He forced a smile and nodded.
“I want you to stay around the office until further notice,” she went on. “If you must go home, bring Riley with you and arrange for her to meet you in the morning as soon as possible. At least until I track your assailant. It’s possible he’s connected to the current case, but it might be something else—a leftover supporter of Gabriel’s, perhaps. In any event, stay out of danger.”
Remy neither agreed nor disagreed. He merely raised his eyebrows to indicate that he’d heard her speak and avoided answering.
The rest of the drive was peaceful. Soon, they arrived at their headquarters in Bushwick.
Presley waited while they unbuckled themselves. “Good evening to you both,” he said. “I will return before dawn unless instructed otherwise.”
“Thanks for the ride, Jeeves.” Remy climbed out.
As he and Taylor strode toward their office, he decided to make more conversation now that his anger had begun to fade. “So, have we decided on things like an Office Hours sign yet? Or how to deal with official inquiries into anything we’re investigating?”
She unlocked the door and they stepped through. The lights were still on since Volz was present, tinkering with their security camera setup. He waved to them.
Taylor glanced at Remy. “I will let you know soon.”
“Good.” He adjusted his tie. “Oh, that reminds me, one of the cops said some FBI agent was asking about me. I must be really interesting. Or the guy who jumped me crossed state lines to do so, who knows.”
She stopped and folded her arms over her chest and her eyes again took on that far-flung, contemplative look.
“Hmm. Another player on the board…fascinating.” With that, she spun on a heel and glided toward her own office.
He stood and watched her go, and his skin crawled with irritation. “What the hell does that mean? Did you know about this already?”
Once again, she’d left him out of the loop.
Resolute, he clenched his jaw. As far as he was concerned, that meant he ought to keep pursuing leads on his own—and he might not even need to leave the building.
Chapter Eleven
Tenor Extended Stay Hotel, Queens, New York
Alex sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which had grown shaggy and disheveled. The cannabis enthusiasts next door had departed, only to be replaced by a music lover of sorts. Now, a seemingly endless barrage of Cardi B, Eminem, and other such American artists assaulted him any time he was in his room at all hours of the day between about eleven am and sometime after midnight.
He used a pair of scissors to cut a cotton ball in two and stuffed one half into each of his ears. Then he settled at the tiny, scuffed desk the motel had graciously provided and fired his laptop up.
Moswen had provided the device but she hadn’t been particularly gracious about it.
Grumbling, he waited for it to boot and squinted in aggravation as he typed in his password. The thing was so cheap and basic. Didn’t he deserve something high-end—or at least middle-end—for his months of loyal servitude?
Once the pitiful excuse for a computer booted up and concluded its clumsy search for the motel’s Wi-Fi signal, he settled into the evening’s task—doing research on Taylor Steele and her mysterious organization.
He’d already heard of the Moonlight Detective Agency and put two and two together. They didn’t exactly advertise much, but neither was their existence a secret. They even had a website.
Alex snorted. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in a low-rent strip club, this is fucking awful.”
For an apparently influential business, they had one of the crappiest websites he’d ever seen. It looked like some secondary school kid had thrown it together as a project for an Introduction to Web Design class and barely achieved a passing grade.
“Well, at least it has the basic information,” he muttered. “Although I already knew most of this stuff. They have a new office in Brooklyn…interesting. And they’re accepting new clients.”
For a moment, he contemplated simply going in and posing as a customer. Remington hadn’t seen his face. If they suspected him, though, that would be an excellent way to end up languishing in an American prison—which was the best-case scenario. Other scenarios included Moswen burning his heart out for failing her. Or Taylor, if she was as scary as everyone said, ripping his skull off and using it to play football.
“Excuse me, soccer,” he corrected himself and allowed the sarcasm to drip nice and thick. “Over here, football is that game with the deformed ball and yards instead of fucking meters.”
He browsed around the hideous website for a few minutes in search of any kind of information beyond the vague description of the services they offered as well as the address, phone number, and email. There wasn’t much.
Scoffing, he murmured, “It makes me wonder how profitable their little venture is if they can’t even afford to hire a decent designer. Maybe they’re operating at a loss?”
His attention turned to doing a few searches with the idea that he might determine if Taylor had any prominent references, social media presence, or whatnot.
There was virtually nothing. No woman named Taylor Steele turned up in any list of university alumni, nor were there any legal records and professional accolades, nor did she have a LinkedIn profile. The Moonlight Detective Agency had a Facebook page, but it was sparse and mostly a launching pad to their lame website.
“Remington,” Alex muttered. “It looks like once again, I have to go through that arsehole to get to Taylor.” He continued to grumble while he recalibrated his search.
The difference was like that between night and day. David Remington was practically a local celebrity.
“So much for Remington Davis, like the website says. It’s clearly the same guy under an alias. You’d think he could have come up with something less obvious—like, I don’t know, Mikhail Jigoro, maybe.” He shook his head.
The strange thing was, nothing about the abundant information on Remington suggested that he was a person to be taken seriously and was merely some spoiled, rich, idiotic party boy. And yet, there he was, clearly working for Taylor’s agency.
Running a thumbnail over his lips, he considered that Taylor might be using him as part of her front for the benefit of the general public. Remington might even be funding her entire operation with his family fortune.
It was the only thing he could think of that made any sense. The rumors, the down-low pieces of advice, and the unspoken implications that he had gathered were almost unanimous votes for his final conclusion. Taylor was one of the—if not the most—dangerous beings on two legs anywhere near New York. And Remington acted as her assistant and did some of her dirty work.
Alex hadn’t wanted to face such a powerful vampire unprepared and unaided. He didn’t know how Taylor compared to Moswen, but if they were anything alike, he knew not to fuck around.
And yet, he hadn’t learned enough, hadn’t found enough leads, and hadn’t made enough progress on the mission his mistress had given him. Some kind of action, even if hasty and risky, seemed imperative.
That was why he’d targeted the human. Now, he might well have squandered his one and only chance at capturing Remington. Obviously, he couldn’t entertain the notion that Moswen would tell him that everything was okay, pat him on the head, and say that at least he’d tried his best.
For only a moment—a fraction of a second—another possibility entered his head. It was one of the types of ideas he was not supposed to have, and while he’d tried to bar such things from ever entering his brain, his prevention system was not yet perfect.
What if I went to Taylor for help? A creature as powerful as she is might be able to help. What if I asked her to remove the brand, and protect me from—
The immediate response was as if someone lit a blowtorch in front of the left side of his chest.
“Aagghh, fuck!” he cried and his hands shook as he clutched the glowing mark over hi
s heart. The agony commanded most of the attention his brain could summon, but with what little remained free, he broadcast thoughts of how stupid it was to even consider seeking Taylor’s aid, and how he would never betray his beloved mistress.
The phone rang, and the pain faded.
Gasping, he leaned forward and picked up the receiver to raise it to his right ear with a hand that still trembled.
“H-Hello?” he said. He suddenly remembered the cotton in his ears and snatched the wad out of his right.
It took a second before Moswen spoke. “Alex. I have changed my mind and decided to call earlier than planned. Please tell me of your progress.”
He was somehow relieved that at least she wasn’t overtly angry with him and so far, hadn’t made any veiled threats. The burning sensation had already done most of the talking, after all. Still, there was that hot, dusty menace to her voice. He knew better than to get comfortable or complacent with her.
“Mistress,” he began, “I have more information on the…ah, situation here and have made some strides toward carrying out your will.”
“Have you?” She sounded skeptical. “And what is that terrible music?”
Alex cleared his throat. “The neighbors. I simply continue to do what I do and try to ignore it. Anyway, I’ve learned more about this vampire, Taylor Steele. I think she, more than anyone else, is the person we need to focus on. Almost everyone in the preternatural community here has heard of her, respects her, and even fears her. She’s one of the most powerful creatures in the city. It seems her role here is to act as the enforcer of the rules—she keeps the other creatures from misbehaving and drawing the attention of the human authorities.”
“That is interesting.” The vampire considered this in silence for a moment as she turned the facts over in her mind. “She cares about humans. It would seem she enjoys playing in the mud.”
Alex recalled Moswen’s previous orders—that he was to identify the top preternaturals in New York and either convince them to become her vassals or eliminate them.
Before she could speak again, he elaborated.
“Taylor seems like she might be open to negotiation, but it’s hard to say. Many of the people—entities, beings, creatures, whatever—whom I’ve spoken to have said she’s fairly reasonable but then again, there was some incident a couple of months ago when she destroyed a group of would-be usurpers who tried to remove her from the picture. From what I heard, she killed them all and burned the ringleader’s mansion, so she’s not someone to be taken lightly.”
Again, somehow, he could hear Moswen smile.
“I would do worse,” she stated.
He did not doubt that.
“So, anyway,” he continued to explain, his words coming in a rush now, “I tried to capture her human errand boy, this poofy fuck named Remington since I thought I could lure her into a trap that way. The idea was to set up negotiations with the option to kill her if she wasn’t accommodating. But he’s usually protected by a fairy and the goddamn police intervened immediately on the one occasion when she wasn’t there. No one really saw anything aside from a random fight, it seems, but—”
“Silence,” she snapped.
Alex shut up at once, and his mistress continued.
“Your excuses do not interest me, but I want you to put that task aside for now.”
He cocked an eyebrow and hoped momentarily that she’d command him to return to base but wasn’t overly confident in such a glorious possibility. She probably wanted him to do something even worse than deal with Taylor—like kill the president of the United States and start a nuclear war with China. And without even a reservation at a decent hotel. He clamped down on these thoughts instantly before his chest could flare again.
Moswen made a deep throaty sound and it somehow occurred to him that she might have just eaten.
“There is an object I require,” she told him. “I have been trying to procure it by…acceptable means for some time now.”
Alex tried not to wince. “Tell me more, mistress.”
“My buyers have already attempted to purchase it. Several times, in fact, each time making larger and more generous offers. But success has eluded me. Those who possess it now are not willing to part with it at any price.”
He basically knew what was coming.
“I need you to steal it,” she said. “It has a name but these ignorant humans never seem to use it. Crudely and unimaginatively, they merely call it the Egyptian Black Cat Idol. As though it were the only one.” She broke off speaking to laugh, the sound like a sand dune collapsing over an oasis in the middle of a dust storm.
Alex coughed. “Where is this idol now, mistress?”
She made the throaty noise again. “They are keeping it on display at the Guggenheim Museum, a place which exists to parade works of art before the peasantry. Art! They think it is nothing but a bauble.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, “the Guggenheim. It’s a famous museum, actually. Upper East Side in Manhattan.”
“Go,” Moswen commanded, “and get it for me. Very soon. You must move before they take it to some other place, probably deeper into America. Then you would be forced to chase after it like a dog trailing a donkey cart.”
She still hadn’t fully adjusted to the Post-Industrial Age, but the image and its meaning were clear enough. New York City was already providing more than enough America for Alex’s tastes.
All he said, though, was, “Yes, mistress. I obey.”
“I must have that idol,” she rasped, her voice stronger and harsher now. “I have not yet regained my full power, Alex. But that must change. And it will because you will not fail me.”
The vampire hung up and the heavy click again seemed to echo through the receiver.
He breathed quickly in and out and scrolled inane words and images through his mind to crowd out anything that might sound disloyal as he placed his receiver on the hook. His brain tried to refocus as he sat for a few minutes and simply stared into space.
“So,” he whispered to himself. “Break into the Guggenheim and relieve them of some priceless Egyptian artifact. No problem. I got this.”
He lay on his bed and hoped the music connoisseurs next door were close to passing out by now.
“At least she doesn’t want me to kill the president,” he observed and tried not to let his voice crack and trail off into a moan. “Always look on the bright side, I say.”
Bushwick, Brooklyn, New York
Remy laced his fingers together and flexed his hands outward to crack his knuckles. He might have to do more than his usual amount of typing and clicking, after all.
“So,” he began, “let’s see exactly who this mysterious Gilmore chick is. It ought to be a good test run for our kick-ass new computers.”
As of today, Riley was back on duty. He’d picked her up first thing in the morning, handed over the requisite honey to her excited colony-mates, and they’d spent much of the day on boring legal and financial paperwork or jockeying the schedules of Taylor’s nighttime clients. Volz and Bobby carried out their own duties in the main reception area. Now, at last, with daylight waning, he could move on to his personal responsibility in the investigation.
He started with the basics and simply plugged the agent’s name into a search engine along with “FBI.” A friend of his parents—a man named Hickenlooper—had contacts in law enforcement so he also sent a query to him. The man hadn’t, as far as he knew, joined the rest of the Remington family in refusing to speak to him.
Hickenlooper replied almost immediately but that was only because he’d never heard of a federal agent named Gilmore. He indicated, though, that he might be able to inquire about her and asked why it was that David wanted to know.
“Eh,” he hemmed, “it might be better to wait before I respond to that one. I don’t actually know that guy very well.”
Riley had left a few minutes ago to talk to Volz, but due to Bobby’s presence, he couldn’t actually reply much. The
fairy drifted back, opened the door to Remy’s office magically, and left it ajar as she flew over to his shoulder.
“What are you doing, Remy?”
He waved a hand. “I’m trying to find some information. We have time before Taylor shows up and our shift ends, after all.” By now, his tiny partner already knew about the fight in Times Square and he’d briefly filled her in on the mention of the FBI lady.
The name search proved more productive, but only slightly so. When he poked around a little, it seemed that there were seven different agents named Gilmore or Gilmour, but he had no idea how to narrow them down to the one who’d sought him out.
Riley put her hands on her hips as she stared at the monitor. “They have phone numbers,” she pointed out. “You should call them all and ask which one is bad.”
Remy bit his tongue as his eyes rolled spontaneously upward. “Thanks, Riley. I appreciate the suggestion. However, in real, human life, these things usually aren’t quite that simple.”
“Aww.” She pouted. “Why not?”
He had no inclination to even attempt to answer that age-old question. Instead, he tried to look for any mention of the agents’ areas of operations or which field offices they were associated with. Any operating in New York would be the most obvious candidates. Of course, there was always the chance that his masked attacker had come all the way from San Antonio or something and that Agent Gilmore was therefore based in Texas.
Behind him, heavy footsteps plodded toward his office and came through the door, which was still stood open.
“Golden Boy,” Volz said. “What are you doing there, if I may ask?”
Remy snorted. “If I’m Golden Boy, then by rights, you’d have to be Scruffy Short Ginger Guy. It’s only fair.”
“Hah!” the dwarf scoffed. “Fair. Hmm, an Internet search involving the human authorities, I see. It looks fun…albeit difficult…”
Diamond In The Rough (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 2) Page 14