Death Before Facebook

up and sipped water, knowing she had to pursue this first thing in the morning.
    I know. I’ll talk to Suby.
    Suby was probably the most vulnerable. The one most likely to crack under bullying. It was a dirty job, but the fastest means to an end.
    However, she now had enough information to ask the department experts first—someone in Child Abuse or Intelligence might know what she and Hodges had seen.
    She put in calls and waited—it was a Saturday, so it was a while before the phone rang. “Ramon, Intelligence. Returning your call.”
    She described the two rituals she’d seen, and he fixed on one word. “Witches? Did you say they’re witches?”
    “That’s what they called themselves.”
    He laughed. “Look, I’ve got a whole lot of material on it—I could give it to you if you want.”
    “Could you meet me at headquarters in a few minutes? I want to interview somebody and I don’t really want to go in cold.”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    What he told her, what she read, was fascinating, but it left most of her questions unanswered.
    She hoped Suby didn’t live with her dad—she didn’t have the heart to accuse her of witchcraft with Mike Kavanagh in the house.
    The house where Kit had picked her up was big, but probably a duplex. A slender girl answered the door, not Suby, but maybe one of the witches. Moonlight changed faces, she realized—all the women had looked beautiful, even Kit with her odd hair and makeup. “Is Suby home?”
    “I don’t know if she’s up yet.”
    Skip produced her badge. Wide-eyed, the girl went to find her roommate, leaving Skip in a living room furnished with what were obviously parental castoffs. She sat down on a brocade couch with the stuffing coming out of one of the arms. A black cat, no doubt the couch-killer, came and rubbed against her.
    Somewhere in the back of the apartment, a radio went on; an old jazz tune broke the stillness of the Saturday. WWOZ, she thought.
    Finally, Suby appeared, in jeans and sweater, hair freshly brushed but wearing no makeup. At the TOWN dinner, Skip had paid her little attention, had noticed only that her features were like her father’s, Irish and rather coarse. A flat, slightly piggish nose spread out on her face, but her skin was lovely and her hair was thick. When she said hello, Skip realized something she hadn’t before—that her best feature was her voice, and it was fascinating—unexpectedly deep and throaty, yet at the same time very soft, very feminine. She spoke slowly, which made her sound as gentle and reassuring as your favorite aunt. A nurturing person, Skip thought, and found herself drawn to her.
    “Would you like some coffee?”
    “I’d love some. Shall I help you?” Despite Suby’s protests, Skip followed her to the kitchen. Favorite aunt or no, she wasn’t taking a chance on getting eye of newt for breakfast.
    “You must be here about Geoff.”
    “Suby, I need you to tell me something—what’s the Caudron of Cerridwen?”
    Suby whirled, her cheeks flaming. “How do you know about that?”
    “It’s my job to know.”
    “Why are you asking?” She turned back around and began very carefully measuring out coffee.
    “How old are you, Suby?”
    “I drive. I’m sure that’s on record somewhere.”
    Skip couldn’t believe she’d picked this one believing she’d be an easy target. She took a breath; here was where the bullying started. “It is. You’re nineteen; that’s still a minor. As you know, I work with your dad. Now, we’ve had reports about Satanist activity in the area and I wanted to give you a chance—”
    Suby whirled again, this time knocking over a dirty glass on the counter. “Satanist! That makes me so mad!”
    “I’m giving you a chance to explain.”
    “Goddammit! My dad dragged me off to mass a couple of weeks ago and the priest was talking about ‘pagans’ like we were those heavy-metal types with the spiked hair and the inverted pentagrams. It makes me so goddamn mad. There’s no religious toleration in this country unless you’re goddamn Catholic. My dad could probably get Kit arrested for contributing to my delinquency or something and she hasn’t done a goddamn thing except teach me…”
    “What?”
    “Things I need to know.”
    “I guess I know what your favorite word is, anyway.”
    “Oh. You mean goddamn. Sorry. It’s just that it makes me so mad.”
    “I get the hang of it. Look, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some information, that’s all.