White Hot

by Ilona Andrews

  “But we have animals,” Cornelius said.

  “We have a lot of room and an entire guest apartment built into the corner of the warehouse. My sisters would love to watch Matilda.”

  “She’s right,” Rogan said. “You’re welcome to stay here as well, if you would prefer.”

  Cornelius blinked. Leaving your daughter in the house of a man who leveled cities when he got upset wasn’t the most prudent move.

  “Thank you. It would be rude of me to reject Nevada’s invitation.”

  “Of course,” Rogan said and winked at me.

  And he’d just manipulated Cornelius. This would be one hell of a partnership.

  “Do we have a plan?” Cornelius asked.

  Both of them looked at me. Right. I was the investigator, so they expected me to investigate.

  “Has Bug been able to identify who the lawyers were supposed to meet?”

  “No,” Rogan said.

  I turned to Cornelius. “And you have no idea whom Nari was meeting or why?”

  “No,” Cornelius said.

  “Has anyone talked to the family members of the other lawyers?”

  “No,” Rogan said.

  I got up. “Then I’ll start there.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Cornelius said.

  “Not this time,” I said gently.

  “Why?”

  “Because your wife and their spouses knew each other socially. They may have an emotional reaction to your presence, and we need information. I promise that I’ll let you know tonight what I’ve learned. Also, you have a household to move.”

  “I’ll arrange for escort.” Rogan pulled out his phone.

  “Thank you but I got it,” I said.

  “Not yours. His.” Rogan texted on his phone. “I’m coming with you. I’ve agreed to a partnership. I’ll participate in this investigation or the deal is off.”

  I’d just assured Cornelius that Rogan and I could work together. There was no reasonable pretext to keep him from coming with me. I had to stay professional about this.

  “Very well. However, I have some conditions. You have to promise not to kill people I’m about to question or intimidate them unless I ask you to. Specifically, please don’t strangle anyone with their clothes again.”

  Cornelius’ eyes widened.

  “Fine. Anything else?” Rogan asked, his voice dry.

  “Yes. Please change so you look less like a Prime. I don’t want anyone to recognize you. It’s very hard to get people to open up when they realize the Scourge of Mexico is on their doorstep.”

  Chapter 4

  Half an hour later, the contracts were signed and witnessed by me and the woman who brought them. The woman led me down to the front door, where my minivan waited. The keys were in the ignition. I got into the driver’s seat.

  I could just drive off and leave Rogan hanging. That would be hilarious. Of course, he would probably chase me down with something ridiculous, like his own private flying fortress or some such nonsense.

  The front door swung open, and Bug slipped out and trotted to the car. I rolled down the window.

  “Hey.” He leaned so his elbows rested in the open window. “Are you going to stick around for a while?”

  “Looks as if I don’t have a choice.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s been sixteen-hour workdays around here for the past two months. There was a lot of fallout from the Pierce crap. The major had to testify before the Assembly, and four people tried to bring lawsuits, but the bulk of the work was surveillance. This thing, whatever the hell it is, is bleeding amorphous. You sort of find evidence of it, and then the dick fucker just slips from your fingers. This Forsberg’s lawyer meeting was the first solid thing we had, then Tuesday happened . . .”

  Getting through the stream of Bug’s consciousness was like hacking your way through a jungle.

  “We couldn’t get to Forsberg until today. Yesterday was rough. He went to notify all the families in person. Luanne was one of the sixteen.”

  Bug looked at me to make sure I understood the gravity of the situation. Except I didn’t.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  He made a sour face. “Just . . . stick around. He has a human expression on his face when you’re around.”

  “Thanks, Bug. I’m glad to see you too.” Apparently my function was to keep a human expression on Rogan’s face. Good to know. And here I thought I was spearheading an investigation. How silly of me.

  The door opened, and Rogan came out. Bug took off. Rogan watched him go and strode to the car. He’d abandoned his about-to-go-on-a-sorcerous-rampage outfit for old khaki cargo pants, beat-up boots, and a green Henley. The shirt molded to his shoulders and chest. His biceps stretched the sleeves. He looked strong, and rugged, and rough around the edges. He needed an ax or something, so he could casually swing it while he walked. I tilted my head and just watched.

  He opened the door and got in. And suddenly the car was full of Rogan and his magic. I could barely breathe.

  How had I ever agreed to this? I needed my head examined.

  “What did he say?” he asked.

  “Just Bug being Bug.”

  “You’re avoiding the answer.”

  “You’re so perceptive.”

  Rogan regarded me with his blue eyes, took out a baseball hat, and put it on. Dragon in camouflage, going down to the village to spy on the delicious people living there.

  He clicked his teeth, biting through the air.

  I had to stop thinking about dragons.

  I shifted out of park and concentrated on driving. I liked being in the car with him. God help me, I missed this. I missed him.

  “Is that a new perfume?” Rogan asked.

  “I’m not wearing any. What does it smell like?”

  “Citrus.”

  “That’s probably my shampoo.”

  Talk about work, look straight ahead, don’t think about reaching over and sliding my hand down his chest to feel the solid wall of his abs . . . Don’t imagine kissing him . . .

  Rogan swore quietly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I glanced at him. Our stares connected.

  Wow. His eyes turned a deep, bottomless blue and they were filled with need. It got away from him and now he was thinking of me naked. A woman would have to be dead not to respond to that, and I wasn’t dead. Not even a little bit.

  Anticipation zinged through me. I knew exactly how much space separated us. I felt every inch of it, charged with electric energy. If he touched me right now, I’d probably jump a foot in the air. I stared straight ahead. We didn’t do well in a small, confined space. This was a terrible idea. Maybe I should roll down the window to let some of the sexual tension out.

  We needed a distraction, or I’d end up pulling over and we’d end up in the back seat, doing . . . things.

  “It makes no sense to go after Jaroslav Fenley’s family,” I said. I had spent a fair amount of time with the background on the three other lawyers and I’d refreshed my memory with my notes on my phone while Rogan and Cornelius wrote their contract. “He lived and breathed his career, according to his home computer. Harper was his only significant relationship in the last few months.”

  “Bernard broke into his computer?” Rogan guessed.

  “Yes, in thirty seconds. Jaroslav’s router password was ‘admin.’ Probably explains why he fell for Harper.”

  “He cut corners,” Rogan said.

  “Yes. It takes an effort to change your router password. Most people have to look up how to do it. It takes time and effort to maintain a meaningful relationship. Harper didn’t require a relationship.”

  “He could get away with sex and some light pillow talk.” Rogan grimaced. “I know the type. The man is a walking security risk. He works only as hard as he has to to get ahead. His goal isn’t to do his job, it’s to get to the place where he doesn’t have to do his
job while still getting paid.”

  “It looks that way. Jaroslav logged a lot of billable hours. It looked good on paper. He slept, worked, and worried about his student loans. Bern’s still going through the files, but so far he didn’t find anything incriminating. Jaroslav’s parents live in Canada and he doesn’t keep up with them. His brother just had a baby. It’s all over his family’s Facebook. Jaroslav hadn’t commented on the baby pictures. His family is a dead end, so it’s out. I take it you don’t want to talk to Harper?”

  Rogan shook his head. “She’s our only link to this conspiracy. We need to preserve her as long as we can.”

  “That leaves us with two choices,” I said. “Marcos Nather’s family or Elena de Trevino’s. Nather’s is closer.”

  “Nather it is.”

  Marcos and Jeremy Nather lived in Westheimer Lakes, in a typical Texas suburban house: two stories, brick, at least three thousand square feet, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a two-car garage. The neighborhood was about seven to eight years old, just enough for the prices to go down slightly. The house wasn’t out of their price range, and according to Bern, their credit looked healthy. Marcos Nather had been a successful lawyer and Jeremy Nather worked as a software engineer employed at a start-up that developed fitness apps. His LinkedIn profile showed that Marcos had worked for Forsberg for the last three years. Before that he worked for Zara, Inc., an investment firm. Marcos and Jeremy had been married for six years and neither had any magic talents. I ran through all of that for Rogan while I drove.

  “Where do you get your information?” he asked.

  “Why? Planning to get into the private investigator business?”

  “Call it curiosity.”

  Aha. “A lot of it comes from online databases. We get public records and we pay for the access to criminal history, credit checks, and so on. Social networks are a gold mine. People post a huge amount of personal information online and all of their social accounts are usually connected.”

  And that was why, although I had an account at every major social network—including Herald, which was devoted to speculation about Primes, general fangirling, and a lot of fanfic—none of my accounts had any personal information. I didn’t vent online, I made no political comments, and I dutifully posted at least one or two cute kitten pictures every week or so, just to reassure the network algorithms that I wasn’t a bot.

  “What’s this?” Rogan pulled a book out of the side pocket on the door. An elaborate arcane circle decorated the front cover. “Circlework: Practical Applications.”

  That was my stakeout replacement for Hexology, which was incredibly useful, but so dry it put me to sleep. I had already read Circlework cover to cover, but I hadn’t memorized all of the circles I’d marked as important, so I brought it with me and faithfully tried to reproduce the illustrations on my legal pad while I waited for my insurance fraudsters to stumble.

  “What about it?”

  I could just ask him directly if he sent them. But then I would know. For some reason not knowing seemed like a better option. Some part of me liked to think it was him.

  He flipped through the book. “If you’re ever in need of instruction, I’ll be glad to give you lessons.”

  I glanced at him. “What will it cost me?”

  “I’ll think of something.” His voice promised all sorts of interesting ideas.

  “Bargains with dragons never end well.”

  A smug smile touched his lips, turning his expression wolfish and hungry. “That depends on what you’re bargaining for.”

  I shouldn’t have gotten into the car with him. That was the long and short of it.

  The GPS spoke in Darth Vader’s voice, informing me that my destination was in five hundred feet on the right. Saved by the Sith.

  I parked in the shade under a tree, retrieved my gun, and slid it back into my custom women’s on-the-waist holster, where my suit jacket hid it. Men had a much easier time with the concealed carry. I was short-waisted and my hips had a curve to them, so a regular holster just jabbed the gun into my ribs.

  Rogan and I made our way to the front door.

  I rang the bell. “Best behavior.”

  “I remember,” Rogan growled.

  The door swung open revealing a man in his thirties. Of average height, with light brown hair and a short beard, he resembled a typical guy you’d encounter in the suburbs: the kind with a steady job, who went to the gym three times a week, and let himself eat a little more than he had ten years ago. His eyes were hollow.

  “Now isn’t a good time,” he said.

  “Mr. Nather, I work for Cornelius Harrison,” I said, holding out my card. “My deepest condolences.”

  He blinked, took my card, and read it. “Private investigator?”

  I had to get inside before he shut the door in my face. “House Forsberg is refusing to investigate the murders. Mr. Harrison has asked me to find out what happened to his wife. He wants to be able to tell his daughter that her mother’s murderer didn’t get away with it. I’m deeply sorry to intrude on you in your time of grief. We just need a few moments of your time.”

  Jeremy looked at me and sighed. “A few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  He led us through the foyer to the living room sectioned off from the kitchen by an island. Two young children, a boy and a girl, lay on the rug. The boy, older by a year or two, was playing with an iPad, while the girl was building something with Legos. An older woman, her eyes bloodshot, sat on the couch with a book. She glanced at us, her face haggard.

  “Mom, I have to talk to these people,” Jeremy said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She nodded.

  “Hi,” the kids chorused.

  “Hi.” I waved.

  Jeremy forced a smile. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back.”

  He walked us to the office off the living room and closed the French doors behind us.

  “I haven’t told them yet,” he said. His voice caught. “I don’t know how.”

  “Have you spoken with anybody? A grief counselor?”

  He shook his head. An overwhelming pain reflected in his face, the kind of pain that smashed into you like a car moving at full speed and left you broken and dazed. I wished there was something I could do for him.

  I pulled out another one of my cards, checked the contacts on my phone, and wrote my therapist’s name and phone number on it.

  “When my father died, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I blamed myself and I dragged my guilt and grief with me like a rock for weeks until I went to see Dr. Martinez. She’s very good at what she does. It will still be terrible, but she’ll help you take the edge off the worst of it. And if she has no openings in her schedule, she’ll be able to refer you to someone who does.”

  Jeremy stared at me. “Does it get better?”

  “There is no such thing as closure,” I told him. “It never goes away. But it gets duller with treatment and time. Talking about it helps.”

  Jeremy took the card and slid it into his wallet.

  I took out my digital recorder, pushed the on switch, and said, “Thursday, December 15th. Interview with Jeremy Nather.”

  Jeremy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.

  “Mr. Nather, do you know why Marcos was in that hotel room?”

  “According to House Forsberg, he was there to have an affair with Nari Harrison. Or Elena de Trevino. Or Fenley. Maybe all of them were going to have an orgy.” His voice was bitter.

  “That’s what they told Cornelius as well. With promises of evidence of embezzlement and drug use if the questions continued.”

  “It’s absurd.” Jeremy leaned over the table, planting both palms on it. “Marcos was loyal. It was the core of his character. He was loyal and honest.”

  “House Forsberg doesn’t have the best reputation,” Rogan said. “Did he have conflicts at work?”

  Thanks. Please do destroy the rapport I’m trying to build.

 
; “He was planning to leave the firm,” Jeremy said.

  True. “Who else knew about it?”

  “Just me and him. Marcos is . . . was a very private man. We were both working too much and missing time with the kids. He wanted to quit and take a year or two at home, but he wanted to pay off the house first. We moved here for the school district, and he wanted to make sure we’d be okay on one income. We’re twenty-eight thousand away from owning this house.” Jeremy rocked back. “I knew it was making him miserable. Three weeks ago I tried to get him to quit. He promised to put in his notice just before the Christmas break. I should’ve pushed harder.”

  “Do you think he was in the hotel room because of his work?”

  “Yes.”

  True. “Do you have any idea what he was working on?”

  “No. He didn’t bring that home. I’m the one who usually ranted about work. Marcos compartmentalized. He left work at work. When he came home, he was just Marcos.”

  He dropped into a chair, slumped, and put his hand over his eyes. I wouldn’t get anything else out of him.

  “Did he have any enemies?” I asked. “Anyone who might . . .”

  “Who might murder him in a hail of gunfire?” Jeremy said, his voice dull and flat. “No.”

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said. “If you think of something, please call me. We’ll show ourselves out.”

  It had started raining. I stood by my car for a moment and let the drizzle wet my hair. The grief was thick in that house, and I wanted to wash it off.

  “Did he lie?” Rogan asked.

  “No. He truly doesn’t know anything. Neither Nari nor Marcos shared anything with their families, which probably means it was something dangerous.”

  We had to try Elena’s family. She was our last obvious lead.

  The De Trevinos lived on a lake next to the Southwyck Golf Club, a good fifty minutes away from Westheimer Lakes. I steered the car down TX-99 South, watching the fields bordered by strips of trees roll by. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, someplace in the Texas country. You would never know that just beyond the trees brand-new subdivisions carved the land into orderly rows of nearly identical houses.