Trust Issues by Alastair Millar
Trust Issues by Alastair Millar
Be a paranormal investigator, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. And I’d believed them.
I hugged the wall in a shabby hallway, while my partner Phil the Brick kicked in the apartment door. Being the little guy gets me out of the rough stuff. After the adrenaline rush, it turned out nobody was home, but them’s the breaks.
The main living area was mostly bare, with a pentagram chalked on the vinyl floor, brass candlesticks at each point. Next to the window a coffee table had been turned into what looked like a makeshift altar; a silver knife, a moodstone, a tuning fork and a waxy black candle with a red ribbon around it all glistened on a roll of black velvet.
This was why the police were paying top dollar to get PI’s like me on the payroll – I’d been told that a rise in psychic crimes aimed at politicians and government employees was putting a strain on City Hall; last month, quarter of their staff had needed time off to deal with the effects of hexes and low level curses. Demon worship was being successfully defended in the courts under ‘freedom of religion’, so proof of intent was needed to get convictions. That was now my job. Items used in commission of a crime? Check. Perp? No check.
We were working on a tip-off from a confidential informant: Azazekiel, a third grade imp who did me favours sometimes. To get him to show up I’d had to sacrifice a couple of chickens in violation of the health ordinances, which the Lieutenant would cheerfully lock me up for if she found out. She wasn’t a fan of anyone who dealt with what she called ‘spooky crap’, but that was the job these days; she was not a happy woman, and I tried not to add to her load.
“Whaddaya think?” asked Phil.
“It’s a bust,” I sighed. “Look at the dust. Chummy’s long gone. But we’ll get another talking to for ‘listening to street gossip instead of doing real detective work’ unless we bag and tag this lot.” Not that I thought it would help much, it was all the sort of junk you could get from any alt-culture website, along with your eye shadow and goth t-shirts.
I poked around the kitchen: no coffee, which was the most unnatural and suspicious thing about the whole place. There was nothing here related to the attacks on the mayor’s people; this had been a waste of time and effort. Azazekiel was probably chuckling mightily to himself in whatever circle of hell he currently called home. Little git.
I’d joined the force looking for a better future, but all mine held right now was writing up the report. I made a mental note to be more careful listening to my spirit guides next time. You just can’t trust anyone these days!
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Alastair Millar 2023
