Duncan (17 page)

Miguel strolled through the doorway, having delayed downstairs to double check the daytime guard deployment. The routine here was still new enough that it didn’t hurt to be sure everyone knew their assignments.

“Set a guard on Emma Duquet,” Duncan told his lieutenant without preamble. “Day and night. I don’t want one of Victor’s former clients getting nervous and going after her.”

“Yes, my lord.” Miguel made a quick call on his cell and it was done. They’d let go the security company Victor had employed, and replaced it with the men and women Miguel had trained personally for this job. Duncan trusted these humans with his life—quite literally until they got the basement vault constructed and functional.

“How’s Alaric progressing downstairs?” Duncan asked.

“Excellent, my lord, but, as he keeps telling me, he has to rebuild this
ancient and rotting
foundation before he can add anything to it.” He grinned. “The old man loves a challenge.”

Duncan pulled off his jacket, throwing it on a chair as he settled behind the desk of his new second floor office—an office which looked very much like the library downstairs, and for a good reason. While it had been necessary for Duncan to move away from the library—for security reasons, if nothing else—he’d liked the ambience of the old room—the books, the furniture, even the wainscoting. So Alaric’s crew had moved everything up here. It was quite remarkable, really. Every book, shelf, table and lamp had been moved. Now if they could just provide him with a decent place to sleep. And a gym.

“How are we doing on the videos from Leesburg?” Duncan asked. He refused to refer to the house itself anymore. He wouldn’t rest until it burned to the ground.

“There’s still no video of Lacey Cray, my lord. Not there, and not on any of the ones we discovered here, even though she’s in Victor’s files and, according to Ms. Duquet, was a regular at Victor’s parties.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t delete her from his files altogether.”

“He probably would have eventually. He expected to be around a lot longer than he was.”

Duncan nodded in satisfaction. That much at least had gone right. Victor was gone, and Duncan had been the one to destroy him.

“There’s still plenty of incriminating video, my lord,” Miguel said. “Enough to destroy more than one political career, even if the men involved could prove it was consensual. Victor hedged his bets, and I’m sure he made sure they knew about it.”

“Except there are no faces on the video. All we have are Victor’s files, and even those don’t name names.”

“Phoebe’s working on that. We can probably get some IDs by combining what we do have—the video and Victor’s paper files—with what Brendan and Erik and their friends know. They talked to some of the men involved, after all. We can at least identify those.”

“What about the women?”

“It’s more complicated with them. The men are public figures for the most part. The women . . . who knows?”

“Emma can help with that tomorrow night. Even if she doesn’t know the names, she may be able to tell us possible workplaces, or even other people to check with.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And it’s time I introduced myself to those powerful circles of Victor’s, too. Something casual where I can talk to people.” Duncan thought for a moment. “Check Victor’s calendar. See if there’s anything already scheduled. If so, have someone contact the organizers. Give them the line we agreed on, Victor’s been called away and I’m the new ambassador.”

Duncan didn’t like to use the pretentious title, but apparently he’d have to get used to it. “In the meantime,” he continued, “contact every senator and congressman from Virginia, Maryland and Delaware. Let them know I’m taking over and I’d like to meet with them. See if they have any events coming up and get us invited. Fundraisers, especially. Make sure they know we’re good for a donation. Maybe Emma can help with that, too. She works in a congressman’s office, after all. She knows how all of this works.”

He thought for a moment while Miguel took feverish notes.

“Put California’s senators on the list, too,” he added. “I voted there last election, and Raphael’s a big contributor. Which reminds me, we need to establish a legal residence for me outside the District, so I can vote in my own territory.”

“Victor owned a house in Annapolis,” Miguel offered. “I can send some people to check it out. If nothing else, you can use the address.”

“Good.” He frowned as he watched Miguel tap the information into his PDA. “We’re going to need more people, Miguel. You’re my lieutenant, not my admin, and this enormous house will need a housekeeper and staff, too. How did Victor handle that?”

“Humans, my lord,” Miguel replied, looking up with a disapproving scowl. “He had a crew in once a week.”

“Well, we won’t be doing that. Put the word out, you know the routine. Give preference to vampires within my territory, but anyone from outside who’s willing to swear fealty in blood will be considered. Appoint someone to do the initial screening, but you or Louis handle the final selection personally. And I’ll want to choose the housekeeper myself.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have the photos?”

“My lord?”

“The composites from the videos. I’d like to take a look.”

“They’re on your computer, my lord, along with Phoebe’s preliminary report.”

Duncan swung his chair around to the computer, which sat on an L-shaped extension to the desk. Pulling up the relevant file, he scanned Phoebe’s report quickly, then brought up the grainy images. Only the women were shown in full-face; the best Louis had managed of the men was the occasional partial profile. But profiles gave away more than people knew. That one, for example, had a very distinctive beak of a nose, and the next one a crude, almost primitive brow combined with the collapsed nasal bridge of someone whose nose has been broken too many times. It wasn’t much, but he’d remember these men. They might not know him when they met at a party or a fundraiser, but he’d know them. Their emotions, even more than their words, would give them away. The only challenge would be waiting until the evening was over to rip out their throats.

Chapter Seventeen

Emma walked down the familiar hallway to Guy Coffer’s congressional office. She passed a few people she knew and there was sympathy in their gazes. But there was a morbid curiosity, too, as if they feared—or maybe hoped—she’d break down weeping right here in the hallowed halls. That wasn’t going to happen.

Oh, Emma still grieved. She would mourn Lacey every day for the rest of her life, but her grief was private, just as her final farewell this morning had been private. Mr. Pettry, the funeral director, had been there, but he’d remained discreetly in the background. There’d been no prayers, no stranger from the cemetery’s list of convenient clergy to mumble a pro forma eulogy over a woman he’d never known.

Just Emma and the two workers who’d lowered Lacey’s casket into the ground and then slowly, shovel by shovel, buried her.

Emma had stood there through the whole thing, her tears hot despite the icy drizzle which had begun to fall, freezing every inch of exposed skin. She’d waited until the last shovel full of dirt had been thrown, the earth packed down again, and the neat squares of sod replaced. The two diggers had straightened then, glancing from her to the funeral director, accustomed, she supposed, to the irrational behavior of grieving families.

Mr. Pettry had finally approached slowly, his footsteps crunching on grass that had already begun to ice over.

“Ms. Duquet?”

Emma hunched her shoulders, knowing it was time. She nodded, and looked up at the two graveyard workers.

“Thank you,” she told them.

They nodded solemnly and hurried off, eager, no doubt, to be out of this awful weather.

“May I walk you to your car?” Mr. Pettry inquired, hinting gently that it was time for her to leave, as well.

Emma had forced a smile and taken his proffered arm, grateful for the support. She’d worn the Jimmy Choo pumps again, and the heels were too high for the uneven grass.

She glanced down at the black pumps now, as she hurried along the marble floored hallway. She’d been right after all, about not wearing them to work. If she made it to the office without twisting an ankle, she’d count herself lucky. She probably should have followed her first instinct and buried the damn shoes with her friend, but Lacey never would have forgiven her. Lacey had taken her designers very seriously. Yet another reason she’d never had the rent money.

Emma sighed and wished she didn’t have to go to the office at all today, but there were too many people eager for a job like hers. If she stayed out too long, Sharon Coffer might very well use it as an excuse to hire someone old and ugly, or at least male. And Emma needed the money. She couldn’t afford to lose her job, especially now. The lease on the house she’d shared with Lacey had two more months on it, and then there’d be the expense of securing a new place and moving. Besides, if she went home, she’d be surrounded by memories of Lacey. It was better to stay busy until tonight, when she could finally get down to the only thing that mattered to her . . . helping the vampires track down her friend’s killer. And the irony of that last thought wasn’t lost on her, since it was vampires who’d been responsible for Lacey’s death. It was like asking the fox to figure out who ate the chickens. But Duncan wasn’t going to let the human police get involved. She had no doubt he’d do whatever was necessary to keep that from happening. So, if the vampires were the only game in town, then Emma intended to make sure they played by the rules. Because if they didn’t, then she’d do whatever she had to do to find justice for Lacey.

She finally reached the hallway outside Guy Coffer’s office and paused to catch her breath before going in. Coffer had been in Congress for enough years that he had one of the more decent office suites. Not as grand as others, but nowhere near as tiny as the ones she’d seen some of the freshman legislators squeezed into. She smoothed her skirt and pulled open the big wooden door, steeling herself against the expected wave of curious attention. She stepped inside and, for a brief moment, everyone seemed to stop what they were doing. Then, as if they’d all become aware of it at the same time, the noise returned in a rush and everything was normal again.

Emma felt her face heat with embarrassment as she crossed the outer reception area. She’d never liked being the center of attention. Open double doors led into the second office. Everyone pretended not to notice her as she hurried into the third office of the shotgun styled suite and over to the corner she shared with Noreen. Her friend was at her desk, her back to Emma as she pecked furiously at a computer keyboard. The typing stopped, and Noreen turned as Emma slid into her chair.

“Hey, Emma. I wasn’t sure you’d be here today. How’re you doing?” Noreen’s big, brown eyes were wide with concern. She’d been the only one from the office who’d come to Lacey’s memorial last night.

“I’m fine,” Emma said, the lie rolling off her tongue. People really didn’t want to know how she was. Death was too terrifying. Everyone knew it happened, but they were almost embarrassed to ask about it.

Noreen studied her for a moment. “You won’t believe it now, hon, but time really does heal.”

Emma nodded. It wasn’t time that would heal in this case; it was revenge. But she was sure Noreen didn’t want to hear about that either.

“Thanks, Noreen,” she said, meeting the other woman’s gaze. “And thank you for coming last night.” She opened a drawer and threw her bag inside. “So,” she said, wanting to change the subject, “what have I missed?”

“Oh, not too much. The subcommittee rescheduled at the last minute, something about a pipe leak in the meeting room, if you can believe it, so everything—” Noreen’s voice trailed off as her gaze fixed over Emma’s shoulder.

“Emma,” Guy Coffer said from behind her.

Emma spun her chair around and tried not to jump as Congressman Coffer took her hand and cradled it in both of his. “Sharon and I are so sorry for your loss, Emma. All of us are.”

Emma blinked in surprise. Those were the most words Coffer had said to her since she’d been hired. Usually her instructions came through Sharon or one of the senior staff. The Congressman’s handsome face was creased with sincerity, his eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. It was such a perfectly political moment that she was amazed she’d never noticed before how phony he was. Or maybe it was just that he usually never bothered to wear his campaign face in the office.

“If there’s anything we can do . . .” he said, tightening his hold on her hand just the right amount to indicate his concern.

“Thank you, sir,” she finally managed. “You’ve already been very kind.” He seemed taken aback by that, and she added, “Letting me take so much time off, for the funeral and everything.”

“Well, of course,” he said, seeming genuinely surprised that she would mention it. “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Emma smiled. “I appreciate it anyway, Congressman.”

“You’ve worked here for two years, Emma. Call me Guy.”

He knew how long she’d worked for him? She was mildly surprised he even knew her name, much less how long she’d been in his office.

“Guy,” Sharon Coffer’s sharp voice cut into the moment, and Emma would have sworn she saw the Congressman wince briefly. “You have people waiting.”

“Yes, of course,” Coffer said quickly. He patted Emma’s shoulder awkwardly. “If you need anything, Emma, let me know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He smiled, his face smoothing out into its usual bland good looks. The mask was back so quickly that Emma doubted it had ever been gone. She watched as he trailed dutifully behind his wife to the innermost private office. Sharon stepped in after him and closed the door, but not before giving Emma a long, considering look. Like it was Emma’s fault Guy Coffer had done the decent thing and offered his condolences. If she got fired over this, she was going to be well and truly pissed.

“What was all that about?” Noreen whispered.

“I have no idea,” Emma muttered.

She buried herself in work the rest of the day, trying not to count the minutes until sunset, which was at 5:37 precisely. She’d checked online to be sure, before driving to the cemetery and then to the Capitol. She didn’t usually drive to work. Parking was a pain in the butt, and public transportation was quite good. But it would save her time getting to Duncan’s tonight. Her biggest problem would be getting out of the office that early, but she’d already decided she wasn’t going to ask anyone; she was simply going to leave. Let them think whatever they wanted, that she was overcome with grief, that she still had business to take care of regarding Lacey’s death. She didn’t care.