“Make the report anyway,” Storm says, all too aware of the damage a stunbommer can do it the wrong hands.
Monroe’s face goes red, and he quickly follows Leo out of the office. Remi hesitates at the door to shoot Storm a look that says she thinks he was too harsh. “He’ll find it,” she whispers, before pulling the door shut.
Storm switches on his computer. Diana’s gripes about Beatrice have been playing on his mind. He knows she will be downright smug if she knew he was doing this, but he does a search on Beatrice’s background anyway.
As he expected, he finds Beatrice is squeaky clean. She has no criminal record to speak of, and a long list of professional and charitable accolades to her name. Briefly married, then divorced but had kept her husband’s name. No children.
She had been born in England, spent a gap year in Otherworld before returning to England to study psychology at Oxford University. Then she’d practiced professionally in America for some years before returning to England eight years ago to build the charitable branch of her business with Raif Silverstone, which has flourished.
The only potential black mark against her was not on file, and he would not even know about it if she had not admitted it herself. She had not reported Raif when she found out about his questionable dealings in liberating the bonded water sprites, something she claimed she hadn’t been aware of. And even if she had been, any actions taken in Otherworld itself was outside of his jurisdiction.
Storm taps his fingers against his desk. The thought of officially reporting what Beatrice has confided in him galls him. He has no problem with anyone helping to free bonded water sprites, finding the practice of enslavement abhorrent. And he has no desire to damage the reputations of Beatrice’s charity or her donors. Yet the law may have been broken. And it is not his job to judge the ethics of it. Cops making their own judgments on which crimes to overlook leads to a slippery slope. It is his job to investigate, to follow the evidence.
Sighing, Storm grabs his phone to call a trusted friend who works in the Otherworld immigration bureau. Giving only the briefest of details and highlighting the need for discretion, Storm asks his friend to consider whether any further investigation is needed.
As he is hanging up the call, Remi knocks on his door. Through the glass Storm can see that Remi is bouncing a little on her heels, the way she does when she is excited. He gestures for her to come in.
She bounds in and thrusts her tablet at him. “We’ve got the call logs for Everett and Caprio’s calls the week of the murder. Everett’s are as expected. He spoke to Lynesse every day he was away, with the last call being the Thursday that they argued.”
She scrolls down the screen. “But see here? These are Caprio’s calls. He also called Lynesse nearly every day during the Ireland trip. Most interestingly, he called her six times on the day off the murder, all brief calls lasting less than a minute. Then this last call is at 10:00 pm, an hour before the murder window. Then nothing after that. Nothing at all. It’s almost as if he knew she was dead.”
She swipes the screen to bring up a different report. “And this came through. Forensics got a hit on the envelope that was sent to Diana. The card and coin were print-free, other than Diana’s, but there was a single thumb print on the envelope itself and it belongs to our new prime suspect, Kris Caprio!”
No wonder Remi is bouncing. She knows what this means. Storm grins. This is enough evidence to bring Kris Caprio in for official questioning.
Monroe, who had followed Remi into the office says, “Too bad Diana Bellona was wrong.” He is smiling a little, clearly excited the team are ahead of Diana on the wager.
“Diana wasn’t wrong,” interjects Remi quickly. “Not really. She said she saw the killer lurking by that window and she was right. We found Caprio’s print there. And anyway, maybe there is something off about that Grictor woman. It must be hard not to get wrapped up in a train of thought when your psychic instincts are screaming at you about something. Perhaps Diana caught onto something else. She’ll figure it out.”
Storm doesn’t disagree. Diana would benefit from some training to hone her instincts, if only she would listen. At least she’s finally admitted that she no longer thinks the killer was Beatrice.
“Let’s bring Caprio in,” says Storm. “Remi, you and Leo go pick him up.”
Monroe looks a little disappointed at this, but Storm isn’t ready to let the new guy onto the field yet. Not if he’s already lost his stunbommer. Monroe knows it too. Storm watches as Monroe takes a seat back at his desk and attacks his calls for chasing Caprio’s alibi with renewed vigor. There might be hope for the kid yet. A poorer agent would’ve used the new evidence as an excuse to give up.
Storm himself is filled with renewed energy. If he can wrap this case up today it’ll be a big win for the department, and allow the media to put the case to bed. He is still being inundated with calls from reporters. Even better, it means Diana can set her mind at rest and feel safe in her own home.
However, an hour later it becomes clear that Caprio has gone to ground. The team are unable to trace his whereabouts, and they find that his phone is switched off, preventing them from using it to find his location.
Storm’s spends an hour helping his team trawl through CCTV footage taken from the streets outside Caprio’s apartment, trying to trace his movements. They find that Caprio had packed a bag late the night before and gotten into his car and drove off. The car drove out of the city, where the CCTV trail went dry.
“The sneaky git!” says Remi. “He purposefully nudged us towards Everett’s dodgy alibi, knowing full well Everett made the better suspect. But it was him all along!”
“My calls about tracing his alibi yesterday must have spooked him,” says Monroe dejectedly.
“It’s not your fault,” says Remi. “You were following procedure.”
“I’ll call Mystics to get them to put a rush on this,” says Storm. “Leo, you head out to find Everett. See if he’s hiding Caprio at his hotel. Remi, Monroe, pay a visit to Caprio’s closest friends. See if you can smoke him out. Monroe, pick up a spare stunbommer on your way out.”
Storm’s call to the Director of the Department of Mystics is not pleasant. He is several pay grades above him and lets him know it. He gives Storm an earful about exactly how many other murder cases his department is covering, and huffs about how badly the flu has hit his team and complains that people have been inconsiderate enough to want to take leave during the summer season.
Storm is tempted to tell him he is surprised anyone from Mystics would ever catch anything so common as a cold, but he holds his tongue. When Storm refuses to back down, the director grouchily passes the call on to his second in command, for which Storm is grateful.
The Deputy Director is a brisk woman who, after warning Storm that she will not risk rushing complex magic forensics processes, tells him she will see what she can do.
Several hours later, the call pays off. Storm has joined Leo in making door step visits to one of Caprio’s close friend, when someone from Mystics calls him back.
“Hey,” the guy says in a laid back voice, not bothering to introduce himself in the usual manner of those from Mystics. “Boss-lady said you wanted to hurry this one along. You got lucky, man. We found a minute trace of blood on the small envelope, probably from a papercut. And you know we’re not too keen on blood magic without the proper approvals and escalations, but given the priority of your case, boss-lady okay-ed a locator spell. Not enough blood present to get a precise location, but we had a special consultant in today who was able to get you something better than nothing. I’ll send you what we’ve got.”
Leaving the ‘And you’ll be grateful for it’ part unsaid, the guy hangs up. A moment later a message pings on Storm’s phone. It is an image of a map of central London, marking out a diameter of just over a mile.
Leo leans over to take a look. He whistles. “How the hell are we supposed to find Caprio in all that? Hold on, let me cross
reference which of his friends living in that area we haven't visited yet.” Leo checks his phone.
“No need,” says Storm, something on the map catching his eye. It makes him curse. Caprio’s location only adds to the evidence of his guilt.
Storm zooms in on the map for Leo’s benefit and points to the center of the circle. “The Otherworld Embassy is here. The Ambassador’s annual ball is taking place there tonight. They’ll be opening a portal to Otherworld.”
“Shit,” says Leo. “Caprio has strong ties to Otherworld on his father’s side.”
Storm nods grimly. “No doubt daddy pulled some strings for the best hideout in London. Caprio’s going to run. He’s holed up at the embassy and we can’t touch him.”
Chapter 19
DIANA
The Otherworld Embassy in London is a monolith of a building set on the northern bank of the River Thames. Its main entrance sits at the top of a sweeping cascade of steps, flanked by two massive pillars. Streets around the building have been cordoned off by police for the night in preparation for the arrival of dignitaries and celebrities. Only two entrances have been left open; the red carpeted one at the front, and a far less glamorous one at the back for staff. No way would I have gotten in without being staff.
I have spent the morning and most of the afternoon in the building’s bowels, slaving away with preparations for first the Ambassador’s banquet, being held for two hundred select special guests and then later a ball for five hundred guests, with canapes and treats being served throughout the evening.
After meeting with Smithers, the little voice had relinquished control without a fight, seeming content to let me take over to do the menial labor. I can feel her pleasantly snoozing at the back of my mind, with an ear alert to any moments she might want to interfere in my life. I know her moods as well as I know my own now. I half wish the little voice was still in charge, because I am fairly certain the little voice would have found an effortless way to get out of the hard work.
No doubt she’d be chatting to the chefs and have offered her services as a taster by now. I am hungry. Breakfast at Storm’s and the overpriced thin sandwich that I grabbed at a nearby store for an early lunch already feel like yesterday’s memory. I’d topped up my phone credit too, with the last ten pounds in my worldly possession.
Want me to go to the kitchens to snitch you something tasty? the little voice offers sleepily.
No thanks, I say.
She shrugs. Your loss.
Five o’ clock arrives and I hurry to change into a fresh uniform. I have been assigned to table service. I have been so swept off my feet that I haven’t even had a chance to take a look at the seating charts. I rush to take a quick peek before the banquet starts and, seeing the guest list, my heart sinks. Princess Caroline and Xander Daxx have pride of place at the ambassador’s table.
The last time I had worked for the Princess Caroline she’d been furious to find me alone with her fiancé Xander. Later she had cornered me and threatened to have me entertain her guests naked. The thought that I am going to be waiting tables under her eye today irks me. I had planned to rise in the world, not go down in it. God, I feel pathetic.
The only saving grace is that I will not be serving at the head table. I glance at the rota and to my shock see the arrangements are not what I expected. Rosalie must have changed them! Somehow she has wrangled herself a spot at the head table, and now it is me that is going to have to cover it!
I rush to find Ben to beg him to take my spot, but he gives a nervous glance at Smithers and shakes his head. And so when it comes time to serving the food, I take a deep breath and march in, fully preparing myself for a small nightmare.
Xander Daxx is the guest I have been allocated to look after. When I arrive with his first course, a ramekin of Otherworld legumes and Earthly salmon, Princess Caroline does a double-take, which swiftly changes to a sneer, especially when Xander greets me with pleasant surprise. She is sitting on the ambassador’s right hand side, and Beatrice Grictor is at the ambassador’s left.
The ambassador, a stout incubus who looks in his fifties but is no doubt much older, spots the subtle expression of distaste on Princess Caroline’s face and pats her hand. “We have different customs in Otherland, my dear, though I can’t say greeting one’s serving staff is often among them.” He laughs uproariously.
Xander gives the ambassador a cool look. “I greet my friends wherever I find them. You ought to try it sometime.”
Beatrice Grictor had seemed mildly surprised to see me, but recovered quickly. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but she does comment on Xander’s ‘lovely sentiment’ and ask him how he and I know each other.
I ignore their conversation. I pour the required wine into Xander’s glass in silence, pretending I am deaf and mute, as I have been instructed to do in my training. When that is done I leave them to their conversation.
Seeing Beatrice with the ambassador has been more unsettling than I expected. The fact that he provided her with an alibi didn’t seem real to me until now. What if Storm has a point? It seems impossible that the ambassador would provide a false alibi. If so, then perhaps I ought to be looking for an accomplice. She can’t be innocent. Not after all this.
Princess Caroline does not let up on me so easily. Her expression sours every time I bring a new course to the table. When I arrive with the ‘Langue de boeuf’ — an artfully arranged cut of still-bleeding meat and some sort of frothy greens from Otherworld — she comments loudly how disappointed she is to see people sliding in life rather than improving themselves, and how she intends to improve educational opportunities in the country. And then, to everyone’s shock, she asks me what my educational experience has been.
She is supposed to pretend I don’t exist. I don’t know whether to answer or pretend I did not hear. I am not supposed to speak. I have a feeling that she full well knows that I have no higher education to speak of.
Tell the bitch to shove it, snaps the little voice in my head.
“I’m American, Your Highness,” I tell her politely.
She gives a condescending laugh. “One wouldn’t think that affects your ability to answer my question,” she says in her cut-glass accent.
Xander interrupts. “I think what she means, my dear, is that as her educational experience has been American, it has no relevance to your desire to make improvements in the British educational system.”
Caroline glowers at him.
Making no comment, I swiftly make my exit. By the time I have returned with the final course, ‘Couronne de framboises’ — a delectable little raspberry tart that makes my mouth water — the Princess Caroline is stewing. Clearly my presence here has ruined her evening.
I serve Xander his tart and am about to leave when the ambassador booms that Xander ought to try it with custard.
He tells the table at large that custard apparently is his favorite culinary discovery in this world. “Simply the most moreish yellow sauce you’ll ever taste,” he reassures his American guests.
Beatrice tries to dissuade him, but the ambassador is most insistent. “Have you tried it with this tart yet, Xander?” he demands, as if this is a challenge.
“I can’t say that I have,” says Xander.
“Then you must! Just a dollop!” booms the ambassador.
I am forced to return to the kitchens to fetch a dainty little jug of custard. When I return to the table, Xander motions amiably for me to pour a little onto his plate. I do so, and Princess Caroline insists that she will try some too.
I move to her side to carefully pour a small drizzle. She swings her elbow at me, knocking my hand. The jug of hot custard flies into my shirt, getting in through the collar and dripping down my front. Princess Caroline gives a dainty shriek and hastily pushes her chair away from mine.
Not that there was any chance of the custard hitting her or anyone else. She had expressly delivered her blow to humiliate only me.
Only the merest glint in her eyes tel
ls me she is reveling in this little victory. “Oh dear,” she says. “One hopes the poor girl won’t lose her job over this. Then again, clumsiness never did befit a waitress.”
I see a fleeting expression of distaste cross Xander’s face, but he does not chastise her in front of everyone else. A few of the nearest guests at the table are aware that Caroline has done this on purpose and they ignore it. The others clearly think it must be my fault.
Refusing to make a fuss, I hastily mop up the couple of drops that have landed at the table, and make a swift exit, my shoulders stiff but refusing to reveal my humiliation to any of the people watching me.
I am baffled and silently stewing. The coolheaded princess had always been so careful to hide her animosity in public in the past. Perhaps it means all is not well in her relationship with Xander. I don’t care. I am furious that I didn’t see it coming. That I had not knocked it onto her lap. That would have been awesome.
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