by J. R. Ward
Thereafter, the man in the high-quality overcoat spoke to the pair of sentries as his associate in the leather jacket went on a stroll around the pieces that had been installed. And then the first man took something out of his coat--a cigar. He motioned to it and spoke as though he were asking the guards' permission to smoke.
The guard on the left pointed to a sign and shook his head. The overcoat man asked something else. After a second, the guard on the right shrugged...opened the door to the staircase--
The attack was so swift, Vitoria's eyes couldn't track it. The overcoat man was suddenly on the other guard and snapping his neck--while the one in leather came over and stabbed the other one. Twice.
"Oh, God," she said in Spanish. It was not hard to figure out where this was heading.
There was some quick conversation between the two men. And then overcoat's henchman dragged the guard who had been stabbed behind one of the exhibits and they both disappeared into the stairwell to Ricardo's office.
"There are no cameras in your brother's office--or its staircase," the detective said quietly. "So we don't know what transpired exactly."
The end result was obvious, however. Within minutes, the two men emerged and the henchman had someone over his shoulder.
"We believe that is your brother," the detective said. "Ricardo."
Yes, she thought as tears came to her eyes. She could recognize the suit, the shoes, the back of the head.
There was a pause as the men looked around, as if to ascertain whether their presence had been noted or an alarm was sounding. And then they were moving fast, entering the staff area.
"There are no cameras in that back area." The detective cleared his throat. "But you'll see them come out..."
And there they were. Emerging from the rear door...and disappearing out of camera range.
Vitoria sat back and did not have to pretend the upset. Putting her hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes. When she had gone to that bolt-hole up on Iroquois Mountain, and found her brother's remains in that basement, she had had the end of the story. The detective had just provided her the beginning.
When she could speak, she said in a rough way, "What of Eduardo? Have you found anything of him?"
"No. We have not."
"Why would anyone hurt them?" she asked, partially to have it look good, but also as an expression of her true sorrow.
They had been children once. They had all been children...once. How had it come to this? Then again, given how hard and horrible their youngest years had been, and the means by which Ricardo had lifted them out of that poverty, how else could it have ended?
"Why..." she breathed.
"Ms. Benloise, do you really want me to answer that?"
She pulled herself out of the past. "Yes."
"If you notice the time stamp, you'll see that it's well after business hours. And yet there are three guards on the premises as your brother works late--and the security cameras watch only the back door and gallery space, not either of your brothers' offices or the entire rear portion of this building. And the reality is, when we continued to view the footage, there were a number of other people who came and went, all after hours, all to see your brother upstairs. You've got to ask yourself, what kind of legitimate business could he possibly be doing?"
"I...I don't know." She looked into the man's kind brown eyes. "What of the bodies, though? There were dead guards when they left?"
"One of the men came back. It was just before dawn. He worked fast and took them out. They must have gotten access to the security code or a key somehow. By the time the staff returned in at nine a.m., everything was cleaned up."
Vitoria sat back and stared straight ahead.
"My question to you is," the detective said, "do you recognize either of those men who took your brother?"
"Let me watch again."
She reviewed the footage two more times, leaning in as close as she could get to the screen. When she sat back again, she did not have to lie.
"No, I do not. I've never seen them before."
But she would recognize them in the future, for sure. That was why she had watched again and then one more time.
De la Cruz cleared his throat. "This should not surprise you, but that was not the first time that man in the overcoat came to see your brother."
"No?"
"He had been there before that night. We have the footage a good month or so prior to that attack--and he had been to the gallery a number of times."
Vitoria made a noncommittal noise and stared ahead, summoning in her mind the features she had seen on both of those killers.
"Ms. Benloise, you told me that you were staying in your brother's West Point house."
"Yes," she heard herself say. "I am."
"Would you mind if we searched those premises and got access to any video monitoring equipment there is on that property?"
Vitoria tried to marshal her thoughts--and after a moment, she nodded. "Certainly. Help yourself."
It was naive of her to think that no other people would have shown up on the footage--people who might be arrested in conjunction with illegal activity thanks to what she had allowed the police to see.
Was she doing herself and her ambitions harm in granting further access? What if the business she had come to take over got decimated by all this evidence? Then again, the police undoubtedly knew far more than they were letting on.
And if she had to start everything from scratch, then she would.
The detective started to talk again, but she wasn't paying him any attention. She was too busy trying to chess-move this evolving situation. And in the end, she knew she didn't really have a choice with regard to the West Point house. If she didn't give them permission, it would be as it had been here at the gallery--they would very certainly get a court to clear any obstacles she might put up.
Besides, it was critical that those two attackers be stopped, whether she did it behind the scenes or the police did it in front: If she wanted to be in business, she might well be a target as Ricardo and Eduardo's sister--kill or be killed had never been more applicable.
Although that was assuming those men were still alive. Perhaps their fates had already been served by someone else?
"I want to help you in any way I can," she intoned, whether or not that was appropriate to whatever he was saying.
"We appreciate that." There was a pause. "I just have one more question for you. What were you doing here the night you came after hours?"
Vitoria shook herself. "I'm sorry?"
"The security footage from three nights ago shows you arriving at the rear door and being let into the gallery by a man. Can you please explain what you were doing?"
She cleared her throat and projected upset. "As I hadn't heard from my brothers, I called a number they had given me long before all this. A man answered. He told me to come to the gallery as soon as it was convenient and so I did."
"Does that man work for the gallery?"
"I believe he does security. He made me feel...very uncomfortable. He threatened me--I was scared so I departed as soon as I could. And you know, it was odd. Margot and I--when she came to see me before she left the night she was killed...you know, I never put this together..." She looked up in alarm at the detective. "But she brought him up. She told me...she said he had made a pass at her, but she had turned him down and...I mean, she seemed scared."
"What is the man's name?"
"Streeter. His name is Streeter. I didn't mention this before because where I am from, we do not speak of such things. But it is all different now. Everything...is different now."
"Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a statement?"
"Is there any way I could do it tomorrow? I really...I want to go lie down. I'm not feeling well..."
"Absolutely."
She stared into his eyes. "I want you to catch those evil men, Detective de la Cruz. They need to be in jail for the rest of their liv
es for what they did to Ricardo--and what they must have done to my other brother."
De la Cruz nodded. "That's my job, Ms. Benloise. And I'm very good at it."
FORTY-EIGHT
As night fell, and Jane continued to sleep in their bed, Vishous went out naked to his computers and sat in his Captain Kirk chair. He had taken his leather jacket with him as he'd left their room, and after he lit up a hand-rolled, he went fishing in its pockets.
The civilian Whinnig's gun was your garden-variety poodle shooter, a nothing-special Smith & Wesson nine millimeter, and as he kicked out the clip, he checked the bullets. There were three left, and he freed them of their confines, rolling them around in his palm.
Why hadn't they worked against that entity? V had shot the shit out of the shadow that had gone after him and had wounded it. But Whinnig had said that his bullets had gone right through without effect--and his injuries had certainly been consistent with an undeterred attack from a strong enemy.
Maybe the report was false. After all, the kid who had died--and come back, hello--hadn't been combat trained. But, Jesus, how trained did you have to be to notice whether or not you were wounding the thing trying to kill you?
Sitting forward, he lined up the three bullets in a little row, their flat bottoms and copper-colored hats exactly what you'd expect to see from the kind of civilian ammo you could get in a Dick's Sporting Goods store.
The thing V worried about was whether the Omega was improving on a prototype. Shoring up weaknesses in a creation to make it a more effective weapon. The vampire race's enemy was soulless, evil, and a scourge on the fucking planet--but it was far from stupid. And a weapon that couldn't withstand getting shot at was less effective than one that could.
V sat back and smoked for a while, his brain cranking along on the variables.
When his mental calculator kept showing him zeroes, he got frustrated and decided to check in with some of the Facebook groups to see if anything was out in the species yet about the attack. The brother, Aarone, had gone home and was undoubtedly talking to people in the glymera.
Nope. Nothing yet.
Then again, the aristocracy did consider themselves above social media--
As his cell phone went off with a text, he threw out a hand and grabbed the thing. When he saw who it was from and what it was about, he cursed and got to his feet.
Heading back to the bedroom, he snuck in, not wanting to disturb Jane--or Butch and Marissa, who were sleeping next door. And he was doing okay on the whole getting-dressed thing until he slammed his bare foot into the corner of the dresser.
Sure, he managed to keep the HOLY FUCKING WHAT THE FUCKBITCHASSFUCKINGPIECEOFSHIT WAS THAT to himself, but the thunderous toe-to-wood contact sound was nothing he could control.
"V?" Jane said in a sleepy way.
"Hey." MOTHERFUCKINGOWFUCKOW--he rubbed his foot. "Sorry. Didn't want to wake you."
Of course, now that you're up, honey, can you amputate my lower leg on this side? That'd be great. Thanks.
"You okay?"
"Perfect." Fishing through the dresser, he grabbed and yanked on the first pair of pant-like anything he came to. Then he pulled on a T-shirt. "I gotta leave for a second before the Brotherhood meeting."
"Mmm, love you. I'm going to go down to the clinic--what time is it?"
"Six p.m. You have another twenty minutes. Love you, too."
Closing his eyes, he concentrated...
...and after a Tilt-A-Whirl, came out on the Other Side, in the Sanctuary. Without missing a beat, he strode across the cropped Astroturf-but-it-was-"real" lawn toward the Treasury.
As he closed in on the building, Phury stepped out of its entryway and lifted a hand. "Hey, my brother," he called over. "Thanks for coming."
"No problem." V slowed as the guy gave him a strange look. "What. Why are you staring at me like that?"
"Interesting pants."
"Huh--oh, fuck."
As V checked out his lower half, his only thought was thank God it was Phury and not anyone else: He had on Jane's pink flannel PJ bottoms. The ones that had My Little Cocksucking Pony all over them. The ones that had been given to all the females in the house by Lassiter--not because he liked My Little Motherfucking Pony, but because the fallen angel knew when the ladies wore them, their hellrens were going to have to see Apple Jack and Rainbow Dash in their nightmares.
And now V was sporting a set like he was a fan.
Oh, and P.S., they were high-waters because he was ten inches taller than his shellan.
"That is the last time I get dressed in the dark, true," he muttered.
"Hey, it could be worse."
"Yeah? How."
"You could have put the top on, too."
"Will you be offended if I just take them off?"
"Do you have boxer shorts on?"
"Fuck no."
"Then let's keep those puppies where they are, shall we?" Phury gave him a condescending smile. "Just in case any of the Chosen are up here. Modesty, you know."
"Personally, I'd pick my one-balled wonder routine over this, but yeah, sure. Whatever you want." V nodded toward the Treasury's interior. "So what we got, Primale?"
"It's bad." Phury's glowing yellow eyes narrowed. "Epic bad, actually."
The two of them went inside, the bins of sparkling gems like fires banked, the wealth at once extraordinary and an as-you-do.
The brother went over to the display case with the burn mark. "So guess what was in here."
"Fritz's cookbook and he finally got it back." V patted around for a hand-rolled and realized he hadn't brought any with him. "Damn it."
"I wouldn't let you smoke in here anyway." Phury opened the case's glass lid. "And this was a cookbook, actually. But it's the kind you don't want in anyone's hands--which was why it was here."
"I'd like to remind you we can't get lung cancer," V muttered. "And everything is perfect up here, remember. I'll bet if I exhaled, rose petals would come out of my mouth--but I digress. Cookbook? What are you talking about?"
"It's a book of conjuring spells. Whoever has it can bring bad things to life."
V ditched the levity quick. "The shadow entities."
"That's what I'm thinking. Those things just started showing up, didn't they."
"But why would the Omega need a book? If he knows how to--"
"You were right that first night. I don't think it's the Omega. Which is only one of a whole host of problems we've got." The brother passed his hand over the burned spot. "Because check this out, the other reason the book was stored here was because it can't be destroyed--if you burn it or try to rip up the pages, you release all of the spells at once. So this was deemed the only safe place. No one was supposed to get to it."
"Where the fuck did it come from?"
"I don't know about its origins. I'm just passing on what Amalya, the Directrix, told me. She's really upset--not just because of the book being gone, but because we're both wondering who got access to the Sanctuary when they weren't supposed to be here? Let me ask you, when were you and Jane up here that you noticed it was gone?"
"I told you the night after. When I saw you at the Great Camp. Jane and I were just--well, she ended up here after she was shot." He thought about Lassiter. "And I came to her. She pointed it out to me."
Phury cursed. "I'm going to have to talk to Wrath about this."
V stared at the doors that were open. And decided that if there were ever a moment in his life to be diplomatic, now was it.
"Listen, my man, I don't know how to say this nicely." He tried to pick his words carefully. "But is there any chance one of your Chosen might be doing an end run on this thing?"
Ooooooor he could just put the shit out there.
"Absolutely not." Phury glared at him. "Those females are--"
"Out in the world. Making connections. Forging relationships with people they meet at the Audience House, online, while they work. How do you know that one of them didn't t
ake it, either for their own use, or someone else's."
Phury crossed his thick arms over his chest--and V was pretty damn sure that if the brother wasn't a gentlemale, he'd have been throwing the kind of punches that knocked out teeth.
"My Chosen would never do anything to endanger the race."
"But think this through." V put his palms up, all let's-chill. "No one else is allowed here without permission. So either one of two things happened. Someone who does have access took the book, or someone who has access took the book for somebody else. There are no other logical explanations."
* * *
--
At eight o'clock that night, Vitoria pulled her brother's Bentley into a parking space about seven blocks down from the gallery. It was a legal space, although there was no reason to put anything in the meter because it was after six p.m.
The snow that had been forecasted had arrived, and before she opened the driver's side door, she pulled the hood of her black sweatshirt into place and zipped up the parka she had used to keep warm while climbing the mountain. After a pause to check her phone, she got out and kept her head down as the wind blew flakes into her face.
As she walked away from the Bentley, she left that door open and the key fob on the center console.
Pity that she did not have someone to bet with concerning how long it would take for somebody to steal the Flying Spur. The weather was bad, it was true, and that could decrease foot traffic and therefore the number of thieves. But it was a $250,000 sedan. Some junkie or another would take advantage of good fortune. It was the way of the human race.
Vitoria kept up a brisk pace as she went along, hands in the pockets of that parka that added to her bulk, head still down, her face obscured by the hood.
She went deeper and deeper into downtown...until, some number of blocks later, she got to the bridge that spanned the river.
Courtesy of the many on-and off-ramps that fed the four lanes across the waterway, there was a vast, dark netherworld underneath the great elevated stretches of pavement--and she kept her pace as she proceeded into the sheltered area. Here, the wind gusts lessened and the snow was blocked from falling to the rock-hard, frozen dirt. Cocoons of homeless people dotted the barren landscape, their bodies curled up in filthy blankets such that they became boulders on the face of poverty's moon. And all around, loose newspapers danced about countless abandoned bottles empty of booze, like children showing inappropriate levity.