The Hell You Say by Josh Lanyon Read Free Book Online Page A

month.
    As yet, police have no suspects in the brutal slaying.

    Suddenly I wasn’t so hungry.

    32 Josh Lanyon

Chapter Five
    “I heard what happened,” Paul Chan said as I finished setting up the chairs for Tuesday night’s Partners in Crime writing group. Chan was Jake’s longtime sidekick in Homicide.
    “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”
    “You’ve likely seen a lot of it,” I replied absently, stepping back to gauge my handiwork.
    “I’m starting to think these murdering freaks are everywhere.”
    I glanced at him, his words finally registering. “Probably not,” I said.
    I had managed to sneak in a few minutes of Internet research before setting up for the group: According to the FBI, if satanic sacrifices and cult murders were as prevalent as some claimed, the nation would be littered with thousands and thousands of dead animals and humans. Slaughter on that scale could hardly be kept secret.
    “Truth is stranger than fiction. You ought to know that,” Chan said. He added, “You hear they’re talking about putting together a task force for this killing in Eaton Canyon?”
    Chan was a middle-aged, deceptively avuncular-looking Asian-American. I never quite knew what he made of my relationship with Jake. Clearly he understood we had a kind of relationship, but he carefully steered clear of acknowledging that it was anything but a casual friendship -- which, for all I knew, was how Jake had presented it.
    “A task force?”
    “Oh, yeah. Jake could be a part of that. It could be a powerful opportunity.” He gave me a vague smile which might have indicated sympathy for the fact that devil worshippers were after me, or because he was aware that I was on Jake’s shit list.
    If they were putting together a task force, it must mean that the symbols on the tree and the victim were definitely occult in nature and that there was a link between the girl found in the Hollywood Hills and the body found in Eaton Canyon. I guess that explained The Hell You Say

    33
    how Jake had turned up on my doorstep this morning. He had feelers out for anything remotely occult-oriented.
    I didn’t believe my little problem had to do with a murder -- let alone two murders. I mean, LA is full of nutjobs. That doesn’t mean they’re all acquainted or attend the same church, anymore than I personally know every bookseller or mystery writer.
    The others began arriving at that point, so there was no further chance for discussion.
    The group now numbered eight members. Of the eight, about four were serious about writing (read: willing to “compromise their art”), and of the four, three showed what I considered real promise. This opinion was based on years of bookselling, not my own unexpected and slight literary success -- although ironically it was my “cred” as a published writer (however inexperienced), and not as a bookseller, that was valued by my partners in crime.
    They were a nice group, though, supportive of each other’s efforts, cheering on the triumphs and commiserating over the rejections. Tonight our married writing team, Jean and Ted Finch, were reading from their magnum dopus Murder, He Mimed.
    I poured a cup of coffee, snagged a couple of oatmeal cookies to make up for dumping my frozen dinner down the garbage disposal. The cookies were nice and crunchy, which effectively drowned out Jean’s reading. I turned the pages when the others did, my thoughts on whether -- should the situation deteriorate further -- I could track Angus through his girlfriend, Wanda. I didn’t think it would be necessary. Even if he was on the periphery of this stuff, it didn’t necessarily mean he’d know anything useful beyond rumor and conjecture. Jake’s instincts were usually good, but his view of humanity was jaded.
    I’d assumed Wanda had left town with Angus, but maybe not. I tried to remember if he’d listed anyone as an emergency contact, I thought he might have put her down. As far as I knew, Wanda lived