White Hot Page 23

  “I have a face for you,” I told Bug.

  He exploded out of his chair. “Give!”

  I handed him the phone.

  He plugged a cable into it. My pictures filled the screen.

  “Which one?”

  I pointed at the mage.

  Bug dropped into his chair. His fingers danced over the keyboard with the agility of a virtuoso pianist. Faces filled the nine screens, blinking in and out of existence.

  Around the frame, couches and chairs waited in a ragged horseshoe. A huge industrial fridge stood against the left wall next to a counter that supported three coffeemakers, each with a full carafe. Coffee!

  Augustine landed on the leather couch, his pose effortlessly elegant. “I have state-of-the-art facial recognition software at the Montgomery building.”

  “Bug is faster,” Rogan and I said at the same time.

  Cornelius stared at the screens. Rogan moved to stand by Bug’s shoulder and spoke to him in a low voice. Probably bringing him up to speed on our wonderful adventure.

  I texted Bern. Everything okay?

  Yes.

  I waited for more information. Nothing. Perfect Bern. Sometimes my cousin took things too literally. How are the kids, Mom, and Grandma? How are you?

  We’re fine. You missed fried-rice night. I had to hold Matilda’s cat so she could clean his eyes. Leon is still trying to get a gun. Aunt Pen says she’ll take him for target practice once this is over. Grandma Frida wants to know when the wedding is.

  Never.

  I’ll tell her that.

  “Found him!” Bug announced.

  A portrait of a man in his thirties filled the screen. He seemed to be about five years or so older than Rogan. Dark blond hair cut short on the sides and fashionably longer on top of his head, brushed back from his face. A light stubble added a mild roughness to his jaw. His features were handsome and well formed, and he clearly didn’t bother with illusion, because he was smiling in the picture, the same quiet, sly smile I had seen an hour ago, and the crow’s feet in the corner of his light hazel eyes stood out. In the picture he wore a tuxedo and a bow tie.

  “David Howling,” Bug said. “Of House Howling.”

  “That can’t be right,” Augustine said. “House Howling is a fulgurkinetic house.”

  Howlings didn’t freeze things. They shot lightning.

  My phone chimed. A text message. I checked it. Grandma Frida.

  How is it going with your boyfriend?;););)

  Not my boyfriend!

  “Is David Howling registered?” Cornelius asked.

  “Average fulgurkinetic,” Bug reported. “Says here he tried three times to pass as Significant, but failed.”

  “Run the genealogy,” Rogan said.

  Bug played another melody on the keyboard. The middle screen blinked, presenting the family tree of House Howling, listing the current head of the House, spouses, and children.

  “Run Diana Collins,” Rogan ordered.

  House Collins appeared on the screen.

  Bug’s voice was precise and loud. “Diana Collins is registered to the New York branch of House Collins as aquakinetic Prime with psychrokinetic specialization.”

  Psychrokinetic stood for “ice mage.”

  “A dark horse,” Augustine said, his perfect face wrinkling with disdain.

  I’d heard of dark horses, mostly because a lot of romance and action fiction involving Primes centered around them. Primes divulged just enough information about their capabilities to maintain their status, often hiding their secondary talents. Dark horses carried it a step further. They didn’t register as Primes at all, pretending to be less than they were so they could do shady things to further their family’s interests. “So it’s a real thing?”

  “Regrettably, yes,” Augustine said. “House Howling is a fulgurkinetic family. All of their enterprises are tied into it. Instead of registering an ice Prime who couldn’t really add anything to the family, they kept David on the back burner. He probably received a very specialized training.”

  “He’s an assassin,” Rogan said, matter-of-fact. “A good one. Bug, I want surveillance on his house. Find his vehicle. I want to know where he is at all times.”

  “Baranovsky was drinking champagne when he died,” I thought out loud. “Could Howling have frozen the liquid in his throat?”

  “Very likely. He didn’t simply freeze it. If he’d done that, Baranovsky would’ve simply choked on an ice cube. He must’ve made the liquid into a flat sharp blade and slit the throat from inside out.” Rogan stared at the screen, a calculation taking place behind his eyes. “Forsberg’s brain showed signs of ice damage as well.”

  “It’s an insidious practice,” Augustine continued, disgust plain in his voice. “And much more rare than the movies will lead you to believe. It requires a huge sacrifice on the part of the dark horse. They can never admit their Prime status or reap any of the benefits it affords. They are always viewed as lesser by their peers. I’ve known only two dark horses in my life and in both cases, it didn’t end well for them or their families.”

  I kept thinking back to Baranovsky drinking. I could picture it in my head, him standing there with a champagne flute, watching . . . watching Rogan and Olivia Charles. Olivia Charles, who’d given me a mental push to flee. What was it Rogan said about manipulators? They were often registered as other specialties, a psionic being a favorite.

  “Rogan, how is Olivia Charles registered?”

  “A psionic Prime.” He clamped his mouth shut. His gaze gained a dangerous edge.

  “What is it?” Augustine looked at him and at me.

  “We’ve been played,” I said. “Olivia Charles created a diversion and while everyone focused on Rogan and her drama, David Howling cruised by Baranovsky and turned the champagne in his throat into a solid block of ice. They used us.”

  “That’s a heavy accusation, Ms. Baylor,” Augustine said.

  Funny how I was Nevada until I dared to accuse one of their own. “Nari and the other lawyers were killed by an ice mage and a manipulator working together. Rogan, if Olivia was a manipulator, would anyone know?”

  “Olivia Charles is a fourth generation Prime.” Augustine leaned forward. “She is mean as a snake if she doesn’t like you, but her reputation is beyond any contestation.”

  “Would anyone know?” I repeated, searching Rogan’s face for an answer.

  “No,” he said, his voice grim. His face told me he was contemplating violence, and a lot of it.

  “Whoa.” Augustine raised both hands. “Let’s back way, way up, past the line of insanity. We’re not talking about some loose cannon spoiled child like Pierce or a dark horse from a second marriage who is barely known in society. We’re talking about someone with a spotless record and vast connections in our community. My mother hates Olivia Charles, but when Olivia invites her to a luncheon, my mother makes an effort to attend. Before you even consider going after Olivia, you have to have bulletproof evidence of her guilt. If you videotape her stabbing someone with a butcher knife and then play it before the Assembly, half of the people will swear it was a fabrication and a quarter would claim she was drinking tea with them when the stabbing occurred. If you accuse her of anything without evidence, you will be crucified. I’ll have to disavow any connection with you. You will never land another client of any prominence.” He turned to Rogan. “And you will lose the last shreds of your standing.”

  “I don’t care,” Rogan said.

  “You should care.” Augustine slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “You have nothing. You have hypothesis and conjecture. This course of action won’t just affect you.”

  Bug cleared his throat.

  “This will affect me, our families, and even Rynda. This is the kind of accusation that must be made with exceptional care. Not only that, but it makes no sense for Olivia to be involved in this mess. She is at the pinnacle of her life. She has power, wealth, and influence. Why would she jeopardize
it?”

  Bug cleared his throat louder.

  “What?” Rogan asked.

  “Voilà.” Bug tapped the key. The front of Baranovsky’s mansion filled the middle screens, filmed through the haze of rain and bordered in dark wet leaves.

  David Howling stood to the side, smoking, that familiar smile on his face. He seemed to be perpetually calm and happy.

  A limo slid into place before the front staircase. The driver dashed to the passenger door, opened an umbrella, and swung the door open, holding the black umbrella above it. Olivia Charles stepped out, walked up the staircase, paused for a moment before security and went inside. Fifteen seconds later David flicked his half-finished cigarette aside and followed her in.

  Augustine’s face turned white. “Dear God.”

  And it proved nothing. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t say anything to each other. Everyone in the room knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Howling had waited outside to make sure she arrived. And we could do exactly nothing with that knowledge.

  “He’s right,” I told Rogan. “We have no direct evidence.”

  “Then we should get some,” he said. “We need that USB drive.”

  He looked at Bug.

  “How?” Bug asked. “Baranovsky has a DaemonEye security lock on his network. I would have to get the kid to crack it, but even if Bern opens all the cyber doors, it won’t do us any good. You can’t hack something that’s not connected to the Internet. You have to physically access the computer. Someone has to walk in, get the computer, or at least the hard drive, and walk out with it. Every security person Baranovsky employed is likely at that mansion right now, not to mention cops who are swarming within the place. That house is locked up tighter than a clam with lockjaw. By now the gap in the wall is probably repaired and if it isn’t, it’s guarded like Fort Knox.”

  “How did you film that footage?” Cornelius said behind me.

  I almost jumped. He’d been so quiet I’d forgotten he was there.

  “A drone transmitting the feed from its camera.” Bug waved his arm. “A fifty-thousand-dollar drone, which, by the way, I lost because some asshole wind mage knocked it out of the sky just as I tried to recover it. The last thing it transmitted was a tree, up very close.”

  “If I understand correctly, you don’t need the entire computer.” Cornelius rested his elbow on his bent knee and leaned his cheek on his fingers. “You just need the hard drive.”

  “Yes.” Bug spread his arms. Napoleon decided that things had gotten exciting enough to warrant his input and barked once to underscore the point.

  Rogan glanced at Augustine.

  “I suppose I could try to impersonate one of the security personnel,” the illusion mage said. “Assuming we kidnap someone with access to Baranovsky’s inner sanctum. That will take time and research.”

  “What about a short-range teleporter?” I asked. Teleportation was a last resort. It usually didn’t go well, but among the three of them they had to know at least one mage capable of it.

  “Too risky,” Augustine said. “The place is crawling with security. And two-thirds of human teleportations, unless the teleporter is a Prime, end up with the teleported party resembling an undercooked meat loaf.”

  “Find out who is securing the mansion,” Rogan said to Bug. “Let’s see if we can throw money at them.”

  “I’ll need another drone,” Bug said.

  “Ferrets,” Cornelius said.

  All of us looked at him.

  “Ferrets?” Augustine asked.

  “It’s a domesticated form of European polecat,” Cornelius said. “Closely related to weasels, minks, and stoats.”

  “I know what a ferret is,” Augustine said, obviously making a heroic effort to be patient. “I’m asking how ferrets would help us retrieve the computer.”

  “I assume the mansion has laundry facilities?” Cornelius asked, a mild expression on his face.

  “Yes,” Bug reported.

  “Industrial dryers?”

  “Most likely.”

  “And you only require a hard drive from the computer?”

  “Yes,” Bug said.

  “In that case, I can extract those things for you provided you can attach a very small camera and a radio receiver to a ferret harness. I have to be able to talk to them and I must see what they see. I have several harnesses at Nevada’s warehouse, but my camera needs to be replaced and I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “You want to send in harnessed ferrets through a laundry vent?” Augustine clearly had difficulty coming to terms with that idea.

  “Yes,” Cornelius said.

  I blinked. “Wouldn’t the vent be secured by an alarm?”

  The three of them looked at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head.

  “It doesn’t make sense to secure a laundry vent,” Rogan explained. “It’s too small and it opens into a dryer.”

  “I’m curious, what are you picturing exactly?” Augustine asked. “A crisscrossing pattern of red laser beams and ferrets in harnesses slithering through it like ninjas?”

  Ugh. He needed some of his own medicine. I dropped some cold into my voice. “Mr. Montgomery, contrary to what popular entertainment would like you to believe, laser beams are neither red nor visible under ordinary circumstances. I would think a man in charge of an investigative firm would know that.”

  Augustine flushed. “I do know that, which is why I asked the question in the first place.”

  I plowed on ahead. “Lasers wouldn’t make an optimal choice for securing a dryer vent anyway, because air carrying dryer lint would create false positives and would eventually clog the mirror system. For the same reason, heat sensors or movement sensors are out, but the exhaust could be secured by a pressure sensor. How paranoid is Baranovsky? I don’t want Cornelius’ ferrets to die. It would be painful for him.”

  Cornelius reached over and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “I’m more paranoid than Baranovsky,” Rogan said. “My laundry vents aren’t secured. But I’d imagine there is a metal grate over them.”

  “Does anybody else find this whole idea of a ferret heist mildly absurd?” Augustine looked around the room.

  “Grates are not an issue,” Cornelius said.

  “Can your animals handle screws?” Augustine asked.

  Cornelius met his gaze. “Let’s assume that I spend as much time training my animals and honing my magic as you do practicing your illusions.”

  “How confident are you that this will work?” I asked Cornelius.

  He smiled at me.

  “Let’s do it,” Rogan said.

  Rogan owned a surveillance truck. From the outside, it looked like a medium-sized RV. Inside, it was a high-tech wall of computer screens, equipment, cables, and various monitors. I sat in my black leather seat, which could rotate 270 degrees when unlocked and came equipped with a seat belt and a hiney warmer, and watched the night-vision camera feed on the main screen as two ferrets and a slightly larger creature Cornelius called a Chinese ferret-badger loped their way through the brush. The Chinese ferret-badger was adorably fluffy and I got to pet him and feed him some raisins before Bug put him into a harness that supported a camera and a communicator. Two side monitors provided similar feeds from the ferrets. Cornelius and Bug sat in front of them, both wearing headsets with mikes.

  “I can’t believe you put cameras on ferrets,” Augustine said on my left.

  “You put cameras on drones,” Cornelius responded.

  “Yes, but drones are supposed to have cameras. This is . . . unnatural.”

  Cornelius spared him a smile.

  On the screen the drizzle still soaked the ground. It was the kind of night when cold seeped into your bones. I leaned closer in my seat, grateful to be dry and warm. While they had put the harnesses together, I’d made a brief run home, where I switched out of my beautiful and thoroughly rain-soaked dress into a prosaic T-shirt and jeans. My hair was
still put up, but the makeup had to go. I felt more like me, but there had been something magical about that dress, about being at the gala, and walking with Rogan up to the balcony. Something that reached back through my adulthood to an almost childlike belief in magic and wonder. When I thought back to this evening, I should’ve remembered Baranovsky, the man I had spoken to only minutes before he died, murdered in his own mansion. Instead I remembered the feel of Rogan’s fingers on mine and his face when he said, “I see a Prime.” He said it as if he’d dreaded it. It bothered me. It bothered me more than Baranovsky’s murder.

  Was I getting used to death? I hoped not.

  According to Bug and his surveillance staff, David Howling had never made it home. He had vanished off the map somewhere between Baranovsky’s mansion and his house in River Oaks. Neither Bug nor his two surveillance helpers were able to locate him. When Bug plucked Howling’s cell phone number out of some Internet ether and called it at Rogan’s directive, the number was no longer in service.

  The brush ended. The three little beasts paused. In front of them, twenty yards of open ground stretched. Past it loomed the walls of the mansion’s northern wing, where according to Rogan’s informant, the laundry room was located. Some ornamental shrubs and rose bushes wound between the walls and the brush. The laundry vent was likely concealed behind the greenery.

  Cornelius flicked a switch on his headset, his voice clear and friendly, as if he were speaking to a group of small children. “Look left.”

  The cameras shifted as the beasts looked left in unison.

  “Look right.”

  The cameras obediently swung right. All clear.

  “Run to the wall.”

  The three beasties dashed across the open ground, under the rose bushes, and to the wall.

  Cornelius concentrated, his gaze focused, his voice intimate and almost hypnotic. “Harsh scent. Yellow poison scent. Find it.”

  “Poison scent?” Rogan asked.

  He’d moved to stand next to me and suddenly I was acutely aware that he was standing only inches away. I wanted him to reach out and touch me. He didn’t.