The Devil You Know by Mike Carey Page A

attracting unwanted attention. Not long after, Malach had shown up for the first time trying to bust my balls. I hated my dad, but I had to admit he was right most of the time. As a result, Ben was half of the mind that I was dirty and/or on the Tri-State mafia’s shit list. Shelley, who had been on the scene when the camper was found, was of the same mind and convinced I had a filthy past I should be ashamed of. Of course, she wanted the details of that filthy past. That was one half of the reason why she loved to hate me. The other half was more elemental; after all her hair had fallen out, she’d become convinced that I’d been somehow responsible for that—which, incidentally, I had been.
    It was the irony of my life that the one time I turned down a nice piece of ass it insisted on following me around town, trying to make my life a living hell. But it illustrated a truth I was only recently becoming acquainted with: No good deed goes unpunished.
    “I’m here to help the Bergers find their daughter,” I told her simply. “Same as you.”
    “Did Thom Berger hire you?” she asked in full talk-show hostess mode. I’d heard Shelley drill guests into their seats on her show. I knew what she thought, that the whole psychic detective thing was a bullshit front, that I was doing sleazy business in her hometown, she just didn’t know what kind yet.
    “It was nice talking to you too, Shelley.” I started walking away.
    “That wasn’t much of an answer,” she called after me.
    I waved her away. “It wasn’t much of a question.”
    Shelley laughed. “You know, it’s a damned shame, Englebrecht. The outside package is real easy on the eyes, but inside I know you’re just as much of a fucking cunt as I am.”

    Amazingly, my day got worse.
    Yeah, I know. It surprised me too.
    While Ben settled down in the breakfast nook with his notepad, I requested permission from Thom Berger to search Cassandra’s room. I didn’t really have to—police had been through her room several times—but I thought I would be courteous and ask. Thom, sitting opposite Ben, looked up at me uneasily. “Everything was already fingerprinted. The cops were through everything yesterday.”
    “I’m not a cop, Mr. Berger. I’m a clairvoyant. I’d like to see if I can get a psychic imprint of her,” I said, which sounded nicely metaphysical, I thought. I had other plans, but the Bergers didn’t need to know about any of that.
    Thom spread his hands in a way that seemed to state he couldn’t stop me. I looked around the kitchen area, searching for Mrs. Berger, but the only one here with us was the Hispanic housekeeper, Zanita, busy preparing tea and coffee. I met her eyes but she quickly looked away, and, I think, crossed herself. That wasn’t necessarily an admission of guilt, just good sense.
    I went upstairs. The house had that white, shiny, open spaciousness that only new houses have. Even the paint smelled new. I followed a long hallway decorated with a bright Chinese runner. The Bergers’ various bedrooms and guestrooms lined the hallway on both sides, but Cassie’s room was marked with yellow police tape up ahead.
    I ducked under the tape and flipped on the lights.
    Nice room. It was done in lavender, instead of the traditional pink, with a poufy canopy bed full of pink and purple stuffed animals. Disney wallpaper arched across the walls in shocking pastel colors, full of various flying creatures like Dumbo and Peter Pan. It was a little too much, the only place Mrs. Berger had gone overboard with the decor, in my humble opinion. At a glance, there was nothing overtly weird or standoutish about the room.
    I started at the bed and moved my way clockwise around the room. If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s toss a room. When I was a cop, I did vice, not homicide. The two are completely different animals, regardless of what primetime TV will have you believe. I didn’t do the stuff you see on Dexter and Hawaii Five-O . I