Divine Evil

Santa—Santer—”
    “Santeria?”
    “Yeah, that's it. Santeria. Some Haitian thing, I guess. Biff thought it was great. Real spooky and sexy. He brought some black candles up to the room a couple of times, and I'd pretend like I was a virgin. We'd do a little bondage.” She grinned. “You get what you pay for.”
    “Right. Did he ever talk about doing a real virgin?”
    “Virgins are overrated, Sheriff. When a man's putting down cash, he wants experience. Biff liked some unusual stuff, athletic, you know? A virgin's only going to lie there with her eyes shut. If I were you, I'd get a line on this René.”
    “I'll do that. You keep available, Mona.”
    “Hey.” She ran a hand down her hip. “I'm always available.”
    Cam didn't like it. Not one bit. The D.C. police had run a make on the Haitian for him. René Casshagnol a.k.a. René Casteil a.k.a. Robert Castle had a rap sheet that would stretch to the Caribbean. He'd done time, once, for possession, but none of the other charges had stuck. He'd been arrested or questioned on dozens of charges, from distribution to gunrunning, but he was slick. He was also vacationing in Disneyland at the moment, and it would take more than the word of a hooker to extradite him.
    Why would a big-time drug dealer kidnap and kill a runaway? Because of his religious deviations? Maybe, Cam mused. He couldn't ignore the obvious. But would a man with the Haitian's experience make the clumsy mistake of exhuming the body to point the finger at someone else? Itdidn't fit. A man like René would know too much about police procedure.
    In any case, Cam could still spot a plant. His next order of business was to find Mona's connection to Carly Jamison's murderer.
    Cam took out a file to read it over again. It was the middle of June, and the weeks were moving too damn fast. He was closing the file again when Bob Meese came in.
    “Hey, there, Cam.”
    “Bob. What can I do for you?”
    “Well, I got this curious thing.” He scratched the top of his balding head with his index finger. “You know I bought a lot of stuff from your mama—furniture, some lamps, and glassware. Ah, she get off to Tennessee all right?”
    “She left yesterday on the train. Is there a problem with any of the stuff you bought?”
    “I couldn't say as it was a problem. I was cleaning up that chest of drawers—already got somebody interested. That's a real fine oak piece. 'Bout 1860, I'd say.”
    “It's been in the family.”
    “It needed a little work.” Bob shifted uncomfortably. He knew how touchy some people could be about selling family pieces. He had to play this cagey for a number of reasons. “Anyhow, I was taking the drawers out to sand them up some, and I came across this.” He took a small book out of his pocket. “Found it taped to the bottom drawer. Didn't quite know what to think of it, so I brought it in.”
    It was a passbook, Cam noted when he took it. A savings account in a Virginia bank. He read the names over twice.
    Jack Kimball or E. B. Stokey The first deposit, a whopping fifty thousand, had been made the year before Kimball'sdeath. The year, Cam thought grimly, that the land had been sold for the shopping center. There had been withdrawals and more deposits, continuing after Kimball's death and up until the month before Biff's.
    Bob cleared his throat. “I didn't know Jack and Biff had, ah, business together.”
    “It sure looks that way, doesn't it?” The account had swelled to more than a hundred thousand and had shrunk to less than five with the final withdrawal. “I appreciate your bringing this in, Bob.”
    “I figured it was best.” He edged toward the door, anxious to spread the word. “I guess if Biff was alive, he'd be in a shit pot of trouble.”
    “You could say that.” Eyes moody, Cam looked up to study the antique dealer. “I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you to keep this to yourself?”
    Bob had the grace to flush. “Well now, Cam, you know I can keep my mouth shut all right, but Bonny Sue was standing right there when I come across it. No telling who she's told already.”
    “Just a thought,” Cam murmured. “Thanks again.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping the book against his palm and wondering how he was going to show it to Clare.
    Clare got home at dusk, angry, frustrated, and miserable. She'd just spent the better part of an hour with Lisa's surgeon. The second operation was over, and Lisa's leg was in a conventional white