Wired Truth

by Toby Neal

  The heat of the burning car . . . he hadn’t even felt it. He’d just tried to get the door open, screaming, his lungs on fire, but there wasn’t enough left of his child in the back seat to even fill his hands . . . He couldn’t scream anymore, he couldn’t breathe, and his arms were burning, burning . . .

  “Raveaux.” Sophie’s touch on his shirt-covered arm startled him. “I’m sorry I made you tell me.”

  “C’est rien.” He tugged his white linen cuffs further down, covering the scars on the backs of his hands and his wrists. “It is nothing. A long time ago. But I resigned following that event, and after a few years of being idle in France, I came here for a change of scenery, as I said. Honolulu is very nice.”

  “I understand wanting a ‘do-over,’ as they say in America.” Sophie’s voice was compassionate. “I’ve been there myself.”

  She did not elaborate, as most people would have done.

  Raveaux roused himself from the spell of dark memory with an effort—he needed to establish his expertise. “I’ve worked a diamond heist before. There was this time when I partnered with the police in Monaco to capture a notorious burglar who targeted the wealthy guests of a casino . . .”

  He was just finishing the story when they pulled into the garage of the building housing Finewell’s Auction House. The company’s office was located in one of the most historic and elegant buildings in Honolulu, and Raveaux had no doubt that was intentional. Sophie parked the Lexus in an underground parking stall near the entrance.

  Sophie got Childer on the phone, her husky, Brit-accented voice authoritative. Soon, she and Raveaux were buzzed into the penthouse elevator of the building. When the doors opened, Childer met them, wiping a shiny forehead with a handkerchief.

  “I told my assistant you are insurance investigators, here to check our security protocols,” he said. “I ordered up the video and other surveillance you asked for. It will take only a few minutes. If anyone asks, you work for Fidelity Mutual.”

  “We need to see the actual intake area and the vault,” Sophie told him.

  “Of course. Back on the elevator, then.”

  The elevator sank at a rate that made Raveaux’s stomach lift uncomfortably. They stepped out on the basement level into a foyer area with a long hallway ahead, lined with closed, locked doors. The temperature was noticeably chilly.

  Childer gestured around the immaculate, monochromatic space. “We keep the temperature at a setting that will help preserve artworks and antiquities. We even auction fine collectible wines at times. Our server farm is also down here. All of those things need climate control.”

  “I’m not at all surprised by that,” Sophie said.

  Raveaux pointed. “I see you have the storage rooms labeled.” Each door on either side of the hall was marked with a plaque and a keypad.

  “Yes. We don’t have a vault, per se. We have every necessary security on the doors, though, and they are steel reinforced. Inside we have locked cabinetry for the different types of goods.”

  Sophie put her hands on her hips. “So, by using the word ‘vault,’ you really just mean a locked storage room?”

  Childer’s ruddy cheeks went redder. “We consider this entire area to be our vault,” he said stiffly.

  Raveaux pointed to a camera node aimed at the elevator doors. “As we said before, we will need all of your surveillance footage from the time of the diamonds’ transfer, to the time that the jewels were put into storage, and anything after that until you realized the diamonds were gone.”

  “I told you my girl was already working on it. I explained to her that our insurance investigators needed a week of digital footage to assess our security.” Childer dabbed his throat with the cloth. “She will get you anything you need in your guise as agents of the insurance company.”

  Sophie’s nostrils flared—she was clearly growing irritated with Childer’s prevarication. “Show us where the diamonds were stored.”

  Childer led them down the hall to a room at the end, marked Specialty Items. “It didn’t seem wise to advertise what was inside on the door,” he said.

  This aperture had both the keypad and a couple of heavy deadbolt locks. Childer fumbled through a massive bunch of keys, muttering as he looked for the right one.

  Raveaux elbowed him aside. “Excuse me. I want to try something.” He reached into his well-worn leather messenger bag, a personal piece of luggage he’d taken to every crime scene in his past career. He removed a vial of fingerprint powder from an inside pocket, along with a brush stowed in a handy protective flap. He dipped the loose-bristled brush into the powder and whirled the black material over the surface of the door. Fingerprints immediately popped up in black. “We will need to rule out all of the employees who have access to this room. Send us copies of their fingerprints.”

  “Of course.”

  Raveaux got out a small Olympus and photographed the prints. Once he’d finished, Childer entered a code into the keypad beside the door.

  “Do you have a metric that logs in everyone who accesses the room?” Sophie asked.

  “I will have to check with the security company who put in the keypads,” Childer said. “But yes.” The door beeped, a light above the keypad going from red to green, and Childer inserted a key into the first heavy deadbolt, then the other. “As you can see, we don’t rely just on the keypad, or the locks alone.” He pushed the door open.

  A sensor light came on automatically overhead, and a draft of cold air flushed over them. Raveaux followed Sophie as she stepped in. They scanned the rows of heavy-duty locked metal cabinets that lined the walls inside.

  Childer pointed. “That is the cabinet that held the jewels.”

  The upright, numbered cabinet looked like it was made to hold tools. Brushed steel with a small lock, it was identical to the rest around the room. “How do you keep track of what’s stored inside each unit?” Sophie asked.

  “On each drawer inside the cabinet is a number. We have a computer inventory that logs the number of the cabinet, with the items stored inside.”

  “Where are the keys to the doors and units stored?” Raveaux advanced to the unit in question, taking out his fingerprint kit.

  “That’s a different locked area. I don’t carry the keys to the cabinets, nor does anyone in the company. We keep those in a safe,” Childer said proudly. “That’s why I’m so confused by this burglary. We have several different levels of safeguards in place. I don’t know how the thief was able to get any of the keys involved, get past the door pad, or any of the other things that we have set up.”

  “And that’s why you have us.” Raveaux spun the fingerprint powder over the locked interior shelving. No prints bloomed under his brush, and he frowned. “No prints inside. Odd.”

  “This is looking more and more like an inside job to me, Mr. Childer,” Sophie said. “It would be very difficult for an individual or individuals to gain access to all of these various safeguards without inside information. I’m going to need an employment history on everyone in the building. Everyone who might have access to this area. We’ll look for anyone who might have come to work for you for the purpose of breaking into this vault.”

  An idea had been brewing in Raveaux’s mind. “Perhaps the diamonds were never actually logged in. They never made it into the safe. In which case, our suspect pool is much smaller.”

  “Oh no, I’m sure that can’t be right. I’ve known Mel Samson, in charge of the intake process, for years,” Childer protested.

  Raveaux pinned Childer’s watery blue eyes with his own. “Never doubt that anyone can be bought with the right incentive. When you give us the information on all the various employees, highlight anyone who is involved in the intake and storage process.” He pointed to the shiny metal of the cabinet’s interior boxes. “No fingerprints here. Why is it completely clean?”

  Childer pointed to a box of latex gloves on a supply shelf. “We recommend that people who handle the gems wear gloves to avoid spoiling
the sparkle with hand oils. Perhaps whoever put the diamonds away was wearing protection.”

  “But what about anyone else who might have had access? Why is it completely clean?” Raveaux turned to Sophie. Her honey-brown eyes were wide, fixed on his face. “Honestly? If I were stealing these gems, I would’ve had a nice set of fakes put in place to replace them, so that the heist wasn’t discovered until well after the auction.”

  “Maybe the thief didn’t have access to the kind of craftsperson he would have needed for such a project, here in Hawaii,” Sophie said.

  Raveaux flicked his fingers in irritation at Childer. “Go get the keys to these interior storage units. Take Sophie with you to observe where the keys are stored. I want to see how hard it is to break into this rack of shelves.” Raveaux took a set of lockpicks out of his bag.

  “I’m not leaving you here alone while you pick those locks,” Childer exclaimed.

  “Oui, vraiment.” Raveaux shrugged, his eyes on the keyhole as he inserted the two small flanged rods and wiggled them around inside the lock. “Observe, then. This won’t take long.”

  A minute and a half later, the drawer yielded to his advances. Raveaux pulled the felt-lined, empty drawer out with a flourish. “I hope I have just demonstrated to you, Mr. Childer, how truly unnecessary keys can be.”

  Childer could form no coherent argument. He led them to the room where the safe with the numbered shelf keys were stored. They observed while he opened the safe—but to Raveaux’s mind, the jewels had never made it to that shelf at all.

  “Please call your assistant for the employee records and fingerprint records we require,” Sophie said, when Childer had re-locked the safe. “We’ll be on our way when we have what we need.”

  They returned to Childer’s office, and he directed his assistant to gather the additional information that they requested, with the help of the Human Resources department. Sophie never seemed to waste a moment; she continued to work, using her tablet and phone, as they waited in the lobby.

  Raveaux didn’t see the point in being a workaholic any longer. What had it gotten him to spend so many years in frantic and obsessive pursuit of his cases? He’d only lost time with Gita and Lucie because of it; time he could never get back.

  Now he had nothing but time.

  Raveaux sat down on the padded couch and removed a Jo Nesbo novel from his leather messenger bag. It was a twisty mystery, set in an exotic location. He quickly became engrossed in the book. He liked the hopeless emptiness of Nesbo’s Harry Hole character, his compulsive drinking and self-destructive death wish—the character’s desperation reminded him how much better he felt, having found his own way out of that vortex.

  “Raveaux?”

  He’d been gone into the book’s world for a while, and re-entry was harsh. “Yes?” He folded down the corner of his page. Gita had hated when he did that; she’d collected bookmarks from all over the world, and loved to drop them into his pages . . .

  Sophie’s mouth had a dimple at the corner—not a smile, but as if she were holding one in. “You like reading?”

  “I don’t like being interrupted when I’m reading,” Raveaux said with asperity. “Merde. That your only reason for talking to me?”

  Sophie’s dimple deepened. “I just don’t see too many paperbacks these days, let alone men reading them.”

  “I am certain there are more of us endangered species engaged in this activity in private.” Raveaux’s neck felt hot—was she teasing him?

  “But a paperback. It’s so old fashioned.” She was definitely smiling.

  “I prefer to call it classic.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Is there anything else, Madame?” He used the honorific deliberately, his brows raised.

  “I have always found the French to be rather touchy,” Sophie said, after a moment. “I meant no disrespect.”

  “And I have always found Americans who don’t read to be rather shallow,” Raveaux replied. He opened his book again. “And I mean that sincerely.”

  “I read. Just not paperbacks,” Sophie muttered.

  Once again, Raveaux almost smiled. How had she done that to him twice in one day? He uncreased the corner of his page and smoothed it carefully.

  Chapter Six

  Connor: Day One

  Pi stalked down the stairs of the dais toward Connor. The man was fresh and rested, his lips curling back from his teeth in a feral grin as he circled Connor, calling for his favorite weapon, the spear staff.

  Connor stood up from kneeling, his eyes tracking his opponent. You’ve just endured the gauntlet! You’re in no shape for a battle to the death! Connor’s “old mind” screamed at him, loud and clear.

  His “new mind” simply tracked Pi, unfazed. All is an illusion, and you can manipulate everything about this scene at will.

  Pi took a moment to shed his black gi theatrically. He caught the spear tossed to him by an onlooker, and his muscled torso gleamed—the man had a heavier build than Connor’s, but he was just as quick and agile.

  Connor’s mind scrabbled—what was his favorite weapon? He couldn’t even remember. He liked them all.

  A bloodthirsty roar from the onlookers filled the courtyard as Pi charged, the staff raised over his head.

  Connor whirled into action, dodging Pi’s swing, spinning in a circle just out of reach. Shame and anger licked along his nerves, weakening him—he didn’t want to take a life this way! He would never choose to fight to the death as a spectator sport.

  He must not have what it took to be the Master’s number One.

  Connor had tasted the Master’s punishments before. He’d done pushups until he collapsed, spent a night in a storm standing on one leg atop a pillar until he fell off, lain on a bed of nails, and been plunged into a vat of ice—but with this test, on top of the obstacle course, he was reeling emotionally. Disequilibrium ate up valuable energy resources as he reacted late, taking a blow to the ribs that knocked out his breath.

  A flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye—a blade whirled toward him, end over end, launched by his friend Nine. Connor caught the sword by its handle—the half-length samurai blade was used in Seppuku, and was swift and deadly for close combat.

  His distraction in catching the sword caused Connor to take another blow from Pi’s staff, this time a raking slash to the back of the leg that buckled his knee.

  He inhaled, whirling out of the blow, refusing to feel its pain, and brought the blade up to a ready position as he faced his opponent at last. No way out but through.

  Connor’s eyes locked on Pi’s. The wear and tear on his body that he’d never allowed himself to feel during the obstacle course sharpened his focus.

  He exhaled gently, and s l o w e d e v e r y t h i n g d o w n.

  Pi came at him again.

  This time, every movement was as meandering as if it were drifting through honey, leisurely and completely avoidable. The man feinted from the left, but planned to strike from the right, a move Connor remembered from previous matches.

  Connor stepped deliberately into the space Pi had left unprotected and sliced along Pi’s exposed side, laying him open down the ribs.

  Pi staggered back, his mouth contorting in a cry of shock that sounded as otherworldly and distant as a foghorn. He made a further mistake in looking down at the blood pouring from the painful but non-fatal wound. Pain contorted his features.

  Pi didn’t have Connor’s ability to block out sensation and distraction, let alone manipulate time.

  That was why the Master had chosen Connor.

  He understood, now.

  Connor gathered energy into a hot ball of power at his core, and leaped high to kick Pi squarely in the chest.

  The man flew backward, landing sprawled on the steps of the dais, dropping his staff with a clatter.

  Connor walked over to Pi, lazy, easy, still in the time warp he had created. He moved to stand above his opponent and placed the razor-sharp tip of his sword under the man’s chin.


  The blade nicked Pi’s flesh, and his face paled with fear.

  Pi was not worthy to lead.

  Connor looked up to meet the Master’s velvety purple, compelling eyes as the man stood above him on the steps of the dais. “Now I see why you chose me as your One. May I spare this man’s life that he may serve you in some other way?”

  “Yes. And you will live with the consequences.” Those eyes always saw more than Connor wanted them to. “Your first decision as my One.”

  Connor stepped back and lowered the sword. “I choose mercy.”

  Normal time dropped over Connor, with its heavy load of tiresome gravity. His ears rang with the roar of approval from the onlookers, spiked by a few catcalls from those who’d wanted more blood and death.

  The deep slice on the back of Connor’s leg throbbed. His nostrils stung with the coppery tang of blood and sweat. Exhaustion tugged at his body. But he wasn’t done yet.

  He reached down and tugged Pi to his feet, noting the hatred banked in the man’s dark eyes.

  He would shame Pi into compliance and harness goodwill from the other trainees. Connor lifted Pi’s fist, turning the two of them in a circle before the cheering crowd. “We are brothers! Brothers who serve the Yām Khûmkạn and the Master—together!”

  Hundreds of warriors swarmed from their viewing points and engulfed Connor and Pi. Connor was lifted on their shoulders, borne triumphantly around the combat area, and deposited, once again, in front of the Master’s chair on top of the dais.

  But when Connor opened his eyes, drunk on the energy of the crowd, the Master had disappeared.

  The wave of ninjas carried Connor up and sat him bodily in their leader’s vacated chair. Hundreds of heads bowed toward him, thousands of hands were extended to him. He spoke the ritual words of blessing over them, as the Master did every day.