by Smith, H. D.
I knocked on his office door, but no one answered. Hoping it was locked, I twisted the knob. It wasn’t. I could leave, but that wouldn’t solve my problem. I’d have to deal with him at some point. Resolved to handle this now, I took a deep breath and pushed.
With a gasp, I stumbled to a halt. Junior sat at his desk with his head back against the chair. He was dressed in his best navy blue suit with black hair falling away from his face. He could have been sleeping, but wasn’t. The tiny hole in his forehead and the blood and brains on the wall behind him were a dead giveaway.
From Midge’s stories I’d known immortal wasn’t invincible, but I’d assumed it would take a beheading—at least that was how it worked in the movies. I examined the small bullet hole in the center of his forehead. How the hell did something that little kill an immortal?
I tried not to panic—Quaid would know what to do. He was the Head Cleaner and The Boss’s right-hand man. I took out my phone. This was exactly the kind of thing he handled. “Quaid, there’s a problem on three.”
“Call Maintenance.”
“It’s on three,” I repeated. Quaid would know Junior was the only one with an office on three. “I need you.”
Quaid chuckled. “What has Junior done this time?”
“I can’t really put it into words.” Not in words I wanted to say over the phone.
He sighed. He hated dealing with hellspawn bullshit as much as I did, but technically this was his job. “Fine, I’ll be right down.”
Quaid didn’t seem surprised when he walked in. He was impeccably dressed, as always. Today he wore his usual black-on-black suit tailored to fit his impressive six-foot-seven-inch frame perfectly. His short dark hair was cut close to his head. Even dead, he’d be intimidating.
I didn’t take his lack of emotion to mean anything. It wasn’t as if the Cleaners were known for their sensitive side. They were all demons, and one did one’s best not to cross them.
“Does the old man know about this?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Did you kill him?”
Speechless, I gawked at him. His merciless gaze was just as unreadable as The Boss’s. “No! Why would you think I had?”
Quaid remained silent, his eyes boring into me.
“It’s not even like I’d know how to kill him,” I hurried on. “That bullet had to be spelled, right? I mean you can’t just kill—”
His lip curled as if he might smile, or sneer.
I stopped talking before I dug myself in deeper.
“The rumors aren’t true then?” he asked.
My breath caught in my throat. “W-what rumors?”
Harsh maroon eyes pierced the space between us. He was serious. He actually wanted to know if I killed Junior.
“What rumors?” I asked again.
“You and Junior.”
“What about me and Junior?” Oh my god, what had he heard? Must be bad.
“According to the grapevine, you two are an item.”
“An item,” I scoffed. Who the hell would start a rumor like that? Oh no, the love poem and the calendar appointment. Now there was a rumor. Quaid studied me as if I could have done it. Would The Boss think I killed Junior? My heart rate increased. This wasn’t funny. “Who—who said that?”
“Jenny in Finance said she saw the two of you at the Grand Hotel downtown on Fight Night. She said you were being intimate.”
Downtown on Fight Night? Intimate! “I think I’m going to be sick.” I remembered how Jenny and her friend ogled and whispered this morning on the elevator. The dark-haired girl had mouthed, “no way.” Was she talking about Junior? Did everyone think I’d been with him at the fight? “Is she the only one?”
“No. All the admins claim you were there, but Jenny’s the only one sure you two hooked up.”
Why was everyone so certain they were seeing me in places I’d never been? The mob basically accused me of screwing up all the bets. Hell, they probably blamed me for the canceled fight too. I was beginning to think I really did have an evil twin who was running around pissing off mobsters. Only now, she was also being intimate with hellspawn. And Junior was dead.
“Do you have an alibi?” Quaid asked.
Did I have an alibi? I quickly thought back over my day so far. I was in the office early, where I saw Junior—and he left me a love poem. I was downtown most of the morning, then with The Boss in his office. Would The Boss know exactly when I came back? I had the taxi receipt. Would he believe that or question why I hadn’t used a company car?
Without considering that I might be contaminating evidence, I put two fingers against Junior’s neck. There was no pulse, but his body was still warm. Did that mean I could have killed him? The Boss was out of the office. He wouldn’t know when I’d come to see Junior after he left. Oh god, I had no alibi.
I jumped when Quaid clutched my shoulders. He was almost a foot taller than me and twice as wide. I wanted to look away, but his stare fixed my gaze.
Everything about this situation was wrong. The Boss was already angry with me. He’d never kept an assistant as long as he’d kept me. Would this be the way it ended? Early retirement? My head was spinning.
I snapped to attention when Quaid chuckled. “Are you scared, Claire?”
All the heat left my body. I was sure the bastard knew I was scared.
He pressed his right thumb to my neck.
My body stiffened. I could feel my pulse thumping.
“Did you kill him?”
I swallowed. His thumb pressed harder. Was this some sort of lie detector technique? “No.”
He raised an eyebrow. Did he think I was lying?
I panicked. “Give me until tomorrow to find out why Jenny started the rumor. It’s bullshit, and you know it.”
Quaid rubbed his thumb along my neck. He tightened his grip, snorting at my pathetic attempt to pull away.
“Please. The Boss isn’t even here.” My voice was weak.
His brows dropped into a flat line. He didn’t believe me.
I steadied my nerves and cleared my throat. “You can check if you want, but he hightailed it out of here when Number Four showed up.” I swallowed. “You know how he is with them, and he hates her the most.”
Snorting Quaid closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. He definitely knew The Boss’s habits with the ex-wives.
“I know you don’t care,” I said. “But I didn’t do this. Just give me until the morning. Give me a chance to prove the rumors are lies. I swear I’ll tell him first thing.”
He glanced at Junior. Quaid would never lie to The Boss, but since The Boss wasn’t here, Quaid could let it wait until tomorrow—if he wanted to.
He squeezed my shoulders. “Don’t make me regret this, Claire. You won’t enjoy the consequences.”
My mouth went slack.
He chuckled again. “I’ll seal the floor until tomorrow. No one in or out.” He scanned the room. “Don’t remove anything from the room. I’ll know.”
Quaid left me alone with Junior. I tried not to stare at his body. It freaked me out. I wasn’t squeamish about the blood, but I couldn’t get the picture of him and me at the Grand out of my head. My heart belonged to Jack. The idea of being intimate with Junior roiled my stomach.
If I could prove the rumors were lies, The Boss wouldn’t seriously consider me a candidate. I wasn’t sure how Junior’s love poem fit into this. Was he under a spell? Had Jenny seen him with someone else—someone who looked like me? Jenny would be my next stop, but first I wanted to check Junior’s office for clues. Quaid said not to remove anything. He didn’t say I couldn’t snoop around.
Junior’s desk was a mess. I lifted a few of the papers but found nothing. I moved the mouse, and his computer hummed to life. There was a video application running. At first I thought he’d been watching something. The webcam activated, and a video of me filled the window. My bruised eye stared back at me from the live feed. Had Junior been using it before he died? I clicked
the Play button.
Junior’s image replaced mine on the screen. He wore the same suit and tie—the video was definitely from today. “Claire, baby.”
Claire, baby?
“I’m sorry about the fight. I knew you didn’t want to go. We should have done something else.”
He thought it was me downtown too?
“I know you’re still pissed because you’ve been avoiding me, but please let me make it up to you. Please.” He smiled. “Did you like the roses?”
My vision blurred, and I felt light-headed. The roses were from Junior! Had Jack seen the card from the flowers? Was that why the crane was in the trash? The roses couldn’t have been there or he wouldn’t have made the crane, but the card was definitely there. I took out my phone—still no text from Jack.
Junior was smiling back at me from the screen. I’d never seen him like this. He seemed so human—so in love. What had gotten into him—or better yet, who had gotten to him?
He reached forward to stop the recording then glanced up. He smiled at someone in front of him. “Claire—”
A bullet hit him between the eyes. He fell back into his current position, and the video froze on Junior’s lifeless body.
I leaned over and threw up into his trashcan.
Four
He’d said my name—right before someone shot him. I fell to my knees.
My eyes shot to the screen as Junior’s voice said again, “Claire, baby...”
The video had started to replay. I lunged for the mouse and quickly closed the application. The file save box flashed on the screen. “No, I don’t want to save,” I muttered.
I clicked the no button. The video of Junior disappeared from the screen.
My heart was pounding. I opened his mini fridge and snagged a bottled water. I took a drink and swished out my mouth, spitting the liquid into the trashcan.
Junior hadn’t created that video because of a rumor. He spoke as if we had been together, which I knew was impossible.
I opened his mail program and scanned through his past appointments. The appointment with me for today was color-coded pink. There were other pink meetings, but the one for Fight Night was green. Its location was Grand Hotel-Penthouse—the origin of the rumors—at least the one I knew about. I ignored it and opened one of the first pink meetings from two weeks ago. The subject was just FC. The location was Home. The message body was empty. The other pink messages weren’t that much different. No real detail, just a time and a place.
I opened the one for today. The subject was colon and right parentheses—the electronic smiley face. The location said ‘My Office’. I caught sight of the body. For a moment I thought it was swaying before I realized the movement wasn’t his body. I clutched the desk to steady myself. I hadn’t opened the meeting request upstairs or I would have seen it then.
The body of the email message said Fun Claire in the Office.
FC was Fun Claire. It was me—someone Junior thought was me. I checked all the pink messages. How the hell was he fooled? Was someone really walking around pretending to be me?
I gazed at Junior’s body and had my answer. The double wanted him dead—or me framed for the murder—or both, but why?
I took out my phone and called Jack. It went straight to voicemail. “Jack, I love you. I’m sorry about before. I can explain—tonight, we’ll talk. Please don’t be mad.”
I wiped away a tear. Home with Jack, that’s where I wanted to be. Not standing in Junior’s office worrying about a dead hellspawn and a rumor that was going to ruin my life. I wanted Jack to wrap his strong arms around me and tell me everything was going to be okay. The morning had started out so perfect. Now I wasn’t sure I’d be alive tomorrow.
I wasn’t Fun Claire. Now I needed a way to prove it. Getting Jenny to recant the rumor wouldn’t help. Now I was sure she’d seen someone who resembled me enough to fool Junior. She wasn’t lying. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been downtown. My only alibi for Saturday was Jack, but I would die before I involved him in this mess.
I patted down Junior’s jacket, trying not to press my hands against his cooling body. I found his phone in his inside pocket. My heart skipped a beat when I located FC in the contact list. The digits were mine. I reviewed the call log. Thankfully my number wasn’t there showing that we hadn’t talked. Maybe a point in my favor.
I put his phone back and scrolled through my contacts.
I called Omar. He was a seer—a friend, sort of—someone I trusted, and the only one who might be able to help.
~ * ~
I received four company perks when I woke up five years ago. The watch—which I couldn’t remove—was the most annoying and useless item. My ability to sense veils was a necessity of the job. The translator, also a necessity, was by far the coolest trick in the arsenal. Second only to the translator was the cell phone.
It worked everywhere. There were no dead zones, black holes, or dropped calls, and the contact list contained everyone. If you had a phone, listed or not, landline or mobile—even if you were just standing near a payphone—my phone had your number.
Seers were a tricky bunch. They could literally see you coming, which was why I always used Omar. He was the one seer I could count on to answer my call. I found his name in my favorites. He didn’t have a static phone number. I never actually knew where I’d reach him. Two years ago I was quite shocked to find him at the Lucky Lady Gentleman’s Club in Vancouver. He’d assured me it was all business. Today’s number wasn’t familiar, but it was local.
“Come on, pick up,” I said.
“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?” Omar answered.
He was a hopeless flirt, but he never tried anything. It was one of the reasons I trusted him. He was as far from my type as possible, but that didn’t seem to stop anyone else from harassing me.
I didn’t have time for small talk. “I need your help.”
“Well, hello to you too.” He sounded annoyed.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…”
“What is it this time? One of the wives causing trouble? Or is one of the hellspawn...? Well, it’s one of the spawn. Who is it—Junior? What has he gone and done this—oh, shit.”
“Exactly.” I wasn’t sure if all seers were like Omar, but talking to him was sometimes hard to follow. However, it didn’t take him long to pick up on the exact problem. Now maybe he understood my urgency. “Quaid’s got the place locked down. You’ll need to use the portal on three.”
“What makes you think I know about the portal?” a voice said behind me.
I spun to face him, shoving my phone back into my pocket.
Omar could have easily been mistaken for a high school chemistry teacher. He was short, fat, and balding. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses shoved up high on his nose, a short-sleeved white, button-down polyester shirt, and a clip-on tie. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but almost anyone with lots of power wasn’t what they seemed.
Omar was powerful. I’d seen him do some pretty cool things over the years, and I couldn’t sense his veil. The only other person I couldn’t sense was The Boss. I didn’t think Omar was as powerful as the Demon King—the Devil was in a league all his own, but Omar definitely had some serious juice. Since I’d never seen him without a veil, I had no idea what realm he was from. I’d always assumed he was a demon, but his homely human veil screamed druid.
I considered him a friend, which was saying a lot—especially if he really was a druid.
He was at least two hundred years old, but that was the extent of what I knew about his history. He wasn’t any more secretive than the average otherworldly person, but considering our relationship, I was surprised he hadn’t opened up a bit over time. I wasn’t offended. It just put the crazy world I was living in into perspective. Still he was the closest thing I had to a friend.
“I need your help.”
“Who clocked you—?” Omar ogled my black eye. “Oh, a run-in with Johnny. It’s a good thing you have the lo
oks of a pagan, my dear, or that shiner would be very unbecoming.”
“No time for jokes today, Omar.”
“Trust me, I never joke about your beauty, Claire.”
I rolled my eyes. He was always so adamant about my looks.
“You’re supposed to stay out of downtown,” he continued. “It’s a rough place.”
“Yeah, I know, but I have bigger problems right now.”
Omar concentrated on my face.
“Please don’t read me,” I begged. This wasn’t the first time he’d wasted time reading my future or past or whatever it was he could see. “Please focus on the room.”
He smiled. “I just needed a quick peek.” Now concentrating on the room, he moved away before I could beg again. “Someone did a number on him,” Omar casually observed while studying Junior. “Do you have any leads?”
“Yeah, me,” I said sarcastically. “So can we maybe find someone else so The Boss doesn’t kill me?”
Omar fixed his gaze on me again. This time worry lines stretched across his forehead. He rubbed his head. He paced around the office, closing his eyes, then opening them again. His hand returned to his forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
He wasn’t fine.
He rubbed his forehead again.
“What’s wrong?”
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“About ten minutes. Why?”
He continued to pace. “No, you were here before that.”
What? “No, I wasn’t.”
He glanced at me, then closed his eyes again.
“It wasn’t me. There’s someone else—with blue eyes—” I remembered Junior’s love poem. Now it made sense why he’d gotten the eye color wrong. “Anyway. It’s not me. I swear.”
“You weren’t alone.”
“She wasn’t alone,” I corrected.