Midnight Crystal (34 page)

Gibson left his box of toys on the window bench, fluttered down to the floor and over to the desk. He bounced up onto the arm of the chair and from there to the high back above Marlowe’s head. He clung to his perch with his hind paws, chortling in delight as the chair swung back and forth in a slow semicircle.

“She told me she found out that O’Conner and Drake were planning to get rid of me,” Adam said. “She decided it was time to disappear. Says she intended to call and warn me about their plot when she was safely out of town.”

“How did she end up in Drake’s and O’Conner’s office the other night?”

“She went there to get some insurance. She knew they kept incriminating financial information in a wall safe in the office. Somewhere along the line she discovered the combination. She took a camera with her and photographed several pages of a journal. She was planning to use it as blackmail material in case O’Conner sent someone after her.”

“But he found her there in the office photographing the journal?”

“No,” Adam said, sounding very satisfied. “He found her
after
she had photographed the journal and hidden the camera in her bra.”

“Wait a second.” Marlowe sat forward abruptly. Gibson almost fell off the back of the chair. “Are you telling me Drake didn’t search her and find the camera before he sent her into the tunnels?”

“All Drake cared about was making sure she didn’t have any good amber. She says he aimed some kind of weird flashlight at her and then told her that her amber was dead.”

“He used vortex quartz on her.”

“Sounds like it. The story checks out. The lab techs tell me that the one piece of concealed amber that Ray had on her was warped.”

“But now you’ve got her camera?”

“Better than that. The pages she photographed have been developed and printed out. It’s definitely a financial journal of some kind, but it’s coded. Shouldn’t be too hard to crack the code, though.”

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me, Drake’s and O’Conner’s minds didn’t work that way. I’ve got a couple of Bureau forensic accountants going through the data now. Should have something soon.”

“But now you’re looking for a third man,” she said. “The one who set the fire that killed Drake and O’Conner.”

“Someone is pulling the plug on an operation and snipping off loose ends. You said you saw other prints leading away from the bolt-hole and that they were fresh.”

“Yes. But there was very little heat in them. I don’t doubt but that whoever set the fire is a cold-blooded killer, but even cold-blooded killers get hot when they kill.”

“The adrenaline,” Adam said quietly.

“After rezzing all that ghost light and killing two people, there should have been a lot of heat in those prints.”

“Another chameleon like Tucker Deene?”

She thought about it. “Theoretically possible, I guess.”

“You’re the one who said that kind of talent is extremely rare. What are the odds that two chameleons would turn up in this case?”

“Slim to none,” she admitted.

“So, odds are we’ve actually got one chameleon: Tucker Deene. I told you I didn’t trust that guy.”

“The thing is, he’s a con artist, Adam. Not a killer.”

“How do you know? He’s a chameleon. He’s probably never let you see his real prints.”

“I saw them when he pulled that mag-rez on me in the stairwell at the condo. But say you’re right. Say Tucker was involved in some kind of conspiracy with Drake and O’Conner. What’s in this for him?”

“Revenge on the two men who encouraged his brother to forge the crystal guns that nearly killed him? Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure there’s no trail of conspiracy that leads from O’Conner and Drake back to the Deene family.”

“I keep telling you, Tucker is a con artist, not a cold-blooded killer.”

“He and his brother and sister were doing business with O’Conner and Drake, who were up to their necks in everything from antiquities smuggling to drugs, not to mention money laundering, fraud, gambling, and extortion. Shall I go on?”

“Okay, I understand that there was a lot of money involved.”

“The Deenes have good reason to worry that any serious investigation of O’Conner and Drake would inevitably involve them.”

“But you more or less let them off the hook. You didn’t threaten them.”

“That still leaves the Frequency City Police for them to worry about,” Adam said.

She swallowed hard. “You’re right. Sometimes I forget that there are regular law enforcement agencies in this town.”

Adam was quiet for a time. Marlowe tapped her pen against the desktop. Gibson got bored and bopped down to the floor. He fluttered out the door. Marlowe heard Rick lift the lid of the cookie jar.

“About that real date that we’ve never had,” Adam said.

Marlowe froze. “What about it?”

“Would you be interested in going out to dinner with me? To an actual restaurant?”

She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Silence hummed again.

It was as if they had both just made it safely across a fragile bridge strung above a very deep gorge, she thought. The case that had brought them together was winding down rapidly. Soon there would be no more excuses for a partnership. Soon they would be on their own, facing the complications of their relationship, trying to get back to normal, always assuming that there was such a state.

“One piece of good news on this end,” Adam said after a while.

“What’s that?”

“Got a lead on Joey the broker. I sent Galendez and Treiger to check it out. If they find him, I may be able to get some answers.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll call you later.”

He ended the connection.

Marlowe sat quietly for a few minutes, studying the genealogy file that she had pulled up on her computer just before Adam had called.

After a while she got to her feet and went into the front office. Rick looked at her.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She took her leather jacket and helmet off the hook. “I’ll be at the Arcane genealogical library. Ready to ride, Gibson?”

Gibson did not need a second invitation. He hopped off the desk and dashed across the room toward her. She picked him up and tucked him under her arm.

“What’s happening with genealogy?” Rick asked.

“I want to talk to one of the librarians.” She opened the door. “Call me if anything comes up.”

“Are you kidding? The phone has been ringing all morning. Business is starting to pour in, boss. I told you all that publicity was going to do J&J a lot of good.”

“Try to weed out the crank calls, okay? I refuse to do haunted houses.”

“Got it. No haunted house cases.”

THE LIBRARIAN’S NAME WAS BEATRICE RAMSEY. SHE was in her early sixties, but she looked like a very stylish forty-five. She was trim, athletic, and passionate about genealogy.

She led Marlowe down a long aisle of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with thick, heavy volumes. The interior of the Society’s Bureau of Genealogy was not unlike the catacombs, Marlowe reflected. A person could get lost in the maze of bookshelves. The windowless, atmosphere-controlled environment added to the disorientation.

“The Society’s files are maintained on computers, of course,” Beatrice explained. “But we also keep original, hard copy records. The advanced preservation techniques back on Earth made it possible to conserve even the oldest journals before they were brought through the Curtain. Some of these volumes date back to the founding of the Society.”

“Yes, I know,” Marlowe said. She had learned long ago that once you started talking to a member of the genealogy staff, it was best to just shut up and listen.

“It’s not often we get a request for a hard copy original, however,” Beatrice said. “It’s so much easier to access the information on the computer.”

And so much easier to hack into the database,
Marlowe thought. But she did not say that out loud.

“Ah, here we go.” Beatrice stopped. She studied the labels on the spines of the books and then plucked one volume off the shelf. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking for in this. Renquist’s research has rarely been equaled.”

“Renquist?”

“Grace Renquist. She was a brilliant Arcane genealogist who lived back in the twenty-first century on Earth. Over the years, there has been a lot of very fine work done in the field of psychical inheritance traits, but Renquist’s analysis is still considered a foundation text. It is often consulted by the experts, even today.”

“Sounds like the right place to start.” Marlowe opened the volume and read the title page aloud. “
A Study of the Inheritance Patterns of Rare Paranormal Characteristics in Families Registered with the Arcane Society.
” She looked up. “Yes, this will be very helpful.”

“There are a few other texts that I think will also answer some of your questions,” Beatrice said. “Follow me, please.”

“One more thing. I’m going to need the hard copy version of the records of a family named Deene.”

“Sure you don’t want to use the computer for that? So much easier to search family trees that way.”

“No,” Marlowe said. “I used the computer the last time. That did not work out well for me. I want to examine the original.”

 

 

AN HOUR LATER SHE COMPARED RENQUIST’S ANALYSIS of the extremely complicated inheritance patterns of the rare paranormal ability known as chameleon talent with the Deene family tree. A cold chill slithered through her. She closed both volumes and headed toward the door.

Gibson was waiting for her at the receptionist’s desk. He was playing with a ruler and flirting outrageously with the receptionist. When Marlowe reached the desk, however, he sensed her urgency. He dropped the ruler and scrambled up onto her shoulder.

“Time to go,” Marlowe said. She nodded at the receptionist. “Thanks for keeping him entertained.”

“Any time,” the woman said. “He’s so adorable.”

“Yes, and he certainly knows it.”

Outside, she discovered that twilight had fallen on the Quarter. She went to where she had parked Dream, dropped Gibson into the saddlebag, and took out her phone. She entered Adam’s private code. There was no answer.

“This is not good, Gibson.”

She needed to get to Adam, but she had to make one stop first. It was time to retrieve Uncle Zeke’s mag-rez from the floor safe at the office.

She swung one leg over the bike and ignited the flash-rock engine. Dream roared to life. She drove swiftly through the Quarter, taking all the shortcuts. She could hear Gibson chortling when she zipped through an alley and turned into the narrow lane outside the offices of Jones & Jones.

She braked to an abrupt halt, cut the engine, dismounted, and ran up the steps to the door. Gibson scrambled out of the saddlebag.

“Stay here,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

He ignored her to scamper up the steps after her.

The Closed sign was turned over in the window. It was five thirty. Rick had gone home half an hour ago.

She opened the door into the darkened front office. When she heard Gibson’s low growl of warning, she glanced down and saw that he had gone into full hunting mode. All four eyes were open.

Instinctively she heightened her own talent. But it was too late. The wave of darkness came out of nowhere, washing over her, dragging her down into the depths. She had time to sense the primordial demons and monsters that moved in the featureless void of dreams, time to know that she had failed to save Adam.

And then she knew nothing at all.

SHE WAS LOST IN A MAZE OF MIRRORS. AN INFINITY OF
reflections surrounded her on all sides. She saw her parents and Uncle Zeke watching her from one wall. Her brothers looked out from another corridor of mirrors. They did not speak, but there was no need for words. In the Jones family, you always knew when you had failed to meet expectations. You knew it before anyone else in the clan did, because you sensed the failure first deep inside yourself.