Sometimes in homicide we have different standards of what "healthy" means. Supper was an order of fries and half a burger I'd stowed in my glove compartment at lunch. People don't normally think of me as a gourmet cook, but I noticed that aging a sandwich in a car gives it a richer taste.

After I was done with my meal, I went to the library. For hours I rummaged through one book after another trying to find a reference to anyone or anything with the name of "Mortense."

The librarian came over to help me. She was blonde with big black glasses that made her eyes look like golf balls. "Sir, you've been here all evening, cursing and muttering under your breath. Do you need help finding something?"

"Yeah." I rubbed my eyes. "I'm trying to figure out who or what St. Mortense is."

She cocked her head and curled her lip. "Well, I don't know of a St. Mortense, but I do know of a Reginald Mortense. Lived back in the eighteenth century."

"Tell me about him."

She adjusted her glasses and gave me a big smile. That was when I noticed how attractive she was. For many guys, it's no big deal when a pretty woman smiles at them. They might see something like that every day on their way to work. I suppose it's my own fault that I don't. Most of my time is spent at the precinct, in the morgue, or in my apartment. This lady didn't know it, but for me she was like a rose I'd stumbled upon in the dead of winter, a splash of color in an otherwise dreary landscape.

"Well, she said. He was a stage magician and medium. In his day, he had several wealthy clients who sought his services in speaking to the dead or achieving immortality. Supposedly, he could put a person's soul into a statue."

"Got any pictures of him?"

She beckoned with a finger. "Right this way, sir."

I got up to follow her. As I slung my backpack over my right shoulder, I said, "It's Kard. Officer Kard."

"I'm Glinda."

All at once I was thinking of another lovely blonde, the actress who played the good witch in the old Wizard of Oz movie. I'd always loved that cool cinematic trick they used. The ordinary world was filmed in black and white, but the other side of the rainbow was full of bright greens and yellows.

"I was wondering why the world was suddenly in color."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "A pickup line? Really?"

What could I say? I ran a finger under my collar. "You didn't think it was clever?"

"The first twenty or so times, yeah sure. Why do guys always think they're the first person to come up with that one?"

"Oh, sorry," I said. "People have clever jokes about homicide detectives, too. We have great jobs, in fact, they're to die for. But our jobs are hard, too."

"Because they're murder?"

"Yup. Got it in one."

We walked in silence for a few moments.

"I'll bet your work is fascinating," she said. "Probably, a lot of women want to ask you about cases or find out what kind of crimes you've worked on."

"Actually," I said, chuckling. "The reaction is normally something closer to, 'gross, go away.'"

"I suppose I'm different. I--I've been studying murders for a while. There are some, that I just can't read enough about. For example, there was a serial killer running around a few years ago, not too far from here, where the slayer dressed up as a cowboy and went by the name Viper. He defeated a lot of cops in shootouts."

"Yeah, I worked on that," I said. "I'm the guy that brought him down."

She stopped and gazed at me with something like rapture or adoration. I won't lie. It was a heady feeling.

"You know, they say most officers never draw their gun," I said. "My career has been different. It seems every perp I meet wants to die in a shootout."

"You must be very fast."

I shrugged. What could I say? I wasn't one to brag.

"Do you believe in ghosts, the spirits, and the supernatural?" she asked.

I grinned. "You could say that. My mom was a consulting psychic for the force. That's why I'm a cop."

"Okay, so how crazy does this sound? I think demonic contracts are a real thing and Viper got to be fast by signing one."

Nodding, I replied. "Not crazy at all. That's how it was. As I said, I was there."

She stared at me like she was an entomologist, and I was some kind of rare butterfly she'd just discovered.

"Okay, try this," she said. "Viper signed a demonic contract, but not with a demon. He stole the magical paper they use and made a bargain with a human."

"Interesting," I said. "And why would he have done that? I mean, demons have magical powers they can use to fulfill their end of the contract. People don't."

"Because demons are dangerous to bargain with, and all Viper wanted was speed. With the help of a magical contract, that's the sort of thing one human can bestow upon another."

For several seconds all I could do was stare at that pretty blonde head and those goggle eyes. There was some serious brain power beneath that exterior.

"What?" she asked. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

I took out my suicide king and flipped him between my fingers. "No. I'm just amazed that anyone who wasn't there could figure all that out. You must be some kind of genius."

An uncertain smile flickered across her face.

"Okay, here's what I can't figure out," she said. "How did you beat the Viper? From what I understand, he was defeated in a gun fight."

"I killed the guy he made the contract with first," I said. "That took away his speed."

Was that right? I frowned. Though I remembered coming up to the guy's house and shooting him through the window, I had trouble believing that's how it happened. I didn't murder people.

"Wow," she said, nearly breathless.

Again, I replayed the events of my encounter with Viper and the man with whom he signed the demonic contract. Something about the way I remembered the incident was wrong or incomplete. I couldn't put my finger on it, though.

After giving me a conspiratorial smile, Glinda tugged on my arm and led me toward a back room.

It turned out to be her office. There were dozens of books on the supernatural piled on the desk in a disarray to rival my office. Posters on the wall depicted gruesome crimes. A shot of Viper dominated one wall, apparently it was an enlarged version of a photo from the cover of a newspaper. Though the picture was grainy and the colors muted, he still had that look of supernatural menace I remembered so well.

However it was a picture taped to the back of the door that caught my attention. It dangled there, a single piece of tape attaching it by one corner. I tore it down and stared at it, feeling the temperature of my blood drop. "This is him," I said. "This is St. Mortense."

Pushing her glasses back, she said, "It is Mr. Mortense," she agreed, "But he was no saint."

I unslung my backpack and took the statue out. I set him on her desk. A stray sunbeam shone on him, making him look almost luminous.

She took in a sudden breath.

"What is it?" I asked.

"His eyes," she said.

"You see it, too? The blood?"

She nodded.

"My captain couldn't. I was almost sure I was going crazy."

"The statue looks enough like the picture," she said. "I think this is Mr. Mortense. His life force is in that statue."

My mind raced ahead as I flipped my card around between my fingers. "That would make him a witness. Is there any way to get him to talk?"

"I'm kind of surprised he hasn't already." She tapped him on the head. "I mean, if the spell works like the books say it should."

"How old is the statue?"

"Maybe a hundred years or so."

"Do you have a spell or something that might help him to open up?"

"Not a spell, a ritual."

"Well, what is it?"

She gazed up and to the left, considering. At first I thought it was just a thoughtful expression, but she reached up and pulled a book down from the top of a shelf. She set it down in front of St. Mortense and opened it. The pages were brown and dusty, and the font was some kind of unreadable gothic. A few pictures, woodcuts I guessed, depicted people dancing around a circle.

"That's the ritual?" I said, squinting.

"Yes," she said. Her voice had gone soft.

"Does it require anything complicated?"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "Just candles, red wine, and salt."

"Ha. Sounds more like a date than a spell." I tapped my finger on the page where the woodcut images of wizards cavorted. "Do we need to dress in these funny striped pajamas to cast it?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed then opened it again. "Those--those aren't pajamas. It's--it's shading. They're naked."

I raised my eyebrows and rubbed my chin. "It's not just a date, it's a hot date."

Her hand took mine. It was trembling. "I've got all the ingredients in my apartment. Would you like to come over?"

Never let it be said that I didn't give my all for a case. No sacrifice was too great in the quest for clues or justice. Besides, how could I say no to those big eyes?

"Sh--Sh--Sure," I said.