into the alley belonged here. They’d all looked like upstanding citizens—with money.

  Like Ben.

  That revelation pulled me right out of my car. With my purse slung over my shoulder and my heart drumming in my chest, I slammed my door and marched into the alley. I’d bring Detective Logan something real, something she couldn’t brush off as me grasping at straws.

  I reached the side entrance and pulled it open, then glanced up the hall toward the kitchen and take-out counter. Curly had his back to me. Perfect. I scooted down the hall in time to watch the soccer mom disappear behind the door at the end of the corridor.

  My breath shuddered from me as I reached the closed door and raised my fist to knock. If Soccer Mom could do it, so could I, right? Still, I gasped as a little hatch slid open a few inches above my nose, revealing dark eyes. “Yes?” said an accented male voice. “Can I help you
?”

  “Um . . . I hope so. Can I come in?”

  “Code word?”

  “Code . . . ?” Wait. Oh my God. “Eniro?”

  The door opened just wide enough to allow me to edge inside. I found myself at the top of a flight of stairs, looking up at a guy who could have been Curly’s older brother. He smiled down at me. “Your nerves are twanging like guitar strings. It’s practically deafening.”

  Strangest greeting I’d ever received. His face was half-shadowed, and it only made my heart beat faster. “Sorry. I’ll try to tone it down.”

  He chuckled. “First time?”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, looking down the dimly lit stairs. “Is it this way?”

  “Yup. Take a left at the bottom of the stairs.” He touched my purse. “You know we only take cash, right?”

  I let out a jittery chuckle. “Of course.”

  “Get on down there, then. And have fun.” He turned my shoulders and gave me a little nudge, then pulled his hands away. “Whew! You definitely need to relax. But I guess that’s why you’re here.”

  My shoulders must have been really tense. “Right. That’s why I’m here.”

  My grip on the railing was so tight that my skin squeaked against the metal as I descended. Was this some kind of fake massage parlor? Or . . . a sex club? Drug den? Gambling pit? Cockfighting ring? What had Ben gotten himself into? My mouth had gone dry by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, where a curtain of beads glittered dully. A low groan issued from the room it concealed. Not wanting to stop to analyze the sound, I shoved my way through the beads, snagging my hair in the process. “Ow,” I whined, my hands rising to untangle myself as the beads rattled and clacked.

  “Shh!” someone said as a pair of hands pulled my fingers away from my hair. “I’ll get it. Stay still.”

  I blinked in the dim space and sighed with relief as the pain in my head eased. My rescuer, a woman in her sixties, smoothed a spiral of my hair back into place. “There you go.”

  She stepped back and gave me my first glimpse of the room. It was a sprawling basement space, but instead of walls there were support columns, around which were low tables surrounded by colorful embroidered cushions. Lava Lamps sat on each table. The floor was covered in thick maroon shag carpeting, and the walls had been painted the same dark-reddish color. It was like stepping back into the seventies. But that wasn’t the weirdest thing about the place.

  Lounging in beanbags, slumped over the tables, leaning against the walls were the people I’d seen enter. They all looked kind of blissed-out, their lips pulled into gauzy smiles, their limbs loose. The soccer mom was seated on one of the embroidered cushions, and she was the most lucid looking of the bunch, but that wasn’t saying much. Her fingers were wrapped around a mug, her thumbs stroking along its surface as her eyelids drooped. I inhaled, expecting the scent of weed, but the air smelled faintly of mildew and nothing else, no food or alcohol or incense. I looked back at the hostess, who had gotten a tray out from behind her little booth next to the door. “Go ahead and sit down,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute. Unless you know what you want right now?”

  Panic pulsed inside me. “Um, not yet. I can sit anywhere?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Who’s going to care?”

  I took in the dazed looks on everyone’s faces. The middle-aged couple was sacked out at a table about ten feet away, her head in his lap, her braids spread over his thighs. He was alternately stroking a wooden spoon that lay in front of him and then caressing his partner’s face. Every time he touched her, she arched up like she couldn’t get enough. “I’ll find myself a place, then. Thanks.”

  Her smile became a wary frown, and she leaned closer. “What are you looking for, honey?” Her gaze traveled from my sandals to my capris to my tank top to my crazy hair. “You sure you’ll find it here?”

  I sidestepped her as she reached for my hand. “Yep. I’m just going to . . .” I gestured vaguely to the other side of the room and started picking my way along, looking for an empty table.

  As I neared the back of the room, I heard a surprised grunt. “Mattie?”

  I turned toward the sound of a familiar voice to find Franz squinting at me from a beanbag in the corner, his legs spread in front of him. “Franz!” I squeaked, practically diving onto the empty beanbag next to him. “You have no idea how glad I am to see a familiar face.”

  Franz rubbed his eyes and set the fountain pen he’d been clutching on the carpet next to him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred. He sat up a little straighter and shook his head as though trying to clear it. “Ben never . . .” He blinked as he saw the look on my face. “He said he wasn’t going to tell you.”

  “He didn’t. I found this,” I whispered, and pulled the business card from my pocket. I turned it over to show him the writing on the back.

  He cursed quietly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “What is this place, Franz?”

  His gaunt cheeks darkened. “This is quite awkward.”

  “Awkward?” It came out of me loud enough for someone nearby to shush me again. “Ben is missing,” I hissed.

  Franz winced and covered his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re going to be sorrier if you don’t tell me what the hell is happening here,” I whispered, unable to stop myself.

  His hands fell away from his face, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Mattie, I would never have done anything to hurt Ben.”

  “Did you tell the police about this place?”

  Franz’s face sagged. “I wasn’t trying to hamper the investigation, I promise you. But Ben didn’t want anyone to know he came here. It’s harmless, anyway. I mean, look at us.” His arm flailed toward the room’s other inhabitants.

  “Please, Franz. I’m so confused.” Every single person there was cradling some random object—a pair of glasses, a roll of tape, a picture frame. All boring, innocuous stuff. There were no syringes, no liquor, no fumes. “Why does everyone look high?”

  “Because we are,” he said with a vague smile, reaching down to stroke the discarded fountain pen.

  “On what?”

  “You have to experience it to understand it. And to understand Ben.”

  My heart squeezed at the knowledge that I hadn’t. “So Ben came here?”

  Franz nodded. “He’s the one who got me into it. He said it would broaden my horizons and, oh . . .” He traced the tip of the pen along the inside of his wrist. “He was right.”

  I was choking on frustration. “What broadened your horizons?”

  He poked the pen playfully in my direction. “Magic. The best drug in the world.”

  I had heard of molly and meth and crank and coke, but never a drug called magic. “Ben was doing drugs?” I asked in a strained voice. All those nights I thought he was at the clinic, working late to make sure everything was perfect, that all the accounting was done . . . had he been here, spending his money on . . . ? I stared at a fit-looking guy in a polo shirt, who was rubbing a tennis ball along his throat. “What, do you absorb it through your skin or something?”

  “Ben told me you were sharper than you looked.”

  I glared at him, but he seemed to have no idea he’d basically just insulted me. Or maybe that Ben had. “Nice. But Ben couldn’t have been on drugs. He had to be careful with his heart, and the cardiologist tested his blood every few months.”

  Franz leaned his head back against the wall, his long fingers toying with the pen. “But that’s the beauty of magic, Mattie. It leaves no trace. When it’s gone, it’s gone. It’s extremely difficult to overdose. You can’t be tested for it. It’s perfectly legal. The only bad thing about it is that it always leaves you craving more.”

  Addicted, basically. “So Ben was hooked on this untraceable drug called magic.” Was this where all his money had gone?

  Franz was licking his pen now. “Hmm? Oh. I think he was more than hoo
ked,” he mumbled, his eyes falling shut. “This place is just a parlor, where we can come and partake of the nectar for a few hours before heading back to our daily lives. But Ben . . . he had a supplier who catered to more advanced users.”

  “A supplier? Like, a dealer? Did he take magic at home? At work?”

  “He once confided that it was the key to his success.”

  “He never seemed high, though.” I’d certainly never seen him looking as loose as all the people around me now.

  Franz chuckled as he sucked on his pen. I was about to jab him in the ribs when a tray appeared in front of my face. But it wasn’t held by the woman who’d rescued me from the beads. The man I’d seen in the pictures in the restaurant leaned over me, his mustache twitching. “How can I help you, my sweet?” His voice bore the same accent as the bouncer at the top of the stairs.

  He lowered the tray, and on it sat an assortment of things—an unsharpened pencil, a plastic pillbox, a cracked CD jewel case, a pair of sunglasses, and a row of glass cylinders that looked distinctly phallic in shape. “What would you like tonight?”

  “I’m just getting comfortable,” I said, my voice shaking a little. Franz was nearly passed out. And here I sat in a drug den, having never so much as smoked a joint in my entire life.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been here before.”

  “N-no. Not here, but I’ve been to other places.” I could tell I was close to getting kicked out—or worse. I threw Franz a sidelong glance, but he appeared too in love with his fountain pen to process anything else. He’d pulled his shirt up and was pushing the tip of it along his pale, flabby belly.

  I leaned forward conspiratorially. “Actually, I was looking for a supplier.”

  The man snorted. “Forgive me, dear, but you don’t seem the type.”