The young woman confirmed his order and told him that he could expect his pizza in about forty or forty-five minutes.
“Thanks.” He hung up. He had about two dollars in cash, which ought to be enough for a tip. And, although he was trying to keep his drinking under control lately, forty-five minutes seemed like a long time to wait for food.
He took a deep breath and opened the fridge. “Two beers tonight,” he told himself. “That’s all.”
Chapter Three
John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York City
Taylor strode briskly and purposefully but with a cool relaxation through the bright halls of JFK. She did not wish to attract undue attention so she employed one of her subtler powers.
Simply by concentrating on the vibe she sent out and moving in certain ways, she could make herself less conspicuous. Humans were somehow compelled not to look in her direction, not to take notice of her, and not to look twice if they glanced once.
No one bothered her.
Of course, at other times, the opposite was advisable—commanding the attention of certain mortals. Knowing this, she had dressed to impress.
Her coat, slacks, shoes, and dark glasses all were the height of New York fashion, not as pricey as some accouterments but far from cheap. They were classy and all in black, of course. It was rare that she felt even the slightest need to dress in any other color. It matched her hair and eyes.
The stylish monochrome of her appearance was broken only by the smooth ivory skin of her neck and face. She wore black gloves to cover her long red nails, which no one would find suspicious given the frosty weather.
At one point, a rather muscular man eyed her suitcase. It was big and obviously packed full, yet she carried it in one small hand. She saw him shrug and go about his business, likely assuming that she’d simply stuffed it with clothes.
Soon, she spoke to a morosely polite young man behind a desk. “El Al, right? Just so you know, they have a rigorous procedure of their own in addition to the standard Transportation Security Administration stuff, so you can expect to have your luggage searched, a background check run on your info, and to be interviewed face to face.”
“Yes, I know,” she confirmed. “Thank you. I’m not terribly worried about it.”
He nodded and punched a few things into his computer and tried not to look at her. She had, of course, allowed him to notice her and to be impressed with her sophisticated beauty and her air of mystery. If he thought she was incognito royalty or something to that effect, so much the better.
No problems materialized as the last of the red tape was taken care of and the young man provided her with her ticket. He directed her toward check-in with the good people responsible for El Al Israel Airline Ltd’s famously tight security.
Two men came out to greet her. One was tall and broad-shouldered with a big square jaw, the type of individual whom most mortals would have found intimidating. The other was a more modest size, but something about the grim calm of his face and the careful nature of his movements suggested that he was the more dangerous of the two. He was almost certainly a former member of the IDF or Mossad. Both men, like her, wore dark glasses.
“Madam,” said the larger one, “your luggage. It must be inspected.”
She smiled gently and handed the suitcase over. The big man accepted it with one hand and although he had no trouble lifting it himself, a slight arching of his right eyebrow revealed his surprise at its weight. Or, more to the point, at the fact that she had carried it so easily.
As he turned to take her luggage away, the smaller one extended a hand as if to place it on her shoulder, although he stopped halfway.
“If you please,” he began, “your interview. You know that we do this for every passenger, yes?” He’d probably been born in Russia and come to Israel somewhere in his teens, she guessed, since his thick accent was something of a hybrid between the two nationalities.
Taylor inclined her head. “Of course. Lead the way.”
He directed her to a small office and gestured for her to sit in a simple but cushioned chair, while he sat behind a sparse desk. She imagined that it contained extra weapons above and beyond the large-caliber pistol he wore concealed on his person.
“Now,” the officer began, “we talk about your information and your intentions to visit Israel.”
“Certainly,” she replied. She kept her demeanor cool but faintly pleasant. For good measure, she even sent out a very subtle vibe of nervousness. It was, after all, normal for people to be a tad jittery when some kind of armed authority figure interrogated them. It was best to seem neither too nervous nor too calm.
Besides, she did not, in fact, have anything to hide as far as the security of the plane or the state of Israel was concerned. If anything, succeeding in her goal would do them a favor.
The man continued. “These are all standard questions, but it is important that you answer them honestly. To hide something is very suspicious. Of course, we are already checking the information from your passport, so to lie is pointless.”
Taylor allowed her next smile to look ever so slightly more worried but simultaneously projected a vibe that said I know everything will be fine, so let’s get through this. She didn’t expect that she would have much difficulty.
The officer proceeded with the interview and delivered various questions which, she knew, had as much or more to do with her attitude as with the content of her answers.
She told him that she was a private investigator—there was no sense in lying—but that this was more of a bucket-list tourist trip than anything. While she’d expected to be busy, she had suddenly found some time off and had purchased her ticket on a whim, reasoning that it might be months or years before she had another chance to finally visit the beautiful eastern Mediterranean.
While she spoke, she also beamed suggestions into the man’s mind to signal that she was someone relatively wealthy and important and not to be trifled with, and ensured that he noticed how good she looked in her svelte-cut black coat.
Everything went fine initially.
“Yes,” the officer murmured after a few more questions, “there is one thing, however. It seems you were recently involved in an investigation by the FBI. Agent Gilmore. Could you please tell us about that?”
Taylor would have preferred to avoid having to discuss this at all, but she had expected it and had her story ready.
“Of course. We had a break-in at our offices early last December. One of the suspects seemed to be a transient with a criminal record who had caused trouble across both New York and New Jersey recently. Because of that, it was technically an interstate crime spree so naturally, the FBI paid me a visit to confirm what I had already told the NYPD.”
The man nodded. He had an excellent poker face, but she could tell he was satisfied. She’d passed the interview.
Soon, her suitcase was back in her hand and she boarded the plane. The tall, broad-shouldered fellow would have found nothing save clothes, toiletries, traveler’s checks, a bottle of water, and a book on archaeology. And sunscreen.
Her seat was beside another woman, which was probably for the best since some ultra-Orthodox men were known to object to having to sit next to female passengers. She had no desire to deal with even the mildest commotion.
As the plane readied to leave, a stewardess approached her.
“Madam,” the lady said quietly, “we have been told that you are not Jewish and we wanted to make you aware that we only serve kosher meals. We hope that this is acceptable.”
She smiled. “That’s fine. I’ll wait until after we land to eat.”
Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York
Remy slouched in his beanbag chair and tried deliberately to look as slothful and useless as possible. The idea was to convince Conrad not to bother him since he was deep into relaxation mode.
Fortunately, his bodyguard was completely absorbed in doing burpees. He’d managed a good t
wenty of them so far. Remington suspected he’d continue with the awful things without pause until the very moment his shift ended.
The pizza had arrived about five minutes before. In that span of time, he had already polished off the first slice and was halfway into his second beer. He could actually feel the carbs and calories undoing whatever recent progress he’d made toward being almost as fit as Conrad.
Well, he reassured himself, after that bullshit earlier today, I’d say I deserve a little indulgence. Besides, it’s Thursday, which is only one day away from Friday. It’s practically the same thing.
An awful entertainment gossip show was on the television in front of him. He had no idea why he was watching it except that it seemed to fit tonight’s theme of not giving a crap.
An attractive woman in her mid-twenties wore a top that was revealing enough to be titillating but without being too vulnerable to accusations of sexism or whatever. She stood smiling next to a tall guy a few years older who chortled endlessly at his own jokes.
“And,” the woman went on—he realized that he hadn’t paid any attention to what they were saying until now—“according to no fewer than three of his colleagues, including a set designer, hairdresser, and sound engineer, it was only a boom mic in his pants after all, anyway. Apparently, the supposed ‘grinding’ happened while he bent over to pick up a packet of sugar substitute.”
The guy laughed again at this and a kind of smug swagger rippled through him as he gestured vaguely at the camera. “We’ve all heard that one before,” he remarked. “But time will tell, won’t it? Okay, guys, hold on and we’ll be right back.”
The program cut to commercials.
First was an ad for a startup called BuzzDash that hired desperate college students and recent male divorcees to deliver alcohol, painkillers, and medical marijuana directly to people’s doorsteps. Remy nodded with approval, impressed that the city, state, and federal governments hadn’t united to shut the company down yet. He gave them three or four months until that happened and maybe also a few civil lawsuits.
Next up was one of those bizarre breakfast scenarios where everyone was getting ready for work or school in brightly-lit conditions while a properly dressed and made-up household matriarch cooked a highly nutritious meal for her bumbling husband and attractive, well-behaved children.
“Christ,” he quipped. “Even I don’t remember weekday mornings being that picture-perfect, and I’m rich.”
He missed out on what the commercial was selling, though, because a loud, obnoxious, electric whining sounded behind him. He snapped his head toward the sound. Conrad had finished his evening workout and was now liquefying fruits and veggies in a portable juicier.
Remy blinked. “You know, that might have come in handy earlier today against the one appendage that kept thrashing around even after I stabbed the brain.”
“Oh,” Conrad responded, “ha, yes. I really do prefer to keep it clean, though.” He took an enthusiastic drink of juice. “Anyway, my shift is up so I’ll head home. Have a good rest of the evening.”
“You too,” he replied. “Remember—ten Kegels at every traffic light.”
Nodding his approval of this advice, the lycanthrope departed.
And Remy took a deep breath and simply chilled. Things were okay, for the moment. Finally.
The only thing that threatened to undermine his growing relaxation was one simple fact—Moswen Neith was still alive. Or undead. And she didn’t seem like the type to forgive a grudge.
Still, she might be the type to be scared off by a superior show of force. She and Taylor had finally met not long before and Taylor was good at superior force.
Optimism isn’t always wrong, he decided. Okay, it usually is but not always.
He basked in the warm and fuzzy glow created by the half-digested pizza, not to mention the beer, that settled in his stomach and worked their magic on his brain—and liver, probably. In that moment, he very nearly felt like peace and normalcy was returning. To the extent, of course, that slaying monsters, spying on adulterous gnomes, and bribing fairies could ever be normal.
Yes, maybe Taylor whipped Moswen’s ass hard enough that the sadistic bitch reconsidered her little plan to take over New York. She might be packing her bags even now and deciding to return to Israel permanently to rule over whatever hole in the desert she came from and calling it good.
Just maybe, she’s decided to leave us alone once and for all.
He wasn’t very drunk. Most of his powers of reason still remained to him. It was, therefore, only for a brief, overly-hopeful moment that he actually believed that was true.
Basement of a Warehouse, Flushing, New York City
Moswen Neith reclined on her throne. She had a way of sitting, learned over long years of aristocratic experience, which was at once languid and alert, simultaneously casual and filled with the dignity of command.
It was her preferred way to be seen when receiving guests. They instantly grasped that she held power and authority over them. And yet, at the same time, they would not make the mistake of assuming that she somehow regarded them as important.
In this instance, there were two guests. They had not come together and the business she had with each of them was separate. Although, naturally, both would work toward her overall agenda in their own ways.
She extended a hand and pointed at the first one with a long, black nail, then made a curling motion with the finger to beckon him forward. He stepped toward her grand chair.
Most of her thralls were away on various errands, advancing her interests according to her commands. She had retained a small honor guard as well as enough staff to see to her daily needs, fourteen persons in all.
Of these, ten had lined up to form a human corridor with their bodies, five on each side, which led the first guest directly to the foot of Moswen’s throne.
“My friend,” she intoned, “welcome.”
It was a man, fifty-five or sixty in human years, who wore a crisp military uniform and a beret. He was tall and thin, bespectacled, and dour-looking, although people had once complimented him on the bright twinkle in his eyes.
Lately, however, his eyes looked dead and glassy, and those same people assumed he was merely tired.
“Mistress,” he replied. “It’s good to be here. What can I do for you?”
She crossed one long leg over the other and sat a little straighter to convey the importance of her coming request.
“I wish for you and your soldiers to capture a group of people. Their leader is a woman, Taylor Steele. At her right hand is an old man, Presley. With them also are three young men, all around thirty years old, who are called Remington, Warfield, and Thomas, and a short man, somewhat older, called Volz. There is also a girl known only as Riley, and another woman called Diaz.”
She paused as the officer nodded his head and ran the names through his head again.
“All of them,” she continued, “are dangerous criminals. They will make great problems for us if they continue to go free. If possible, I want them captured and brought to me alive. But you have my permission to kill if you must. It is better for them to die than to escape. Is this clear?”
He gave a sharp, forceful nod. “Yes, ma’am—I mean, mistress. Your wish is my command, and my commands will be obeyed. By my men, that is. We pride ourselves on our competence and efficiency.”
She detected a trace of sullen rebelliousness in him and contemplated igniting his brand for a moment, the better to completely dominate his spirit, but decided against it. Let him sulk and try to hide his secret thoughts. For now, he would do as he was told.
Besides, a man in his elevated position was far too useful to her to simply be discarded or punished arbitrarily. Soon, she would have the power to do as she wished with her servants, as was her birthright, but she would proceed cautiously.
For now, the world was still upside down and traitorous upstarts like Taylor were determined to keep it that way. Until she and her p
ets were out of the way, Moswen would have to be prudent.
Her wounds had long since healed but the memory of the pain was fresh. The seething anger it inspired only hardened her resolve to see her adversary broken, humiliated, and utterly destroyed.
“Good,” was all she said to her waiting thrall. She waved her hand. “You are dismissed.”
The man bowed and spun to march from the chamber, giving her a glimpse of the insignia patch on his sleeve—an eagle with outspread wings holding a clutch of arrows in its talons.
As he walked away, he slipped a cell phone out of his pocket and quick-dialed a number. “Hi,” he said into the phone, his words clear to Moswen’s hearing even as he stepped out of the chamber itself. “It’s me. How are you doing, Lieutenant? Listen, since I’m now officially retired, I thought we should have a drink…maybe talk a few things over…”
Moswen pointed to the other guest and beckoned him forward.
The second man was about the same age as the military officer but otherwise, the two could not be more different. Where the soldier was tall, thin, and dour of face, the second man was short, fat, and possessed a nervous energy mixed with a slight arrogance.
“Good evening, mistress,” he greeted her in his pleasant if unctuous fashion.
“Good evening,” she replied, “Congressman.”
Chapter Four
Abandoned Lot Near a Warehouse, Flushing, New York City
Don Gannon fumbled under his dashboard and retrieved a packet of gum. There were only two pieces left, unfortunately. He’d chewed through almost the entire pack in the course of a single day. No one had ever said that quitting smoking was easy.
“Hell,” he muttered under his breath, “it’ll give me a nice strong jawline again, I suppose.” He removed and unwrapped one of the sticks of gum and popped it into his mouth.
The day wasn’t too cold. Winter was on the wane and spring was already sending out feelers to determine if it was time to return yet. Of course, there would be more chilly weather, a little more snow here and there, and maybe one last blizzard that came out of left field simply to punish the good people of New York for being too presumptuous.
Under Pressure (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 4) Page 3