“Maybe she reported what she saw, or maybe it’s something else. We’ll have to find out. Her report to Whitney’s pretty cut and dried. At one hundred thirty hours, September 22, 2058, she observed DS Wojinski seated at a private booth with known chemical dealer Selina Cross. Wojinski exchanged credits for a small package, which appeared to contain an illegal substance. The conversation and exchange lasted fifteen minutes, at which time Cross moved to another booth. Wojinski remained in the club another ten minutes, then left. Detective Burns tailed the subject for two blocks at which time he engaged a public transport.”
“So she never saw him use.”
“No. And she never saw him return to the club that night or on any subsequent night during her watch. Burns goes top of our list for questioning.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas, since Wojinski and Feeney were tight, wouldn’t it follow that Wojinski would have confided in him? Or failing that, that Feeney would have noticed…something.”
“I don’t know.” Eve rubbed her eyes. “The Athame. What the hell’s an athame?”
“I don’t know.” Peabody pulled out her palm PC and requested the data. “Athame, ceremonial knife, a ritual tool normally fashioned of steel. Traditionally the athame is not used for cutting, but for casting or banishing circles in earth religions.”
Peabody glanced up at Eve. “Witchcraft,” she continued. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“I don’t think so.” She took the note from Alice out of her desk drawer, passed it to Peabody. “Frank’s granddaughter slipped this to me at the viewing. Turns out she works at some shop called Spirit Quest. Do you know it?”
“I know what it is.” Troubled now, Peabody set the note down. “Wiccans are peaceful, Dallas. And they use herbs, not chemicals. No true Wiccan’s going to buy, sell, or use Zeus.”
“How about digitalis?” Eve cocked her head. “That’s kind of an herb, isn’t it?”
“It’s distilled from foxglove. It’s been used medicinally for centuries.”
“It’s what, like a stimulant?”
“I don’t know that much about healing, but yeah, I’d think.”
“So’s Zeus. I wonder what kind of effect you’d get combining the two. Bad mix, wrong dosage, whatever, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d get heart failure.”
“You think Wojinski self-terminated?”
“The commander suspects it, and I’ve got questions,” Eve said impatiently. “I don’t have answers. But I’m going to get them.” She picked up the note. “We’ll start tonight, with Alice. I want you there at eleven, in civilian clothes. Try to look like a Free-Ager, Peabody, not a cop.”
Peabody winced. “I’ve got this dress my mother made for my last birthday. But I’ll get really pissed off if you laugh.”
“I’ll try to control myself. For now, let’s see what we can dig up on this Selina Cross and The Athame Club.”
Five minutes later, Eve was smiling grimly at her machine. “Interesting. Our Selina’s been around. Spent some time in a cage. Just look at this yellow sheet, Peabody. Soliciting sex without a license, ’43, ’44. Assault charge also in ’44, subsequently dropped. Ran into Bunko in ’47, running a medium scam. What the hell do people want to talk to the dead for, anyway? Suspected of animal mutilations, ’49. Not enough evidence for arrest. Manufacturing and distribution of illegals. That’s what tagged her and put her away from ’50 to ’51. All small-time shit, though. But here in ’55, she was brought in and questioned in connection with the ritual slaying of a minor. Her alibi held.”
“Illegals has had her under observation since she was sprung in ’51,” Peabody added.
“But they haven’t brought her in.”
“Like you said, she’s small-time. They must be looking for a bigger fish.”
“That would be my take. We’ll see what Marion has to say. Look here, it says Selina Cross owns The Athame Club, free and clear.” Eve pursed her lips. “Now, where would a small-time dealer get the credit power to buy and run a club? She’s a front. I wonder if Illegals knows for who. Let’s take a look at her. Computer, display image of subject, Cross, Selina.”
“Whew.” Peabody gave a little shudder as the image floated on-screen. “Spooky.”
“Not a face you’d forget,” Eve murmured.
It was sharp and narrow, the lips full and vibrant red, the eyes black as onyx. There was beauty there, in the balance of features, the white, smooth skin, but it was cold. And as Peabody had observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.
“What’s that symbol?” Eve wondered. “Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent.”
“A pentagram.” Peabody’s voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. “Inverted. She’s not Wiccan, Dallas.” Peabody cleared her throat. “She’s a Satanist.”
Eve didn’t believe in such things—the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.
“Be careful what you discount, Eve.”