Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society, R.D. Hunter [good english books to read txt] 📗

once explained her business to me. She required all her clients to fill out and sign a contract, detailing exactly what they expected, the means they wished to employ, and an itemized bill to show where every last penny went. It was very much on the up-and-up. If Hawkins and Mason chose to do business without the safety net of a paper trail, that was on them.

“So why magic, Mr. Mason,” I asked, moving on, “especially if you don’t think it’s real.” Mason’s face froze into an implacable mask of neutrality and politeness. I recognized a poker face when I saw one, which meant that this particular line of questioning was making him nervous. Good. Now we were getting somewhere.

“Recently, I’ve come into something of a crisis of faith, Detective Graves,” he said deliberately, picking each word with care and precision. He absently fiddled with a large, black ring on his right hand. “The details of which are personal and unimportant to your investigation, so I will not share them willingly. However, suffice to say I was paying Mr. Hawking to find me the equivalent of a ‘spiritual advisor.’” Now it was my turn to blink.

“A spiritual advisor?” Mason nodded, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I tried not to notice that too much.

“Yes, it’s not such a far-fetched concept as you might think. Many of the most powerful men in history, including sitting presidents, have employed trusted individuals who counsel them on supernatural or spiritual matters. I couldn’t go to the church, as they are a public institution and would have garnered too much attention. Nor did I wish to seek out a flashy charlatan who had palm reading franchises in every major city. I wanted someone simple, who practiced their art in private, without the need for an audience. Those are the potential candidates I asked Mr. Hawkins to prepare a report on.”

“And what did that report say about Nichole Barret?” I asked, going for broke.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. Hawkins. I never received a report.” That pulled me up sharp and short.

“You never got a report?” I clarified, not quite believing my ears.

“That’s correct.” Mason sighed, as if the prospect of blowing thousands of dollars for a service he’d likely never see a return on was a mild inconvenience, like getting stuck in traffic. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hawkins was quite punctual with requesting more funds to extend our business dealings, but conveniently unavailable when required to produce results. He ‘ghosted’ me, I believe is the term.” That didn’t bode well.

“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come on. Something tells me you’re not the type to take this lying down. You wouldn’t be the businessman you are today if you did. So, what are you going to do about it?” Mason’s mouth twitched, and I had the sudden inclination he was fighting back a boyish grin.

“It’s already done. I’ve purchased the building where Mr. Hawkins’ office is located. He’ll be evicted at the end of this month. I have flooded all of his online profiles with negative reviews and comments, which will post gradually over the next few weeks. I’ve also called some of my contacts at the Internal Revenue Service who have opened an investigation into Mr. Hawkins book-keeping practices. In short, his professional career in this city is over and he’ll be lucky to escape jail time.”

I shook my head, this time fighting back a grin of my own. The man had style, I had to give him that, and I certainly wouldn’t want him for an enemy.

It was crazy. I’d come into this meeting convinced that Harold Mason had been the one to summon and send the Smiling Man at me last night, most likely to divert attention away from the murder of Nichole Barret. But something in his words rang true, and now I didn’t picture him for any of it. Even when he wouldn’t expound on whatever spiritual crises he was going through, he was open about it. A murderer, especially a Fringe murderer, wouldn’t have been nearly as open.

But it appeared Hawkins had been keeping secrets from us, which was worth another chat at any rate.

With the interview wrapping up, the pretty secretary from out front came in, holding a tray with several cups of steaming coffee, along with cream, sugar and buttery croissants. It smelled heavenly and I briefly thought of extending my questioning, just for the opportunity to sample some of it. From the way Bill was watching the tray, I could tell his mind was of the same.

Before I could thank Mason for his time, my stomach did a little flip-flop as the energy in the room turned sour. I’d never experienced anything like it. One second, everything was fine, then it felt like we were sitting in a nest of vipers, each one ready to strike with huge, curved fangs.

“Look out!” I yelled, jumping to my feet. Mason didn’t hesitate. Moving far quicker than I’d have given him credit for, he vaulted over the arm of his char, landing in a defensive crouch, ready to leap away at the first inclination of danger. It was just in time.

A split-second after he moved, the pretty secretary tripped over her own feet, sending the scalding hot coffee tray right down here Mason had been sitting a moment earlier. If he’d still been there, he would have been covered head-to-toe in boiling liquid. At the very least, it would have meant second degree burns on his arms, chest and legs, and it would have hurt like hell to boot. Thanks to my warning and his quick reflexes, though, he wasn’t even damp.

The secretary stared at the spill in horror, likely seeing her auspicious career ending before her very eyes. An instant later, the gorilla bodyguard was there, surveying the