“Nah,” Cheney said. “They don’t pay me that much.”

“A federal assassin making jokes—you’re smart too, but really not that funny.”

“Who are you?” Julia asked.

“I’m Sol’s mother. Okay, okay, you got me. Obviously I’m far too young and beautiful to be his mother. I’m Sol’s sister—younger sister. Hey, I bet if I don’t let you in, you’ll pull a gun and force your way in. Isn’t that what you secret fed enforcers do?”

‘Yeah, that’s exactly what we do,” and Cheney showed her his SIG on the clip at his waist.

For the first time, Cheney saw a flash of genuine alarm in her eyes, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing so much eyeliner. She held out her hands in front of her, to ward him off. “Don’t you dare! All right, come in, I’ll warn Sol.” She gave Julia a dismissive look. “Shame on you, plastering your plain face all over the TV news.” And she sashayed away, clip-clopping on the three-inch peach satin mules.

Cheney said, “Look how that silky thing floats around her as she walks. If she weren’t so scary, it’d be sexy. Is she really his younger sister?”

“Why not? Don’t you know? After all, you’re the federal hired gun.”

They walked down a wide long hallway that ran the full length of the house. The front was all glass windows, with a series of open rooms to their left, and a line of translucent shoji screens covered in rice paper that slid shut to provide privacy. The screens were all at half-mast now. He could see into the rooms, decorated with Asian statuary, from small naked bronze boys to three-foot stone gods. A huge gong that looked to be as ancient as the goddess sitting next to it was hunkered down in the middle of the largest room.

Eastern mysticism to add to the mix? Truth be told, Cheney didn’t think anything much could surprise him after the trio of psychics he’d already met.

He was wrong.

Soldan Meissen sat in the middle of a half dozen huge silk pillows piled in front of a low, elaborately carved, red lacquered table, smoking a hookah. Smoke wreathed his bald head and fogged his rimless round glasses. He was slight, and looked swallowed up in a crimson silk robe belted at his meager waist with a wide black silk cummerbund. One narrow bare foot stuck out from the bottom of the robe. Ugly toes, Cheney thought, gnarly and bent. He realized he had seen him a couple of times on TV, but not like a little pasha in full costume. Why wasn’t he wearing a fez to complete the presentation?

The man observed them in silence for a moment through a veil of lacy smoke, then said in a lovely deep voice, “Why did you bring these people into the house, Ancilla? You know I do not deal with clients after eight o’clock at night. It is now well after nine o’clock. Who are they?”

“They forced their way in, Sol. One of them is a federal agent, at least that’s what he said. This person standing beside him is Julia Ransom.”

The rheumy eyes turned toward Julia. A slight smile unseamed his tight mouth. He carefully set down the end of the tube connected to the detailed Oriental glass hookah, its cooling water bubbling and frothing. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of his silk robe. “Ah, you are my sainted August’s beautiful widow, yes, I recognize you now, Mrs. Ransom. Forgive me. We met once, several years ago at one of August’s soirees. Your aura was murky with grief and I believed that odd since you’d so recently married August. But then I came to understand. Still, I was glad August didn’t see auras. It would have distressed him to know the depths of your pain. Ah, do call me Soldan and I’ll call you Julia. Sit down, both of you, take your ease.”

They made themselves as comfortable as they could on the silk cushions. Cheney could feel Julia had tightened, probably because she was thinking about her son, but she said nothing.

“I would have thought your aura would once again be chaotic from what I heard on the news today, but it’s not. The reporter said you were with an FBI agent in a mad car chase all the way to the beach. But you survived. I’m pleased about that. Oh, I see. The little drama was well staged even though I only saw the back of you when you climbed into a police car. I myself found it very effective. If there are people who believe you murdered August, that incident will turn the tide. You looked quite heroic.”

“You don’t think I killed August, do you, Mr. Meissen?”

CHAPTER 44

Soldan Meissen drew deeply on his pipe, then carefully laid it down again. He frowned at his toes and tucked his feet beneath his silk robe. He built the tension around him with superb skill. He said, “To kill a man such as August Ransom would require, I believe, a phenomenal degree of enmity, the result, I would think, of a steadily building rage. I see no signs of such a rage in your aura.”