Otherworld secrets, p.3
Otherworld Secrets, page 3
“All right.” She didn’t sound convinced, but before I could argue further, she said, “I just wanted to warn you that it’s out there on the grapevine. The Eye of Pldans is gone, and Karl Marsten stole it. That’s not merely a rumor or conjecture. It’s being spread as undeniable fact. Elena is eventually going to hear about it.”
I sighed. “Meaning we need to get ahead of that. Okay. Thanks.” I was about to wind down the call when I thought of something. “Wait. Karl did some research before he dropped the security job. He said the guy looking to buy it was a Turkish national who wanted to repatriate it. But if the story is on the supernatural grapevine, I’m guessing someone else got it.”
“No, the buyer is a Turkish national. Fredrick Birkan. Who is also a half-demon collector and most assuredly is not repatriating it.”
“Not when it’s rumored to give a second power to half-demons.” I paused and then cursed. “Karl’s been set up.”
“What?”
“A valuable artifact with a supernatural history has been stolen in Philadelphia. The security company hired to protect it is the one Karl works for. And the most obvious buyer had a cover story about repatriating the Eye, which means Karl could have justifiably stolen it.”
Silence.
“Which he did not,” I said.
“I’m not trying to cause trouble, Hope. It just seems—”
“—too obvious. Which is the point. Under those circumstances, particularly with someone intentionally spreading the story, no one is going to believe Karl didn’t do it. No one except me. So I guess I have an investigation after all—prove my husband didn’t renege on his retirement and steal this.”
FOUR
I had to warn Karl before Elena contacted him. I called as soon as I got off the phone. When he didn’t pick up, I waited ten minutes before trying again. Then I took off. Karl was supposed to be at home with Nita, and while I tried not to worry, he’d just been set up to take the blame for a major supernatural jewel heist. I had reason to be concerned.
I rang again as I pulled into the lane . . . and heard Karl’s ring tone through the open windows, with no one answering. I raced inside fast enough that I almost forgot the alarm. It’s a custom-designed system, the best Karl could dream up, because, as he’d discovered three years ago, his reputation alone didn’t protect his family against supernatural thugs with guns.
The fact I had to disarm it should mean everything was fine. I could see his phone, left on the side table where he often set it down. I wasn’t picking up any chaos twinges. He’d probably taken Nita out for a walk or a bike ride.
I was telling myself to relax when tendrils of chaos slid through the open back windows. At one time, even if that chaos meant my family was in danger, I’d have lapped it up. That was the hell of my demon hunger. Even when it meant someone I loved was in danger, I was like a crack addict getting a long-overdue fix. Then Nita came, and I lost just enough of that hunger that while I still paused, unable to resist an initial rush of “Damn, that’s good stuff,” it only lasted a split second. Then I was racing toward the back door, my gun in hand.
A scream cut through the yard. My child’s scream. Any lingering trace of that chaos buzz evaporated. I yanked open the back door and—
“Daddy! Do it again! Again, again, again!”
A splash and another scream. No, not a scream. A squeal of delight. Karl and Nita were in the pool. That was the chaos I’d picked up. Happy chaos. I stood in the doorway, letting it wash over me as I smiled.
My daughter has brought so much into my life, but this is one of the most treasured gifts, and one reason we never rein in her exuberance. Joyful chaos is such a rare thing. And I get to enjoy it almost every day of my life. It’s like finding the one glittering diamond in a heap of razor-sharp glass.
When Karl’s phone rang again, I took out mine to see if I’d butt-dialed. I hadn’t. I walked to his phone, saw the caller’s name, and groaned. Then I answered, not waiting for a hello because I knew I wasn’t going to get one.
“Yes,” I said, “a valuable supernatural relic has been stolen on Karl’s territory. Yes, it was being guarded by the company he works for. No, he did not do it. Yes, I know rumor says otherwise. No, Karl didn’t break his vow—not the one about going straight or the one about promising you he wouldn’t steal anything of archeological significance. And, by the way, Clayton, shouldn’t Elena be making this call?”
“She’s busy.”
“I can’t imagine she’d ask you to handle this.”
“She’s very busy, Hope,” Clay said, a warning growl in his voice telling me not to pursue it. Luckily, the great thing about not actually being a Pack member is that I can ignore protocol.
“So you went behind Elena’s back—”
“When I say she’s busy, I don’t mean she’s making dinner for the twins. I mean she’s dealing with a problem, one big enough that, yes, I’m going to handle this without telling her.”
“Is it Malcolm?” I asked, my voice softening.
“The Eye of Pldans—”
“—was not stolen by Karl. Any other time, I’d be the first person to suspect him of this, and you know it. He’s quit the life.”
“Or so he tells you.”
“I’m the one who doesn’t want him giving it up because I don’t think he’ll be happy without it.”
“He’d be fine without it. He’s just too damned selfish—”
“Enough.”
“I know you don’t want to hear that, Hope, but it’s the truth. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about you and Nita. I’m saying he cares enough to pretend he’s given up thieving. But he’s sure as hell not going to do it. I’ve known Karl for thirty years—”
“And you’ve hated him for all thirty of them, which means you might know him, but you don’t know him very well. At all. You just aren’t interested. To you, I’m just a messed-up half-demon chick with a bad-boy complex—”
“I don’t think . . . All right, I did. I don’t anymore. But I still believe the fact that you’re married to him and he’s the father of your children means you’re going to cut him some slack, not look all that hard and see him for what he really is.”
“Huh. You know, I’ve heard that before. But they were talking about you and Elena.”
He gave a soft growl. “That’s—”
“Elena knows exactly what you are. No illusions. Same with me and Karl. My husband is an egotistical, arrogant thief and a werewolf with a brutal reputation, which he earned. But if he tells me he quit the life, then he quit the life. And I’d stake my own reputation—and my pride—on shouting that from the rooftops. But I’ll save my breath and focus my energy on a more productive show of support—proving he didn’t do it.”
“Fine. Do that. Elena doesn’t need this shit. Not now.”
“And I’ll ask again, is it Malcolm?”
“Elena will be calling a Pack Meet to discuss it. Make sure Karl’s there.”
“I always do. Would you like me to come up and take the twins out with Nita? This doesn’t sound like the kind of Meet where you’ll want kids around.”
“It’s not, but Elena would like you at the meeting too. Vanessa’s coming to look after the kids. She says she’ll take them to the range and teach them to shoot.” He paused. “I think she’s kidding.”
I smiled. “Hopefully. But I can leave Nita at my mom’s if—”
“Bring her. Kate’s been asking when she’s coming up again. Apparently, she has baby name ideas, and she’s decided Nita is the one to give them to.”
“Oh, Nita has already chosen her name for the baby: Rainbow.”
Silence. Then, “And if it’s a boy?”
“Rainbow.”
That got a soft chuckle. “Okay.”
“Believe me, we have no intention of letting our three-year-old name our child. But tell Kate yes, Nita will be there and—”
The screen door flew open with a screech of “Kate!” Nita had overheard me on her way in. She raced across the floor, water spraying everywhere, a river forming behind her.
“Nita, no!” I said. “You’ll slip—”
She was already beside me, chanting, “Kate, Kate, Kate,” while jumping for the phone. There’s a mild case of hero worship here. Nita adores Logan too—he’s teaching her to read. But Kate is, well, a girl—one who can teach her all kinds of special girlie stuff, like how to climb trees and then cannonball off them into the pond behind Stonehaven.
“It’s not Kate,” I said. “It’s her daddy.”
Nita yanked on my pant leg with “Kate! Want to talk to Kate. Wish her Happy Birthday!” She singsonged the last two words as loudly as she could.
“You called and wished them both Happy Birthday two weeks ago . . . on their actual birthday.”
A voice in the background said, “Is that Nita?” It was Kate, her werewolf-sharp hearing apparently picking up my daughter’s screeches.
“Who else?” Clay said to his daughter.
Kate’s chuckle sounded remarkably like her father’s. She’s almost as much of a handful as Nita—always on the go, usually up to trouble—but for Nita she finds a well of gravitas and patience that surprises everyone.
“Let me talk to her,” Kate said. Then, after Clay handed her the phone, “Hope?”
“Hey, Kate.”
“Kate!” Nita crowed. “Kate, Kate, Kate!”
“I’ll pass you over before she yanks off my leg. When you’re done, just tell her it’s nap time. She likes her naps.”
“Your kid is weird.”
“I know. She gets it from her dad.”
Kate laughed, and I passed the phone over and headed outside to fill Karl in.
To say Karl was not happy would be an understatement. Someone had besmirched his professional reputation by framing him for a job. Worse, they’d publicly damaged his integrity by claiming he’d taken that job after telling his contacts he’d retired. Yes, there is honor among thieves. Or, in their own way, honorable thieves. Karl had spent a lifetime building a reputation as a man whose word could be trusted, a rare thing in his line of work. Now someone apparently had “proved” otherwise, and it didn’t matter if he no longer needed that reputation. In fact, it was worse coming after he’d retired—a black mark at the end of a career, reversing the legacy he’d left.
Personally, I was a whole lot more concerned about the damage this did to his position with the Pack. There’d been a time when he would have brushed that off. Hell, there’d been a time when part of him would have said, Hmm, maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll kick me out . . . He’d stayed in the Pack because I wanted it for him. But it was different now, with Nita and another child on the way. The Pack is “his” side of the family, and our children need that as much as they need my side. Moreover, they need the protection the Pack offers. So, yes, while he didn’t think this jeopardized his position, he wanted the matter cleared up.
Karl and I were up half the night planning our investigation. Lots of questions to answer, starting with why Karl had been framed and ending with whodunit.
We knew who the buyer was: this Fredrick Birkan. Had he framed Karl? That didn’t make any sense. It must have been the thief. Was he someone with a grudge against Karl? Or someone who merely hoped to blame him for the crime? Whatever the motivation, we had a mystery to solve and a false accusation to clear.
FIVE
The next morning, we dropped off Nita at my mom’s. Then Karl met with Joel and the security team, having agreed to look over the plans.
At one o’clock, I joined him at the scene of the crime. Joel didn’t question Karl bringing me along—my journalism gave me an investigator’s eye. But Karl also wanted me there for my chaos detector.
The Anatolian Hoard had been rented to a woman by the name of Melinda Fitzwilliams. Actually, Lady Fitzwilliams. Apparently she’d married into the name and Joel said she insisted on using it. It’s Philadelphia—we get some of that, as I well know from my days as a debutante.
The Hoard’s owner hired it out for events—a private exhibit to liven up your next charity gathering. The necklace was supposed to have been worn by Lady Fitzwilliams. Joel’s men had brought it to her house and secured it in the safe they’d installed specifically for this purpose. It had disappeared from there.
The only chaos vibes and thoughts I picked up from Lady Fitzwilliams were the ones that said she was dreadfully worried about the effect this whole nasty business would have on her sterling reputation. Also, she thought Karl was hot. Thoughts like what is a man like that doing with a little chit like her thrummed with the anger and angst of a woman whose own husband had —according to our research—recently left her for a twenty-three-year-old.
Lady Fitzwilliams took us to where she kept her safes—in a panic room they’d installed after a neighborhood home invasion a few years ago.
“Who had access to this room?” Karl asked.
“Only my family.”
“Does anyone on staff know the code?” I asked. “For cleaning or checking the alarms?”
“Of course. The room does need to be aired out weekly, and I like the emergency water replaced every month.”
“Who does that?” I asked.
“The housekeeper. She has the code posted in her instruction book.”
“Which she keeps . . .?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Is it secured?”
“The book? I wouldn’t know.”
In other words, this “secure” room was about as secure as my college dorm, where my roommate would pass out keys to everyone she knew in case they needed a place to crash.
There were three safes in the panic room, because, apparently, Lady Fitzwilliams had a lot of things she considered valuable. One held papers. Another contained jewels and other tangible treasures. The third had been installed specifically for the Anatolian Hoard, to comply with the owner’s requirements. Karl examined it at length and then said, “There are two ways of opening this: with the combination or a stick of dynamite. Possibly multiple sticks.”
When I glanced over, he gave a small shake of his head, which meant he couldn’t open it either.
“Which means obviously the thief had the code,” Joel said.
“Yes,” Karl said.
Joel looked at Lady Fitzwilliams, who squawked and said, “You have the code. Your men installed it.”
“No, you reset the code,” Joel said, “as per our instructions. My man showed you how and then he waited in the hall.”
She deflated. “Oh. Yes. That’s right.”
“Who had access to that code?” I asked.
“Only me.”
“Did you write it down anywhere?”
“Of course,” she said, bristling. “With my Internet passwords.”
“Is that secure?” And please don’t tell me they’re in the housekeeper’s book.
“It’s in my bedroom wall safe.”
That led to further questioning about who had access to that safe, at which point the woman declared, with absolute conviction, that only she did. Well, as far as she knew. But her sons might. And maybe her ex-husband. She’d been meaning to change the code after he’d left . . . However, none of those three people had been in the house between the time the Hoard arrived and the time the necklace was discovered missing.
The most likely answer, then, was that someone on staff had it, because God knows she’d probably written her wall-safe code somewhere else, too. Which meant, as we’d suspected already, it was an inside job.
When we were done in the panic room, Lady Fitzwilliams didn’t realize I stayed behind as Karl diverted her with the smiles and personal attention that had charmed many jewels off wealthy and lonely women. Alone in the panic room, I focused on picking up leftover chaos. I can catch visions of past trouble, but it’s always been an unreliable power, becoming even more so after Nita’s birth. Given that we also had no reason to suspect anyone had been hurt in the robbery, it wasn’t surprising that I caught nothing. I rejoined them in the parlor.
We started by questioning the young man who’d served as security—Joel’s firm having advised a round-the-clock guard for the house while the Hoard was there. Lady Fitzwilliams had insisted on hiring the person she usually used, because he was the grandson of her butler. Yes, there were so many flaws in this security “plan” I could have stolen the Eye myself.
Joel’s staff had come up with a sound concept on paper, but they hadn’t factored human fallibility into the equation. He needed to contractually insist that the client follow his instructions to the letter or it voided his responsibility.
The young guard—Miguel—put out some serious chaos vibes. But the thoughts I picked up were only, Holy shit, they think I did it and now I’ll lose my job and my girlfriend will dump me and I won’t be able to pay off my bike and . . . In other words, scared rather than guilty.
We continued interviewing household staff. Lady Fitzwilliams lived alone and yet maintained a butler, housekeeper, maid, and cook. Does that seem wasteful? Maybe, but it was her money to waste, and if she was paying the wages of four people for what was probably light work, I saw no problem with that.
When we got to the maid, I picked up stronger chaos vibes. Not worried for herself, but for someone else. I couldn’t tell who. I’m not a mind reader. I can only pick up fully formed mental sentences strumming with fear or anxiety or anger. Usually, though, chaotic thoughts are more a jumble of words, tangled in free-flowing thought. That’s what I got from the maid.
During the interview, I turned my sympathy on full blast. If Karl’s questions had even the slightest edge, I reworded them. When she mentioned she’d gone to Zumba class the day of the theft, I professed an interest in learning and derailed the conversation for a few minutes, getting her to relax. After she left, I slipped out to use the bathroom, and on my way back, she appeared and motioned for me to follow her outdoors.
