Storm (The Storm Chronicles Book 6)

by Skye Knizley

  The floor, which had once been made of specially cut marble tile, was now stained black with blood and the luxurious plants that had filled the garden were now nothing but dead and twisted vines reaching for what little sunlight still trickled through the glass dome three stories above.

  From this central location, glass doors, now broken and hanging from their hinges, led out onto balconies overlooking the ocean only a story below, while French-style doors opened into corridors fore and aft. The forward section contained the spa, another casino and row after row of what they called ‘Ocean View Staterooms,’ which meant they had small windows at a premium cost.

  The aft corridors led to the crew quarters, main galley and, eventually to the antique diesel-electric engines that drove the ship. Aspen pointed to a door that read ‘Crew Only’.

  “That way. The maintenance corridors are that way.”

  Raven checked the door and found it locked. She braced her free hand against the wall and pulled; the lock didn’t stand a chance. It popped free and she looked beyond into the red-lit corridor. Unlike most of the ship, it smelled of old age and stale air, as if no one had been inside in a very long time.

  “Right. Aspen, stick close behind me. Kane, you too.”

  Kane frowned. “Should I not go first? You are wounded and have not fed.”

  Raven paused. Then said, “No. You’re fresh. If anything happens I want you to get Aspen the hell off this ship.”

  “Wait a second, don’t I get a say?” Aspen asked.

  “No.”

  Raven pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chicago, Illinois, 1501 57th Street, 11:00 p.m.

  It had taken the better part of an hour for local police to respond. Though the storm’s fury had all but abated, the rapid snowfall and ice had left the streets a mess that only four wheel drive vehicles could navigate, something the city had on short supply. Mauser himself, all fire and fury in his big blue overcoat and bristling mustache, had responded and was none too pleased to find that Levac and his “psychotic partner” had been involved in another shooting. Levac had filed a preliminary report with Detective Murtaugh and left with Sable, who had succumbed to hunger and choked down most of the bottle of Claret Levac had found.

  Levac now stood outside Nevermore Books on 57th Street. It was a three-story building constructed of red brick over concrete set in the middle of the street apart from the surrounding buildings. At this hour, the bookstore was indeed closed, but lights still burned in the office and the staircase that led to the upper floors, where Sebastian Pace was known to have his residence.

  Levac shivered in the frigid wind still blowing from the west and tested the door to the bookstore. As he’d suspected it was locked, but one of the guards within responded to his knock and opened it when he flashed his badge through the window.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  He was tall, with a military ‘high and tight’ haircut and the kind of navy blue suit that only ex-military buy.

  “Agents Levac and Tempeste,” Levac said with a smile. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Pace, please.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock, Agent… Levac, was it? Come back in the morning,” the guard replied.

  He began to close the door, but was stopped by Sable’s foot and vice-like grip on the handle.

  “Pace is still in his office. We’d like to speak with him,” she said.

  Levac gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Please.”

  The guard looked at Sable, then back at Levac and sighed.

  “Alright, fine. But wipe your feet, the cleaning staff was already in for the night.”

  He stood aside and allowed Levac and Sable to enter before closing and locking the door behind them.

  The inside of the store was the kind of place Levac thought existed only in B-grade horror films. Shelves laden with so many books they sagged vanished into the distance in every direction beneath antique salad bowl lamps. Where there were not shelves there were locked glass cases holding antique folios or heavy reading tables cleaned and polished for tomorrow’s customers. The whole place smelled of old paper and the ancient knowledge only venerable books could contain. Sable flipped through a nearby book and tossed it back on the table with disdain.

  “Read it,” she said.

  “Be careful!” the guard said. “That is an original 1890 copy of The Sign of Four.”

  Sable shrugged. “Small did it.”

  Levac looked at her in surprise. “You’ve read a Holmes novel?”

  “I’ve read most of them, so what?” Sable asked.

  “Well, you just don’t seem—”

  Sable folded her arms and arched her eyebrow in a way that was very reminiscent of her sister. “What? Didn’t seem smart?”

  “No, and don’t be so damn defensive. You don’t seem the sort to spend much time reading,” Levac replied.

  Sable rolled her eyes. “I’m a beach reader. Can we go ask your questions, please?”

  “Yes, lets,” said the guard, who had been watching the exchange. “This way, please.”

  Levac made an ‘after you’ gesture and followed Sable and the guard through the maze of tables and shelves to the back corner of the store, where lights flickered in the store’s small office. The guard held up a hand for Sable and Levac to wait then knocked on the open door.

  “Sir? The FBI is here to see you, Agents Levac and Tempeste,” he said.

  “At this hour? Did you tell them to buzz off?”

  Levac stepped into the doorway behind the guard. “No, sir, he invited us in. My partner can be quite persuasive and this is important.”

  Sebastian Pace was an older man with silver-grey hair parted on the left, glasses that had gone out of style in 1979 and an oversized nose that made him look like a giant gnome. He was dressed in a yellow cardigan with threadbare sleeves, a white dress shirt and sweat pants. He looked nothing like the millionaire book dealer and every bit the eccentric he was reported to be.

  Pace took off his glasses and tossed them on the pile of books in front of him. The room where he made his office was small and cramped; every available surface from the heavy wood desk to the side table to the four antique bookcases was laden with books and papers of every type. Most were old, but a handful of well-kept paperbacks were mixed among the valuable folios and antiques. The books were not the only decoration, however. Curiously, the room was lit with a pair of antique gas lamps in the wall behind Pace, and the walls were covered in framed black and white photographs of Chicago scenes.

  “Do you have a warrant?” he asked.

  Levac pushed past the guard with a quiet “excuse me” and pulled out his notebook. “No sir, we do not.”

  “But we can get one,” Sable added.

  She hadn’t bothered with politeness, she’d pulled the guard out of the way by his collar and entered behind Levac.

  Levac licked his pencil. “This will just take a few minutes. Do you know a Brian Sandoval?”

  Pace leaned back in his chair. “I can’t say that I do. What’s this about?”

  Levac smiled. “Murder, sir. Of Mr. Sandoval. Have you ever owned an antique hospital mirror? The kind they used to put over hospital sinks.”

  Pace looked confused. “Of course not! I’m a collector and seller of books, why would I own something like that? Why are you asking me these things?”

  Levac glanced at the guard. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  When he didn’t move, Sable pushed him out the door and closed it in his face.

  “Thank you,” Levac said without missing a beat.

  “You can’t just barge in here—”

  Levac held up a hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket, along with a handful of food wrappers that promptly fell on the floor.
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  “Apologies, but could you just look at this photo for me?”

  He held out his phone. Pace donned his glasses and frowned at the image.

  “It’s a handprint, so what?”

  “Indeed it is, sir. Your handprint, to be exact. In blood. Have you any idea how it got on the back of a mirror owned by Mr. Sandoval?”

  Pace folded his arms. “None at all. I told you, I don’t deal in mirrors.”

  “Of course. But it is there, and in an hour or three I’ll have the blood type, as well. Can you tell me where you were at approximately seven this evening?” Levac asked.

  “Here. Having dinner with my cook. Do I need to get a lawyer?”

  Sable stepped forward and sniffed at Pace. “You’re lying, little man.”

  Levac made a note on his pad. “An attorney is your right, Mr. Pace. I agree with my partner, though she is more talented than I. You’re lying. What are you hiding, Mr. Pace?”

  Pace stood and put his hands in his pockets. “I think it’s time for you two to leave! If you have any further questions you can contact my attorney.”

  He tossed a business card on the table and raised his voice. “Anthony, escort these people out!”

  The guard outside opened the door and entered, his coat now unbuttoned. The threat was clear and, in Levac’s opinion, stupid.

  “You really don’t want to threaten Federal agents with violence,” he said.

  Anthony smiled. “Let’s go, Agents. You’ve worn out your welcome.”

  Sable moved away from Pace and looked up at the guard. “We leave when my partner is done with his questions.”

  “He’s done,” the guard said with a sneer.

  Levac had only ever see one person move so fast. One moment Sable was just standing there with her arms folded. The next her revolver was in her hand, pointed at Anthony’s nose.

  “Listen, pal, I haven’t killed anyone all week, and I’m feeling itchy. So unless you want your brain decorating that wall behind you, I suggest you settle down and let my partner work,” she growled.

  “Thank you, Sable,” Levac said to cover his astonishment. “Mr. Pace, may I have the name of your cook, please? And tell me, what did you eat?”

  “Jesus! I thought Feds went by the book!”

  Levac shrugged. “We have our own book. The name and meal, if you don’t mind.”

  Pace fumbled with his pockets. “Evans, Rosalie Evans. We had chicken parmigiana with a glass of red wine then she went home, I got her a cab so she didn’t have to take the train in the snow.”

  “That was very kind of you. Please, take your hands out of your pockets,” Levac said.

  Pace pulled his hands out of the sweater’s pocket. He held a medicine bottle in one hand.

  “Just my medicine, you two are making me nervous,” he said.

  “My apologies for that, it was not our intention,” Levac said. “Now to something I’m sure you are far more interested in. What can you tell us about The Book of Nine Gates?

  Pace frowned, obviously confused by the change in subject. “It is a book of Satanic rituals, a sort of Lucifer’s Bible. It is quite valuable, if you can get your hands on one.”

  “Which you have, I understand. Have you ever tried to use it?” Levac asked.

  “How did—”

  Sable looked over her shoulder. “It’s our job to know things. Just answer the question, have you ever tried any of the rituals in the book?”

  “Of course not! I don’t believe in any of that mumbo-jumbo. It’s just a valuable old book, nothing else,” Pace said.

  Levac smiled again and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “Of course sir, of course. Nobody believes in magik anymore, do they?”

  He turned away, fumbling in his pockets for a chocolate bar. When he found it, he turned back. “Just one more thing, Mr. Pace. If you don’t know Mr. Sandoval, why is there a picture of him on the wall beside you?”

  Pace glanced at the old photograph, one among many. The fact he didn’t have to look for it told Levac everything he needed to know.

  “Which one?” Pace asked.

  “The one you just looked at, the two officers in front of District One. It was taken back in the 1960s, I would guess. The officer is Mack Storm. Stay close, Mr. Pace.”

  Levac looked at Sable, who motioned at Anthony with her revolver. He backed away and Sable kept him covered until they reached the door. Levac unlocked it and they stepped outside into the cold.

  “Why didn’t we take him in?” Sable asked as she put her revolver away. “He was lying and you know it.”

  Levac huddled in his coat. The wind felt like it was going right through his skin and freezing his bones. “Because all we have is circumstantial. A hand print that is probably not in the victim’s blood and a photograph isn’t enough for a murder conviction and he will walk without even a slap on the wrist.”

  “Yeah, but if he’s a monster or something, he’ll resist and we can kill him, problem solved,” Sable said.

  Levac had to admit she had a point. But he didn’t know for sure that Pace was anything but an eccentric bookstore owner. Until he was certain, they just had to play it by the book.

  “Come on, let’s see if we can find this cook of his, it might be a moot point if he’s got a reliable alibi,” he said.

  Sable turned up the collar of her coat. “Rupe, it’s the middle of the night, even people in Chicago have to sleep eventually.”

  Levac started down the street to where he’d parked the Land Rover. “King said this was important and it isn’t after midnight. Come on, I’ll even let you drive.”

  Sable joined him, kicking snow as she walked. “Do you even know where we are going?”

  Levac pulled out his phone. “How many Rosalie Evans can there be in Chicago?”

  It turned out there was only one and she lived only twenty minutes from Nevermore Books in a tenth floor apartment on Elm Street. The clocks nearby were just chiming midnight when they parked across from the building, which was one of Chicago’s older neighborhoods. The building itself was constructed of grey concrete and red brick façade, with a bar on the first floor next to the lobby. Levac followed Sable into the small foyer and rang for the elevator. It arrived a moment later and they rode to the tenth floor in silence, save for the elevator music playing butchered versions of popular 80s rock songs.

  The tenth floor was much the same as the lobby; plain grey walls, old blue carpet that was just this side of threadbare and fluorescent lights with half the bulbs broken or removed. Levac led the way to the Evans apartment and rang the bell. It echoed hollowly beyond and an irritated voice called out, “D’ye have any ken what time it is?”

  “Mrs. Evans? My name is Rupert Levac, I’m with the FBI. I apologize for the late hour, but I need to speak with you,” Levac said.

  The door opened a moment later. A middle-aged woman with orange hair and a face with more crags than the Grand Canyon peered out beneath the privacy chain.

  “What d’ye want?”

  Her Scottish accent was even thicker than MacLeod’s.

  Levac held up his credentials. “Mrs. Evans? Agents Levac and Tempeste, FBI. Could you tell us where you were at about seven p.m. tonight?”

  “’aving dinner at my employer’s place. I work for Sebastian Pace, I’m his cook, I am,” she said.

  Sable leaned against the wall looking bored. “What did you make him for dinner?”

  “I made us both some chicken, Italian style,” she said.

  “And you ate together?” Levac pressed.

  Evans shook her head. “No, sir. I never eats with Mr. Pace. I make dinner and ‘e lets me eat there at his home. I clean up and leave ‘is in the oven to keep it warm.” She eyed them and asked, “What’s this about?”

  “So, you didn’t see Mr. Pace this evening?�
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  “No, I only see him on payday and grocery day. A private man, is our Mr. Pace,” Evans said.

  Levac made a note on his pad. “Thank you, Mrs. Evans. We’ll be in touch.”

  He turned from the door to Sable, who was smirking.

  “Fine. You were right. His alibi is bogus, let’s go try to arrest him,” he said.

  “Finally!” Sable said with a grin.

  Levac was following her down the corridor when he heard a scream from Evans’ apartment. He turned back to the door and tested the knob. “Ms. Evans? Are you okay?”

  There was no answer. He looked at Sable, who drew her revolver and kicked the door hard enough it fell off the hinges. She followed it through and Levac was a scant step behind her, pistol in hand.

  The apartment was the same basic floorplan as nearly every middle-class unit in the city. The door opened into a small foyer and closet next to a galley kitchen. Ahead was a small living area with two doors leading to bedrooms on either side and a short hallway and bathroom. It was also in the same color as most apartments: Beige, with muted carpet and off-white baseboards. You could have any color in Chicago, provided it was a shade of beige.

  “Ms. Evans? It’s Agent Levac, where are you?”

  Sable passed through the kitchen and checked the first bedroom while Levac circled the living area.

  “Clear!” she called out.

  Levac flicked his eyes as her and pushed the door to the master bedroom. It creaked open on a tidy bedroom that was more colorful than the rest of the apartment, decorated in shades of purple. The king-sized bed was covered by a black and purple duvet and the furniture was antique.

  “Clear,” he said.

  Sable’s lips tightened and she started down the hallway. Her hand touched the doorknob and she opened the bathroom door. It opened slowly and brushed against the head of Rosalie Evans who stared at them accusingly from a pool of her own blood. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear so deeply that her spine was visible inside the pale-lipped wound.