He shrugged in response to the reporter’s question. “He has to look like he’s doing something to keep the polls happy.”
Celia had never liked that guy. He was a loose cannon. A couple of other scenes followed, sound bites from Mind-masher and Earth Mother. She wondered if they’d flash an interview with Analise next, but Typhoon didn’t seem to be out and about this afternoon.
“Celia?” It was Mark on the phone again. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. Hey, I’m glad you called. We should have dinner or something soon. To make up for last night.”
“I could sure use a hello like the good-bye I got from you.”
Oh yeah. Definitely a keeper.
When she finally hung up, the phone flashed a message waiting light at her. It was Analise, practically screaming: “What happened last night? Don’t try to tell me you weren’t there because I know you were. And you didn’t call me? Why didn’t I hear about this? My supreme deductive reasoning powers tell me that this Mark Paulson guy is the cop who took you home after the last time. Am I right? There’s a picture of you making eyes at him on page three of the Eye. Girl, you guys look hot. You have to—” The message timed out there.
* * *
Monday morning, she was back in the office researching the Leyden Industrial Park, the next strand in the web that was Sito’s life.
The current phone book and city title records had no listings for a Leyden Industrial Park, which meant the name had changed sometime during the last fifty years, or the place didn’t exist anymore. An address would have helped, but the censored Greenbriar file hadn’t been that generous. She’d have to head to City Hall or the library and hope they had historical street plans or title information going back that far.
She also made time for a little independent research, looking into valuations of Stradivarius instruments. It wasn’t exactly a straightforward endeavor. The average thief would never be able to unload one on the black market. Most of the instruments were well known within the communities that would pay the most for them. Their histories, characteristics, ownership, were all recorded in detail. They even had nicknames. It would be like trying to sell someone’s child. Someone’s famous child. Not that criminals hadn’t tried that, too.
If the thieves had a private buyer lined up, one who didn’t care about the niceties of law, no one would ever see those instruments again.
So why had they taken a hostage if they were just going to let him go? Once they were out of the building, they didn’t need the human shield anymore—they could have released him immediately. Except they hadn’t originally taken any hostage, they’d wanted her. Which meant they’d wanted to get at the Olympiad. If they’d kept her as a hostage, her parents might not have listened when the cops asked them to stay out of it. Maybe that was why they’d let Mark go. He was the wrong bait.
The hubris, putting herself at the middle of this.
She had dinner with Mark Saturday night. Just dinner. She was becoming so conservative. Really, though, she had enjoyed the chance to talk to him when they weren’t in a courtroom or a kidnapping scene.
Appleton had grilled him about the Stradivarius Brothers, as the press had named the gang, most of Friday night and into Saturday. He’d given descriptions of his captors to the sketch artist and profiling software; the department was still trying to find matches with the mug shots on file. He’d spent the entire time in their car, which never went more than a mile from the symphony hall and the police station, and points in between. The Stradivarius instruments had been in a different car. Not much to go on, as far as tracking the instruments was concerned. He hadn’t gotten a look at the plates of either car.
He had heard part of a phone conversation. The driver of the car called someone to ask what to do, since the plan had gone awry.
“The guy he was talking to was yelling so loud I could hear him. He said, ‘You were supposed to get the girl.’ Then the driver said, ‘The mayor’s son ought to be just as good.’ But the answer was no. Then they dropped me off. I thought you’d want to know.”
They’d been after her, and she wasn’t willing to call two kidnapping attempts in as many weeks a coincidence.
* * *
Mark came over to her place Monday evening with carry-out Chinese. She dumped lo mein onto plates and poured hot-and-sour soup into bowls while he leaned on the doorway to the kitchen, watching.
“I asked around about who talked to the Olympiad Friday night. All anyone knows is the order came from upstairs, from higher up than Appleton. Probably the Commissioner. Nobody was too upset about it; you know we’ve never really gotten along with those guys.”
Because the Olympiad kept making them look bad.… “But there was an order. I wish your dad wouldn’t go around saying it was their fault they weren’t there.”
“It would have been like them to just show up. Why didn’t they?”
Because they hadn’t known there was a kidnapping involved and there were lives at stake. She didn’t want to argue with him. “Who knows? I can’t explain them.”
“Can’t you?”
“You may have noticed, I’ve spent the whole of my adult life putting distance between them and me.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
As they ate, she watched Mark across the table. Broad shouldered, frowning, his eyes alight, animated and resolute, an ideal poster boy for the city’s police force. He looked ready to leap to the rescue of a damsel in distress, willing to save the city from whatever dangers befell it. Another crusading hero, in his own way.
She ought to kick him out right now, before it was too late.
“You look all serious all of a sudden.”
“Sorry.” She smiled and glanced away.
The table was small enough that he was able to reach across and touch her face, a light brush of fingertips across her cheek. Quelling a smile, he drew his hand away. Too late.
He helped her clear away the dishes, and he stood too close, so that she could feel the heat of his body. She let her arm brush his as she reached for a towel. After drying her hands, she twined her arms around his waist. He was kissing her before he brought his hands to her shoulders.
She was hot and bothered, unthinking, and let it happen. Watched herself pull off his shirt, press her hands to his bare chest, and give a sigh of satisfaction.
She needed, she decided, to be held in his arms.
NINE
“CELIA. It’s your father. Your mother would really like you to come over for dinner. She thinks it’d be a good idea for us to get together, when it isn’t the middle of a crisis. And … I guess I think it’d be a good idea, too. Call back.”
Celia stared at the telephone for an astounded moment. She couldn’t remember her father ever calling her at home. She couldn’t remember him ever calling her at all. Suzanne, yes—as soon as Celia had given her a number she called every week.
Mom put him up to this. She’d probably held her blowtorch finger up to his skull to make him call. He wouldn’t have had to; she’d have just scorched him a little. But he’d swallowed his pride enough to call her.
How could she say no?
* * *
“Jury selection’s taking forever. I’m not surprised. Who hasn’t heard of the Destructor? The guy published a best-selling autobiography, for crying out loud. Who knows when the trial is actually going to start.” Suzanne chatted amiably.
The scene was incongruously domestic. Suzanne, who stood at the stove testing a piece of fettuccine, wore jeans and a sweater, oversize and baggy, exactly the opposite of Spark’s uniform. She was a good cook. Celia hated to admit she was looking forward to her mother’s marinara, which she hadn’t tasted in years.
The pasta conventionally boiled away in a pot on the stove. The saucepan with the marinara sat on a cold burner. Suzanne held her hand against the outside of the pot. That was what glowed red-hot. She used her power to heat the pot and simmer the sauce. She’d always done it that way, saying
she could control the temperature exactly and not let it scorch that way. Celia had been in grade school before she realized that not everyone’s mother made marinara by holding the saucepan in her hands.
Suzanne also made an excellent crème brulée—by hand, so to speak.
Warren, Captain Olympus himself, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching his wife. He wore a blue oxford shirt, khakis, and had bare feet. “I could take care of the problem in a minute. None of this would even be an issue.”
Suzanne threw him a glare. “And have you up on murder charges? I don’t think so.”
“It’d be worth it.”
She retrieved a spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and held it to his mouth. “How’s this?”
He leaned forward and tasted, licked his lips, looked thoughtful. “Hm. Perfect.”
“You always say that,” Suzanne said, frowning. Warren grinned and kissed her forehead.
Celia sat at the kitchen table. She’d asked about three times if she could help. The table had already been set when she got to her parents’ penthouse, and Suzanne insisted she didn’t need anything. Her parents could have afforded a dozen live-in maids, cooks, butlers, whatever. They didn’t have any help, though, apart from someone who came to clean once a week. Suzanne had always set the table herself.
Celia couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together like this, at home, in civilian clothes, quiet and relaxed. She bit her lip.
Warren looked at her. “What are you smiling at?”
She chose to interpret his tone as casual. Ten years ago, she would have taken the words as a personal attack. “I’m thinking you may have a point. What’s a few years in jail if it keeps Sito from hurting anyone ever again? Heck, I might do it myself.”
“You see?” Warren said to Suzanne.
Her mother frowned at her. “Don’t encourage him. And you—don’t encourage her.”
The pasta finished cooking, the sauce finished simmering, Suzanne let Celia serve the salad, and they sat down to eat. Celia didn’t even mind that they couldn’t find anything to talk about except work. Really, work was what any normal family talked about around the dinner table, wasn’t it?
“Bronson’s not going to make you testify, is he?” Suzanne asked.
“No. That is, he’d better not. I wouldn’t want to have to say something that would cause trouble.” This was treading on very touchy ground. More than anything, she didn’t want her father to start in on the subject. “I’m just there to do my job. It isn’t about me, and Bronson knows that. He’ll keep me out of the spotlight.”
Warren nodded like he approved, and Celia sighed.
Celia traced the bottom of her wineglass, fidgeting. “This is nice. Thanks for having me over. Maybe next time you could come over to my place. It isn’t fancy or anything, and I can’t cook, not like this, so you might get pizza delivery—”
“I’d like that,” Suzanne said. “We both would. Just let us know a time and we’ll be there.”
Maybe this would be easier than Celia thought. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have a decent family life. Her parents had never seen her apartment. The idea made her a little giddy, a little nervous, like getting ready for a test. She’d have to clean. “Okay,” she said.
Suzanne said, “Maybe we could make it a weekly thing. We’re all so busy, but if we had a scheduled time we wouldn’t go for six months without seeing each other. Robbie and Arthur could come over. And Celia, if you ever want to bring someone along, that’d be all right. I’d really like to meet your friends. Or if there’s someone, you know, special.” She shyly lowered her gaze to the piece of pasta she’d been twirling on her fork for the last minute.
Celia had to repeat to herself, She means well, she means well. But the thought of bringing Mark—or any guy—here gave her a mild panic attack. My parents, the superhuman crime fighters. And what do you do, son? Stockbroker? You don’t say …
“Maybe.”
“Detective Paulson seems nice.” Suzanne eyed Celia.
“He is.”
Her father huffed. “His father’s a—”
“Warren…” Suzanne gave him the look.
“I’m just saying Celia needs to watch her back. Who knows what they’re up to.”
Suzanne said, “You shouldn’t judge people by their fathers.”
Amen, Celia thought. “It’s okay. He’s never liked anyone I’ve dated.” Warren was about to say something; a red flush was creeping into his features.
Klaxons wailed. And wasn’t that a blast from the past, the Olympiad alarm system sounding in the middle of dinner?
Warren dropped his fork and leaped from the table. Suzanne hesitated, looking at Celia apologetically.
“Don’t worry. I’ll let myself out and lock up. You guys be careful.”
Her mother smiled, squeezed her hand, and followed her husband to the Olympiad control room.
Ten minutes later the penthouse trembled for a moment as the jumpjet launched from its rooftop hangar. Celia’s wineglass chimed, rattling against a piece of silverware. She grabbed it to hold it still.
She finished eating, though her heart wasn’t in it. Not with two half-eaten meals staring at her. Leftovers in this house were never a problem, though. Suzanne just waved her hand at them—instant hot meal.
Her parents had remodeled the kitchen since she moved out. They’d traded the slate tile floor for hardwood, the black lacquer cabinets for oak, and the stainless steel appliances for off-white. They were mellowing in their old age.
The Tupperware was still in the cupboard next to the dishwasher. Celia packaged the leftovers and found room for them in the fridge, ran the dishwasher, rinsed out the wineglasses, and took a nostalgic swing around the place.
An entire floor of Celia’s apartment building would fit inside the West penthouse. More than half of that was taken up by the Olympiad’s base of operations. That still left a spacious home that had been featured in City Living Magazine, back when the Wests were still just the Wests, socialites and heirs to a mercantile fortune. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up one wall of the great room—living room and rec room on one end, dining room on another. It was like having a gymnasium in your house. The carpet was soft and newly cleaned, not a speck of dust or a wrinkle anywhere. The place hardly looked lived in. Her parents probably didn’t spend much time here anymore. It had been a while since they had a kid losing popcorn down the sides of the cushions on the leather sofa while she watched videos.
Visitors never noticed the décor at first. They always went to the windows, which looked over the city: a grid of streetlights, a mosaic of buildings stretching out to the distance, to a black band that was the river and harbor. A faint noise—the hum of car engines, an occasional siren or barking horn—could be heard despite the thick glass. A person could feel like a god, standing up here, gazing over a world that seemed smaller—like a picture, or a model. They might feel like they owned it all. Wonderful view, people always said.
She’d learned her way around Commerce City by staring out these windows, naming the streets, identifying the buildings, labeling the green swath that was City Park and the university beyond it. She always knew where she was by looking up and spotting the glowing blue West Corp sign with its crescent moon logo attached to the skyscraper’s side.
A hallway past the living room led to a suite of offices where Warren ran the family business. Around one more corner were the bedrooms: the master suite and half a dozen guest suites. And her room. Curious, Celia continued on and opened the door.
Inside were her four-poster bed, oak dresser, a couple of toy chests, bookshelves, all the same as when she’d left. Someone had taken down the heavy metal band posters that had decorated the place when she’d last lived here and repainted. But if she looked in the closet they’d probably be there, rolled up and waiting.
She’d left so quickly, without a backward glance. She hadn’t been given a chance to grow out of the teenager she’d been.
Instead, she’d had to smash that teenager utterly and try to build something decent to replace her. In doing so, she’d burned a lot of bridges. She wondered: Had she ever been expected to work for her father—in the business, not as part of the Olympiad—and that somehow got lost amid the disappointment of learning she was a perfectly average model of Homo sapiens? Did West Corp need another accountant? Although working in a company as the daughter of the owner wouldn’t be any different than living in a city as the daughter of its premier superhero.
She wasn’t going to complain. She was lucky to be alive.
The cab that she’d called was waiting for her by the time she reached the lobby of West Plaza. That was how huge the damn thing was. Heir to the West fortune. She ignored the label, because she honestly didn’t believe it. She hadn’t seen her parents’ will. They hadn’t offered to show it to her, and she hadn’t asked. She really didn’t think her father would leave a cent to his traitorous, mundane daughter.
“Celia? Celia West? Is that you?”
She turned, startled. The security man at the front desk of the lobby had called to her. He was a different guy than had been here when she arrived. The shift must have changed. He was older, but still lean and fit; he wore the dark blue uniform well. Probably a retired cop. Then she brightened and found a smile.
“It’s Damon, isn’t it?” she said, walking over to the desk.
Damon Parks, he’d worked the desk here since forever. He must have had to unlock the door of the building for her a hundred times, during her rebellious phase when she insisted on coming home past curfew. He’d never said a word of reproof. He’d just given her a half-smiling, half-reprimanding look, and called up to her parents.
Now, he beamed. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. It’s been a while.”
“Of course I remember you. How are you?”
He shrugged. “Can’t complain. But you—look at you, all grown up. Back visiting your folks?”
“Yes.”
“First time, isn’t it? Since you left.”
“I guess we all decided it was time.”