Steele grinned wider, bouncing on his heels like he was high on crystal meth.
Cowboy doubted he was. He’d known a fair-few tweakers in his time.
“...Recently, Rage Magazine dubbed him the new ‘Rock Star King of Wall Street,’ after PR Exclusive featured him in their article, ‘Quiet Rulers of the World...’ ”
Steele leaned towards the camera, grinning conspiratorially.
“Folks, he normally doesn’t do live interviews, due to the sensitive nature of his work. But we promised to help him out with his latest case if he’d agree to come on the show.” Steele’s grin stole wider as he leaned back, rocking on his heels. “That’s right, folks, we’re going to fight crime tonight! And we’re going to do it with the best in the business!”
Louder cheers and hoots broke out in the audience.
Steele swept his hand to his right, pointing at the dark corner across the stage. “Welcome to our show, for the very first time, Mr. Quentin R. Black...”
The studio musicians started up, playing more of those jazzy beats.
It was nearly drowned out that time though, when the audience shrieked.
Then screamed. Loudly.
Cowboy flinched, startled by the sheer volume and pitch.
He watched incredulously as the studio audience rose to their feet, necks craning as they looked for him. When his new boss stalked out onto that stage, Cowboy couldn’t help his lips quirking in a wry smile as the crowd went wild for real. Cheers, screams, claps and whistles broke out as Black grew visible under the lights.
Rather than the T-shirt-leather-jacket combo Cowboy had grown accustomed to in San Francisco, Black had on what Cowboy still thought of as his douchebag disguise.
A black, fitted suit that probably cost more than Cowboy’s last truck made up the bulk of that, paired with a white shirt open at the collar, showing the top of his densely muscled chest. Diamond cufflinks sparkled at his wrists. Leather boots covered his feet. A black leather belt and blood-red belt buckle were visible at his waist under the open jacket.
No military watch. No sunglasses. No tie, either, unlike in most of the boardrooms, restaurants and bars Cowboy tailed him to in the past week.
The effect was the same, though.
He looked like a rich asshole.
Black pulled it off, even managed to look mostly comfortable in it. But, like everything with him, there was still something not quite right there.
Maybe it was instinctual, some animal-to-animal thing, but that not-rightness was crystal clear to Cowboy, and had been from the moment he first saw Black in that prison cafeteria in Louisiana. Other people––maybe people who were paying attention––definitely seemed to notice it, too, in Cowboy’s observation.
Fortunately for Black, though, most people didn’t pay attention.
Pausing in the middle of the floor to shake Steele’s hand, Black’s lips quirked briefly in a smile just before he let the other man go, aiming a nod and a slightly wider smile at the audience.
They ate it up, catcalling him and hooting louder as he turned on his heel, making his way to the row of chairs allotted for the show’s guests.
Without waiting for Steele, Black threw himself into the nearest chair, plunking his weight down in the gold upholstery and stretching out his long legs like he owned the place. His whole posture denoted what his presence always managed to do––he took up space, a lot of it, as if it was his goddamn’d and God-given birthright to do so.
Still shaking his head in amusement, Cowboy glanced up at the large monitor to his right, where the show’s host filled the screen as he met Black over by the desk. Leaning over to say something to Black off-mic, Steele flashed a boyish grin at whatever Black said in return.
Still grinning, Steele settled himself behind the desk, adjusting his jacket and tie. Sharp blue eyes studied Black shrewdly from beneath a sweep of artistically messy blond hair. Intelligence lived there, but Cowboy could already see the tell-tale signs of fawning.
Black had this guy eating out of his hand.
Cowboy had no idea how Black did that, take over a room before he’d even opened his mouth, but he’d seen it with his new boss before.
Now Black smiled good-naturedly as Steele made a self-depreciating joke about Black’s looks compared to his own, earning another round of catcalls from the audience. The two of them exchanged friendly banter as Steele arranged his suit jacket a few more times, resettling himself behind his desk and grinning openly at Black.
“You’re in New York full-time now, am I right?” Steele said. “Is that a new thing? Aren’t your main offices in San Francisco?”
Black smiled back cryptically. “Not sure I can say I’m full-time anywhere, Grant. But for now, yes, New York is home.”
More cheers broke out in the audience, regionalistic-sounding ones that time.
Steele acknowledged them, then turned back to Black. “So, before we get into the crime-solving,” he said, grinning. “Tell us about the private-eye world. You’re a pretty high-end one, from what I understand, but still... how does P.I. go with your Wall Street robber-baron persona?”
Black grunted at the gentle dig, flashing a wry smile.
“I have a short attention span,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. Wolf-whistles broke out in the audience, and he aimed a predatory stare in that direction. “...And I go a little stir-crazy at a desk. I need the variety that field work brings. I get more exercise, too.”
Steele burst out in a laugh as the audience hooted again.
“You certainly look like you get plenty of exercise,” Steele said. “You also look like someone who doesn’t have to worry much about being bored.”
More shrieks came from women in the audience. Cowboy grunted, rolling his eyes.
That was another thing he’d noticed about his new boss.
Guy was a goddamn’d pussy-magnet.
He’d wondered more than once if it bothered the doc, Black’s wife.
Through the wave of catcalls, Black kept his eyes on Steele, his face expressionless. “It’s part of the job, and keeps me motivated. I do a fair bit of martial arts. Weights, too, but I get most of my cardio from running and working out in the ring.”
Once more, yells broke out, most of them from women.
Steele chuckled, adjusting his tie. “Quentin. Come on, man. Martial artist, too? Give the rest of us poor guys a break.” His expression smoothed back to serious. “Your firm just bought out another P.I. company here in New York, is that right? The Travis Hitchens firm?”
Black nodded, laying his arms on the gold armrests and relaxing deeper in the gold chair.
“That’s correct. We’re expanding. We’ve pulled in a lot of big contracts in the past few months and I needed a presence on the East Coast.”
“So you might stay here for awhile, then?”
“I might be persuaded to, yes.” Again, that smirk.
Cowboy watched his boss lounge there, like a king staring out over his subjects.
No mention of Miri, he noticed.
No mention that she was the one he spent most of his time sparring in the ring with, either.
The oversight seemed deliberate, but Cowboy wasn’t sure what it meant.
When a few more people called down to him, girls mainly, Black nodded in their general direction, adjusting his weight in the gold-upholstered chair. A few yelled out that they loved him, one shouting down a marriage proposal.
Black only smiled indulgently.
Cowboy went back to scanning the crowd, noting facial expressions and body language now that Black was the object of focus. He saw hostility on some of the men, but not many, and nothing worrisome. Most looked as riveted as their girlfriends and wives, which wasn’t all that surprising, really. People tended to worship anyone with money.
As the saying went, they either wanted to fuck them, be them, or be their friend.
Cowboy watched them minutely anyway, looking for anyone who stood out.
“So
, and I know this is indelicate...” Steele began.
Black’s smirk returned. “But you’re going to ask it anyway. Right, Grant?”
Steele chuckled. His eyes grew serious. “You must have heard the rumors. They even mentioned it on this afternoon’s ‘This is Your Money’ report. It’s no secret that you have a lot of money in oil. Or that you bet against the conventional wisdom, buying it recently. Didn’t you buy a record number of shares in just the last few weeks?”
Black hesitated. His eyes darted to his right.
Cowboy followed his gaze.
He stopped when he saw Miri standing there.
She lurked in the shadows of the stage curtain, same as he did, only on the opposite side. Her long black hair was up in an almost Asian-y style, with only a few straight strands coming down on either side of her face to accent her high cheekbones. Black’d said she had some chief blood in her, and Cowboy could see that as he looked at her now, noting the gentle slant of her almond eyes, the narrow curve of her lips. A long, dark red skirt highlighted her hips and legs over black, high-heeled boots. A cream-colored, low-necked blouse showed off every curve she possessed that the skirt wasn’t already showing off.
Damn. She really was a seriously fine woman.
It was hard not to notice, whatever Angel said.
Didn’t mean he was trying to get a leg over that, but yeah, he wasn’t blind.
Cowboy’d wondered if maybe Miri was like Black in that way. Meaning, whatever that “thing” was, that drew women to Black like ants to honey, maybe Miri had her own version of that when it came to men. It seemed quieter, if so.
Quiet or no, Cowboy’d seen plenty of other guys on Black’s team notice it, too. He’d even heard a few talking about it––in low voices, and only when Black wasn’t in the room, of course, but they weren’t immune, either. They all seemed to know the boss could be unusually “perceptive” when it came to certain things, whether they knew he was psychic or not.
Truth be told, Miri could be distracting as all hell.
“So,” Steele prompted again. “You stand to make a lot of money off your oil holdings now, don’t you, Quentin? They say the price of oil is set to go through the roof when the market opens tomorrow. That must bring some mixed feelings for you.”
Looking away from where Miri stood, Black cleared his throat.
“Are you asking how I feel about potentially profiting off the death of possibly hundreds of Americans, Grant?” he said drily, his lips curved in a delicate frown. “Um... I’m going to have to go with ‘not good.’”
Steele nodded sympathetically. “I can imagine. So it must really bother you what people are saying. What is your response to those who claim your entry into oil futures is suspicious? The price of oil was at record lows and dropping when you bought, correct?”
“That’s when you buy, Grant,” Black said, a touch colder. “When the price drops.”
“So it doesn’t bother you?” Steele persisted. “The talk about your military ties? What people are saying about you having known this might be coming––?”
“Known it was coming?” Black snorted in open disbelief. “Does it seem like the United States military saw this coming to you, Grant? Are you saying this is some kind of ‘false flag’ operation? Or just that I’m somehow connected to terrorists and traitors?”
Steele blinked, taken aback.
Black flinched, glancing at the opening in the curtains again, as if Miri called his name.
When he looked back at Steele, his expression smoothed to glass.
“Trust me, Grant. I want these bastards caught as much as anyone,” he said calmly. “I bought those shares because I believe in the American economy, and I know the value of oil. Not for any other reason. I’ve already offered my company’s services for free to the intelligence effort to catch the perpetrators of this attack, even though I retired from active duty years ago.”
The audience broke out in approving cheers, clapping at his words.
“Wow,” Grant said, beaming. “That is generous!”
The clapping grew louder, peppered with more whistles, a few shouts.
Steele turned, speaking directly to the audience.
“Okay, well, I think we’ve grilled Mr. Black for long enough. It’s time to hold up our end of the bargain.” He beamed wider, raising his voice. “Are you ready? What do you say, folks? Want to help Mr. Black catch a wanted fugitive?”
They roared in approval.
“All right then... here we go!” Steele waved his arm with a flourish towards the largest of the side monitors.
As he did, a face appeared there.
Once Cowboy got a good look at it, he scowled.
3
FINDING A VAMPIRE
ANGEL SCOWLED AT the vampire’s distinctive features as they grew visible on the lobby monitor. It was a reflex, kind of like how a bad smell made her wince, or how her fingers grazed the handle of the gun she wore at her hip when she was nervous.
“And here, we present our fugitive from justice!” Grant Steele announced. The audience booed at the face on the monitor and the show’s host grinned into the camera. “I’ll leave it up to our expert, Mr. Black, to explain the rest.”
Angel continued to stare at the face of Brick.
In her head, he was just “the vampire” now.
He’d come to symbolize for her the entire vampire species.
The crystal-like eyes looked dead, inhuman. A flush of dark scarlet bloomed from around each pupil, forming a red flower inside the irises of the vampire’s eyes. Despite that shocking hue, his eyes still managed to denote an utter lack of light.
His thick, dark hair had a faint curl to it, and hung on either side of an unconventional but handsome face with wide features and a strong jaw. A braided ponytail held up part of his hair in the back, like he was Genghis Khan. His lips quirked in a smirking half-smile.
As chillingly detailed as the image was, it wasn’t a photograph.
Black hadn’t managed to get ahold of an actual photo of Brick yet; he’d drawn this image himself, and purely from memory.
The sheer artistry of it stunned Angel all over again. It was so close to photographically real she found her fingers grazing her sidearm’s grip even now. Of course, with a vampire, she’d be better off holding an axe than a gun. According to Miri, the only way to kill these things was to decapitate them... or to cut their hearts right out of their chests.
Grimacing a little, she found herself thinking she needed to bug Black about getting some of that sword-fighting training going for herself.
“Thanks, Grant,” Black said, drawing Angel’s eyes back to him.
His gold eyes shone under the studio lights, glimmering with a flecked beauty that looked animal-like, borderline predatory. Angel couldn’t help being nervous at how much Black showed, sitting up there.
Truthfully, she wished he’d worn the damned contact lenses.
She wondered what Miri’s role in some of those little decisions had been.
She knew Miri had been coaching Black on human psychology, trying to teach him how to blend in more, how to be less conspicuous in his dealings with other people. She’d also overheard Miri coaching him on how to read body language and cues.
Angel suspected Black would never blend in entirely, of course. She was reasonably sure Miri would agree with that assessment, too.
Still, with someone like Black, there were degrees of not-blending that could be dangerous. Miri was likely trying to help him avoid those. After all, “eccentric and abrasive” had a pretty different ring than “there’s something seriously not right with that guy,” much less “he might not actually be a human being.”
Watching as Black gazed out over the audience, eyes narrow, his expression stone-still, Angel found herself thinking Miri was only half-succeeding.
Even now, too much of the real Black showed through. Noting the emotion playing subtly across his angular features, she also wondered just how well
he was recovering from everything that happened to him in that jail.
Physically, he looked good.
Something was still off with him, though––not the usual Black off-ness, something else. Something was off with him and Miri, too. No one would talk about the strangeness between the two of them, however, definitely not Black himself.
Miri wasn’t talking about it, either, and that wasn’t like her.
“What I need is simple,” Black said now, crossing an ankle over one knee. “I’m looking for any information I can get about the man depicted on that screen.” He aimed a finger at Brick’s likeness without looking at it. “And I do mean anything. A random sighting on the street. Business contacts. Known associates. Aliases. Family. Friends.” His voice grew a shade colder. “Even the most inconsequential-seeming detail could help us find him.”
“Aliases?” Grant Steele grinned. “I love it! Secret spy stuff!”
Black smiled back, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Actually, it’s pretty boring, run-of-the-mill detective work, Grant. The most basic part of my job––finding someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
Adjusting his weight in the gold chair, Black gestured vaguely but gracefully with one hand, another of those weird mannerisms of his that Miri seemed to be picking up, too.
“...He has a lot of money,” Black added. “Which makes him more difficult to catch than most. He’s also got zero online footprint. We’ve got intelligence that he works via a number of proxies, both online and in the real world, particularly for his less-than-legal activities. So he’s definitely a more sophisticated type of fugitive.”
“What ‘less-than-legal activities’ would those be?” Steele said, grinning like a kid playing a game. “What kind of evil mastermind are we talking? Murderer? Embezzler? Serial tax-evader?”
Black aimed a level stare back at him. “He’s wanted for crimes across multiple countries, Grant. Murder, yes. Trafficking, too.” He paused. “He’s also wanted on charges of conducting and abetting terrorism in both Europe and the United States.”
Grant’s expression abruptly sobered.
Black Of Mood (Quentin Black: Shadow Wars #2): Quentin Black World Page 4