The Edge of Ruin (8 page)

Rhiana pulled the piece of notepaper from her handbag and laid it on the bar. Jack read the notation and quirked an eyebrow inquiringly at her. “I found this in Grenier’s office,” Rhiana explained. “Since Grenier thought this Sandringham guy was important, I think we need to find him, and I want you to help me.”

“That seems to be all I ever do for you guys. I find people for you,” Jack complained. “When do I ever get to be part of the big game?”

“When I do,” Rhiana said. “And before that can happen I have to capture Richard.” She laid a finger on Richard’s name where it was scrawled on the paper.

Her nail resembled a blood-tipped talon. Rhiana stared for a moment at the long acrylic nail. Thought about the optical illusion that had turned Jack’s fingers red. Thought about the news coverage of women and children trampled to death during a religious procession in Mexico when word had come that miraculous cures were happening inside the tiny shrine. Thought about the Druidic group that had decided to resurrect human sacrifice as a way to tap the power. The normally unflappable British had been shaken by that event. And these were isolated incidents. More would follow in frequency and intensity. She felt a moment of doubt, but when she weakened the bonds that held her physical body she could feel the power, flame-like, licking at the edges of thought and emotion. It was enthralling, heady, far more intoxicating than the Dubonnet she’d tried.

“Richard is this paladin, right?” Jack asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about …” Jack glanced back down at the paper. “Sandringham?”

“I did an internet search. He owns a boutique brokerage firm in New York.”

“So if you’ve already found him you don’t need me,” Jack said.

“I want you to go with me when I talk to him. There’s a connection to Richard. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Why me?”

“I’m young and a woman, so people don’t take me seriously.” Rhiana gave a humorless little smile. “At least not yet. But you’re a man. You’re famous, or at least infamous. People will talk to you.”

“Aren’t you the Queen of the Night, or the Princess of Air and Fire, or the King of Elfland’s Daughter, or some other damn thing? Take one of …” He hesitated and nervously licked his lips. “One of
them
with you. The guy will talk, trust me.”

Rhiana studied him and couldn’t control her amusement. “So, I guess you got a gander at my dad when he’s not in his human form.”

“And some others.” Jack drew a hand across an upper lip suddenly shining with sweat.

Rhiana shook her head. “I don’t want the Old Ones knowing what I’m doing until I’ve finished the job.”

“I don’t want to piss them off,” Jack said.

“If we succeed they’ll be very, very happy with me … and anyone who helped me.”

“What if we don’t succeed?”

“I’ll take all the blame,” Rhiana said.

“Yeah, like I can take that to the bank,” Jack said.

“I trust you,” Rhiana said simply.

“Why?” Jack asked.

“Because you’re smart enough not to totally trust the Old Ones. Because I have something you want, and because you’re the only human I know who doesn’t hate me.”

The words just came tumbling out. Rhiana gasped, lifted a hand to her mouth. Her stomach clenched down tight, and her mind began whirling, playing the “
I didn’t say it. Why did I say that
?
What if I’d said something else?
” game. She wanted to cry.

He missed the center of the cocktail coaster. The martini glass teetered between cork and wood, then fell. Rhiana watched the tendrils of gin catch the light. Small rainbows raced across the top of the bar.

It was Jack’s arms sliding gently around her shoulders that brought her back. “Why not? I like New York. Maybe we can catch a show.”

“
Y
ou must have some protein.” Pamela followed her father’s voice into the big granite and steel kitchen.

The judge was seated next to Richard in the bay window breakfast nook, and pushing a plate closer to her brother. Richard looked ghastly. His hair was tousled and dark circles hung under his eyes and he had gone beyond white to gray.

“I’ll throw up,” Richard said and looked up as Pamela entered.

She laid the letter down on the table next to his elbow. “I got this ready for you.” She watched as his eyes flicked across the brief and terse lines of text. She knew it by heart.

Dear Sir,

This letter is to inform you of my decision to tender my resignation from the Albuquerque Police Department, effective immediately.
Richard N. Oort

When he looked up at her, she almost took a step back at the bitter fury that twisted his face. “We haven’t discussed this. I would prefer to wait until the inquiry is over and I’ve been cleared.”

Their father didn’t respond. He just pulled out a pen and held it out to Richard. There was a look of desperate pleading on her brother’s face, but he lowered his lashes, veiling his eyes, and his face was suddenly as cold and as expressionless as a statue’s. Pamela stiffened; when Richard closed down, there was usually something going on behind the frozen facade. But there was no way he could get out of this. She had made damn sure of that. He took the pen and signed his name.

“It’s customary, is it not, to turn in the badge and the gun?” Pamela asked. “Where are they?”

He stared at her, struggled to his feet, and pulled the pistol out of the pocket of his royal blue bathrobe.

“That’s just pathetic,” she said as she took the gun. The metal was cold and heavy against her palm. “The badge?”

He grabbed up his crutches and swung out of the kitchen. Pamela followed him across the living room, down the hall, and into the master suite. He hobbled into the enormous walk-in closet. His bare heels were a flash of white in the gloom of that vast space. They moved past mahogany shoe racks, sock drawers, cedar-lined sweater drawers, and electric tie holders.

Pamela had always thought Richard had a lot of clothes, but his wardrobe barely made an impression in the closet. In fact, his suits looked like huddled little men overawed by their surroundings. He moved to where a line of sports jackets hung. One was hanging apart, and Pamela suddenly realized the dark stains on the navy blazer were dried blood. It was mesmerizing and horrifying, and she just kept staring at it as Richard dug into the inside breast pocket. He threw a leather wallet toward her, and the badge flashed gold as the top flap fell back. It was petty of him to do that. She wasn’t all that coordinated, and he knew it. Sure enough, the wallet grazed her fingers, she grabbed for it with a spastic, jerky motion, and it hit the floor at her feet.

“There. Happy now?” he asked.

She picked it up, glared at him, and then forced her glare a smile. “Ecstatic.” She gestured at the coat. “Why are you keeping that thing? It’s disgusting.”

“Maybe to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“What I used to be. What it meant to me. The difference I made.”

“Oh, please, don’t be so dramatic. It was just a job.”

R
ICHARD

P
amela left with my life tucked away in a cloth tote bag. My father got me settled in a recliner with the rolling computer desk and laptop close to hand, a stack of reports about the various subsidiary companies Lumina owed, and a glass of milk. The hum of the elevator faded away. I gave it a few more minutes just to be on the safe side, then grabbed my crutches and headed back to the bedroom.

Pain raced up and down my thigh each time I planted the crutches and swung through. Gritting my teeth against it, I wished I’d grabbed the cell phone out of the coat pocket. But Pamela would have asked why I needed it, and I wouldn’t have had an answer she would have believed. She’d always been suspicious of me. Probably with good reason.

And I’d always disliked her. With good reason. Memories from childhood went stuttering through my head—Pamela humiliating me when I was seven by telling a table full of guests that I sang along whenever I watched
Mary Poppins
. Pamela, pompous at twelve, declaring that she had thrown away my Transformers because they were silly. I had raced to the curb and pushed over the garbage cans, but the truck had already gone by.

It was gross having to touch the coat again. It probably couldn’t be salvaged. I just needed to throw it away. But it was my only navy blazer. I cringed on behalf of my credit cards as I considered buying another one. Then the phone was in hand, and I stopped worrying about clothes. What I was about to do would really give me something to worry about.
But only if they found out.
I really should have the courage to just discuss this with my father. My thumb depressed the speed dial button.

He picked up on the second ring. “Weber.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, Rhode Island, how you doing?”

“Crappy. It hurts.”

“Yeah, but consider the alternative. Hey, we got the shooter in the Mora case,” Weber added.

I recalled the facts of the case—Edward Mora, age fifteen, dead on New Year’s Eve after a street drag race went bad. His mother had been nearly mad with grief. “Oh, good. Have you told Mrs. Mora?”

“Yeah, and she turned up at booking with an antique cannon of a pistol ready to kill the perp.”

“Oh, shoot.”

“Fortunately not. I called in a psych team, and they took her off for observation.” My phone gave a faint beep.

“Damn, my battery’s running down. Let me get to the point. My sister’s going to be turning up with a letter of resignation, my gun, and my badge.”

“Shit.” There was a pause; then he said, “Well, maybe that’s for the best … considering … everything.”

“I want you to throw away the letter and bring me back my stuff.”

“Your father is going to fucking kill you.”

“Only if he finds out, and if he does I can always blame you for intercepting it.”

“Gee, thanks, you’re a real pal. But why?”

“Because in a weird way being a cop gives me some cred I wouldn’t have otherwise. People will be less likely to think I’m a nut.”

“What are you planning?”

“I haven’t gotten as far as a plan. I’m just thinking right now. But I want my badge, and I especially want my gun. They’re going to try again.”

“You’ve got security.”

“Would you depend on that alone?”

“Hell, no.”

“I rest my case.”

There was silence for a long moment. The phone bleeped again. I propped my shoulder against the full-length mirror at the back of the closet. I needed to get off my feet soon.

“Okay, I’ll do it. If for no other reason than it will really piss off your sister.” We shared a laugh.

“I’ve got to go.”

I hung up, and that’s when I noticed the message icon on the screen. I called the voice mail center and waited through the female robot’s announcement of
“one call, received on January seventh at 1:55
P.M.
”
I had been in the kitchen of the Quincy house. The memory brought back the phantom smell of blood, and a sticky feeling on the back of my head.

“Richard,” came Rhiana’s voice. She sounded frightened; she was almost whispering.

The sound of her voice sent me swinging wildly between conflicting emotions. Regret that I hadn’t handled her better, fury over her betrayal, guilt that my behavior had led to the betrayal, and
way
down deep, the faint coil of attraction and arousal.

“Richard,” she said again, as if repeating my name forged a link. “They’ve got someone to kill you. Someone in Albuquerque. I don’t want you dead. Be careful.”

Great, why was my luck always so shitty? She couldn’t have called the day before?

“
End of message. To delete press seven
…,” came the robotic voice.

I pressed nine and saved the message. And then I entered the number in my address book.

P
amela had pulled a chair around behind the broad granite desk so she could sit next to her father. They were studying the webs of interlocking contracts between Lumina Enterprises and a surprising variety of subsidiary companies. Pamela’s specialty was criminal procedure and constitutional law, so she wasn’t all that familiar with contract law—at least as played at this level—but even lacking the background she was impressed. It was almost impossible for someone to use a subsidiary and reach through to Lumina proper.

After a glance at her father’s profile Pamela realized her instincts were correct. Her father’s expression held grudging respect, and it wasn’t easy to earn that. He had been a partner at one of Rhode Island’s most prestigious white-shoe law firms, and Pamela had hoped to join him there when she finished law school.

But by the time she was done and had passed the bar, he had been appointed to the federal bench. She opted not to court the inevitable comparison, and so had turned down an offer from the firm. Instead she’d gone to the public defender’s office. She liked litigating, and she had earned a fearsome reputation as the PD most DAs wanted to avoid. Her father had been pleased.

She knew that Richard was, supposedly, studying the same information upstairs. Someone would probably have to explain it to him. It still gave her an odd shiver of pleasure that she had been the one to take the accouterments of his life as a policeman down to APD headquarters. She had ignored Weber’s coldness; she and her father were right.

The elaborately carved double doors swung open, and Jeannette stepped into the office. The judge looked up and pulled off his glasses inquiringly. Pamela resented the woman’s intrusion without buzzing first to see if it was convenient.

“Our company’s COO has arrived, sir. Since Mr. Oort … Richard, is upstairs I’ll—”

“No,” her father said. “I want to talk to him first. Give me a minute and then send him in.”

“I’m a her, actually,” said a woman, who stepped around Jeannette and walked toward the desk. She was dressed in a rather wrinkled rose wool skirt, an eighteenth-century-inspired matching coat, an ivory cashmere sweater with a coral necklace, and high-heeled brown boots. She carried an expensive briefcase in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She paused to glance down at the picture on the front page, then looked up and studied the judge critically.