He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I invited you into my life, remember? I taught you everything I knew, and now I’m telling you to leave. Before I can’t save you.” He gave me a pat. “Don’t deprive me of that, please. Throw an old man a bone, and let me help you.”
“What about you? Will you be okay?”
Lincoln Davis Amherst—con artist, thief, and master art forger—owned a prime chunk of Seattle property, held sway over city officials, senators, and congressmen, sat on the Seattle Orchestra’s board of directors, and was one of the city’s most respected citizens. Who was I kidding? Of course, he’d be okay.
“I’ll be fine. No more lost sleep over your life choices, which will be a boon to my beauty rest. I do wish you chose a less perilous career. But you didn’t, and obviously you love what you do.”
“Not the Knight part of it,” I reminded him.
“Not Knight, the man’s a pig,” he agreed. “I would suggest, if you must associate with lowlifes, to find yourself a better class of criminal. Like I did.” Sage advice that I should probably take.
“Now, as for this mess...” With a flick of his finger, the charts, lists, and spreadsheets all disappeared, leaving only us, the darkness, and the hum of the servers. Ejecting the disc, he slipped it into the pocket of his robe. “I believe I will hang onto this, given its delicate nature. I need something strong to drink. Come, let’s discuss your lack of self-preservation, along with how much money you will require to go into hiding.”
“I don’t want your money, Lincoln.”
“Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear over the years.” A little snort escaped him before he could stop it. “Which is why you live in a hovel, instead of…”
“My living arrangements are not your concern.”
“Of course, they are, Miranda,” he said gently, as he nudged me out of the room and shut the door. “You are the nearest thing I have to a daughter, and I worry about your living conditions. As well as your life choices.”
Following him down the hall, I thought of a thousand things I wanted to say.
“I’m not going back to that city,” I muttered with false bravado, just loud enough for him to hear. “I don’t even care if the Sheltons do find me.”
Stopping short, he whirled to face me, pointing a manicured finger in my face. “Shut up, Miranda.” The fact that those words came out of Lincoln’s mouth left my own hanging open. Never, in all our time together, had he ever been short with me.
“The time for pretending is over. This goes beyond investigating small-town con jobs and filming cheating husbands for peanuts. This is far more dangerous than Knight and his goon squad. Hiding is your only way out. This is your only way out. Swear to me you’ll go.”
He paused, his face thunderous. “For your information, you are not the only one who the Sheltons have wronged, Miranda. Don’t think for a moment we haven’t all lost something to those monsters. Because we have.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but it almost sounded like Lincoln had his own axe to grind with the family. He’d always been tightlipped about his past, and I’d never pried, knowing some secrets should stay that way. But now I wondered what he was hiding.
“Promise me you will go, Miranda.”
When I didn’t say anything, he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. I was too shocked to even react. “Swear to me you’ll go to New York.”
“I… okay, okay, I’ll go.”
“Promise me.”
“Fine. I promise,” I muttered, resentful he’d forced me to do something I didn’t want to. But his face relaxed as he released me and stepped away.
“Now follow me, I need a drink.” Marching down the hall ahead of me, Lincoln did have quite the militaristic set to his shoulders. The silver hair sticking up all over kind of ruined the overall effect; however, I kept pace with him.
I can’t go to New York, anywhere, but there.
I needed to make this perfectly clear to him. Hiding wasn’t out of the question, but there had to be somewhere else I could go.
Since it took him forever to make a single cup of tea, I used the time to replay yesterday’s clusterfuck of a case. The one thing that made no sense was Derek’s involvement. I didn’t buy him helping Frank out of the kindness of his heart. Derek had no friends, no one he’d risk his skinny neck for. Which meant he was after the disc for himself.
No, that wasn’t right, either.
He was after the disc for someone else. Someone who’d pay big bucks for it. Someone who was looking for it. Someone who either wanted what was on it… or…
My stomach shriveled up while I watched Lincoln stir about a pound of sugar into his tea. Derek was after the disc because someone wanted it back, and it didn’t take a genius to deduct who that was.
“You were such a little thing back then, Miranda, all big blue eyes and dark curls. Your pull, of course, was amateurish, but I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, Lincoln, about a million times. I know I suck as a pickpocket.”
Now that Lincoln’s tea was creamed, sweetened, and stirred, he was apparently going to take a long dive into the past. Since it distracted me from obsessing about how soon the Sheltons would be knocking on our door, I let him reminisce as I worried.
“However, when I sensed the level of magic radiating out of you, I became truly curious. I knew I could teach you everything you’d need to learn, but magic—true, raw power—cannot be taught, it must be your birthright.” Those keen eyes bore into me over the rim of his teacup. Floral, of course, the porcelain so fine it was translucent.
“Tell me more about your mad scanning skills,” I asked curiously, wondering if this was Lincoln’s true power. “If you can truly sense magic, you realize the government would take you apart to find your secret?” If they ever discovered he could gauge the amount of magic in an Elemental with no technical assistance, they’d dissect Lincoln, just to figure out how.
There was a good reason the Elemental Surveillance & Control Department had all their fancy, high-tech equipment, and even with that, there were ways to hide your powers during any mechanical scan. Early on, Lincoln had taught me how to mask my magic, although the residual effects were unavoidable. I scrubbed at my arm, still feeling the burn from earlier.
“My scans, unlike the electronic kind,” Lincoln continued, keenly watching me rub my arm, “are completely undetectable. And painless. I knew you were a level-five Hyperion, the second I saw you. From that moment, I knew I had to give you that which you did not have.” He smiled. “A home.”
“I’ve told you before, I’m not a level five.”
“I’m telling you that you are.” Lincoln’s voice turned gentle. “My dear, why do you insist on arguing? There are many things in this world you are not aware of. My mad skills, notwithstanding.”
He slid the tea away and sighed, a sure sign he was about to get down to business. “From the stubborn set of your jaw, I see you have your doubts about going to New York. What can I say to convince you?”
“Nothing.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “Oregon isn’t populated, why can’t I go there? There has to be a cabin somewhere in the woods I could hide in, instead?”
“Oh, Miranda,” he chided. “Who taught you how to protect yourself from mechanical scans? Who taught you to forge your magic into different forms? Control your powers and make them useful? I’m just trying to help.” His eyebrows lifted comically. “You could actually cooperate, for once.”
“Har har.” But his manipulation via guilt was working. Lincoln had taught me everything I knew. When he found me, I was a kid with sketchy pickpocketing skills. He’d forged me into a weapon, glossed over with perfect manners and a jaded outlook on life. “Okay, I’ll admit, you always have my best interest at heart. Despite your…” I waved at the ermine-trimmed silk robe, the silver reading glasses, and embroidered slippers, “all your fancy stuff.”
“Just part of the schtick, dear. No one looks too hard at m
e if I’m a foppish fool. Now, let’s discuss what it will take to get you to safety.”
“Anywhere but New York,” I countered smoothly. “Besides, Devilton is right next to the city. I won’t walk straight to my doom like a damn lemming.”
The quirk of Lincoln’s mouth told me he thought I was wrong about that. “My contact is in New York. I can’t change that.”
“You don’t seriously think Derek would rat me out, do you?”
“No,” he said, and my stomach settled until he added, “Not voluntarily. But apply any real pressure, and Derek will turn on you like a dime. The Sheltons know exactly what kind of pressure to apply.”
“But there’s no way they know I accessed the disc or saw what was on it. For all they know, I tossed it away,” I protested, my mind working furiously.
“If they don’t know already, they will once they find Derek. He’ll tell them everything they want to know, perhaps with certain… embellishments.” He paused, his face lighting up as he thought of something.
“Unless we get to him first. You don’t want to go into hiding, but maybe Derek will,” he commented, hopping to his slippered feet. “You know where he lives, I assume?”
“Hell yes, I know. With Derek out of the picture, they’ll never connect me to the disc. But he won’t be happy to see me, not after I handed him over to Knight.”
“In your profession, no one is ever happy to see you. Derek can be bought cheaply. Bought and paid for and given a one-way ticket to Vancouver. I have a summer rental there, which should suffice. Plus, there’s a casino right down the street. Once we tell him that, he won’t care about anything else.”
While Lincoln changed, I raided the fridge. Perrier and crème brûlée would power me through this endeavor, my diet be damned.
“I called for the car. It shall arrive out front in a moment.” Lincoln’s idea of transport was a Bentley Arnage in gunmetal silver, complete with a chauffeur in a snazzy cap. Mac, the chauffeur, never seemed to be around during regular business hours, yet always appeared the second Lincoln needed anything. I heard he’d been driving Lincoln around town for over fifty years. It was a point of pride for both of them, and though Mac had his quirks, he had longevity going in his favor. Ever the consummate gentlemen, Lincoln opened the door for me—obviously Mac was falling down on the job—and ushered me into his Beluga (not the actual whales, hopefully) leather-burled masterpiece.
Derek lived in an even shittier part of town than I did, which cheered me up immensely. Thinking it would be a miracle if we got in and out before the Bentley ended up on cinder blocks, I mentioned my fears to Mac, who outed a vintage forty-five with a crooked smile. Feeling considerably more confident, we headed up the broken concrete walk to Derek’s sagging front porch.
Derek the Douchebag was not his given name. His name was actually Charles Derek Simmons, and he came from a well-to-do family on the upper west side. Unfortunately, gambling and drugs don’t abide by social class or wealth or even upbringing. For Derek, his thirty-odd years on this planet had been a steady fall from grace, and this is where he’d ended up. In a crumbling house, conning crooked cops out of a hundred bucks by filing fraudulent police reports.
Pausing on the rotted porch, Lincoln asked, “Should we knock?”
Actually, his guess was as good as mine, since the door hung half off its hinges and creaked ominously in the wind. Had I been a betting woman, I’d wager Derek’s day had taken a turn for the worse.
“You stay there,” I warned Lincoln, a backward glance confirming the chauffeur’s gun was in his hand. “Don’t come in until I give the all clear.” Stepping through the opening, the smell of offal, rotting garbage, and blood hit me square in the face, my eyes watering so badly I had to blink the tears away.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lincoln’s annoyed whine had me putting out a hand to stop him. “I’m going in with you. Who knows what sort of… oh my heavenly God.”
Derek lay in a pool of blood—probably all his blood—his shirt peppered with so many bullet holes, the fabric was shredded to rags. This was no execution; this was a message, and I was receiving it, loud and clear.
Over the sound of Lincoln’s retching, I ordered him, “Go back to the car and stay there.” When he didn’t budge, I pointed to the door, noting how wide his eyes were over the silk handkerchief he had smashed over his nose and mouth.
“Lincoln.” I moderated my tone, which had risen dangerously high. “You need to leave. Maybe we got lucky, and no one is watching the house. Go before you get caught up in all of this. Lock your gate, your house, and tell Mac to keep his gun close.”
“Miranda…” He gagged slightly, lowering the handkerchief. “This wasn’t an interrogation.”
“Yeah, no shit. Get out of here, so I don’t have to worry about you. And don’t touch anything on your way out. Let me handle this, will you?”
“I…” He stopped when he saw my face and took another look at Derek. “How will you get home?”
“I’ll figure it out. I just need a few minutes to look around, get a feel for what happened.” For how much Derek may have told his assailants before being blown to bits. “Once I do, I’m out of here.”
“Very well.” Turning on his heel, he skirted the door. Once he was in the car, Mac ceremoniously tipped his hat to me, and they were gone. Less than two minutes had passed since we’d arrived. Please, I prayed, please don’t let there be eyes on this place right now. Let him get away.
Derek had bought it in the middle of his living room, the floor covered in pizza boxes, trash, and beer cans. The table was overflowing with cigarette butts, a collection of dirty bongs, and dried-out pizza slices. A pitiful place to meet your maker, but an even worse way to live. Circling the body, keeping my feet out of the blood, I riffled through the table filled with receipts, a few odd notes, and half-empty bottles stuffed full of more cigarette butts.
Jogging upstairs, it took me less than a minute to surveille both rooms. One was empty except for a yellowed mattress, the other was a bathroom so disgusting the CDC should be called in to mitigate. Nothing jumped out as odd, and the place hadn’t been tossed. Which unfortunately left me with Derek. Back downstairs, my boot tips almost touching the blood pool, I leaned over him.
His face was badly bruised, and he was still in the same clothes from our encounter. I sent a tendril of fire toward him, the tip barely skimming across his forehead. Cold. He was freezing, and from the lividity of the body, I’d say he’d been dead for twelve hours, minimum. Which meant he’d been killed shortly after Knight’s visit, and long before ours.
Could Knight have killed him, my cynical side asked. No, probably not, my logical side responded. Knight had uses for Derek, and a good criminal never wasted resources.
No, an outsider had killed Derek. Cringing, I sent the tendril into one of his bullet wounds, probing until I found the slug. Wrapping my fire around it, I extracted the spent bullet, and floated it over to the sink. Rinsed off, it was a large caliber hollow point, but not copper. Titanium, maybe, but I’d have Lincoln look at it, just to be sure.
Counting twenty-three holes in Derek, my first guess had been spot on. This was a clear message: Here is what happens to those who steals from us.
Tucking the slug into my pocket, I left through the back door, wove through the tangled mess of weeds, broken-down cars, and debris, hopped the corroded chain link fence, and cut down a side alley. Pulling my hoodie up over my hair, I headed toward my apartment, already knowing what I’d find.
The thing about shitty neighborhoods is, when something bad happens, it draws a crowd. Unlike in Lincoln’s neighborhood, where everyone would instantly pick up a phone and call the police, here, there was nary a cop in sight, but there were about fifty people with their cellphones raised high, filming my apartment burning to the ground.
Blending into the throng, I worked my way closer until I stood in the center of the crush of bodies, the perfect vantage point for what I had to do. I didn’t
care about the fire. It was a raging inferno, flames already licking through the roof, roaring to the sky. Everything I owned was long gone.
No, I was searching for anyone who shouldn’t be here.
Parked five houses down on the opposite side of the street, the black Escalade was a dead giveaway in a neighborhood where a ten-year-old Escort bought you street cred. The light from the fire cast the street into stark relief, outlining the pair of men patrolling the opposite sidewalk, surveying the chaos.
It took me a moment to spot the third, positioned just down from the SUV, his all-black attire blending into the shadows of the trees. There was a military set to his shoulders, as well as his jaw, as his eyes scanned the crowd, his face set in concentration. Keeping myself hidden within the throng, I watched him move. Stealthy, practiced, and confident. The twin bulges beneath his coat indicating impressive weaponry, probably the same large caliber gun that turned Derek into swiss cheese. Either mercs for hire, or the Shelton’s paid security detail. It didn’t matter. If they were here, then Derek had talked, and my current life was toast.
They were smart, heavily armed, and there were three against one, but they didn’t know this neighborhood. They didn’t know me.
The sound of distant sirens caused an uptick in crowd excitement, and I slipped off to the side, quickly taking stock of individual faces. Relief washed through me as I saw my neighbors had made it out and formed a tight, weepy knot on the sidewalk. As the first firetruck swung around the corner, the crowd raised their cameras even higher, and the trio edged back to the shadows. As the crowd split to allow the engines passage, I disappeared, leaving this most recent part of my reinvented life behind me.
Lincoln’s house was less than a mile away if I walked in a straight line. Which meant I spent my journey jumping chain-link fences and dodging patio furniture, but the route kept me off the main streets as I pondered how my life had disintegrated so far, so fast.
Betrayed by Blood: The Shelton Family Legacy : 1 Page 5