Before the Dawn (20 page)

Reaching for his Tazer, the guard struggled to his feet, and—as he freed the weapon from his belt—Seth swept his feet out from under him, and the guard landed on his ass with a hard
thunk,
Tazer flying.

Seth, on his feet now, nimbly leapt out of reach when the dazed guard tried to repeat the sweeping maneuver on him.

Looking down at the fallen guard with respect, Seth asked, “Nice work—we finished here?”

The guard looked up, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his head and understand what was happening.

“You got cuffs?” Seth asked, conversationally. “I'll cuff you and then I'm outa here.”

The guard shook his head, whether in protest or to clear the cobwebs, Seth couldn't tell. Then the guard dived at Seth, and the X5 threw a hard right down, catching the man's chin, breaking his jawbone, dropping the guy into an unconscious heap.

“That's one way to get cuffed,” Seth muttered to himself.

Now that he had the luxury of time, Seth studied the paintings; there had been no Moody in his life, and Manticore was rather light on arts training . . . so this X5 took down half a dozen that pleased his eye, using his switchblade to cut the canvases from their heavy frames. He rolled them up together like a carpet and took the elevator downstairs.

In the lunchroom, the guards were all still out—one or two of them might be in comas, or even dead—but Seth didn't care one way or the other. Feeling exhilarated—this had been fun!—the boy slipped out his window into the night.

LOGAN CALE'S APARTMENT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Logan Cale took the computer disc from Seth, and loaded it into his computer, as the X5 filled in his benefactor on the night's adventures.

“You did what?” Logan asked.

Seth grinned, proud of himself; this was the happiest Logan had ever seen the boy.

“I made it look like a robbery,” the X5 said. “With any luck, Sterling won't even notice the breach in his computer security.”

That
was
smart, Logan knew; and the last time he'd dispatched Seth, homicide had happened . . . this was merely grand larceny, with assault and battery as a chaser. Maybe the team could work their way down to jaywalking.

Shaking his head, Logan asked, “What did you take?”

“Six paintings.”

“Where are they, Seth?”

“Trunk of my wheels. . . . Know a good fence?”

Logan stared at Seth like the boy had gardenias growing out of his ears. “You're kidding, right? These paintings could be evidence in a case against Sterling, might even implicate the Russian.”

Seth shrugged,
what the hell.
“There's plenty more where these came from. Anyway, I thought they might bring in a little pocket change.”

Pocket change,
Logan thought.
More like millions. . . .

“Get them,” Logan said.

“Hey, they're
mine!
I did your damn job, for free—this is, whaddya callit, a perk!”

“Seth,” Logan said, “this is more important than money.”

“Easy for you to say, Donald Trump!”

“Sterling may be our link to Manticore.”

Seth let out a long, slow breath. “Okay . . . I'll let you eyeball 'em . . . but that's it.”

While the boy was gone, Logan struggled to open the disc. This was going to take time, and a lot of concentration, which wouldn't be possible with the X5 underfoot. He set it aside; he'd deal with it later.

Seth returned with the rolled-up paintings, spread them, smoothed them out, on the sofa and on the nearby floor.

“Eyes Only” couldn't believe his eyes.

He'd known Sterling had a mammoth collection, but to think these had been on display at corporate headquarters . . . N. C. Wyeth, Charles Russell, Norman Rockwell, Frederic Remington, Jackson Pollock, and John Singer Sargent . . . he was staggered, stunned.

“Leave these,” Logan said, “and I'll have an art expert go over them.”

Seth's head reared back. “You're kidding, right? I mean, you're not really thinking I'm going to leave these with you, are you?”

“You need them authenticated, Seth.”

“Do I look that stupid?”

“Is that a trick question? It'll help you sell them, if you know what they're worth.”

Seth thought about that for a moment, but then shook his head. “You get the art expert—call my pager . . . and I'll bring the paintings back.”

“All right,” Logan sighed, patting the air with his hands. “All right.”

Rolling up the paintings like dorm room posters, Seth said, “Do it by tomorrow night, or I'll take my own chances with a fence.”

“What if I can't line somebody up by then?”

“Oh I got faith in you, Logan,” Seth said, the rolled-up masterpieces under one arm. The James Dean face grinned in all its awful boyishness. “Just like you got faith in me, right?”

Seth showed himself out.

Chapter Ten

SCENE OF THE CRIME

STERLING ESTATE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Turning to Kendra and her closet for help, Max dolled herself up in one of those skimpy sexy frocks that she had so scrupulously avoided until now. At least it wasn't frilly or trashy—the simple black strapless minidress, set off by a rhinestone belt, displayed much of her sleekly muscular legs, plentiful cleavage, and just about all of her unblemished, bronze shoulders. Sitting on the bench in front of her roommate's makeup mirror, Max put on some black you-know-what-me pumps that rivaled any torture Manticore had come up with.

“You look good, girl,” Kendra said with an appreciative, almost envious grin. “Foxy and fine.”

Original Cindy, who had come over to help with the makeover, widened those big beautiful brown eyes and, with a head shake, said, “You look any better, Boo, Original Cindy'd set out to recruit you for
her
team.”

That took the edge off, making Max laugh, and the other young women joined in, in a round of giggles.

Then, studying her reflection, Max rose and turned in a slow circle. “Damn, you two are really good at this—you oughta do makeovers on the tube. . . . I can't find the butt-kicking tomboy no matter how hard I look.”

“Oh, she's in there,” Original Cindy said. “She'll come out, anybody screw around witchoo.”

“But these shoes . . .” Max winced, working to maintain her balance. “They're tighter than Normal's ass.”

O. C. laughed at that, and Kendra shrugged. “Those are the best I can do—not my fault, my feet are just a little smaller than yours. . . . Cin, you got anything in your collection?”

“Hell,” Original Cindy said, “my dogs are bigger than either of you. . . . But don't you the get the wrong idea: Original Cindy is
still
damn delicate!”

More shared laughter.

“The pumps're fine,” Max lied, lightly. What was she going to do, pick her best pair of running shoes?

Hands on hips, Original Cindy asked, “What's your secret, Boo? How'd you get yourself an invite to some Fat Daddy Greenback's booty shake?”

Grinning, almost embarrassed, Max said, “Ain't no booty shake . . . just a cocktail party.”

Original Cindy raised an eyebrow. “They gonna be tunes?”

Max felt the argument slipping away from her. “Well, yeah, I suppose.”

Original Cindy raised the other eyebrow. “Gonna be all kindsa young, firm hotties with their talent hangin' out?”

Max smiled and sighed. “You know there will be.”

Original Cindy turned to Kendra and in unison, they bumped hips and said, “Booty shake!”

“Would I doubt my elders?” Max asked innocently.

That got the expected feigned indignation, and after some more giggling, Kendra went to her bedside table, opened the drawer, selected something, and returned to hand it to Max: a two-inch-square foil package.

“When you accessorize,” Max said, and now she was the one arching an eyebrow, “you don't kid around.”

Original Cindy whooped in delight. “Aw-iiight,” she said, slapping five with Kendra. “Sister girl lookin' out for ya, Boo! You gotta love it.”

Max was amused and, well, touched. “I doubt I'll need this,” she said, “but because you're the one givin' me the makeover, I'll take it with me—you never know what might come up.”

They all laughed again. In truth, that sprinkle of feline DNA in Max's makeup had reared its furry little head again not so long ago, and Max had again found herself doing battle with her hormones. For a human being to devolve into a cat in heat, from time to time, was one of the more humiliating aspects of her test-tube development. But she was on the downside of it now.

Earlier, Kendra and Original Cindy had penciled Max's brows, taught her about eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick . . . techniques of war Manticore had skipped, criminal methods Moody had passed over. . . .

Fifteen minutes in, her patience wearing thin, Max had asked, “Is this porn-star trip really necessary?”

Kendra looked hurt. “You want to make a good impression, don't you?”

Max smirked. “What, you mean in the guys' pants?”

“Boo,” O. C. said, “you have to put your trust in the hands of those with more experience in these matters. Original Cindy and sister Kendra know the ins and outs of dressin' to kill.”

The latter phrase was more to the point, but Max had of course omitted her real purpose for attending the party. All she had told her friends was that she was going to a cocktail party—which was true. And that a very rich man had invited her—which was a lie.

O. C. waggled a finger. “You catch yourself a rich fish tonight, Boo—you just remember it was your home girls help provide the bait.”

Admiring herself in the mirror, a hand to her hair, surprised by how much she liked looking this beautiful, Max said, “But
I
provided the lure.”

Original Cindy, rather wistfully, said, “No argument, girlfriend . . . no argument.”

Kendra put her hands on either side of Max's head. “Hold still or we're
never
going to turn this pumpkin into Cinderella.”

Original Cindy seemed to be thinking over that remark—something didn't seem right about it.

After that, Max sat painfully still throughout a forty-five-minute ordeal, rather amazed by the elaborateness of the makeup application when the end result made it look like she wasn't wearing any. It was at this point that she'd stepped into the little black dress and now, finally—after taking one last twirl in the mirror, delighted by the shimmer of her dark curls, and the way the dress clung to her, like an attentive lover—she was ready . . . dressed to go to work.

After her last visit to the Sterling estate—as a cat burglar in the middle of the night—Max had decided on a new strategy to gain entry into the mansion and get information from the king of the castle. She'd found out a lot more about Jared Sterling in the meantime.

For one thing, Sterling was not the upstanding, model citizen the mainstream media liked to present to the public; however hard he tried to pass himself off as the post-Pulse poster child of responsible wealth, he was no philanthropic patron of the arts.

Otherwise, Max's little home invasion would have made the news—bigtime. Her escapade would have been on SNN and front pages and all over the Net, and every other place in the so-called free world.

But there had been no mention of it anywhere.

The paper's police beat hadn't even run the usual one liner about “Officers responded to an alarm at . . .” No matter how private a person Sterling might be, the break-in should have made some kind of noise—certainly those alarms had. Police had no doubt responded, and either had been sent away by the great man, or any investigation of the break-in was kept confidential from the media.

Why?

Because Jared Sterling was up to what was commonly called
no good.

Exactly what, Max couldn't yet say; but Sterling was clearly dirty—as indicated in spades by his possession of the Heart of the Ocean.

And if Sterling had ordered the slaughter of the Chinese Clan, in pursuit of the stone, she would kill his ass.

But she would have to be convinced of his guilt, first; if he was nothing more than a collector who bought hot property from a fence, that meant Sterling was just a link to the real villain. And with Manticore involvement suspected in the Chinese Theatre slaughter, that villain might well be Colonel Donald Lydecker himself.

On a more mundane . . . but helpful . . . level, Max had also learned that the art collector was famously single. He collected pretty women as well as paintings, and was hosting a party to show off the new Grant Wood—at his home . . . this evening.

Manticore had instilled in Max the need to take advantage of any opportunity, and this seemed like a prime chance to finally meet Jared Sterling . . . again. Her back had been to him, in their first, brief encounter, and to her knowledge her image hadn't been captured on any security-cam tapes.

Normally Max would have made her way to the ferry landing by the most economical—and most exhilarating—method: her Ninja. Her outfit made that impractical, though, and she wound up investing ten or twelve times as much to take a taxi. The ferry ride to Vashon Island wasn't free, either, and another taxi took her from the landing to the front gate of the Sterling estate.

Adding up the costs, Max rolled her eyes and understood why only the rich lived way out here—who the hell else could afford the commute?

The taxi driver—an older, skinny guy who looked like he hadn't touched solid food since the Pulse—pulled the cab up to the front gate, where a security guard in black suit with tie—dark-haired, Mediterranean-looking, not one of her playmates from the other night—approached with clipboard in hand. The cabbie waved the guard around to the back passenger's seat where Max was sitting.

Max rolled down the window.

“You have an invitation, miss?” he asked, his tone pleasant, but his dark face serious, his brown eyes on her like lasers.

“Oh damn,” she said, pretending to dig through her tiny purse, “I have it
some
place. . . .” Finally, she gave up, looked up at the guard with wide and (she hoped) lovely eyes, smiling full wattage. “Guess not. . . . Such a long ride out here, too.”

He leaned a hand on the rolled-down window. “Perhaps if you gave me your name, I could check the guest list.”

She had selected, from the various pictures of Sterling with pretty young women (and there had been dozens over the last year or so), a petite brunette, who bore a faint resemblance to Max.

“I've been here before,” she said. “A few months ago? Marisa Barton.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of the security man's mouth. “Ms. Barton is already inside.”

Max's smile curdled. “Look . . . I'll be straight with you. I'm a journalist, and this is my big chance.” She withdrew a precious twenty-dollar bill from her purse.

But the guard, not at all mean, almost amused, just shook his head.

Max said, with a frozen smile, “You're not going to let me in, are you?”

“Worse luck for you, ‘Ms. Barton'—I'm gay. You don't even have
that
going for you. . . . Tell your driver to turn it around, and we don't have to take this another step. . . . You wouldn't like that step, anyway.”

“Bet not.” She'd already put her twenty bucks away.

Max told the driver to turn the hack around, but before the cabbie could shift gears, the guard leaned down, like an adult talking to a child, and said, “By the way, just so you know next time—Ms. Barton's a blonde, now. . . . For a journalist, you're not so hot on details.”

She smirked. “I'm savin' up for a research assistant.”

The driver turned around and drove back toward the ferry. When they were out of sight of the gate, Max told him to stop and, after waiting till no cars were coming in either direction, climbed out of the cab. The street was dark and Sterling's mansion was two blocks back.

“If you're plannin' to go over the fence in that dress,” the skinny cabbie said, when she came to his rolled-down window to pay him, “I wouldn't mind hangin' around to watch.”

She got the twenty back out. “Here.”

“Hey! Thanks, sweetie . . . that's generous.”

“No—it's payment for you getting amnesia. You alert that guardhouse about me, I'll want my Andy Jackson back.”

“Sure . . .” He took the bill from her, and she clamped onto his stick of a wrist. Hard.

She looked at him hard, too, and his eyes were wide and amazed and somewhat frightened.

“If you're thinking of playing both ends against the middle,” she said, “you might be surprised what a girl in a dress like this can do.”

He nodded, said no problem, no sweat, and pulled away.

On her walk back, Max avoided the road to the front of the castle, and the other cars she knew would be using it. She passed the place where she'd docked the boat the other night, and kept moving. Even in the short dress, the wall wasn't any more of an obstacle than it had been the first time, though that cabbie would have received quite an eyeful.

She glided around the house to the front, staying in the shadows, waiting until a larger group of six or seven people poured out of a stretch limo—their slightly drunken laughter like off-key wind chimes in the night—and breezed up the wide stairs toward the massive green dollar-bill door. As they moved up past the lions, Max just blended in with the crowd and, for the second time, entered the Sterling mansion.

A string quartet sat to one side of the foyer, their soft melodies providing unobtrusive musical wallpaper for the many conversations going on. Thanks to Moody, Max recognized the piece as Bach, though the name eluded her—it wasn't something you could steal, after all.

The last time Max had stood in this foyer, she'd broken and entered—and had felt much more at ease than in the midst of this crowd of tony people . . . chatting in little groups, sipping flutes of champagne, nibbling at canapés, courtesy of silver-tray-bearing waiters in tuxedo pants and white shirts with black bow ties, winding through the throng like moonlighting Chippendale's dancers. The male guests tended to be in their late thirties to midforties, wearing tailored suits and an air of success. The female guests often were ten years younger than their dates, and wore clingy cocktail dresses, and airs of excess.

Max fought a spike of panic—she had rarely felt more out of place in her young life, perhaps not since those early months after the Manticore escape.

Some rich people had not weathered the Pulse at all well, even spiraling into failure and poverty. For those born to wealth—or those capitalists (like, say, Jared Sterling) who saw in disaster potential for their own prosperity—it was as if there had been no Pulse. To such people, affluence was as natural as breathing; and those who'd been born to it, should they lose their fortunes, would wither and die.

This way of life was completely foreign to Max, who'd scratched for every cent she'd ever earned . . . or anyway, stolen. Oh, she'd seen her share of fancy parties and posh events in Los Angeles, of course; but she'd always been on the outside looking in, hoping to snag a bauble or snatch a purse when the wealthy left whatever function she and the other members of the Chinese Clan were staking out.