When I met Jaime at the cemetery gates, it was almost noon.

“I don’t suppose this can wait until tonight,” she said as we wove through a posse of dog walkers.

“Hey, you’re getting better at that.”

“At what?”

“Talking without moving your lips.”

A tiny smile. “I’m a woman of many talents.”

“And if the showbiz spiritualist thing doesn’t work out for you, there’s always ventriloquism.”

She shook her head and ducked around an elderly couple bearing wreaths of plastic flowers. “Is there something going on today? Or is it always this busy?”

“I think it doubles as the neighborhood park.” I looked around at the treed landscape, dotted with people out enjoying a rare day of early-spring sun. “The way it should be, really. Otherwise, it’s just a waste of good land. It’s not like the spooks care whether you Rollerblade over their graves.” I glanced at a dog squatting next to a cenotaph. “Although that might cross the line. Hey, you! Don’t pretend you didn’t see him do that. Get back here and scoop!”

Jaime laughed. “Sic ’em, Eve.”

“I could spook the dog, but that’s not fair. Well, not unless I could spook him so he drags his owner right through that steamy pile o’ shit.”

“Speaking of alternate careers, there’s one for you.”

“Yeah, and if I don’t catch the Nix, that’s probably what I’ll get: celestial poop-and-scoop enforcer. Probably wouldn’t even get a sword. Just a big shiny shovel.”

“Sword?”

“Don’t ask.” I instinctively moved aside for a pram parade. “So are we going to be able to do this during the day?”

“That was my question. Remember? Possibilities of postponement?”

“Next to none, I’m afraid.”

“Damn.”

Chapter 32

32

CONDUCTING A MIDDAY SÉANCE IN A CROWDED cemetery…I’m sure it appeared near the top of the list of “don’ts” in the necromancer handbook.

After we tossed around a few suggestions, we decided she’d pretend to be meditating, which let her sit cross-legged on the ground, close her eyes, and mumble without attracting attention. Well, without attracting too much attention, although more than once she had to stop mid-incantation when some curious passerby stopped to ask whether she was trying to communicate with the dead.

Jaime sat about ten feet away from Suzanne Simmons’s grave, with her back to it. Meditating in a cemetery was strange enough—doing it right at the foot of the grave of a notorious serial killer would be asking for trouble. Because Jaime’s back was to Simmons’s headstone, I had to stand watch, to let her know when Simmons popped up. It took nearly two hours. More than once Jaime snuck a look my way, as if maybe she’d raised Simmons and I’d somehow failed to notice.