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neighborhood had been mainly Mexican Catholics.
    “So your theory is that the murder wasn’t meant to summon something. What was it meant for then?”
    “I don’t know.” She rubbed her chin and stared off into space. “Maybe I should try again, try to visualize the ritual itself.”
    “You think you could get more information?”
    “I just don’t know. I could also sense the auras of those involved and get a sense of guilt, but, of course, I’m not allowed anywhere near the family.”
    “Auras?” Now she sounded like a New Age freak, someone who hung out at that shop on Seventh and wore crystals and flowing peasant skirts.
    “Like colors around a person that give you clues to their feelings and personalities. Like whether they’re depressed or trustworthy or whatever.”
    “Do I have an aura?”
    She sighed. “You don’t believe.”
    “Did you really expect me to?”
    “No, but you’re listening longer than the others, which I appreciate.”
    He thought for a moment. He could ask to watch her as she scryed. Would it help him prove her a charlatan?
    “Explain the significance of the pentagram to me.”
    “It represents the five elements—air, earth, water, fire and spirit. Spirit is at the top as most important. It is for invocation and protection and a symbol of our religion, but we did not create the pentagram. It’s been used for other purposes in history. As protection, I wear the silver chain with the pentagram pendant. I also have pentagrams around the house, on potholders and trivets, carved into candles, in lace doilies on several tables.” She pointed to the side table, which he’d barely glanced at since the woman before him was so captivating. Focusing on the lace, he saw the shape knitted into the circle. It was under a lamp and a box of tissues.
    “They’re not obvious,” Gabe noted.
    “I don’t want to bowl people over with my beliefs. I very strongly believe in ‘live and let live’. Unfortunately most people don’t seem to share my philosophy.”
    During the drive over, Gabe set an appointment to see Mrs. Horton at five. He stood, which felt good to his legs. “I’m sure I’ve taken up too much of your time, but it is fascinating. Much to think about.”
    Shylah glanced up at him. “And will you?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Think about it. Will you think about what I’ve told you today?”
    “Definitely. Very eye opening.” He walked to the door.
    Jet lag was killing him. He’d go back to the hotel after talking to Mrs. Horton and save tracking down Jorge and Dave, Lalia’s father and stepfather, for tomorrow. He hated having to treat the victims’ families as suspects, but that was part of the job.
    Mrs. Horton was at home alone. He’d explained his relationship to Angela when he’d first called, which smoothed over the meeting.
    “Oh please call me Vicky,” she said as she led him to her well-worn couch. Her makeup was caked on and the colors a bit eighties, while her clothes were skintight jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. She was definitely heavier on top, making Gabe wonder if her breasts had been augmented in some way. He asked the whereabouts of her husband first.
    She offered him a beer and sat on the couch right next to him so that he nearly choked on the smell of her cheap perfume. He slid over some, not only to keep from touching her but to see her expression better. She took a long draw on her own beer and said, “Michael works at that big Lowe’s in Zion Crossroads. He’s a manager, so his schedule changes around a lot.”
    “How late is he working today?”
    “Seven, and he won’t mind talking to you, but he’ll tell you flat out that you can’t do nothin’ that hasn’t already been done.” Her face clouded for a moment as she glanced over at a portrait of Matthew on the side table. Gabe picked it up to examine it more closely. “They kept after Michael, you know, in the beginning, like because he doesn’t work in an office he’s more likely to