Bilson nodded along, pausing to order wine as the server came to the table. He looked sidelong at me, and I was forced to say, “Just water for me, thanks,” as he and Chu agreed to partake. Whatever, that was fine. At least he hadn't assumed I was drinking. It did suggest that he was well-informed. About me.
“Let me ask you this,” Bilson said, with a pensive look, the smile gone as he contemplated deeply all the party-line bullshit and platitudes that Chu had thus far laid down for us. “What is the long-term goal for the Chinese government?”
“China wishes to be a part of the global order,” Chu said as the server poured out a glass of red for him. He swished it around and tasted it, nodding his approval. “They are the second largest economy on the planet, and growing. There's plenty of room at the table for China to take their rightful place. And a strong China is good for the international community. Some of the responsibility that America has shouldered all these years can be shared.” He looked to me. “For instance, your mission to Africa with the US Special Forces?”
I thought I saw where he was going with this but let on like I didn't. “The Navy SEALs? What about it?”
“In the event you had any difficulties during the execution, China had a task force from their support base in Djibouti ready to intercede to assist you,” Chu said. “These sort of goodwill missions don't need to be solely the responsibility of America any longer. With China's rise, there is another voice, another pair of hands in the international community that could be of assistance in keeping order.” He took another sip of wine and smacked his lips together. “Excuse me for a moment.” He scrunched up his napkin and left it on the table in his place. Our server swooped in a moment later, folded it, and left it where his plate would sit, then disappeared.
I kept my voice to a whisper. “This guy works for the Chinese government, doesn't he?”
“Absolutely,” Bilson said, taking a sip of his wine. “They've been funding specialized groups on college campuses called Confucius Institutes. They're operating on over a hundred campuses right now, usually under the aegis of being explainers of Chinese language and culture to the world at large. But the professors aren't in the employ of the university – they're paid by China directly, a direct line to Chinese propaganda and talking points.” He looked at me. “That's why I wanted you to meet him. Best you see all the sides of this, hm?”
“If I wanted a press conference with the Chinese envoy, I would have gone to their embassy,” I said under my breath. “Also, I don't know what anything is on this menu.”
Bilson almost snorted his wine. “It's Asian fusion.”
“Thanks. That clears things up not at all.”
Chu returned just then, folding his napkin back into his lap. “You didn't order without me, I hope?”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” Bilson said.
“Couldn't do it with you here, so there's really no reason to do so without you,” I said.
Chu frowned a little, but it passed as Bilson tossed him an uncomfortable question: “Tell me something. Can you conceive of a reason why the Chinese government might stage a kidnapping of an American citizen on US soil?”
The professor's response was completely calm, though whether it was because he legitimately had no knowledge of the events in question or he was playing it supercool, I couldn't tell. “They wouldn't,” he said, very simply, then said nothing else, as if that was the end of discussion.
Bilson's eyes swept to me, as if watching to see if I'd push back on that. If he was looking for it, I didn't aim to appease him in that regard. I let it pass, sipping my water quietly.
Apparently Professor Chu had a question of his own. “Ms. Nealon...what do you think of China?”
“As dishes go, it's a little formal for me,” I said, putting down my water. “You know, we millennials, we're not much for formality. Or things that cost money, because we don't have any.”
Chu forced a laugh, but it was painful. Bilson mimed a chuckle. “But seriously,” Chu said.
“I haven't had much in the way of dealings with them,” I said. “Other than reading 'Made in China' on who knows how many daily household items.”
That lit up Chu's eyes. “Exactly. You see? China intersects with your life in countless ways. We have many opportunities to enrich each other.”
I tried to avoid throwing up in my mouth from the cloying, saccharine sentiment he voiced. As if trying to save me, my phone beeped. “Excuse me,” I said, and checked it. Honestly it could have said there was a slap fight going on at Logan Circle and I'd have been on my way. It didn't though. Instead:
Warrant approved for GPS trace of 2016 Volvo purchased in conjunction with the kidnapper van.
The file was attached, and up came a map with one terminus at the same dealership as the van.
I traced the series of blue lines and ended up with what I figured was the current position of the Volvo. It was in Baltimore.
“Sorry,” I said, getting up. “I have to go. Call of duty.” I waved my phone without daring to turn it in the direction of Chu, and I was out of the restaurant moments later, happy to be leaving Chinese propaganda behind for the real work of my case.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I had just about plugged the current location of the Volvo into my rideshare app when Bilson popped out the door of the restaurant, moving fast and with a purpose. “Come on,” he said, brushing past me. I had been watching him with curiosity; apparently he had an idea.
“Uh, I have to go check on a lead,” I said, waving my phone like a magic wand.
“Exactly,” Bilson said. “We can ride together.” He was walking back down the street toward his office building.
I really struggled for a second, trying to decide how to respond. Argument seemed right out; Chalke's orders were clear. Left with no alternative, I followed him, though at a slightly slower pace, pocketing my phone after cancelling my ride.
“You better not have a Prius,” I muttered as Bilson led me into the parking garage next to his offices. Up three flights of stairs and we popped out into a field of cars that did not include any Priuses.
“I don't,” Bilson said, stopping next to a bright red Maserati. He paused, brushing his hand against the handle. The car locks disengaged by his mere touch. His chest puffed in pride. “What are you thinking? Don't be shy.”
“Well,” I said, looking it over, “I'm wondering if I'm going to experience a mid-life crisis at 40, the way you have, or if it'll be more like at age 2,000, at my actual mid-life. And if so, what form it will take, because buying a Maserati seems unlikely. Will I end up nailing hot dudes in their twenties to prove I've still got it, all cougar-like, or–”
His eyes widened, threatening to pop out of his head. “Wait. Your lifespan is 4,000 years?”
“I hear it can be up to 5,000,” I said, giving the Maserati a lazy once over. “Say, since we're talking about it...can I have your Maserati after you die?” I kept a straight face. “I mean, I can wait 50, 60 years, no problem, obvs.”
Bilson sagged, waving at the car. “Get in.”
He didn't drive like a total maniac, to his credit. Not that you could in DC traffic at this time of day. He hit New York Avenue and headed east on the Baltimore-Washington parkway. My GPS suggested we were a good hour plus away, which didn't surprise me given it was bumper to bumper, Bilson's Maserati totally wasted as it traveled at an average of 15 miles per hour behind a Ford Tempo from the 90's.
None of this seemed to bother Bilson, who made occasional attempts at conversation. I let him talk his way through opera, the TV show Scandal, and even the ins and outs of Socialite, none of which I had more than a passing familiarity with.
“...the other nice thing about Socialite,” he said, not boring but not exactly tailoring the conversation to involve me, “they've made real improvements so that influencers like yourself don't necessarily have to deal with heavy amounts of negative feedback.” He looked over, maybe to make sure I was still listening. �
�You know. From the average joes out there.”
“I'm not allowed to have social media accounts,” I said, shrugging. “Bureau policy. And obviously a very smart one.”
Bilson puckered his lips. “But it's a vital communication tool for building your brand.”
“My brand is pretty much destroying shit and killing people, and I think my calling cards are visible even if I don't post pics from the scene of my latest...uh...whatever. I doubt the FBI wants to remind people of that.”
“See, and this is where I totally disagree with Director Chalke.” Bilson shook his head subtly, diverting his attention from the slow-moving traffic to drive home his point. “You're known worldwide, you're respected or feared, sure, but if they want to rehab your image to maximum effect, they've got to put you out there, not hide you. Take that flap back in December with that contractor, where he posted those things on Socialite and tagged you into them? That could have been handled much smoother if you'd had an online presence. It's a direct line to the proles.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, looking out the window at a shining Lexus SUV next to us, “I guess Director Chalke doesn't want me communicating to the people. Which seems wise given my history.”
“It's a missed opportunity,” Bilson said, still shaking his head. “If you want, I can intercede on your behalf. I bet I could convince her to loosen that requirement. Give you a chance to gain back some of that popularity you had when you were first unveiled to the public.”
I took a long breath, staring out the window. “Nah. I'd probably just screw it up again. Like with the Gail Roth thing, or when I punched that reporter in Minneapolis.”
“Have you ever considered,” Bilson said, “taking a little coaching in that regard?” His smile got toothy, but only the top teeth. “This is what I do. I wouldn't just get you on Socialite and turn you loose. We could manage your account for you.” He snapped his fingers. “In fact, I'm going to do that. Even if you don't want to deal with it, I'm sure we could work something out with Chalke. It'd go a long way to helping you rebuild your public image.”
What was there to say to that? Leave me the hell alone and don't try to help me with that talking to people on the internet bullshit didn't seem appropriate, though it was probably at the top of my thoughts. “Thanks,” I opted for instead.
“You're very welcome,” Bilson said, and lapsed into a silence for a spell. Probably planning my future as a social media maven. We rode quietly onward, and I wondered how the hell I'd gone from catching the world's most dangerous criminals to being paired with a political weenie who was more interested in saving reputations than saving people.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Chapman
Time to Play!
Chapman sighed. He was right in the middle of something, so of course it was time for another of these increasingly annoying meetings. Was it his imagination or were several of the members of this group just using the opportunity to flex and show how great they were to each other?
Regardless, he opened the Escapade app and found...well, something.
BILSON: Was just having a long talk with Nealon. Must say, I find her much more pliable than you have, Chalke.
CHALKE: If you want to run her from now on, she's all yours. I'd love to cave her skull in, personally, and leave her for the rats to devour. I've met rabid cats that are less obnoxious.
BILSON: See, I think you two just got off to a bad start. She's been entirely reasonable with me.
CHALKE: Where are you?
BILSON: Baltimore. Investigating some lead. Stolen car or something. It's all very exciting.
Chapman rolled his eyes. They couldn't just text each other and spare the rest of the Network this bullshit?
Then...it got interesting.
BILSON: Did you know her lifespan is 5,000 or more years?
CHALKE: I doubt it, at the rate she pisses people off.
Chapman tapped furiously.
CHAPMAN: Sorry, did you say 5,000?
BILSON: Yes. I specifically asked. 5,000 years. Can you believe it?
Chapman settled back in his seat.
Five.
Thousand.
Years?
In the back of his head, Chapman knew that metahumans, in general, lived longer than normal humans. 5,000 years seemed...
Well, unbelievable.
CHAPMAN: You sure about that? She's not yanking your chain?
CHALKE: Her great-grandfather Hades was still alive last year, and he has roots that stretch back into the BC era, so it's not impossible that she could live that long.
Chapman settled back in his seat, the rest of the stupid, insipid conversation scrolling by without his involvement. Let the rest of these idiots prattle and network. Finally, being in this group had paid a solid dividend in the form of this information.
Now the question was...how the hell best to use it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sienna
Bilson was dicking around on his phone almost as soon as we got to the scene, texting someone or another. The scene, in this case, being an abandoned street in East Baltimore. Rows of decaying brick row homes gave way to yards filled with trash. A rotting stink of dumped garbage hung heavy in the air, and red and blue police lights painted the scene.
There, waiting on the side of a nearly abandoned road, was our wayward Volvo.
The local police had taped off the area, and forensics crews were already giving it a good once-over. Their plastic suits caught the light of the too-few working street lamps. Night had fallen, and particularly hard on this neighborhood. Most of the houses in this row looked to be abandoned. One even had a tree growing out of its front windows and roof.
The smell of garbage was heavy and out of place. I'd been to the Charm City once or twice before. There were nice parts of it, like the Inner Harbor. That was a pleasant, touristy destination. I'd taken in an Orioles game at Camden Yards during the early part of the season, trying to get a feel for DC and its surrounding areas. Also, to get out of my apartment during the long, lonely weekends.
So I knew this neighborhood wasn't the only scenery of Baltimore. It was, however, quite distinctive. I wondered if there were any actual residents nearby. There certainly didn't seem to be any on this street.
“You from the FBI?” a plainclothes cop asked, sauntering up to me.
“Yeah,” I said brusquely, because it didn't bear hammering the guy with a sarcastic reply. “What have we got here?”
“I'm Brockton. Baltimore PD.” He shrugged. “You called, we came. Got a perimeter set, some officers door knocking, but...” He gave the place a look. “Not a lot of doors you're gonna get an answer on, at least on this street.”
I nodded. The farther from the parked Volvo we moved, the less likely we were going to be to find a witness who'd seen anything. “This thing's been parked here for a few hours. I notice it still has its hubcaps.”
“Yeah, no windows broken, either,” Brockton said. “My guess? Nobody saw it. Or at least nobody who wanted to take it apart, because otherwise it would already be chopped. Or sitting on blocks.”
“Unless it's protected?” I asked, fishing.
Brockton shook his head. “There was no one watching out for it. You'd know if it was protected. Someone would be standing sentinel to make sure it didn't get messed with.”
“I figured, but thought I'd ask.” I took a look over my shoulder. Bilson was still playing with his phone. Probably texting his mommy to tell her he was playing police officer today. “I'm gonna have a look at the car,” I said.
“Help yourself,” Brockton said. “The techs on it are all your people.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Any idea how long we're going to be out here?”
“You can go, if you want,” I said, talking over my shoulder as I headed for the Volvo. “Just leave the uniforms and the perimeter. This car's most likely abandoned. It was used by perps for a kidnapping in Northern Virginia this morning.”
Brockton
had a small smile that I could see in the faint glow of the street light behind him. “You're really getting around today, huh?”
I gave him a little wave over my shoulder in reply. It had been a long day.
The Volvo looked to be in perfectly fine shape. The techs were crawling over it in their plastic suits, swabs, magnifiers, and plastic bags in hand. No one acknowledged me as I came up, so I didn't bother to say anything.
They'd activated the accessory power, so the dashboard was all lit up. So was the dome light, but they had klieg lights operating on a generator sitting nearby, the rumble and scent of burning gasoline heavy in the air, covering over the stink of rotting garbage.
I ducked my head into the front seat. The Volvo had a little over 24,000 miles on the odometer. Must have been used when they bought it, which was unsurprising. The upholstery looked to be in good condition, no obvious stains or–
My nose wrinkled involuntarily as my meta sense of smell caught something. Something familiar.
There was an oily scent in the car, one that hung in the air like bad body odor.
I realized after a moment's consideration that it was, in fact, body odor. It was the smell I'd caught on Firebeetle Bailey back at the Save Much store when we'd fought in the back room. Heavy, probably natural, maybe something to do with his fire eye powers or that armor that sprouted from him. I stood up, almost bumping my head on the car roof I did it so fast.
“You guys smell that?” I asked. The forensic techs answer was a collective shrug. I sniffed, trying to isolate it.
The smell persisted now that I was out of the car, and I wandered away, a little experimentally. The generator nearby was putting off a diesel scent of its own, but it was different.
I walked down the sidewalk ten feet, then twenty. The smell was still here. Stepping off into the cracked street, it got weaker.
Dragon: Out of the Box (The Girl in the Box Book 37) Page 9