Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha #1)

by J. A. Huss

  “You need to get out of this cave,” Sheila says from the main cavern. This is my room and there are no optics in here for Sheila to project herself into her holographic form. I did that on purpose. No one wants a hovering nag in their bedroom. So she stands just outside, ready with an answer for my misgivings. “And you’re a partner.”

  “A silent partner,” I growl, still pissed off I had to shave. “Which means I don’t have to show up for shit like this. I don’t have to play nice, or pretend to care, or any of those other things that Case has to do. That’s why he takes an extra five percent. I pay that fucker to do this shit for me.”

  “The detective will be useful once things start happening, Lincoln. You need to make her acquaintance tonight.”

  “And what if she recognizes me?” I walk out and stare her in the face. “What then? What if the drugs didn’t work? What if they wore off? What if—”

  “Then it would be optimal for you to be there when that recognition happens, don’t you agree? If she wakes in the night and remembers what happened, what do you think she will do the next day?”

  “If she sees me tonight and starts to remember, we get the same ending, Sheila. She’ll get on the phone to her boss and have me arrested. I’ll be in jail and then the whole fucking thing is blown. Someone will have to come bail me out. And you certainly can’t do it. You’re a fucking lightshow. Case can’t do it, he’ll be implicated. Thomas…” I laugh. “Well, fucking Thomas wouldn’t do it. So who the fuck is gonna bail me out if she catches on? This is so beyond stupid.”

  “I think,” Sheila says, turning her back to me and walking over to the engineering lab door, “you just proved my point. How useful would another friend be? And a detective, at that?” She turns back to me and smiles. “And don’t insult me with the remarks about the lights. I’m working on it.”

  “Working on what? And since when is calling you a lightshow an insult? That’s what a hologram is.”

  “I’m not a hologram, Lincoln.” She lifts her chin and crosses her arms. A gesture that resembles defiance and hurt.

  I sigh. “I know that better than anyone, Sheils. Remember?” She tries not to smile, but she can’t help herself. “I built you first.”

  “You did,” she concedes. “And it’s a good thing too. Because if it wasn’t for me you’d be all alone in this world.”

  I nod in understanding. She’s right. But I’m right too. “She’s gonna figure this stuff out, Sheila. I have a bad feeling about things tonight. I’ve been running on luck for fifteen years and now that everything is starting to happen, that luck is about to run out.”

  “Then make friends with her, Lincoln. You don’t really have a choice, anyway. She has a place in all this. You know that. Molly is the missing piece you’ve been waiting for.”

  She’s not though. She’s the one piece I’ve been counting on never coming back. And now that she is… well, my days are numbered. “I’m taking the bike tonight. The old bike.”

  “It will mess up your hair.”

  I laugh. “Like I care.” The old bike isn’t the one I wrecked last weekend. The old bike is the one my dad used to ride. Nothing flashy on it. And it’s not ever been connected to Sheila. So it’s a punishment of sorts. For her making me go in the first place. I know she’s interested in Molly and was probably hoping she could eavesdrop, if only from the periphery. But not gonna happen, you bossy little lightshow.

  I’ll go, because I do need to figure out if Molly Masters is getting some of her memory back. And I could use another friend, although how Sheila thinks Molly will forgive me after what I did to her is beyond me. But… if Molly is going to remember, it’s better that I be there for it. Talk her down. Calm her down. Manipulate her into staying quiet, and maybe, if I’m lucky, into seeing the big picture.

  Thomas is Thomas. And whatever his reasons for coming back with a bang are, they’re not anything I can control. He does what he does, when he does it. He’s always been that way.

  But everything else feels a little too much like luck running out.

  And if she does remember what I did to her… well, I don’t want to think about that yet.

  Maybe I’m just paranoid. I’ve used the drugs on other people. They’ve always held. I’ve gotten away with a lot worse things than what I did to Molly Masters.

  “Luck,” I mumble, walking back through my bedroom, grabbing my keys from a drawer in a small table, opening a door that leads to a long tunnel, and stepping through. “Stay with me tonight. Just one more night and I swear, I won’t ever ask for anything again.”

  It’s a child’s prayer. One I’ve muttered for decades. And luck has always held up its end of the bargain. But I feel like a liar. I feel like I’ve been asking for luck my whole life, always coming out the other end whole, yet unsatisfied with my gift.

  Because I always come out just as empty as I went in.

  I feel like Molly Masters will be my downfall. She is the opposite of everything I stand against. She will make me weak. Make me fail. Make me lose.

  And isn’t that her job?

  Right.

  I come to a stairwell at the end of the tunnel and start climbing. When I get to the top I press my palm against the pad and a laser swipes across my print, granting me access to the house.

  I end up in the garage, looking at the heap covered by a thick canvas tarp, stained and weathered by age.

  Maybe the bike won’t even start? It’s been a while since I took it out. And I can’t go into town using the car. Not for something with so many witnesses. And my truck has been decommissioned for… personal stuff.

  I rip the tarp off with a whoosh, dust filling the air and probably settling on my robot-starched white shirt, and get on.

  But it starts right up. And I can’t help but wonder, as I give it some throttle and pull out of the garage, if that means my luck is still holding… or if it just ran out?

  Chapter Fifteen - Molly

  My dress is old, but still nice. I was in charge of security for a high-level foreign official a couple years back. The ballroom was extravagant, the finest chefs were flown in, and the china cost more than everything I owned at the time, including my car. I imagine tonight to be much of the same, minus the dinner.

  I chose a long gown last time to hide my weapon in a thigh holster which can be accessed through a slit in the well-hidden pocket on the right side. There’s a pocket on the left too. Both are almost invisible and just in front of my hips, so anything concealed within can be hidden in the layers of the skirt. It’s strapless and intricately beaded from the top of the bodice to the tops of my thighs. It looks, to my dismay then and now, too much like a wedding dress for my comfort level. But at least it’s not white. It’s a subdued cream color.

  And it hides my gun. So mission accomplished.

  I actually put on makeup too. And my hair is up off my shoulders in a twist I did myself. I might not pass muster with tonight’s fashionistas, but I don’t have to.

  I’m security. It’s a ruse. A costume.

  “Blah,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. I turn away towards my bed where my gun is waiting. I check the barrel, make sure it’s loaded, then hike my skirts up and snap it into the holster. There are two extra magazines, just in case. But there has been no chatter at all about this party. Why Brooks feels the need for such heightened security is beyond me.

  I slip my badge into my other pocket and then my feet into my shoes. They are flats, made to go with the dress, with rubber soles for silence and traction, and the same pretty beads that match the dress for appearances.

  “OK, Masters,” I say, looking at my reflection one more time. “Let’s go.”

  Atticus Montgomery has sent a car. It’s been waiting outside my house for the better part of an hour. When the chauffeur knocked on the door I was only mildly surprised. Montgomery is a control freak. One of those alpha males who likes to keep the illusion of superiority. And he wants everyone to know that I’m working with
him. Maybe even that I’m working for him.

  I don’t mind the ride. The idea of slipping behind the wheel of my five-year-old department sedan and driving to the party in a ball gown is ridiculous.

  I’m thankful for the car. And Atticus Montgomery can make people think whatever they want. I’m not in his pocket. He can’t buy my cooperation with a ride.

  So I walk downstairs, grab my house keys off the foyer table, stuff them in my pocket, drape the matching shrug over my shoulders, and walk outside to the limo. The driver is waiting at the passenger door and I wonder for a second if he’s been standing there the whole time, or he’s just so good at his job, he noticed me getting ready to exit and took up the position.

  “Thank you,” I say as he opens it for me and I slip inside. It closes with a soft whoosh one only hears from a luxury vehicle, and then he walks around to get in.

  We drive to the cathedral and get in line behind all the other cars waiting to drop off important people. When it’s our turn, the driver turns his head and says, “Mr. Montgomery said he might be a little late tonight. But he will find you later.”

  “Noted,” I reply back, as he slips out of the car to get my door. That’s good luck. Gives me plenty of time to chat people up and find out who Thomas Brooks really is. I’m at a disadvantage here because I’m new in town. I don’t have the history of these people. And like most places, Cathedral City has prominent citizens whose families date back generations. They know their own history and they will be talking, even if it is in hushed whispers. If there’s some sort of past relationship between Blue Corp executives and Thomas Brooks, it will be gossiped about tonight.

  The driver offers me a hand after he opens my door and I take it so I can ease out of the car with some dignity. Fucking ball gowns.

  Immediately cameras start flashing in my face and I have to cover my eyes. The flash lingers in my vision as bright spots, but I bustle past and make my way up the cathedral stairs without comment.

  Sergeant Seville greets me at the door and offers me his arm. He’s dressed in his formal uniform and smiles warmly. “You clean up well.” He shoots me a wink and I scowl.

  “Thank you,” comes out automatically though. Men. They tell me to fuck off and don’t give me a second glance at work, but put me in a pretty dress and they turn into gentlemen. “Is everybody in place?”

  “We are, Detective,” he says, his professionalism back. “Just as you asked. But there’s nothing to report. Quiet and dignified, that’s what this crowd is.”

  When we get inside I let go of his arm and turn away, scanning the main room for faces I might recognize.

  The mayor is here. Herbert Rothschild is not the first in his family to be mayor of Cathedral City. But so far the only other thing I’ve had time to learn about him is the fact that he went to law school and never ended up practicing law.

  Also here is a judge I know by name, Peter Livingston, and several I know by face, but haven’t had the time to meet yet. Livingston and I had an unfortunate encounter my first day on the job. I was shadowing Detective Rollins that day, and he was due to testify. It didn’t go well for him. And the judge was pretty upset that the suspect on trial was found not guilty a few days later.

  It bugged me then that Livingston seemed to take it personally and it still bugs me now. But again, I have no history with these people. And I never did have time to look up that suspect’s records to make sense of it.

  “You look lost,” a gruff voice says from my left.

  I turn to find a tall man with light blond hair grinning at me like a wolf. “I’m not,” I say, “just getting my bearings.”

  “You’re the new detective, right? I’m Case Reider.”

  He extends his hand and I reciprocate but instead of shaking it, he bows a little and touches his lips to the back of my hand. “So very nice to see you,” he says, standing up tall again.

  I squint at him for a moment, almost in a trance, and then shake myself out of it. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  He smiles and lets out a soft laugh. “No, not really. But I run ToyBox Inc. We’re based over on the west side of town. You probably saw my picture in Cathedral Reports last week.”

  “Oh,” I say, smiling. “One of those Peter Pan guys, huh? You never quite grew out of the video-game phase and decided to make your fortune by selling good times to other perpetual children?”

  He chuckles again, this time heartier. “Something like that.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure—”

  “Let’s dance, Detective Masters. Do you waltz?”

  “Um,” I say, hesitating.

  “I’m sure you do. I can see many days of dance lessons in your past.” And with that he takes my hand, pulls me towards him, and begins to lead.

  “I do waltz,” I say, my feet reluctantly following along. “But I’m here on business tonight.”

  “The dress is a ruse, then?” He smiles, making his blue eyes light up. “But you can’t let it go to waste.” He looks down for a moment as we glide across the stone floor together, like we’ve been partners for ages instead of seconds. “You’re very good at it. Where did you learn?”

  “Yeah, well…” I sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “Where did you learn?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Oh, my life has been one long boring string of charm school classes.”

  “Oh, has it?” I can’t help myself, I laugh for real this time.

  “Have you ever seen the debutante ball they have each year in the main cathedral?”

  “No, but I imagine that is some affair.”

  “You have no idea. I was roped into being someone’s date back in the day. And let me tell you, if she had warned me about the rehearsal time, I might’ve never agreed.” He says the words but I can immediately tell he’s not sincere. We glide past a few other waltzing couples as his eyes glaze over a little. “Close your eyes, Detective. And let me help you imagine it for a moment.”

  “Close my—”

  “Just do it. I promise it’s worth the few moments of trust you’ll have to give me to lead you around this room.”

  Jesus. Another alpha. What is it with the men in this town? They are all handsome, rich control freaks.

  “Come on, it’s a vision you’ll enjoy. Women love shit like this.”

  “Well, you certainly have the gift of persuasion,” I say through a chuckle. But when I glance up at him again, he looks… nostalgic. And maybe a little sad. Possibly a bit regretful.

  I close my eyes. Because I would never turn down the opportunity to get a story that can cause so much emotion a decade later.

  “Picture this, Molly,” he says, leaning down into my neck. I breathe in deeply as he whispers my name across the sensitive skin. “Hundreds of girls dressed in white gowns, much like the one you’re wearing tonight. And hundreds of escorts, dressed in a tux, much like mine. We filed into the grand cathedral, four abreast. Girl, boy, girl, boy. Black, white, black, white. Each escort holding the hand of his beautiful partner up, like he’d won the lottery.

  “The stained glass was glowing from the interior lights. The music was lively. And nothing but proud faces beamed from the perimeter. My heart was beating fast that night. We’d been practicing the dances for months. Each one was coordinated to show us off. Each one classically choreographed to stun the families who sat in the boxed seats above. And when I watched the video days later, I felt like we were spinning for Heaven. Like every move that night was synchronized for God’s pleasure.”

  “It sounds lovely,” I whisper, lost in his dream.

  “It was a moment of peace in a life overflowing with chaos.”

  “So what happened to her?”

  “What?” he asks, breaking the spell he’s put me under and stopping our dance.

  I open my eyes. “Where is she? It sounds like the night of your life.”

  His smile is gone and his eyes are no longer brig
ht. “I was a few years older than her, already in my third year of college by that time. And she was still in high school. But she never finished because there was a family emergency a few days later and she left town. I never saw her again.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It sounds like she meant a lot to you. Did you ever go looking for her?”

  “No.” He sighs. “I couldn’t. I—” He stops talking abruptly and his gaze fixes on something across the room. “Sorry, I have to go,” he says, letting go of my hands and bowing slightly. “Maybe we can dance again later?”

  I nod as he forces a smile, and then turns and walks off, leaving me there in the middle of the floor.

  I try to follow him with my gaze as he makes his way through the throngs of dancers, but there are too many people. So I start after him, unwilling to let go of the fantasy that he put in my head and the implied tragedy he left there.

  I search, pushing past the other dancers, my detective instincts on full alert for some reason. I think back to the moment I saw his face. There was something there. That bit of recognition might’ve been more.

  And then I see the back of his head. He waves his hands as he talks to another man in a tux about his same height. It almost looks as if they are arguing, so I keep walking. Slower now. Taking it all in. The cathedral, the dancers, the music, the stained glass. I have that vision in my head of the debutante ball he put there, still clouding my senses. It all seems rather too romantic, considering what has happened today. Someone peeks out around Case Reider and I stop dead.

  That face. I know that face. And this time it’s more than just a slight bit of intuition. It’s…

  A soft kiss across my neck.

  A dark place with lights and technology.

  A muddy road and rain.

  He looks me straight in the eyes, looks away, but his lips move and then Case Reider turns around and looks at me too. An instant later the other man turns and walks out the open back door of the cathedral, where two of Thomas Brooks’ doormen stand watch in their matching outfits. They seem militaristic in their uniforms, almost Secret Service in the way their attention focuses on the events before them.