The Granite Moth by Erica Wright Page A

into the church, but didn’t want to interrupt genuine mourning, so I turned toward the cemetery and found a park bench instead. It wasn’t peaceful with the shoutsfrom the street, but it was discreet. Nobody would bother me, a grieving widow perhaps, in my black dress and black jacket. I pulled my scarf tighter against the wind that was knocking around dead leaves and read the three-paneled, glossy brochure. It advertised the Mount Olympus Retreat, an “immersion program for mind recalibrating,” which I translated to mean one of those gay conversion camps. “Find the gods inside you” was an unfortunate tagline for a homophobic hate group. I didn’t like The Iliad lines on the back panel any better: “There are no binding oaths between men and lions— / wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds— / they are all bent on hating each other to the death.”
    If the brochure was printed at the same place as the funeral invitations, I would have pretty good circumstantial evidence against the group that called themselves the Zeus Society. Not endorsed by any governing body, I could safely assume. An oddly named operation given the ancient Greek acceptance of romantic relationships between older and younger males. Maybe that was the point?
    The Zeus Society boasted “thousands of men and women saved from an eternity of unimaginable torture.” Despite being unimaginable, someone had decided on flames and manacles as decorations. Each page was half-covered in fire, but there was still plenty of text from Leader Holt. Not one actual verse from a religious text. Not even more lines from The Iliad , although what else would they use? Zeus praising Ganymede’s beauty?
    At the bottom of the last page in small font was a logo for a Manhattan print shop, The Fountain. It was a place to start, and I took out my work cell, a cheap flip phone with a blocked number, and left a message with the manager. They were closed until noon, so the group must have picked them up yesterday. Or had them lying around for whenever the hate bug hit them.I suppose it made sense to have a print shop on the ready. With eight million people in New York City, there are plenty to hate.
    My personal cell started vibrating from my purse, and I groped around until I unearthed it. Since only a few people had the number, I answered without checking the I.D., suddenly worried that Meeza was in danger. Ever since she had started dating a car thief she was at the back of my mind, one step away from a misdemeanor in the name of devotion. It wasn’t Meeza, but a vaguely familiar voice inviting me to dinner.
    â€œI’m sorry, who is this?”
    I switched on the recording device I kept ready to go and hoped that the incoming number was traceable. My heart sped up, and I looked around frantically to see if anyone was watching me. The angry mob couldn’t care less about a woman sitting by herself among some tombstones, and I stood up to get a better view of the passing pedestrians. No one looked particularly threatening, at least none more so than usual in this part of town.
    â€œKathleen, it’s Lars. Lars Dekker? I wanted to talk to you about last night. Get your perspective. Maybe hire you? Something.” He paused, and my heart returned to its normal rhythm. “I guess I’m a suspect. I didn’t even know Ernesto.”
    I walked over to a quieter corner, away from the street noise. Lars didn’t sound like the confident tycoon from The Skyview. He sounded like, well, like someone who’d watched a person die in front of them.
    â€œHow’d you get this number?”
    â€œEllis gave it to me. He’s not thrilled about the idea of me hiring you to work independently, but you’re the only private investigator that I know. The only one I’ve ever met actually.”
    I didn’t doubt that was true. His kind didn’t mingle with mine. It was curious that