Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan

were lots of men, more than Priscilla had been able to keep up with. No trouble—everyone liked Nic.
    “Is it possible one of her boyfriends grew jealous?” I asked.
    “Maybe. She sometimes strung the poor dears along. I told her she shouldn’t, but Nic found it hard to let go of men. She was peculiar that way. But none of the boyfriends I knew would have done something like that.”
    “Could you give me a few names?”
    “I’d rather not,” she said plainly. “I told the police—I had to—but now my lips are sealed.” She leaned forward. “I thought you simply wanted to know more about Nic, because you were curious. But that isn’t it, is it?”
    “I want to know who killed her.”
    “We all want to know. But you plan to find out, right?” I made no reply but she read the answer in my face. “So you’re a detective too. A man of many talents.”
    “I just want to make a few inquiries, help the cops if I can. A case like Nic’s is likely to slip between the cracks and never be solved. If I can uncover a suspect or some clues, I’ll pass them on to those in the know and maybe something will come of it.”
    “Why not hire a real detective?”
    A good question. I couldn’t tell Priscilla it was to appease The Cardinal, so I rubbed my fingers together and said, “Moola.”
    “God, I know about that. So you’ve taken the task upon yourself. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
    “A bit of both. How about it, Priscilla? Will you give me a list of Nic’s old boyfriends?”
    She shook her head. “I’m even less inclined to reveal their identities now that I know what you’re up to. I don’t like the idea of an amateur sleuth hounding my friends. No offense intended.”
    “None taken.” Our drinks arrived, wine for Priscilla, a nonalcoholic cocktail for me. Mine had probably been spat in by every waiter in the building—twice by good old Martin—but I drank it anyway and made a show of enjoying it.
    “How about a guy called Rudi Ziegler?” I asked, wiping around my lips with a napkin. “Know him?”
    Priscilla hesitated, then, since I knew the name anyway, nodded. “A fortune-teller. Nic thought he was marvelous. She used to plead with me to accompany her to his séances or tarot readings or whatever it is he does.”
    “You never went?”
    “No. I don’t believe in such nonsense.”
    “Nic did?”
    “Absolutely. If it wasn’t Ziegler, it was Madam Ouspenkaya or Mister Merlin. Remember when Time ran an article about this city’s supernatural underbelly, how we have a higher proportion of mystics and crackpots than anywhere else?”
    “I remember people talking about it, yeah.”
    “They ran a list of names—hundreds—and Nic told me she knew practically seven out of every ten.”
    “But Ziegler was special?” I asked hopefully.
    She shrugged. “He was flavor of the month. She’d been hung up on others before him and there would have been others after.”
    Priscilla was playing with her glass. Most of her fingers were adorned with rings, two or three to a finger. One on her left hand had a flat, round top, out of which jutted a diagram of the sun.
    “Do you know anything about a brooch of Nic’s?” I asked, eyes on the ring. “There was a picture of the sun on it. She was wearing—”
    “—It when she died,” Priscilla finished. “Yes. I heard. It was a present from Ziegler. I told Nick—her brother—about it when he called. And the police.”
    “Think it means anything?”
    “No. It was a worthless trinket. Apparently Ziegler hands out lots of similar jewelry to his clients.” She raised the hand with the sun ring and flashed it at me. “Nic got this from him too. She gave it to me because I said I liked it. I only started wearing it this morning. It reminds me of her.”
    She lapsed into silence and twisted the ring a few times with the fingers of her other hand.
    “Generosity was always one of Nic’s failings.” Her voice was close to breaking.