by Ben Hopkin
“Maybe you should be the detective,” she said to Lady Blackwater.
The woman blushed and waved a hand at that. “I just hope that I’ve given you some fun on your holiday.”
“Are you kidding?” Nicole gushed. “It’s been fantastic.”
This side trip down into the bowels of the museum had surpassed all of her expectations and then some. She had so many stories she wanted to tell Kent. It was almost enough to make her regret her decision to sightsee alone.
“Well, I’m just finishing up my shift here,” Lady Blackwater confessed. “Would you like for me to show you about more of the city?”
It was such a generous offer, but Nicole wasn’t sure she could accept. She’d already taken up so much of this gracious lady’s day.
“I really couldn’t--” she began.
Cordelia cut her off. “If you’re declining because you want some time away from the crazy penis lady, I understand. But don’t do it for fear you’re taking up my time. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
Nicole didn’t have to think about it for long. “In that case, lead on.”
It was difficult to imagine what other wonders this woman could show her here in London. If it compared in any way to what she’d seen here in the museum, Nicole would be thrilled.
And she still had five hours left before she was supposed to meet up with Kent. She might be completely off her schedule, but what she was getting was so much more interesting.
Five hours. More than enough time to squeeze in a few more surprises.
CHAPTER 12
Kent stayed in the bathroom long enough to get an impression of what looked more like a living space than a place to eliminate waste from one’s system. Seriously, was that a fireplace and a fridge over by the claw-footed bathtub?
Bathtub. More like a swimming pool. He had no idea that claw-footed bathtubs were even made in that size.
Cracking the door open to peer out into the hall, Kent watched the backside of the private secretary, Samantha Hall, sashay away from him and turn the corner. How freaking big was this apartment?
He turned on the water, just in case someone came back looking for him. It wouldn’t fool anyone for more than a couple of minutes, but it might buy him some time if it came right down to it. No harm in making the attempt.
Studying the layout of the entryway and where this bathroom was placed, Kent tried to extrapolate where he might find a storage space or a private, little used office that might serve as a catch-all for any items that might link this family to the Ripper murders.
Problem was, the sensibilities here were all British. Or Welsh, or whatever. Certainly not American. And while US cinema had invaded pretty much every country on the planet, certain places held out against American corruption like it was the plague. Africa. China. The Middle East. And the UK.
He was just going to have to wing it.
While Kent wasn’t positive that there was any connection here to the killings, it was certain that the Baron had possessed access to the food that had been used to poison the very team that was working on the case. In addition, he’d proved to be interested in the proceedings to a level that Kent would term borderline obsessive.
No stranger to obsessive behavior himself, Kent didn’t see that as proof positive, but added to the other items on the menu, it was looking like a bad bet to rule Lord Rhys out completely.
Kent pressed his ear up against the first door he came to, listening for any movement on the other side. Nothing. He turned the handle with care, opening the door up a crack to peer through.
There were no lights on, so he groped around and found what felt like a pad. As he passed his hand across the pad, the lights swelled dramatically. Glancing at the pad now that there was light enough to see, Kent observed that it was a digital media controller that was attached to not only the lights, but to several televisions and a sound system.
Good thing he’s only managed to turn on the lights. He’d have to be more careful in the future.
The next thing he noticed was the décor. This room did not have the old-world charm combined with modern accessories that the entryway and the bathrooms seemed to share.
This space was all modern business. There was an array of computers set up on tables that stretched along the sides of the walls, all of them with screens that had a sigil bouncing about as a screensaver. Looked like it was probably the family crest.
Added to the computers were the flat screen televisions that were mounted on the walls. A grand total of eight sets in all.
Either this was the strangest media room that Kent had ever seen, or…
He had just hit the jackpot.
Moving over to one of the tables, Kent pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. Just because he didn’t always wear them when looking at evidence didn’t mean he lacked respect for the fingerprints he might leave in a situation like this.
Once the gloves were on, he swiped at a trackpad that was right beside one of the computer keyboards. The monitor sprang into life.
And there in front of Kent was a bird’s eye view of Lord Rhys speaking to someone one the phone, with Samantha there, hovering at his side. This room was a security hub, with cameras into each one of the rooms in the apartments.
Just what he needed. He cracked his fingers, and set to work.
* * *
Kyra didn’t spend much time in the water closet, even though it seemed like it was as much a play space as it was a washroom. Knowing that Kent was somewhere poking around in the sprawling apartment was an itch she couldn’t scratch.
When she was in control of herself and her emotions, there was no fear. She could walk into a den of lions without a spike in her adrenaline levels. Just an awareness of where the animals were, and a plan to get out unscathed.
But without that control, Kyra was less sure of herself, and with Kent, she knew that anything was possible. There was little that the man wasn’t capable of. It was part of his undeniable appeal.
And right now, it was proving a distraction.
After this experience, she would attempt more patience with Jacques when he scolded her for the same kind of cavalier behavior. Nothing like getting a taste of your own medicine to cure you of the disease.
Stalking about the entryway, Kyra listened, reaching out with the only sense that would help her right now. No one was yelling. No sounds of disturbance. Those were good signs. But it was only a matter of time before something had to give.
Looking up, Kyra spotted a small device mounted in the wall. A camera. She was under surveillance.
So far she had done nothing to indicate there was anything amiss. But if she continued to lurk, focusing on the hallway, it might appear suspicious. She decided to check in with her team.
Perhaps she should call Diego first, as a way of riling up Jacques. The Frenchman always seemed to know to whom she was talking and when. That was part of his job, she supposed, but the perverse part of her personality had to make sure to tweak him from time to time.
“Diego. What’s happening?”
The Spaniard weapons expert’s voice crackled over the weak connection. “I am not know. We find one, we find another. Cabrones, todos. Assholes, no?”
Okay, so maybe talking with the guy that only marginally spoke English was not such a great idea.
“Any idea how much longer it’s going to take?” she asked, waiting for but not really expecting something resembling a clear answer.
“Dios sabe,” came the response. God knows. “Maybe one days. Maybe two. Less than weeks.”
Well, that was specific. “Keep me updated, Diego. I may need part of the team to jet out here to help me, and I need to know what’s happening there.”
“Vale, mona.” Basic translation… Sure thing, cutie. Somehow, coming from the Spaniard, it was less offensive, more charming. If anyone else spoke to her that way, she more than likely have their balls on a silver platter before they finished the sentence. But from Di
ego, it just brought a smile to her face.
She responded with one of the piropos, or crude compliments, Diego had taught her. Her accent was terrible, and she knew it, but it was part of the way they interacted with each other.
“Te meuves más que un garbanzo en la boca de un viejo.” The piropo was practically an art form in Spain. This one basically said “You shake that thing more than a bean in a toothless old person’s mouth.”
It lost something in translation.
He chuckled. “Hasta luego, guapa.” Bye for now.
Kyra hung up, smiling. Diego’s overt machismo had been exactly what she needed right now. No matter how overt or over-the-top his flirting was, it was never serious with him. He knew it. She knew it. There was comfort in that.
If she were being honest with herself, it would be a good idea to check in with Jacques right now. But a truculent voice inside her checked that impulse. That wasn’t going to happen. They were part of a team, and she was the leader.
So why was there a voice inside that whispered to her that she might be doing something wrong?
That was part of the issue. Those instincts were never “feelings”, like other people seemed to experience. They were these random thoughts that would come into her head, like “wow, you should probably feel bad about this.” She didn’t, but she thought about it.
From down the hallway, Kyra could hear the clicking of Samantha’s high-heeled shoes. The woman was back, and Kent was nowhere to be seen.
The young woman spotted Kyra and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Did she see Kyra as competition? There was a fierce part of Kyra that hoped that was so, which caused another twinge of shame. She wrenched that feeling into some semblance of control.
But as the secretary entered the foyer, Samantha glanced about, and any vestige of the smile disappeared. Fake or not, it was gone.
“Where is Mr. Harbinger?” she asked, her tone sharp.
That was the question, wasn’t it?
Kyra cleared her throat, shaping her face into what she knew to be an embarrassed expression. That was not an emotion with which she had a lot of experience, so she’d trained herself in front of a mirror. But now all she had to do was think about what had happened on the bridge.
“Kent has had some… ah… digestion issues all day, I’m afraid. I think the English cuisine isn’t agreeing with him so well,” Kyra said. Certain topics tended to halt all forms of inquiry, and gastrointestinal issues were first on the list.
But this woman had been well trained. “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. We should check on him to make sure that he’s well taken care of.” Samantha had a cold glint in her eye that belied her warm tone, and she turned crisply on her heel to make her way back down the hallway.
Kyra reached out to her. “Oh, that’s not nece--”
Just at that moment, Kent came strolling down the hall, the distant sounds of a toilet flushing coming from the slightly open bathroom door. He made a face.
“Wow. Don’t remember eating that.”
Samantha’s pretty face became ever so slightly more pinched for a brief moment. Whatever attraction she may have felt for Kent seemed to have disappeared in one instant.
One thing his crass reference to his bathroom habits had accomplished was that any hint of suspicion seemed to have disappeared. It seemed the profiler was as much of a genius as he claimed.
“So…” Kent drawled. “Is his Lordship ready to talk to us?”
“Er… yes,” Samantha answered, taking a step away from Kent, as if he might have something that was catching. “He’s asked me to take you back to join him in his study.” Once more she turned on her heel to lead them down the hallway, although her movements this time seemed to lack a certain crispness.
Kyra tried to catch Kent’s eye, wanting to know just what the hell had happened back there, and whether or not he’d found anything. But the profiler was refusing to meet her gaze. There was no doubt in Kyra’s mind that he was doing it to piss her off. It was working.
So why did it somehow make him even more appealing? She had to get a handle on herself. Like, right now.
As they rounded the corner, Samantha opened up a set of double doors that led into the most sumptuous study Kyra had ever seen. In a place like London, where space was at a premium, the amount of room here was like an understated shout of opulence.
It was set up like a library, with shelving on each wall completely stuffed with books. The room went up two stories, with the shelves reaching up to the ceiling. In the center of the room was a large glass enclosed fireplace, with a flame roaring in its interior. In spite of the fact that it was a gas flame that was partitioned off from the room by the glass, Kyra could swear she smelled the distinct odor of a real-wood fire burning. Did they have artificial scent piped in?
Around the fireplace was draped an enormous Oriental carpet, with overstuffed leather chairs and a sofa positioned strategically about the source of warmth. Off in one corner of the study was what appeared to be a work area, with a beautiful mahogany desk that was covered in every imaginable piece of computer tech with which Kyra was familiar, and then some.
For an English nobleman, the Baron appeared to be tech savvy. Or if he wasn’t, his people were.
Rising up from one of the leather chairs, Lord Rhys approached them with a warm smile. He made an aborted motion with his gloved hand, as if he were about to take Kyra’s. But then his gaze flickered over to Kent, and he seemed to think better of it.
“Please, Ms. Karela and Mr. Harbinger. Do sit down.” He motioned toward the sofa. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been on tenterhooks all afternoon.”
“From the poisoning?” Kyra asked.
The Baron gave her a puzzled look, and then his expression cleared. “Oh. That. Yes. Ghastly business, that. Such a tragic loss.” He shook his head sadly. “And yes, partly, I suppose. But I see it all as part of what’s happening with this Ripper chap. You have news?”
Kyra opened her mouth to reply, but just at that moment, Kent’s cell phone rang. The profiler pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen, then looked up at Lord Rhys, who was staring at him with an expression that was somewhere between puzzled and aghast.
“Sorry. Have to take this,” Kent said. Standing up, the profiler made a gesture toward the door, with his eyebrows raised, as if to ask if it was okay for him to step out. When there was no response from their host, Kent shrugged and walked out the door, letting it slam behind him.
Okay. So that happened.
Looking over at Lord Rhys, it was clear that this was not the kind of behavior that he was used to dealing with, even after his earlier experiences with Kent. The likelihood that anyone had ever interrupted a conversation with him to take a mobile phone call was beyond absurd. And yet Kent had done just that. More than once.
As for Kyra, she found that, once more, she was caught between wanting to laugh at Kent’s behavior, and having to deal with its repercussions. The apology she needed to make to Jacques for her own bull-in-a-china-shop behavior was getting longer and more elaborate with every passing moment she spent with the profiler.
“Ah… Lord Rhys. I apologize for my partner,” Kyra managed. “He… er… gets enthusiastic about breaks in the case.”
The Baron seemed to grouse for a moment, but then his face brightened. “What was it that you wanted to talk to me about? Some development? New piece of evidence?”
That was right. In all the attempts to make sure they could get inside the Baron’s home, they hadn’t really talked about what they would tell Lord Rhys if and when they spoke with him. And now that she was speaking with him, her mind was a complete blank.
WWKD.
What would Kent do? Well, it was pretty clear what he would do. He had just done it.
Kent would leave.
What if she did that? Just got up and left? At the end of the day, the one she needed to impress was Locroft, not this effete aristocrat, this remnant o
f an older age. She could just take a hike and let Kent catch up with her for a change. He’d do the same to her. Hell, he had done the same to her.
But when it came right down to it, while they shared many things in common, Kyra was not Kent. Even at her worst, she was not nearly as combative as Kent. And, much to the surprise of anyone that cared to do so, once anyone made it past that initial level of observance, they’d find Kent to be much kinder than Kyra.
With Kent, he spent most of his time and energy taking down killers and the other part taking care of the damaged children of serial killers. Kyra? Kyra was all about herself. It didn’t go much beyond that.
In the meantime, the Baron was beginning to look at her with a strange expression on his face. Ah, yes. She hadn’t answered his question.
Time to dive in.
“I’m sorry, Lord Rhys. I was trying to determine where to begin,” she covered. Smooth. Very smooth. Now all she needed was something significant to tell him.
And then it came to her.
“We discovered a letter that we believe to be one of Jack the Ripper’s originals. One that’s not among those that are normally found if you look up the information on Google.”
She hadn’t blurted the statement, but it had been one short step away from it. Now that it was out there, Kyra wasn’t sure she should have mentioned it. If Kent was right that the current day murderer was related to Jack the Ripper, any real information shared could be dangerous.
Too late.
“One moment,” Lord Rhys said, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “You’re saying that you have uncovered a heretofore unknown Ripper correspondence?”
That’s exactly what she meant, although she probably wouldn’t have used quite so many multisyllabic words. Whatever else this Baron might be, he was pretentious as all hell.
“I’m saying that there’s a possibility that it’s genuine,” she answered, hoping to backtrack a bit. “We’re pursuing the lead, certainly.”