Lupi 08 - Death Magic

were always Gifted. The Etorri Rhej was a powerful medium, though you’d never guess it to look at her. She was a very medium sort of woman in the unspooky ways—medium young, medium brown hair, medium build, pleasant but unremarkable face. Very Canadian. “I probably will, but not now. Ghosts happen. I’d like to know why I’m suddenly seeing them, but that’s not a priority. I need to finish briefing you about our next move.”
    “You got a tip from one of what you refer to as the locals. Something about a missing homeless man, which is why we’re headed for a soup kitchen.”
    She flashed him a grin. “You’re cute when you try to use cop talk. Yeah, though it wasn’t so much getting a tip as tracking down someone and wringing a resounding ‘maybe’ from him.” Lily didn’t have any contacts in the local PD, but Cynna did. So she’d gotten a name from Cynna and talked to that lieutenant, who’d passed her to a sergeant in the precinct where they were headed. She in turn had passed Lily to a patrol cop, who’d admitted he was worried about a particular homeless guy who seemed to have disappeared.
    “Not that any of ’em can’t up and do that at any time,” the man had said. “But Birdie’s . . . well, if I say he’s different you’ll laugh. He’s a friendly little bugger, and he’s like clockwork. Always at the same corner trying to sell his little pictures from eight to noon. Heads to Twelfth Street Kitchen for lunch. Never goes to any of the others, it’s always Twelfth Street, though there’s another one closer. Heads to the park on Madison after that, where he draws more little pictures. Gets in line at Good Shepherd’s before five. Only he isn’t anymore, and hasn’t for the last couple weeks.”
    “Coffee,” Rule said firmly as he signaled for a turn.
    Lily grimaced but took out the thermos she’d brought. Who’d have thought she could get tired of coffee? But she sipped because that was the right thing to do. Just as telling Croft about her problem had been right, however much she hated it. The pain bolt she’d been hit with in the car earlier had underscored that.
    But this was right, too. Against the rules, and maybe there’d be a price to pay. But she knew how to investigate, dammit, and Drummond was ignoring the bigger picture. Who had the death magic crowd used for practice before moving up to the big leagues?
    Lily looked at the buildings around them. More Laundromats in this part of town. Skin joints. Pawn shops. More people other people could overlook, ignore. Nameless people who didn’t smell right, look right, act right. “His name is Birdie,” she said suddenly.
    “What?”
    “The homeless guy. Well, his real name is James Johnson, but he went by—or goes by—Birdie. He likes to draw pictures of birds.” He had a name. A life. Even if it wasn’t much of a life by most people’s standards, it was his . . . or had been. No one had the right to take it away from him.
     
     
    CULLEN didn’t know much about real estate, but he knew northwest D.C. was pricey. This particular street was all leafy residential—lots of beautifully restored or maintained Craftsman homes with big front porches, well-groomed lawns, and a mix of Mercedes and minivans parked out front. Rule’s car blended right in.
    Fagin’s house did not. It was pink. Pink with lilac trim. It had probably started life as turn-of-the-century Craftsman like its neighbors, but somewhere along the line someone had craved a touch of Tudor, adding bulky crosshatched beams in the oddest places. Beams some later owner had painted lilac.
    What an odd little wart of a place. Fagin’s neighbors were probably praying he planned to paint really soon. Cullen was grinning as he entered the small front yard . . . and paused, raising one eyebrow. Interesting. Then he mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell.
    Nothing happened. He rang again. This time he heard floorboards creak, then—slowly—footsteps coming toward the door. It opened. Dr. Xavier Fagin blinked at him sleepily, his bright orange robe drooping around what looked like a woman’s scarf knotted around his middle in lieu of a belt. His hair was more awake than the rest of him, bursting out frenziedly in all directions. “I know you.”
    “Of course you do. Cullen Seabourne. We met when you headed that task force. We’ve e-mailed a few times since. You said I could use your library.”
    Fagin’s eyes opened wider in mild astonishment.