The Eternal Ones (31 page)

“Hold up. You’re saying the
Ouroboros Society
has people killed?”

“Marta claims it’s totally corrupt. They even have people called ‘gray men’ to make sure everyone stays in line.”

“And you’ve been
dating
a member of this organization?” Beau marveled.

“That’s one of the weirdest parts. Iain’s a member of the OS, but Padma has no idea who he was in his last life. He’s been hiding his real identity.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, I know one thing. I don’t want you going anywhere near Iain Morrow if you think he might be a part of all this.”

“
You
don’t want me?” Haven asked.

“Come
on
,” Beau groaned. “You were taking a bath at his house when I talked to you this morning. We both know what that means. So if Iain Morrow asks you to vouch for his whereabouts, you just tell him
no
. I don’t care how good the nookie is. I don’t want you doing time for some serial killer.”

“I wouldn’t help Iain Morrow right now if my life depended on it. But somebody has to save Marta.”

“That’s what the police are for. Jesus, Haven. Is
any
of this sinking into your thick skull? You gotta be careful. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will,” was all Haven was willing to say. She finally understood why Constance had wanted her to find Ethan. She wanted Haven to stop him from killing again.

Haven’s cell phone rang the moment she dropped it back into her bag.

“Hi there. Where are you?”

Murderer or not, Iain’s voice could still send her heart racing. Haven battled to keep her emotions under control. What was wrong with her? Haven wondered. After everything she’d learned, how could she still be in love with Iain Morrow?

“Greenwich Village,” she told him. “Shopping,” she added.

“Have you been home this afternoon?” He made it sound like nothing more than an ordinary question.

“Yeah,” Haven said. “There are paparazzi all over the place. One of them said Marta Vega has disappeared. Everyone seems to think you’re responsible. Are you?”

There was a slight pause. “I’d rather explain in person,” Iain said. “I’m sending a car now. It will meet you on the corner of Christopher Street and Seventh Avenue. Can you get there in fifteen minutes?”

“That depends. Where exactly am I going?”

“Sixty-fifth Street. Don’t worry—the driver knows the address. I’ll see you soon.”

Haven knew Beau would never approve of what she was about to do, but someone had to try to save Marta. And Haven was starting to suspect she was the girl’s last hope.

 

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the car pulled up in front of an understated apartment building on one of the most exclusive streets in the city. A doorman ushered Haven to the elevator lobby and inserted a key above the buttons. Trapped inside the shiny, elegant box, Haven rode silently to the twenty-fifth-floor penthouse, staring at her image in the elevator’s polished brass. It was only four o’clock, but her clothes were already wrinkled, her mascara was smudged, and her hair—as usual—was shooting in every direction. But Haven couldn’t have cared less about her appearance. She knew she was on a mission that might well prove deadly.

The elevator doors opened, and Iain met her with a kiss.

“What is this place?” Haven asked, pulling away from him. They were standing in a marble foyer decorated with ornate furniture and statues of naked Greek goddesses.

“My father’s old apartment,” Iain explained. “He liked to call this his Donald Trump room. I’ve been trying to sell the place, but Dad’s taste in home decor seems to scare off potential buyers. Do you think you can stand it for a few days? We’ll have to stay here until the paparazzi calm down.”

“I’ll stay if you tell me where to find Marta Vega.”

Iain laughed as though he hadn’t understood. He seemed awfully relaxed for a killer. “Pardon me?”

“You kidnapped her. So where is she?”

“I did not
kidnap
Marta,” Iain said. “She’s probably on a beach somewhere by now. God knows she needed to clean up and get some color.”

“But—”

“Forget about Marta. I have something for you. Something that should keep you busy until we have a chance to get back to Rome. It’s in the house, but you’re going to have to find it.”

Haven opened her mouth to argue, then shut it just as quickly. The grin on Iain’s face was so lighthearted that she couldn’t bear to confront him. She’d never encountered such an excellent actor.

“It’s somewhere in this apartment?” she finally muttered. “You want to give me a hint?”

“Have a look around,” Iain insisted. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Haven wandered through a dozen dreary rooms, most decorated with a herd’s worth of leather upholstery, a painting of a naked lady, and at least two mounted animal heads. Thick curtains blocked out the sunlight, and the air still bore a hint of cigar smoke. In Jerome Morrow’s wood-paneled study, Haven discovered a series of black-and-white photographs hanging on the wall. Each showed Iain at a different age, and all appeared to have been taken when the boy wasn’t looking. There was Iain reading a leather-bound copy of
Faust
. Iain poised to dive into an alpine lake. Iain looking wistfully out a window at the rain. But the photos appeared to stop before Iain reached his teenage years. It was as if the boy in them had suddenly died.

Not far from the study, Haven came upon a bedroom that might have belonged to the Iain in the pictures. It appeared oddly empty, as if it were being slowly dismantled. There were a few bright patches on the blue walls where pictures had been recently removed, and there were large gaps between the few books that were left in the bookcase. Even the bureau drawers were bare. Whatever clues Haven might have been able to find had been carefully spirited away.

At the far end of the hall, Haven came to a larger bedroom set in the corner of the building. The curtains were open, and two walls of windows looked out over New York City. With sunshine pouring in, Haven could tell that the room had recently been dusted and cleaned. The white bedspread looked new and even the paint smelled fresh. Her suitcase rested on a luggage rack near the closet. Iain’s black messenger bag was hanging on the back of a chair. On the desk was his mobile phone.

Haven froze momentarily as her fingers gripped the device. Finally, she had access to some answers she could trust. She listened for the sound of footsteps in the hall. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Iain moving about. She tapped the phone with one finger and the screen lit up. On the bottom right corner was a familiar icon. As breathless as a tomb raider cracking the lock on an underground vault, Haven clicked the spinning silver snake. It expanded to take over the entire screen. When it stopped rotating, eight options appeared on the screen.

 

 

Haven tapped
Your Account
and found herself staring at what looked like a bank statement. She gasped as she began to read. At the top of the page, in bold letters, was written,
Iain Morrow, member since 2007
. Beneath that, two columns listed
Deposits
and
Withdrawals
. Beside most were names and short descriptions.

Haven stared at the statement, her eyes passing over the long list of escorts until she reached the item at the bottom: a deposit made to Iain’s account the day before. Who had made it? What was it for? And what had been deposited? It couldn’t be money, Haven decided. The numbers made that impossible. She paged through previous statements. Most of the withdrawals were for girls, though there were quite a few deposits labeled
Cash donation
or
Business loan
. Iain had been using his fortune to keep his Ouroboros Society account in good standing. And he was using his credit to buy sex. Haven knew this was the system Marta had mentioned—the one that Jeremy Johns had found so disgusting.

On the upper-right corner of the screen, a red envelope logo flashed three times then disappeared. Haven left the
Your Account
page and navigated to
Inbox
. A message labeled
Urgent
had just been sent by Padma Singh. It opened automatically.

Haven made a mental note of the message before she closed it and opened the next. It was from Marta Vega, and it had been written only two days earlier:

The third was a note to all members from Padma:

 

 

 

 

Just as Haven closed the message she realized she was no longer alone.

“Did you find it?” Iain’s face fell when he saw the phone in her hands. He said nothing as he turned and left the room.

When Haven started to charge after him, she finally saw what she’d been meant to find. A small sign tacked to a door on the far side of the bedroom read FOR HAVEN. With Iain’s phone still clenched in one hand, she turned the knob and stepped into an adjoining chamber. A brand-new sewing machine sat on a table, and the shelves that lined the walls were filled with rolls and rolls of the most beautiful fabrics that Haven had ever seen.

Haven’s eyes explored the little room, her feelings shifting every second. She couldn’t land on a single emotion. Beneath the anger, guilt, heartbreak, and fear, she even sensed a little hope struggling to break through. Haven was careful to leave it behind when she left to look for Iain.

Haven found Iain in the apartment’s kitchen. Big enough for a crew of chefs, the cavernous room seemed a lonely place for a single cook. Iain had been preparing dinner when she arrived, and one small section of the granite countertop was littered with onion peels and carrot tops. Now he stood amid the makings of his meal with a knife in one hand and a tomato in the other, as if he could barely summon the will to move. If Haven hadn’t been so angry, her heart might have broken at the sight.

“I didn’t know you were such an
active
member of the Ouroboros Society,” she said, launching her attack.

At first Iain refused to look at her. “I don’t recall saying I wasn’t. You knew I was a member. I never hid it from you.”

It was true, she had to admit. “I saw the list of girls in your account. How long have you been hiring prostitutes?”

The question got his attention, but the disgust on Iain’s face made Haven question her line of attack. “Did it
say
they were prostitutes?” he asked.

“It said they were escorts.”

“Exactly. And that’s what they did. They
escorted
me. Anything else would have cost a lot more.”

“But why hire escorts in the first place?”

Iain turned to face her. With his chin up and arms crossed, he looked ready to withstand all assaults on his character. “I was waiting for you. But I had to keep up appearances, and for that I needed dates for the parties I went to. I didn’t want to take anyone who might think I was actually interested. So I hired models as escorts. It worked out rather well until now, I’d say.”