"Maybe you should have tried for her knickers, instead," I said.
Things were quiet among the supe community the next few nights – nothing that the other detectives couldn't handle, anyway. Karl and I spent the time going through George Kulick's personal effects. We were looking for names of friends, associates, relatives, even enemies – anybody who could tell us what Kulick kept in that safe besides money.
We came up empty on all counts. The only letters we found were professional correspondence, like the letter from a magical supply house, saying that the shipment of powdered bat wings he'd ordered would be delayed. Stuff like that. If he had an address book, we didn't find it. No diary, of course. My luck never runs that good. No answering machine for somebody to leave a juicy message or two.
Phone records revealed no incoming calls for the last four months, and only two outgoing. Both of those were made to the local Domino's Pizza place.
Kulick didn't even have a home computer. Guess he did his communicating in ways that Bill Gates had never heard of – although there were news stories that Microsoft was getting ready to release a new product line called Spell Software.
I checked with my contacts in the magical community, but nobody knew George Kulick – or would admit to it, anyway. And no relative ever claimed the body, so it was buried in some land that the city owns in a local cemetery just for that purpose. In the old days, I guess it would have been called the potter's field.
Driving home at the end of the third fruitless night, I found myself wishing that the forensics guys would pull off one of those miracles that you see on TV every week – the kind where they find some microscopic bit of evidence that would give us the perp's name, address, phone number, and astrological sign.
Because what we had right now was shit.
After two more nights of no leads, no evidence, no witnesses and no dice, McGuire was talking about putting this one in the Pending Cases file, the place where unsolved crimes go to die.
I could see his point. The other detectives in the unit were overworked, picking up the slack we'd left to work Kulick's murder. Things were getting busy again – the supes don't stay quiet for long. But the idea of just letting this one go made my whole face hurt. Nobody should have to die the way George Kulick did. Nobody. Except maybe the bastard who'd killed him.
Near the end of our shift on the fifth night, I closed another cardboard box full of Kulick's stuff and said to Karl, "I guess if we're going to clear this one, we're going to have to go to the source."
He turned and stared at me.
"There's only two people who know for sure who whacked Kulick, right?" I said. "The perp and the victim."
Karl shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
"It's pretty clear that the perp hasn't left us anything to go on," I said. "So I guess it's time to ask the vic."
"But the vic is fucking…" Karl's voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed. "Stan, you're not gonna-"
"Yeah, I'm gonna. I don't see what other choice we have, if we're going to find this motherfucker."
"Necromancy's against the law, for Chrissake!"
"Not if it's conducted as police business, by a duly licensed practitioner of magic. And I know just where to find one."
Rachel Proctor was barely five feet tall, and built lean. She had auburn hair, smart-looking gray eyes and a beautiful smile. The smile put in an appearance when I first walked into her office, but once I'd started talking, it was gone, baby, gone.
She was looking at me as if I'd just suggested that we have three-way sex with a goat some night. A real old, smelly goat.
"Necromancy's against the law, Stan. You of all people ought to know that."
"And you of all people ought to know that it's legal with a court order, Rachel."
"And what do you think your chances are of getting that?"
I pulled the court order out of my inside jacket pocket and laid it gently on her antique oak desk. "Pretty good, I'd say."
She looked at the folded document for a few seconds, then at me for a few more, then she reached out one of her small, delicate hands to pick it up. She unfolded the order and scanned it quickly. "Judge Olszewski. I should have known."
Rachel tossed the paper back on her desk. "Your paisan."
"We prefer homie," I said.
"I suppose you two hang out together at meetings of, what is it? – the Polish Falcons?"
I shrugged. "Man's gotta do something with his free time, and Mom always told me to stay out of pool halls."
She managed to combine amazement and annoyance in one slow shake of her head.
"So," I said. "Can you do it?"
"A better question is will I do it?" She leaned back in her chair, a huge leather thing that made her look like a kid playing on the good furniture. "Explain to me, slowly and carefully, why you want me to do this, and what you're hoping to accomplish by it."
So I laid it out for her. I started by describing what had been done to George Kulick, in as much detail as I could without sounding like some kind of freak sadist who was getting off on it. To her credit, Rachelby, ooking a little queasy when I was done.
She swallowed a couple of times, then said, "And you've exhausted all of the usual means of getting information about this… atrocity."
"Every damn one," I told her. "Witnesses: none. Forensics: none. Associates: none. Friends and family: none. Enemies: none."
"Well, one, anyway," she said grimly.
"Depends on how you define your terms," I said. "Whoever tortured Kulick wanted the location and combination of that safe. Once he got that, I expect he put Kulick out of his misery pretty quick. I don't think it was personal."
"I doubt that it made much difference to Mr Kulick," she said, and made a disgusted face.
"What do you say we ask him and find out?"
She sighed, then there was silence in the room for a while. I'd made my pitch. The rest was up to her. Nobody could order her to perform a necromancy – it was her call.
Rachel was studying her right thumbnail as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Without looking up she asked, "Where was he buried?"
"In one of the city-owned plots at the public graveyard."
"Well, that's something," she said. "No hassles with the Church to worry about. And it's not hallowed ground. When did interment take place?"
"Day before yesterday. But he died a week ago. They kept him on ice at the morgue for a while, in case somebody claimed the body. When nobody did, they planted him."
"And in life he was a wizard, you say."
"Yeah," I said. "He had the mark on him – and about a gazillion books on magic in his library. Why – does it matter?"
"Indeed, it does. It means his spirit will be harder to control, once it's raised. I'll have to take extra precautions."
"So you will do it." I didn't bother keeping the relief out of my voice.