"Agreed."
"Has she spoken to your dad since?"
"She was supposed to check in this morning, but Karl turned off her alarm and made the call himself. Probably wise. He's better equipped to gauge my father's reaction."
She nodded. "When it comes to bullshit detecting, Karl's a natural."
"He told my father that Hope had been on a job with the gang the night before and was still sleeping and, according to Karl, my father gave no indication that this was a surprise or that he was expecting anything else. He told Karl she could call later if she wished, or wait until tomorrow's check-in."
"Any chance these guys took off?"
I tore a piece of my muffin. "Hope says they were happy with the gang, even after being beaten and robbed. And Karl concurs. They weren't going anywhere from what he could see."
"So what are their theories?"
"Hope suspects rogue elements in the Cabal."
"Like what happened to her."
"Precisely. Karl is looking at an inside job, specifically the gang leader. He wants me to investigate him."
"The leader has a beef with the Cortezes so he takes out his own guys and blames the Cabal? Devious. Not surprised Karl came up with that one. What does Hope think?"
"He hasn't mentioned it to her. He's also not telling her about the blood, which, admittedly, I don't understand. Hope's hardly the sort to fly into histrionics at the supposition that these young men met with violence."
"She's involved with one of them."
I frowned.
"Hope's involved with one of the guys. Probably this Jaz." She set down her coffee cup. "Karl doesn't want to tell her about the blood, meaning she's more attached to them--or one of them--than a casual acquaintance would imply. Karl doesn't know them, but he's certain they didn't up and leave town. And, from the way Karl spoke of them, he has some issues with this Jaz. Why would Karl have a problem with a young man whose disappearance has Hope so worried? One word. Sex." She picked up her coffee and sipped, considering. "Or, at least, sexual jealousy. There was a relationship or the threat of one."
"I missed that completely."
"I could be wrong. But if I'm not, then we have to consider another suspect."
"Karl."
LUCAS
4
PAIGE SETTLED AT HER COMPUTER, preparing to run investigative searches on the gang members. As moral as Paige is, she's also an experienced hacker from her college days, and sees no reason not to use those skills in pursuit of a just cause.
The concept of breaching ethical boundaries to reach a morally acceptable goal is something Paige struggles with more than I do, though it's always an issue in our line of work. But if the breach leaves no obvious victims, and only puts Paige herself at risk, then she doesn't hesitate to do it.
It was now seven--or ten in the East--making it a reasonable hour to begin placing calls. I was reaching for the phone when a call came in for Paige from Gillian MacArthur, one of the students in her "Sabrina School." Paige mentors a small group of young witches, long distance, those without ties to others. Life can be difficult for witches. Their primary institution, the Coven, is more interested in hiding a witch's powers than in strengthening them.
The witch-sorcerer divide doesn't help matters, not when the Cabals are run by sorcerers. Witches and sorcerers are historical enemies, a ridiculous prejudice that carries over to this day. According to the witches, they took the less powerful sorcerers under their wings, taught them stronger magic and were rewarded by being thrown to the Inquisition--getting them out of the way so the male spellcasters could rule the supernatural world unopposed. More specifically, it is the original Cabal--the Cortezes--whom they blame as the instigators. Our sorcerer version tells us that witches did indeed help us better hone our innate abilities, but when we became too powerful, they turned us over to the Inquisitors, and we retaliated by doing the same to them. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
With an impotent American Coven and exclusion from the Cabals, witches lack a strong place in the supernatural world, something Paige is trying to change. Her Sabrina School is one step in that direction. Today, though, she kept the call short, promising to phone back, then handed the receiver to me.
I dialed the number from memory. It took six rings for someone to answer. This wasn't unusual, in a household where no one was ever in any rush to make contact with the outside world and trusted that if the caller was a friend, he'd know to stay on the line.
A woman answered, her greeting friendly but distant, as if she had better things to do, but given that no one else was going to pick up the phone, it had fallen to her, as it usually did.
"Elena, it's Lucas."
Her tone brightened. "Hey, Lucas."
We chatted for a minute, then I asked to speak to Clayton. He was outside with the children, and it took a few minutes before he made it to the phone.
"What's up?" he said.
No pleasantries exchanged this time. Not even an introductory hello. In anyone else, it would be a sign that my call was unwelcome. With Clay, there was no such subtext. Why bother with hello when I'd know he was there as soon as he started talking? Why ask after Paige's health, or mine, or Savannah's, when he knew if we were unwell, he'd already have heard it from Elena? The point of civilities was lost on Clay, and I must admit, it's sometimes pleasant to get straight to business without wading through five minutes of social conventions.
"I have a hypothetical question to put to you regarding Karl Marsten."
"What's he done now?"
"If he felt some attachment to a woman and she began to form an attachment to another man, could his reaction be...violent?"
"We're talking about Hope, right?"
"Not necessarily. I'm posing it as a--"
"Hypothetical question." The line buzzed as he moved, probably thumping down onto the sofa, getting comfortable. "If it's not Hope, then the answer is no, because Marsten doesn't 'feel some attachment' to any woman--hell, to any person--except that girl. But if we are talking about Hope, which I presume we are, then the answer is different."
"All right, it's Hope."
"So she's getting cozy with another guy, and you're asking whether he could get violent? Toward her? No."
"I was thinking of the other party."
"The competition? Yeah, he could. Not saying he would, but he could."
"How violent are we talking?"
"Look, just tell me what's going on. Yeah, yeah, client privilege or whatever, but you know I'm not about to go blabbing to anyone--including Marsten. Only person I'd tell is Elena, but that goes without saying."
I explained the situation.
"Shit," he said when I finished. "So you're asking whether Marsten would take out his competition permanently? Wish I could cut back your list of suspects and tell you no." A rustle, as if he was changing position. "You know Marsten attacked the Pack, right? Six, seven years ago? Because we wouldn't give him territory unless he joined?"
"You've told me, yes."
"Well, because he couldn't hold territory, what he'd do is settle in a city for a few months and unofficially declare it his. Any other mutt showed up, he'd track them down and take them out to a fancy dinner. Buy them whatever they wanted, foot the bill, chat them up, be as gracious a host as only Marsten can be. Then he'd tell them they had until dawn to clear out. If they didn't leave? Elena would get a call or a letter telling her she could remove that mutt from her dossiers."
"He killed them?"
"Hell, yeah. Marsten's not stupid. He knows you don't quash a threat by tossing out warnings, maybe break a bone or two. Kill a few mutts and word gets around: don't tread on Karl Marsten's territory."
"And in this case, Karl's territory would be Hope."
"But killing these kids doesn't send a message to anyone except Hope and, as cold as that bastard can be, I can't see him doing that. Could he have gone to scare the kid and things got out of hand? Maybe. Or if he felt that h
e could lose Hope to some kid she just met? Doesn't sound likely, but who knows. You aren't asking me if I thought he did it, but whether he could. Short answer: hell, yeah. Now, about this job Hope's doing. Does Elena know? 'Cause she'll feel out of the loop if--"
A whisper. Elena.
"One sec," Clay said.
He didn't bother covering the receiver.
"Time to go," I heard Elena say. "Parent and tot swim starts this morning, remember?"
Clay let out an obscenity.
"Is that a no?"
"That's a 'why the hell can't we just buy a pool?'"
"We can, but this has nothing to do with swimming lessons and everything to do with social interaction."
Another, stronger epithet.
I considered hanging up, but if I did, Clay would call me back, annoyed, never understanding that I'd consider it rude to be privy to a private conversation.
"They love being around other children," Elena continued. "Did you see them at the playground last week, Kate toddling after the older kids?"
"She was stalking them."
A sputtered curse, from Elena this time. "She's eighteen months old! She was not--"
"Classic stalking behavior."
"And I suppose Logan hiding in the bushes was part of the ruse. She'd steer them into the trap, then he'd spring out--"
"Shit, I never thought of that."
An exasperated groan, then a sharp "Hey!" from Clayton, probably as he got a poke or pinch. The phone line crackled.
"Lucas?" It was Elena. "Please excuse Clay's rudeness, again."
"That's quite all right. Tell him I'll talk to him later."
"I'll have him call you back...if spending an hour in a pool crowded with humans doesn't traumatize him too much."
"It makes me uncomfortable," Clay said in the background. "It does not--"
"Bye, Lucas."
"Good-bye, Elena."
The line went dead.
HOPE
BIRTHDAY PRESENTS
I woke alone, and flashed back to that Valentine's "morning after." This had better not be another case of next-day jitters. While his explanation of that next day made the memory less painful, I wasn't enduring round two.
As I pushed off the covers, the door opened. Karl walked in with coffee. Hot and fresh--from the same place he'd bought it yesterday. Even if there'd been a coffeemaker and supplies, he'd have gone out. Having tasted his coffee, I was grateful.
I took a sip and closed my eyes. "Mmm."
"I bought a few groceries. Eggs, bacon, bread--presuming there's a toaster."
"You're going to make me breakfast too? Wow."
He gave me a look. "You know I don't cook."
"Well, I sure hope this means you plan to try. Expecting me to cook breakfast isn't a good way to sell this mate business."
"Does that mean I should cancel the offer on the cabin in the Poconos?"
I laughed and swung my feet out. "I'll make you breakfast, Karl, but only because it's your birthday...and because, in comparison to the cabin and baby-making, it seems relatively benign. First, though, I'm having a shower--" The rumble of his stomach cut me short. "Okay, first breakfast."
"Thank you."
I headed toward the closet, but Karl tugged me back. "You don't need that."
"If you're asking me to cook you breakfast in the nude then, yes, it is your birthday, but no. Bacon spatter is very, very hot."
He handed me the button-down white shirt he'd worn the night before.
"Oh, you want me to wear your shirt. Little show of property rights?"
"You can't just humor me and put it on without comment, can you?"
"At least I didn't accuse you of wanting your scent on me."
He helped me into the shirt. "I believe I've already accomplished that."
"Which is why I suggested a shower..."
"I wasn't complaining. In fact--"
"Don't say it. Please." I looked down at the half-buttoned shirt. "Do I at least get to put on panties?"
"It's my birthday."
"Gonna milk that for all it's worth, aren't you?"
"Gonna try."
I STARTED FRYING bacon and making toast. The toast would go cold before I put the eggs on, but this was only the first batch. Even without Karl's grumbling stomach, his pacing would have told me he was starving. So I fed him two slices and that seemed to be enough to let him turn his attention to other matters...like getting his hands under my shirt as I stood at the stove.
At first he just moved his fingers over my thighs and rear, stroking and tickling. Then he eased his fingers between my legs. I flipped the bacon and shifted, and his fingers slid in. I stood there, spatula raised, bacon forgotten...until the stink of burning pork reminded me.
"Distracted?" he said as he pushed his fingers in deeper.
I bit back a moan. "Maybe. But you're the one who wants breakfast, so if I burn it..."
"Not your fault."
I arched onto my toes and wriggled. Then I felt something that definitely wasn't his fingers. I leaned forward, lifting up--and caught a spray of bacon grease in the face.
He pulled me back, then leaned down to murmur, "Sorry. It won't work very well anyway. Not unless we get you a stool."
"You calling me short?"
"Petite."
He turned me to face him, and perched me on the edge of the low section next to the stove. Then he slid the shirt up over my thighs, pulling my legs around him, and pushed into me.
I gasped. "Having sex with a woman while she's cooking your breakfast? Your fantasies are showing your age, Karl."
"Is that a complaint?"
"An observation."
"Ah."
"But if I overcook the bacon..."
"My fault. Risk noted." He thrust into me. "And accepted."
OVER BREAKFAST, KARL wanted to talk about Jaz and Sonny's disappearance. I'd rather have not. The mention of Jaz's name made my stomach churn. I was worried about him and desperately wanted to find him, to make sure he was safe. And then what? How would I explain this?
Thank God you're back, Jaz. Er, but about that special night you had planned...
Yes, I'd initially wanted a fling with Jaz because of Karl, to wipe him from my mind, but it hadn't been a casual hookup. I liked Jaz, cared about him, and that only made it all worse.
But if I did care, then I had to put my own feelings of guilt aside and concentrate on figuring out what had happened to him. Karl raised the possibility that Jaz and Sonny's disappearance was an inside job. I think he was shocked when I agreed it was a possibility. Did he expect me to jump to the defense of people I'd met only days ago? We weren't dealing with a Boy Scout troop.
When he told me whom he suspected, though, I did disagree. Could I see Guy killing a crew member to further his agenda? Possibly. But it wouldn't be Jaz.
We decided the next step was to get into the club and take a look around while everyone else was sleeping off a late night hunting for Jaz and Sonny. It was unlikely we'd find a "why I kidnapped my crew mates" note hidden in the back closet. But if Guy kept any records of those Cabal dustups they'd be at the club.
YESTERDAY, KARL HAD huffed about poor security at the club. Seems that had been his ill humor talking. The security was well above anything I could breach, and even Karl had to work to get us in.
Once inside, we split up to check the building and ensure we were indeed alone. Karl would take the office; I'd look through the club and back storerooms.
Walking through the club reminded me of the first time I'd cut through with Bianca. Now, alone, that unnatural hush and shadowy darkness was even worse.
I felt my way around the pool tables as I circumvented the dance floor. Ahead I saw those floor-side tables where we'd partied after the sweet sixteen heist. I stared at the chair where I'd sat on Jaz's lap.
If Jaz hadn't disappeared, would last night have been different? No. If Karl and I had managed to find another route past the anger, I'd be here
now worrying about what to tell Jaz.
Had I used him?
In a way, yes. I'd seized a genuine attraction to try and get over Karl.
But that attraction...Part of me wanted to say it was purely physical. He was young and hot and interested--the perfect recipe for chemistry. To admit there'd been more felt like a disloyalty to Karl, that buried romantic in me wanting to say that Karl was everything I'd ever wanted.
But with Jaz there had been a connection. Had there been no Karl, then I think we could have had something.
"How did you get in here?"
I jumped at Bianca's voice. But when I spun around, I couldn't see her.
"I asked you a question," Bianca said.
Her voice was sharp. I felt her anger ripple through me as I peered around the club.
"You have five seconds to tell me who the hell you are, or I'm escorting you to the front door. After I call security."
A man's laugh, then a voice, unfamiliar. "There's no one here but us, Bianca."
"Do I know you?"
"Don't you?"
The voice grew closer, and a dash of fear seeped into her anger. I closed my eyes and circled, stopping when I felt a mental twinge that said "this way to the chaos buffet." When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the door to the stockrooms.
"What do you want?" Bianca said.
"Uh-uh. Keep your distance, babe. Third-degree burns aren't on my agenda."
I slid my gun from my purse and hurried to the hall door.
HOPE
TASTE OF DEATH
I slowly turned the knob, then opened the door a crack. Light flooded out. I listened. All was silent. A peek through. Four doors, all closed. If I remembered right, the first two were for janitorial supplies and technical equipment, and the last pair for bar stock.
"One last time," Bianca said. "What do you want?"
Her voice echoed, simultaneously heard in my head and, muffled, from down the hall. I raised my gun and took a slow step forward, testing the floor against my shoes, seeing how easily they'd squeak on the painted concrete.
"I want you to take a message to your boss," the man said. "From Benicio Cortez."