Siren's Call (A Rainshadow Novel) (24 page)

“I didn’t kill Ken.” Angela huddled in her chair and gave Rafe a pleading look. “I swear I didn’t. And I don’t own a gun. Someone put that mag-rez in my locker. You have to believe me.”

“Take me through it again,” Rafe said.

Angela was wearing the clothes in which she had been arrested. It was clear that she had slept in them. She looked utterly miserable. Her face was blotchy from crying and her shoulders sagged. The vibe in the atmosphere around her was laced with fear. She was up against the power of the Coppersmith empire and she assumed that her situation was hopeless.

They were not alone in the lunchroom. Slade stood in the shadows near the door, allowing Rafe to take the lead. Ella was there as well. She sat quietly in a wooden chair, a small suitcase at her feet.

Angela released another weary sigh. “I told you, I knew Ken. We were both members of the Resonance City chapter of DND, and, yes, we had a relationship. But I swear I didn’t even know he was on the island until he texted me the other night. He said he was here and had to talk to me. We agreed to meet at the boathouse on the lake.”

“Go on,” Rafe said.

“I went down to the lake to meet him. He said he was leaving the DND movement. He said it was a hopeless cause and that Mr. Radburn was a con. He said he was getting out and he wanted me to go with him. He planned to finance our future by selling you some information. He wanted me to take a message to you. I refused. Called him a traitor. And then I walked away. I had only taken a few steps when I heard the shots behind me. I was terrified. I ran. There was someone else there that night.”

“But how did that person know that Maitland planned to meet with you at the boathouse?” Rafe asked.

“I don’t know. Look, I admit I was angry with Ken, but I didn’t kill him.”

Rafe leaned back in his chair. “Are you absolutely certain Maitland didn’t tell you anything more about the information he intended to try to sell to me?”

“Positive. All he told me was that it was bigger than DND. He said it was very specific intel and that you’d pay a fortune for it.”

“You claim there was someone else at the boathouse that night,” Rafe said. “Did he and Ken speak? Did you hear voices? Footsteps?”

Angela shook her head. “No, nothing until after the shots. Then I heard the running footsteps.”

Slade spoke up for the first time. “Do you think that it was a man or a woman running away?”

Angela blinked, as though she had not considered the question. “The footsteps were solid. Strong. I suppose it could have been a woman but at the time I remember thinking that it sounded like a man running away.”

Rafe sat in silence for a while. Ella and Slade took their cues from him. Neither of them spoke. Angela cried quietly.

After a while, Rafe got up from his chair and turned as though to leave the room. But he paused and looked back at Angela as if something had just occurred to him.

“Does the name Vortex mean anything to you?” he asked.

Angela sniffed and reached for another tissue. “No. Why?”

“Never mind,” Rafe said.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Angela said into the tissue.

“You’re going to stay here for a while,” Rafe said.

Ella got to her feet and picked up the suitcase. “I packed up some of your things,” she said. “I thought you might want a change of clothes and a few personal items. The chief said it was okay to give them to you.”

Angela stared at the suitcase and then looked at Ella with numb gratitude. “Thanks.”

Slade opened the door. “Myrna, please escort Miss Price back to her cell.”

Myrna Reed, a fit, competent-looking, middle-aged
blonde in an officer’s uniform, appeared in the doorway. “This way, Miss Price.”

Angela got to her feet. Myrna grasped her arm. They left the room.

Ella waited until they were out of earshot.

“I don’t think Angela killed Kenneth Maitland,” she said. “Why would she be dumb enough to stash the weapon in her locker? She should have tossed it into the lake.”

Rafe and Slade both looked at her.

“She might have planned to use it again,” Slade said patiently. “It’s not like mag-rezes are that easy to come by here on Rainshadow.”

“Okay, there’s that,” Ella said. “But I still don’t think she did it. Her aura is very disturbed right now but mostly from fear. She’s terrified.”

“She’s got reason to be scared,” Rafe said. “She’s facing a possible murder charge. But I’m inclined to agree with you. I don’t think she killed Maitland.”

“I don’t, either,” Slade said. “Which means that the killer must have been one of the four Vortex agents who were on the island.”

“That makes sense,” Rafe said. “If Vortex found out that Maitland was going to sell me information about their organization, they would have had every reason to murder him.”

Slade nodded once, looking satisfied. “I like that. It works. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Got to get those two fake bond agents to Thursday Harbor. If all goes well I’ll be back on the four o’clock ferry. If I know Harding, he’ll have signed confessions from both of those guys by breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Rafe came awake to the sound of his phone. He opened his eyes and realized it was still dark outside.

“It’s your phone, not mine,” Ella said into the pillow.

“Believe it or not, I figured that out.”

“You should be a detective.”

He sat up on the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “It’s Slade.”

“At four o’clock in the morning?” Ella asked.

“The law never sleeps,” Rafe said. He took the call. “It has just been pointed out to me that it’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“I know,” Slade said. “But Harding just called me and I figured you’d want to hear the good news right away.”

“Harding got his confessions?”

“Of course he did. This is Hard Joe Harding we’re talking about. He was really rezzed up. Looks like we handed
him the biggest case of his career. This will probably be the one that lands him the director’s job. He’s off and running, chasing a mysterious crime organization named Vortex.”

“What about Kenneth Maitland’s killer?”

“We were right,” Slade said. “It was one of the Vortex agents, specifically one of the two that died in the stolen boat the night you were attacked. They used some high-tech device to gain access to the jobsite and the vault to steal the Alien tech. They also planted the mag-rez after the murder.”

“So that case is closed?”

“Looks like it,” Slade said. “Harding also said to tell you that Vortex was after you because they think you can lead them to some valuable ruins in the Rainforest.”

“Yeah, I’d actually started to figure that out.”

“You should be a detective.”

“People keep telling me that,” Rafe said. “What happens next?”

“Harding thinks you’re no longer a target. He believes that the people at the top of Vortex are already scrambling to shut down the operation now that two of their men have been arrested, two are dead, and the FBPI is involved.”

“So, it’s finished?”

“It is for us. For Harding, the fun is just beginning.”

“Thanks for the update,” Rafe said. “I think I’ll go back to bed now.”

He ended the connection and looked at Ella, who was propped up against the pillows, watching him.

“We can all relax,” Rafe said. “The FBPI is on the case.”

“Oh, joy. I feel so much safer now.”

“I detect cynicism.”

“You should be a detective.”

The scratching at the French doors distracted Rafe before he could come up with a response. When he opened the door, Lorelei bustled into the room. She had her wedding veil in one paw and she was dusted with powdered sugar.

“I have a bad feeling about this morning’s batch of powdered-sugar doughnuts,” Rafe said.

He was about to close the door but he stopped when the dream image flickered at the corner of his eye. Automatically he started to suppress it. Then he remembered the gates-of-Hell vision on the road.

He took a deep breath and let himself enter the dreamscape.

A shape-shifting ghost from the city of ice and fog appeared. It was impossible to make out the features but somehow Rafe knew that the being was capable of changing its identity. He also knew that he would pay a lot of money to learn the name of the shape-shifter.

“What is it?” Ella asked softly. “Another hallucination?”

Rafe turned toward the bed. “I keep wondering what kind of information Kenneth Maitland planned to sell to me.”

“Something to do with Vortex, evidently. After all, it was one of their operatives who murdered him.”

“How did a member of the DND movement learn something so important about Vortex that they felt they had to get rid of him?”

“I’m sure the famous Joe Harding will find the answer to that question,” Ella said.

“You’re right. Which leaves me with another question.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going home tomorrow.”

“There’s no reason for me to stay. Dr. Hayashi and Dr. Bowen are satisfied that the tuned-quartz devices will work to repel the monsters.”

“Right. Which means my job is finished, too.”

“So?”

“So, here’s my question. Mind if I go back to Crystal City with you?”

There was a great stillness in the darkened room. Rafe realized that he was holding his breath.

“No,” Ella said. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“How many more weddings have you got left on your calendar?” Rafe asked.

“Four down and one more to go,” Ella said. “I told you, this is my busy season.”

The lavish Norton-Hickock wedding had gone off flawlessly. Ella was pretty sure the guests, and the bride as well, held their collective breath when the minister asked the famous question.
“If anyone knows why this man and this woman should not be married, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

But Ella’s cell phone had not rung. For good reason, she thought. She glanced at the glowing bride and groom. It didn’t take a professional matchmaker to know that Martha and Mark were perfect for each other. The positive energy around them seemed to circulate throughout the crowded ballroom, affecting all the guests.

The gala reception was at its height. The champagne was flowing. The musicians were playing a dreamy waltz and she was in Rafe’s arms on the dance floor. Life didn’t get much better, she decided.

Rafe danced with a smooth, sexy competence. He seemed to like having her in his arms. There was a little heat in his eyes and his hand on her back was warm and strong. She was starting to allow herself to hope that their relationship might last awhile. But her realistic inner Siren warned her not to think long-term. She and Rafe had shared secrets, danger, and a bed. Now they were dancing together. There was no denying that they were involved in a passionate affair. But passion was not the same thing as love.

“You do this every year?” Rafe asked. “The professional bridesmaid thing, I mean?”

“I’ve been in high demand for the past couple of years but I expect the rush will taper off next year,” she said.

“Why is that?”

“Most of my friends will have been married by then. I expect there will be a few stragglers but you know how it is. Sooner or later everyone gets married.”

Rafe watched her intently. “Everyone except you and me?”

“Oh, you’ll get married,” she said. “Just as soon as you’re convinced that the fever is a symptom of a new, rising talent; not an indication that you’ll be checking into a para-psych hospital.”

“But until that happens you’ll sleep with me, is that it? Or at least you’ll sleep with me until you get bored
and decide to move on to another client you think you can fix.”

Outrage sparked through her. So much for the romantic dance.

“I didn’t fix you, damn it,” she said. “You weren’t broken. You were healing just fine. All I did was speed up the process.”

“Just so you know, your voice is rising.” Rafe smiled. “Are you going to sing?”

“That is not funny, Rafe Coppersmith.” Uneasily, she looked around. The room was still buzzing with conversation and laughter and music but the heads of a couple of nearby dancers had turned her way. Mortified, she clenched her hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“You’re trying to provoke me. You seem to be in the mood for an argument.”

“Maybe I am in the mood.”

There was more heat in his eyes now and she was pretty sure it wasn’t the sexy kind.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” she asked.

“Because I’m feeling used, that’s why. Every time I try to talk about our relationship, you change the subject.”

“Do you mind if we talk about something else?” she asked in a low hiss.

“It’s a wedding. What the hell else should we be talking about? And that’s exactly what I mean. You’re trying to change the subject.”

They were both on edge, she thought. It had been this
way since they had returned from Rainshadow three days ago. Oh, things had gone smoothly enough for the first forty-eight hours because both of them had been on their best behavior. But the uncertainties had been lurking like snakeweed just under the surface. So much for any hope of a long-term relationship.

You knew this wasn’t going to work out,
her inner Siren said.

“Do you know what your problem is, Rafe?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“You’re experiencing a lot of stress because you don’t know what to expect now that you’ve acquired a new talent.”

“I don’t think you can call lucid dreaming a talent. As far as career paths go, I’ll be lucky to set up in business as a storefront psychic in the Quarter.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You’re a Coppersmith. Your family will find you a good job in the company. You did excellent work for the firm on Rainshadow.”

“I got lucky. Singing dinosaurs were involved and I just happened to know a strong music talent. What are the odds that the next troubleshooting job will involve music?”

“I’m sure Coppersmith Mining will find a position for you.”

“Yeah? And just how the hell do you think that makes me feel? I don’t want my family to
find a position
for me. I’m not some charity case.”

“You’re afraid to make any long-range plans for yourself because you can’t figure out what you want to do
with the rest of your life. Talking about our relationship is a diversion for you, a way of not having to contemplate your own personal future.”

“I’m not the only one who isn’t into long-range planning. You’re the one who keeps reminding anyone who will listen that she’s never going to marry.”

“I told you, I’m just being realistic,” she shot back.

A few more heads turned.

“Ghost shit,” Rafe said. “You know what I think? I think you like having an excuse to hop from one man to the next, no strings attached.”

She was horrified. And furious. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Seems to me that every time I turn around you’re telling me that you aren’t looking for long-term commitment.”

“I’ve explained that my talent—”

“Forget your talent. I’m tired of that excuse.”

Outrage splashed through her. She stopped cold, forcing him to stop, too.

“How dare you accuse me of inventing an excuse not to get married,” she said. “If I didn’t want to get married, I would just come straight out and say I didn’t want to get married. Have I ever said that?
Have I?
”

“Well, now that I think about it, maybe not in so many words. However—”

The music ended with a flourish.

“Shut up,” Ella said. “They’re going to toss the garter and the bouquet.”

The wedding host grabbed the microphone. “Let’s
have all the unmarried men on this side of the stage and all of the single ladies on the opposite side.”

Grateful for the excuse to end the argument, Ella hoisted her skirts.

“See you later,” she said in her breeziest tone.

She whisked across the dance floor to join the crowd of bridesmaids and other single females. When she arrived in position she peeked at the herd of men on the other side of the stage. Rafe was there but he was standing several steps to the rear. He probably considered it a risk-free zone, she thought. She wondered what he would do if the garter came his way. Ignore it, probably.

The groom knelt in front of the bride, and amid much giggling and slightly off-color comments, he reached up under the voluminous skirts of the wedding dress and retrieved a blue satin garter.

Turning, he tossed it into the throng of men. It went nowhere near Rafe. He had chosen his location well, Ella thought grimly. Probably used his new talent for lucid dreaming to intuit the safest position.

The best man caught the garter and, with a cheesy grin, held it aloft and looked right at one of the bridesmaids. She blushed. A cheer went up.

“And now the bouquet,” the wedding host intoned.

Laughing, Martha stood at the top of the stage steps and turned her back to the group of single women.

At the last instant—on pure impulse—Ella maneuvered into the middle of the small crowd. From that position she had a good shot at grabbing the bouquet out
of midair. It would serve Rafe right if she caught it, she thought. Exactly why, she wasn’t sure.

The bride flung the bouquet over her shoulder. It sailed wide to the far right—nowhere near where Ella was poised to seize it out of midair.

Probably an omen, she decided. Over the course of her career as a bridesmaid she had been very careful never to catch the flowers. Today marked the first time she had ever made a deliberate effort to snag the bouquet and the result had been abject failure.

Not that she was superstitious.

The bride collected her skirts and descended the steps. Her attendants gathered around her.

Avoiding Rafe’s eye, Ella joined the laughing, happy group of women. They floated down a hallway toward the room that had been designated as a dressing chamber.

A waiter stood at the entrance. There was a tray of full champagne flutes decorated with ribbons on the console beside him.

One by one he handed each of the bridal attendants a glass of champagne as she entered the room. The door closed behind the women.

“A toast to Martha,” someone said. “May she always be this happy.”

There was a chorus of “to Martha.”

Everyone took a couple of sips of champagne and then set their glasses aside. The process of getting the bride out of her elaborate gown and veil began.

The first wave of nausea and dizziness hit Ella a short time later. She tried to shake off the sick sensation.
Instinctively, she rezzed a little psi, and for a moment or two her head and her stomach settled down.

“Ella?” Martha spoke from the center of the room where she was surrounded by bridesmaids. “Are you all right?”

A small dose of panic hit Ella. She could not spoil Martha’s big day.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. She managed a smile. “I may have had a bit too much champagne.”

Martha laughed. “Maybe your date had something to do with that? Congratulations on finding a plus one, by the way. And a very interesting plus one at that.”

Giggles sparkled in the room.

Ella kept her smile in place. “Thanks for letting me drag him along.”

“Is he any relation to the Coppersmiths of Coppersmith Mining?” one of the other bridesmaids asked.

“There may be a connection,” Ella said, deliberately vague.

“I saw the way he looked at you.” Martha winked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re the one wearing the fancy dress a few months from now.”

There was a flurry of activity and then the wedding host was in the doorway announcing that the limo was waiting. Everyone except Ella rushed out on a bright tide of laughter and good wishes.

Ella stepped out into the hall just long enough to wave farewell to Martha and Mark and then she ducked back into the room and closed the door.

She sank down onto one of the red velvet stools in front of the makeup counter. Clutching her tiny beaded
bag, she stared at her reflection. She looked like she was going to faint, she decided. This was not good.

The champagne glasses that they had been handed at the door were now standing on the counter in front of her. Most were still nearly full. She had taken only a single sip or two from her own glass.

There was something different about her flute—something about the ribbon tied around the stem.

It took her a few seconds to process the fact that the bow was pink. All of the other bows were purple. The waiter at the door had handed out each glass. She had not selected the one tied with the pink bow—it had been very deliberately placed in her hand as she entered the room.

No one else seemed to have had a problem with the champagne.

She had been poisoned.

She needed to get help but she could no longer trust her balance. She did not think she could even get to her feet.

Phone
.

If she could just open her small handbag and take out her phone, she could call Rafe. He would know what to do. Rafe was good at stuff like this.

A side door opened just as she pried open her little bag with trembling fingers. She looked up quickly—too quickly. The slowly spinning room went into overdrive. Nevertheless, she recognized the figure she saw in the mirror.

“You,” she said.

She tried to rez her talent but her paranormal senses did not respond. Her phone tumbled out of her handbag and landed on the carpet. It might as well have been a million miles away.

A great weariness came over her. She braced herself against the makeup table and leaned over, resting her hot forehead on her arm. She realized she still had one hand inside the handbag. Not that it mattered, she thought. Her phone was gone.

Her fingers closed around her lipstick.

“Strip her amber and then take her out through the side door,” Bob Luttrell said. He was no longer wearing the chef’s whites that he had worn for his role as the jobsite cook on Rainshadow. Today he was dressed in the uniform of a delivery service company. “The van is in the alley.”