by Libby Doyle
“Really?” Barakiel grinned. “Yes, I have heard them call my sword Blue Fire. I like it.”
“And what of possible mates?” Pellus asked impatiently.
“My status as some kind of Covalent rock star does not change the fact that I live in exile. It would be a lot to ask. Besides, I have met many female warriors. They do not interest me. I know who interests me.”
Pellus looked up at the sky and exhaled. “You are epically stubborn.”
“I am epically infatuated.”
CHAPTER 6
AS USUAL ON A NICE DAY, Zan cursed the windowless office she shared with Mel. Her walk to work had been so pleasant, filled with the chilly freshness of early spring. She wanted a window so she could see the lovely day when she looked up from her screen. Then she thought it was just as well she didn’t have one. She’d waste all her time daydreaming about Rainer. She was annoyed with herself because she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
He’s turned me into a schoolgirl.
Certainly, she didn’t have time to waste. She had the spleen case, and she and Mel were investigating the alarming number of illegal handguns that had shown up on the streets over the past few months. Their work was part of the task force on gang violence, a joint project of the FBI and the Philadelphia police, and they suspected a straw-purchasing ring. At the moment, Zan was preparing a petition for an arrest warrant. This guy was a little fish, but she hoped he would lead to others. Plus, it would be nice to get him off the street.
The petition was nearly finished when her boss called and asked her to come to his office. It didn’t worry her. She liked Nguyen. He was ultra-competent and fair and even whipped out a dry sense of humor now and again. She let Mel know and headed off. For once, Nguyen wasn’t on the phone when she got there.
“Good morning, Agent O'Gara,” he said. “Have a seat.” She matched his greeting and tried not to look out his coveted window, which let a splash of soft light fall onto his ficus tree.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I have the results of an isotope analysis here with your signature on the paperwork,” he said, holding up a thin binder.
“The spleen case. I didn’t think it would be back so soon. What’s the result?”
“The victim was from Central America.”
“That’s useful.”
“I suppose it is,” he said, handing her the binder. “But I don’t get it. Where did you get the materials? You can’t do an isotope analysis on spleen tissue.”
“Typical Philly PD, sir. They took a bunch of samples from the body that matches the spleen. You know, the one they found this winter. They collected bone, teeth, and hair but they never did anything with them. They just don’t have the resources. I told them we do.”
“That’s a little generous for my tastes, O’Gara. We have a budget, too, you know. You should have asked me before you ordered this test.”
Zan wasn’t surprised. When she’d ordered the analysis, she’d ignored the nagging feeling that she was doing something wrong.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was the next logical step. They were never able to identify the victim. There was no missing persons report. I saw no other way to get information.”
“True as that may be, this isn’t our case. Not really. Philly PD caught that body. All we got was the spleen.” Nguyen tried not to smile. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a laughing matter.”
“It is a weird one, sir.”
Nguyen nodded. “Yes, and I understand your impulse to investigate, but your job is to track down illegal guns, not ritual murderers. Give this to PD, compliments of Uncle Sam. Let them handle it. You have enough on your plate with the straw purchasing.”
“I do, but you and I both know Philly PD is not going to do anything. This murder is already a cold case.”
“Nothing we can do about it.”
“Let me look into it. On my own time. It doesn’t seem right, you know, to just drop it.”
“On your own time?”
“Now that we know the victim was from Central America, I’ll show a photo around the neighborhoods with immigrant communities from that region. Maybe I can identify him. It won’t take long. Then I’ll hand it off to Philly PD. Maybe it will light a fire under them.”
“Good luck getting people in the neighborhoods to talk to a fed.”
Zan pressed her lips into a thin line. “Yes, it’s not without its challenges.”
“Well, if you want to do it, who am I to stop you? Just don’t burn yourself out. We need you sharp.”
“Understood, sir.” Zan knew from his demeanor that it was time to leave.
“And, O’Gara,” Nguyen said as she went out the door. “For the love of god, ask me before you ever order another isotope analysis.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rainer looked at himself in the mirror. His tailor had done a good job with the light gray suit. Then he wondered at the silliness of gawking at himself in a mirror. He felt a bit nervous and it surprised him. He’d never been nervous about a woman before, most likely because he’d never thought anything was at stake. He liked sex, but if any of those other women had walked away, it wouldn’t have hurt him. This was different. He wanted Zan to like him, and the sheer strangeness of the feeling left him unsettled.
When he saw her come out her front door his nervousness disappeared. She was wearing a form-fitting dress with a swirling pattern of hunter green and chartreuse and a pair of high black boots.
I will get to look at her all night.
“You look lovely, Zan.”
“Thanks. You look great, too.” She regarded him with obvious appreciation.
If Pellus saw the look in her eye he would understand what I mean about her.
On the walk to the restaurant, Rainer told her that he usually had the chef prepare something for him because he was a vegetarian, but she could order off the menu if she wanted.
“No, I’ll eat whatever the chef prepares. I’m not a vegetarian, but I’m fine with eating that way. And I like to be surprised.”
“Fun, isn’t it?”
Zan nodded. “So, why are you a vegetarian? Because you don’t like to kill things?”
“Ah, no. Killing things and eating them is natural. I have no problem with hunting. I suppose you could say my problem is with modern food practices. The animals don’t have the chance to live a decent life. By now, I’ve abstained for so long that I find flesh unappetizing.”
“I wish I could be so disciplined. I’m a little lazy about my food.”
“Busy people often are.” Rainer thought about how he could make sure she ate well.
I want to take care of her. What a curious impulse.
The taupe walls of the restaurant were bare save for a few old landscapes. The room was lit by antique lamps and candlelight, a simplicity Rainer found soothing. After they settled in, the conversation came easy. Zan made him laugh with stories about ridiculous things she’d witnessed on the job, and they enjoyed talking about the food. During one lull, Zan looked like she was about to say something but thought better of it.
“What is it?” Rainer asked.
“Um, do you bring a lot of dates here?’
“I don’t have a lot of dates.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Come on now, Rainer.” Zan’s face held a flash of a certain edge, a hardness he could appreciate.
She is wary of me.
“When I was younger I saw a lot of women. I thought I was just having fun, but the women often wanted more from me than I was willing to give, so I stopped. It wasn’t an honorable way to behave. I’ve had a few sensible relationships since then, but they never came to anything. To be honest, I don’t often meet women who interest me.”
Zan lowered her eyes. Rainer could detect the slight flush of her skin, but he didn’t know if she was pleased or taken aback.
“And you?” he asked. “It appears men won’t leave y
ou alone, judging from the way you were surrounded after your show.”
“Ha! They might want to talk to me after a show, but they hardly ever ask me out. My partner, her name is Mel, she says it’s because I intimidate most men.”
“I’m sure that’s true. You’re so tall and beautiful, but mostly I think it’s your presence.”
Rainer thought he was stating the obvious, but Zan seemed embarrassed.
“What do you mean, my presence?”
He hesitated. He didn’t want her to think he was filled with strange notions, but he could only hide so much of himself.
“You have a forceful energy. I think most men would know, deep down, they cannot match you.”
“But you’re not most men.”
“No, I’m not.”
The color rose to Zan’s face. Rainer hadn’t meant to use so intense a tone, but that was how she made him feel.
Her skin is perfection. I want to see it. All of it.
As if she could read his thoughts, Zan’s breath quickened. When a waiter came by with coffee, she grabbed the cup and busied herself with adding the cream.
“You know,” she said, “you mentioned something about honorable behavior. I like that. I was in the military. Soldiers talk that way. Law enforcement, maybe. Civilians usually don’t.”
“Hmmm. I never gave it any thought. Perhaps it’s the culture in which I was raised.”
“Which culture is that?” Zan asked. Time for Rainer to lie. He hated it.
“My father was Finnish and my mother was German. My father grew up in Finland, but after he met my mother on a business trip, he returned to Germany and never left. Both cultures have a strong sense of propriety and honor.”
“And a serious work ethic,” Zan said.
“Yes, although my business manager would say my work ethic is more like an Italian’s.”
“My partner would love that one. She’s Italian.”
“Please don’t ever tell her I said that.”
Zan smiled in that way strong women have, with gentle indulgence. Rainer loved the way the light played in her dark blue eyes. She asked when he’d come to the United States. He told her nine years previous, attracted by the sense of possibility that abounds in the U.S., and the well-functioning markets that help with his businesses. He said he’d grown tired of Europe. She asked him why he chose Philadelphia.
“I like it,” he said. “For an American city, it’s old, tarnished. You can feel the history. And it has a fascinating weird streak.”
“I know what you mean,” Zan said. “Human spleens lurking in the bushes being Exhibit A.”
They shared a wry smile. “And you?” Rainer asked. “When did you come here?”
“Two and a half years ago, after my FBI training. I certainly got lucky. There’s never a dull moment in this field office.”
“You mentioned you were in the military. For long?”
“Yes. Seven years. I got my parents’ permission to sign up when I was seventeen. I’m glad I did. I was able to afford college that way. If I hadn’t joined the army, I’d probably still be in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho with a bunch of snot-nosed kids and a failing liver.”
“I doubt that.”
“No, really. My family is dysfunctional, with a capital D and that rhymes with B and that stands for booze.”
“Is that why you don’t drink alcohol?”
“Yes. I’m a recovering alcoholic. I got sober in the army. I relapsed once, but I’ve been sober for more than six years straight now.”
“I know such things can be hard to overcome.”
Her eyes softened and she nodded. “Lucky for me I got some help when I was in the army. Went on to get some great training, too.”
“What kind of training?”
“I joined a special unit that performed reconnaissance missions in the mountains of Afghanistan. We tracked the movements of the Taliban and provided intelligence.”
“That sounds grueling and dangerous.”
“It was.” Zan stared down at her coffee cup. “I was proud when I joined. I was the first woman ever recruited into the unit.”
“They must have seen what I see.”
Zan blushed again and shook her head. “They saw a chick from middle-of-nowhere Idaho who could already track a weasel through a windstorm. That unit was all about leveraging experience and aptitude.”
“Was it a success?”
“We gave a lot of good intel on the Taliban if that’s what you count as success.”
“Do you have any good stories for me, like your FBI stories?”
“That’s all I’d like to say about it if you don’t mind, Rainer. Too serious.”
“Yes, of course,” Rainer said. “Please forgive me for being insensitive.”
“It’s okay. I brought it up. Anyway, how would you know?”
“I should have known.”
Zan leaned forward and put her hand on his. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
Rainer felt a sudden kinship with her.
She carries a warrior’s pain. I see it now.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Zan said. “Idaho. I may have wanted to get the hell out, but I owe a lot to those mountains. For one, the winters were so long and brutal I spent hours and hours holed up in my room, practicing the guitar. That’s how I got good.”
“To Idaho,” Rainer said, raising his coffee cup. Zan met his cup with hers.
“To Idaho.” They both laughed.
“I also loved going out into the wilderness, just like my father and brothers,” Zan continued. “They taught me to track, how to stay out for days. I loved it so much. All my troubles would disappear. It was almost like I would disappear. My ego would get swallowed up by the beauty of those mountains, their indifference.”
“I understand,” Rainer answered. “I often go to wander in the mountains. They bring me back to myself by making me forget myself. I feel a thoughtless belonging.”
They stopped talking, enjoying an unspoken warmth. When the waiter brought the check, they settled up and left to wander among the brick row houses and budding trees of Center City. They got to talking about music and lost track of time. Around 10:30, Zan noticed the hour and said she really had to go home, so they walked to her apartment. Rainer did not want the evening to end, but he sensed she would resist him once more.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to say goodnight,” Zan said. “We’re serving a warrant tomorrow and I need a good night’s sleep.”
“Of course. Would you like to get together again soon? I have some things to do the rest of this week, but I’m free on Saturday.”
“Saturday sounds great.”
“Good, I’ll call you.” Rainer moved to kiss her but she stopped him.
“Um, if you kiss me the way you did before, it would not be conducive to a good night’s sleep.”
Rainer leaned close to her ear. “Then my kiss will say something else.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and gathered her hands in his. “Be safe, Zan.”
She looked up at him like he was an apparition. “I will,” she answered, almost in a whisper. “Goodnight, Rainer.”
CHAPTER 7
Aix en Provence, France
THE LIGHT FROM ABOVE reached just far enough into the alley to touch Barakiel’s face. He paused to enjoy it as he and Pellus walked down the narrow corridor between buildings of sand-colored stone. He savored the dusty, spicy smell of the air in Aix en Provence. He hadn’t been to France in a long time and had forgotten how good it smelled in that part of the country. Closing his eyes, he imagined walking these passageways with Zan, her hand in his.
I think she would like it here.
“Barakiel, I do not even want to know what you are dreaming about, but can we be on our way, please,” Pellus said in a terse voice.
They were walking to the shop of the craftsman who made the replica daggers used in the ritual sacrifices in Philadelphia. At least that’s what they suspected. Barakiel
’s contacts among dealers in antique weapons had identified this man as one of few capable of doing such quality work.
When Pellus heard this news after he arrived at Barakiel’s place to attend to his financial affairs, he insisted they immediately depart for France. He said he had a challenging few turns ahead of him and he would feel better if they made some progress with their inquiry into the rituals.
“I will question the craftsman, Barakiel,” he said. “My French may not be as good as yours, but it is passable enough.”
“I will follow your lead until the fellow refuses to tell us anything, at which point I will grab him by the throat.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Pellus said. Barakiel cast him a dubious look.
It always comes to that.
The shop was wider than the others lining the alley. A cast-iron sign hung above the heavy door that said Archibaud, Mètallier. The Covalent entered. When Barakiel saw there were no other customers, he locked the door behind him.
Thick shelves of dark wood lined the walls of the cave-like space, filled with knives, sconces and other pieces of worked metal. A stocky, bald man wearing a leather apron, presumably Archibaud, stood at a table behind the counter, hunched over a piece of silver filigree. He looked up when Barakiel and Pellus approached.
“Hello, messieurs,” Archibaud said, stepping to the counter. “What can I do for you today?”
Pellus held one of the daggers in his hand, wrapped in a white cloth. He placed it on the counter.
“We have a replica of an antique dagger here,” he said. “The work is quite masterful. We were told it may be yours. We would like you to confirm this.”
“Certainly. Let me take a look.” Pellus unwrapped the dagger. Archibaud stared at it for a moment, looked up at Pellus, then nervously eyed Barakiel. “No. That isn’t mine. I don’t do that kind of work.”