War Song (The Rift Chronicles Book 2)

by BR Kingsolver

  We reported what we knew so far, and Whittaker simply listened. When we finished, he said, “I haven’t received any such letters, but I’ll ask around. After the bombing in Prague, we have set up a task force to investigate the HLA here in the Mid-Atlantic. Send me copies of those letters.”

  Chapter 6

  Novak and I drove out to the Carpenters’ house. Forensics was still there gathering evidence, and we still had Aaron’s study blocked off, along with the adjoining rooms and hallways.

  “Any idea how the attacker got in, or out?” I asked Kevin Goodman, chief of the forensics crew.

  He motioned toward the French doors that led to a patio surrounded by a decorative waist-high wall. A small table and four chairs near the wall were shaded by a large umbrella.

  “The doors were unlocked. The fingerprints we’ve found in the room belong to the deceased, his wife, three of his children, and the butler, plus two unknowns.”

  “The housekeeper said she never came in here,” I said. “The cleaning was all done by bots. Which child’s fingerprints are missing?”

  “The oldest daughter. We don’t have hers on file, though. But no prints on the poker, none on the knife. None on the doorknobs, other than those of the deceased and his wife.”

  “Mrs. Carpenter’s hands were covered in blood,” I said.

  “And she left bloody fingerprints all over the body and the surrounding area,” Kevin said. “But if she killed him, she must have eaten the gloves she was wearing.”

  “Is there another way into this room?” Mychal asked, motioning toward the hall door and the one to the patio.

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” Kevin said, leading us to a sideboard that served as a bar. As we walked around the sideboard, we discovered a door in an alcove to our left . It wasn’t visible from within the room. Kevin opened the door to reveal a narrow set of stairs leading up.

  “Both Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter’s fingerprints were on these doorknobs,” Kevin said. “The stairs lead to the master bedroom on the second floor.”

  I glanced at Mychal.

  “Most large Family houses have ways to move around privately,” he said with a shrug. “I was wondering how she got in here.” He moved out of the alcove. “Take a look.”

  I knew that Findlay House was a maze, but my experience with other Hundreds’ homes was limited. I stood next to Mychal, looking out from the alcove, and the scorch marks Ruth had identified as pure energy projections were directly in front of us.

  “She was trying to save him,” I said. “She must have seen the attacker.”

  Kevin scratched his chin. “If you came in here, with that great big butcher knife, would she have seen you?”

  I thought about it. “Probably not. I’d use a magitek cloaking device—”

  Both Mychal and Kevin were nodding.

  “No one saw any visitors,” Mychal said. “No visitors to the staff or the other residents, no deliveries. No one in the house was alone at the time Mrs. Carpenter screamed. Everyone has at least one other person to vouch for them. So, someone snuck in, started a row with Aaron Carpenter, Mrs. Carpenter heard it and came downstairs, and the murderer escaped through the patio.”

  “So, you’re saying that either the killer was an illusionist, a magitek, or is wealthy enough to purchase very expensive equipment but uses a kitchen knife to kill the victim. Or, has another way to hide themselves.”

  Mychal shrugged. “How much would a cloaking device cost?”

  I named a sum that made a fancy robot seem cheap and saw both men’s eyebrows rise. “At least that’s what I would charge, and I wouldn’t sell one to a criminal.”

  I walked out into the middle of the room. With a wave of my hand, I turned the lights on and then off. I had felt the magitek device the first time I entered the room.

  “Look,” I said, “it’s a little different than using magik to control something mechanical. You’re actually creating a device that stores magik—a very specific kind of magik—that can be released on command. Can either of you do an invisibility spell? Maybe not, but an illusionist or a spirit mage can. So, it wouldn’t have to be magitek.”

  “But you could build such a device?” Mychal asked.

  “Uh, well, I’m a quarter-elf, and although I can’t do any elven magik, I seem to be able to tap into that sort of magik sometimes. But magiteks often use collaborators. If I have an illusionist to help, I can store illusion magik in a device that Mychal can use.”

  And how did that fit with my mom telling me I didn’t have any elven magik? I looked at the scorch marks on the wall. Could I build a box like the one my father had given me only using pure energy instead of electricity?

  “Hey, we were going to take a look at the robots, right?” I said, changing the subject.

  There were six robots in the house and two more outside. Five of the indoor bots were standard models. But the one that handled the mail and cleaned Aaron Carpenter’s study had a customized magitek security system. Accessing the instructions and memory logs of the first five was simple. The last one took some clever manipulation.

  All of Aaron Carpenter’s mail was delivered directly to him, as was the butler’s. That was interesting. Doreen’s mail had been delivered to her until about six weeks before the murder. After that, it all went to Aaron. Bills from a number of places were delivered to Aaron, but some were delivered to the housekeeper, and others were forwarded to an accounting firm associated with the Carpenter Family businesses.

  Then there were Aaron’s children. The older three had their own homes and presumably received mail there. But Aaron was receiving, and presumably filtering, the mail to the youngest daughter, although not the son living at home.

  “Mychal, run a background check on the butler and his accounts. Carpenter didn’t trust him. Also check the youngest girl,” I said. “Try and figure out what she does in her spare time, how she spends her money, who she hangs out with.”

  “Got it.”

  “And check with that witch in forensics. See what else he was shredding. This guy either didn’t trust the people around him, or he was a major control freak.”

  That taken care of, I sought out the family doctor, who was supposedly monitoring Doreen Carpenter’s health and state of mind. I found him in the kitchen, sampling the cook’s berry pie.

  “Is Mrs. Carpenter available so I can ask her some questions?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Her health is very fragile. She shouldn’t be subjected to any additional strain.”

  I sat down across the table from him. “I see. Well,” I turned to Mychal, “Sergeant Novak, perhaps we should consider bringing in our own doctor for a second opinion. And please, contact Noah Carpenter and let him know that we’re having difficulty getting any cooperation in finding his son’s killer.”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant Findlay-James,” Mychal said, whipping his phone out of his pocket.

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t need to go to all that trouble,” the doctor said. “I currently have Mrs. Carpenter sedated, but I can let you know when she’s able to meet with you.”

  I had to fight the urge to kill the man. I held my breath and counted to ten. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor,” I said. “I’ll be posting a policewoman in her room with instructions to let me know when Mrs. Carpenter is ready to talk. I will also instruct her to break the arms of anyone who attempts to give the lady of the house any more drugs.”

  I turned back to Mychal. “Call Dr. Harrison and ask her to come over and do an assessment of Mrs. Carpenter’s condition. And escort Dr. Quack out of the building and make sure the uniforms know he’s persona non grata.”

  The doctor started to protest, but I gave him ‘the look’ and he shut up. I leaned forward and stared him directly in the face. “When I left yesterday, I gave explicit orders that she was not to be given anything that would interfere with her memory. I am seriously considering charging you with interference with a police investigation.”

  Nothi
ng in our background check of Doreen Carpenter revealed why there would be a physician monitoring her around the clock, or why she would still need sedation twenty-four hours after her husband’s death. The potions and herbs Kirsten was supplying her were fairly mild and didn’t indicate a condition as fragile as the doctor suggested.

  I pulled Cora, the brownie, aside and asked her in Elvish, “Is that doctor here to attend Mrs. Carpenter regularly?”

  “Oh, no. He was the first Mrs. Carpenter’s doctor, and the children’s.”

  “Who is the current Mrs. Carpenter’s doctor?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. A doctor has never come to the house to see her.”

  That begged the question of which one of the kids was suddenly concerned about their stepmother’s health.

  There were some other questions that were above my and Novak’s pay grade. Even our connections inside the Ten were likely to get us stonewalled. But our boss was the head of a Hundreds Family. So, I called him.

  “Boss, can you find out what’s in Aaron Carpenter’s will? Dispositions to his children, current wife, ex-wife, etcetera? Someone in the family called in a doctor for Mrs. Carpenter. He isn’t her normal doctor, and he’s keeping her sedated.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see what I can dig up. What’s the doctor’s name?”

  I told him and he hung up.

  Of course, I could have asked Noah Carpenter, but I didn’t know his relationship with his daughter-in-law. The inner workings of the ruling Families—like mine—often resembled the machinations, intrigues, and conspiracies of a medieval court.

  Chapter 7

  “Your grandmother called,” Kirsten said when I walked in 0ur house that evening.

  “Yeah, she called me, too, but I was busy.” I knew what Olivia wanted and was dreading the conversation.

  I pulled out my phone, but called someone else.

  “Hi, it’s Danica James. Yeah, long time. I’ve got a business proposition for you. Got some time? Sure, tonight is fine. Do you know where the Kitchen Witch Café is in Hampden? In an hour, then.”

  I hung up and saw Kirsten was standing there.

  “Want to go out to dinner at Jenny’s? I’ll introduce you to an old friend of mine. A cousin, actually.”

  Kirsten shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

  We rode our bikes over to the restaurant, and as we pulled into their parking lot, I saw that our dinner partner arrived before us.

  “Wow,” Kirsten said. “I never saw one of those in bright pink before.”

  The ‘one of those’ was a very high-end German sports car.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” I told her.

  We pushed through the door, and I headed for the splash of pink and blonde sitting in a booth along the wall.

  “Hey, Cuz,” Mary Sue stood and drew me into a hug. She smelled of roses.

  “Mary Sue Dressler, I’d like you to meet my roommate, Kirsten Starr.”

  I was used to being around Kirsten, but standing between her and Mary Sue really made me feel like the ugly duckling. You could stick a picture of either one of them on a poster, label it ‘Blonde Bombshell,’ and no one would argue.

  We gave our orders to the brownie waitress, and Mary Sue asked, “So, what’s up? Saw you on the media vids a few weeks ago. The Metro’s most famous and beautiful police detective. You should cash in on all the fame.”

  I felt my face flame. “I’m not really into the publicity.”

  She shrugged.

  I turned to Kirsten, “Mary Sue and I are distant cousins, and we went to university together. She’s also a magitek, and a damned good one.”

  Kirsten’s eyes widened a bit. “I thought all magiteks dressed in black leather and rode motorcycles.”

  Mary Sue laughed. “There always has to be an exception, and I’m allergic to biker testosterone. Besides, I have an interior design business. You know, customizing mansions for the rich and useless. So, pink and cream make Mrs. Trophy Wife feel a bit more comfortable. Say, is that why you wanted to talk to me? Thinking of turning your house into a magikal fantasyland?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Kirsten is a witch, so most of your whiz-bang would be lost on her.”

  Our drinks appeared—my beer, Kirsten’s Cosmopolitan, and Mary Sue’s pink Mojito.

  “How would you like to get rich?” I asked.

  “As long as it’s legal. I’ve got a cousin who’s a cop.” Mary Sue winked at Kirsten.

  “Findlay wants to build a magitek factory. Weapons, transportation, defensive systems.”

  She didn’t look excited. “That sort of thing is more your expertise than mine.”

  “I don’t need a designer, I need a businesswoman to run the place. Make sure the manufacturing operation is efficient, high quality, and cost-effective. It doesn’t have to produce only that sort of goods, but they’ll pay the rent. You could manufacture your own designs, also. Chief executive officer, chief operations officer, chief aesthetics officer, grand high poo-bah—I don’t care, you can have whatever title you want.”

  A bit more interest showed on her face. “How does that fit in with Findlay owning the place? They’re usually pretty hands on.”

  “I have no intention of becoming a Findlay employee. We’ll set it up as a separate corporation and give Olivia a piece of the pie in exchange for her money.”

  “It’s illegal for a magitek to own a factory.”

  “That’s why we make Olivia the chairman of the board,” I said with a wink. “We give her thirty-four percent, and we each take thirty-three. We can still out-vote her.”

  “And your role?”

  “Chief designer. Mary Sue, my grandmother wants me to go to work for them full-time, and I don’t want to. I figure if I can give them the same results, they’ll leave me alone. But I need one of the top magiteks in the world to do it. You know you’ll make money if you go into business with Findlay.”

  She nodded. “Lady Olivia is a force of nature, but I can deal with her.”

  We hammered out a lot of details while we ate and more over after-dinner drinks. By the time we walked out of the restaurant, I felt like I had a viable alternative to offer my grandmother in exchange for most of my freedom.

  “Is she really that good?” Kirsten asked as we walked to where our bikes were parked.

  “Yeah. She graduated number one in our class, while I was second. She’s a lot more ambitious than I am, and she’s a lot more girly than I am, so that should make my grandmother happy. They’ve always gotten along.”

  “She looks a lot like you.”

  I laughed. “Don’t ever say that around any of the Magi. Her mother and father were married at least a dozen years before she was born, but she doesn’t look at all like any of her sisters.”

  “You mean, your father…”

  “I have no idea. Mary Sue is two months older than I am, so I wasn’t around to see what kind of relationships my father had back then. My parents never married, and they didn’t start living together until I was born. But elves aren’t monogamous, so my mother wouldn’t have gotten bent out of shape if he screwed someone else. She has at least six half-sisters and half-brothers that I know of, all from different mothers.” I chuckled. “That’s another way you’d make a good elf.”

  My phone rang at three o’clock in the morning. I fumbled for it, cracked an eye to look at the screen, and groaned.

  “James,” I answered.

  “Sorry to do this to you, Lieutenant,” the voice of a dispatcher said, “but we’ve got a homicide in Roland Park.”

  I told her to text me the address and rolled out of bed. Roland Park was another neighborhood full of Magi mansions. I pulled on some clothes, dragged a brush through my hair, braided it so no one would notice it hadn’t been washed in a couple of days, and headed out.

  The address was only about half a mile from my place but in a whole different stratosphere. I rode through neighborhoods with fences and walls lining the streets. The mansions
inside the guarded perimeters made no pretense of understatement.

  When I reached my destination, the servants’ quarters, which were the size of Aaron Carpenter’s home, looked luxurious compared to mine and Kirsten’s house. A uniformed cop checked my ID at the gate, and I rode up the drive to the house. Small and rustic compared to Findlay House, which could rightly be called a palace, but still large enough to get lost in.

  “Lieutenant James?” A uniformed police sergeant approached me.

  “Yes. What’s going on, Sergeant?”

  “This way, ma’am.”

  He led me through the foyer, up a curved grand staircase, and then through a series of hallways to a large set of carved double doors. I judged we were at the rear of the house, and other than three cops and a couple of forensics techs, I didn’t see anyone.

  “My partner and I were first on the scene,” he said. “You got here pretty fast.”

  “I live up in Lauraville,” I said. “It’s not too far.”

  He pushed open the door, and we entered a suite of rooms. A spacious sitting room, with a bar on one side, led to a set of French doors open to a balcony. The furniture was opulent, Louis XIV, maybe? If not, excellent copies. Doors off to the left side that I assumed led to closets, dressing rooms, or bathrooms. Another set of double doors were open to our right.

  A man and a woman lay on the bloody bed. The murder weapon—an axe—was buried in the woman’s forehead. She wore a flimsy nightgown, he wore pajamas. From their gray hair, I estimated their ages to be well over a hundred.

  “Who reported it?” I asked.

  “The butler found them, and their security called it in,” the sergeant said. “That was at two-0h-seven. We arrived at two-twenty. Butler said he heard noises that woke him up. Looks like entry was through the balcony. He said that the doors out there are rarely locked when the family is in residence.”

  “Identification?”