Flameout (6 page)

I made it downstairs with a minute and a half to spare. Jackson's gaze scanned me critically; then a smile split his lips. “Luscious enough to eat.”

“But definitely not on the menu, given we have time restrictions.”

“Unfortunately, that is all too true.” He handed me a plate of hot buttered toast smothered with jam and a travel mug of tea, and ushered me out the door.

“So who is this tech we're meeting?” I asked, munching on the toast as he put Rosen's address into the GPS. “I'm presuming it's a woman.”

He gave me an offended look, though the gleam in his bright eyes somewhat gave the game away. “And why would you presume that?”

“Because you seem to have a number of lovers in very useful professions.” Or, at least, professions a private eye might find useful.

“I do have male friends, you know.”

“Yes, and I've met a couple of them. But that doesn't answer the question on the table.”

He pulled out of the parking spot and followed the GPS's directions into the city. “Well, as it so happens,
yes, Shona
is
female—but not, as you're obviously presuming, one of my current lovers. I only have time for one right now—and she has been sadly elusive of late.”

I leaned across and patted his leg. His skin jumped at my touch and warmth flared—both in his eyes and in the air. Jackson was a fire fae, and they generally couldn't produce their own flame—they could only control fire that already existed, even if only as a spark. But that restriction had been shattered when I'd allowed Jackson's spirit to merge with mine in an effort to burn the red cloak virus from his body and save his life. We had no true idea yet what other ramifications there might be from the merging, although we could occasionally catch each other's thoughts now. Not all the time, and certainly not when it would be advantageous to do so, but it was still happening.

“Yes,” he all but growled. “And if you're catching my thoughts now, you'll know it might be wise to remove your hand from the upper portion of my thigh.”

I shook my head and, with mock sadness, said, “A fire fae with so little control that an innocent touch will set him off is a very sad thing indeed.”

“So is a fire fae who hasn't had sex in days. Trust me, we're entering uncharted territory here.”

I grinned. From what I knew of the fae, there were four groups—earth, air, fire, and water—each able to fully control their element. While all fae tended to be loners—and certainly didn't do either monogamy or love—they were great sensualists, existing to experience pleasure both within and without their elements. Fire fae, in particular, not only had a rather high sex drive, but apparently delighted in introducing innocents to the
more seductive pleasures of this world—something Jackson had yet to achieve with me.

“Which is not surprising,” he commented. “Given you've been alive quite a few more centuries than me.”

I frowned at him. “You appear to be catching my thoughts a whole lot more than I'm catching yours of late.”

“Maybe you're just not trying hard enough.” He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe you're afraid you'll discover just how much a fire fae really
does
think about sex.”

I snorted. “I'm already well aware how often you think about it.”

“Well, yeah, I guess you
are
the main recipient of those lustful thoughts of late.” His smile faded. “I wonder if we could converse telepathically if we actually tried?”

“Maybe. But now is
not
the time to try. Concentrate on the damn road, please.”

He swerved to avoid the pedestrian who'd rather unwisely decided to jaywalk, then said, “Yes, ma'am.”

I smiled. “I'm gathering Shona is a former lover?”

“Not former. Just on hold until this whole sindacati and red cloak mess is taken care of. I'd hate to get anyone caught in the middle.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Just how many fillies do you actually have in your stable?”

The smile that touched his lips was decidedly wicked. “Just one, as I said.”

“I meant normally.”

“Ah.” He paused, as if considering the question. “Five that I see on a semipermanent basis, and probably three or four others less regularly.”

I blinked. “How in the hell are you managing to juggle that many women without them getting madder than hell at you?”

“I am a fire fae,” he said simply. “It's all part of the charm. Being honest helps, too.”

“So you tell them you're not human?”

“Well, no. There's honesty, and then there's stupidity. One or two of them have a less than stellar opinion of weres and vampires, and I enjoy their company too much to admit I'm not actually human.”

“
That
is an all-too-male response.”

He snorted softly. “When it comes to honesty,
that
is a case of the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard one.”

I grinned and didn't bother denying it. “So she's not likely to get antsy about you turning up with another woman?”

“No, because I've explained who you are.”

“I'm betting you didn't admit I was another of your lovers.”

“And
that
is a bet you would lose.” His expression was smug. “I told you, I am, at all times, almost totally honest.”

“I also take it she's not in danger of getting in trouble by doing this?”

“Only if she's caught, and that won't happen unless the night guard reports her. Which he won't, because he has the hots for her.”

I shook my head. “The information you can get your hands on is sometimes truly amazing.”

“Loving lots of women well does have its advantages.” He slowed the car and flicked on the blinker to
turn right as instructed by the GPS, then added, “And no, the security guard isn't a woman.”

He flashed me another of those cheeky smiles and heat stirred through me. He wasn't the only one suffering. I might need and enjoy Rory's loving, but I also rather enjoyed flesh-to-flesh contact—especially when it came to someone like Jackson, who was a very good lover.

And so was Sam,
my traitorous inner voice whispered. I ignored it. Him being civil was the closest thing to a miracle I was ever like to get. I very much doubted we'd ever step beyond that.

“However,” Jackson added, “we only have between four and four thirty. She has to be out by then.”

I frowned. “That's not giving us much time to search an entire apartment—”

“We won't have to search the entire place. The cops have already done that, remember? What we need to do is search the less obvious places.”

“Oh good—that'll be
so
much easier.”

“Do I detect a trace of sarcasm in your voice?”

“Hardly a trace.”

He chuckled softly. I ignored him and studied the building up ahead that was, according to the GPS, our destination. It wasn't much to look at—just another tall glass box in a growing landscape of them. Even at street level it wasn't all that inspiring—at first appearance, it really didn't seem all that different to any of the nearby office buildings. But given its location right in the heart of South Bank, I was betting it had million-dollar views—and a price tag to match.

Jackson found a parking spot on the opposite side
of the street then reached around and grabbed a backpack.

I raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“Equipment to hurry things along.”

With that, he climbed out. I followed suit. Across the road, just to the left of the building's main entrance, a blonde waited. She was tall, slender, and, even in her somewhat nondescript blue security uniform, rather stunning.

She pushed away from the hood of the Corolla she'd been leaning against when she spotted us and smiled. “Jackson Miller, if you get me into trouble for doing this, your ass is grass.”

Jackson laughed, drew her into his arms, and kissed her soundly. Then he swung her around and waved a free hand toward me. “Shona, may I introduce the lovely Emberly Pearson.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said. Her blue eyes scanned me but held nothing more than friendly curiosity. “I hear you're keeping our boy on the straight and narrow these days.”

I smiled and shook her extended hand. “As if that is
ever
possible. It's the case, not me. Expect a return to normality once it's dealt with.”

“So he said.” She bent to pick up the black pack at her feet. “I've told the guard to expect three of us tonight. You're trainees.”

She handed us passes similar to the one she already had clipped to her breast pocket then led us toward the building. The guard inside opened the door as we approached, his smile wide and friendly. He was a middle-aged man with thick black hair, warm brown
eyes, and the beginnings of a paunch under his crisp white shirt.

“Shona,” he said, voice warm. “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“And you.” She slid the sign-in book around and picked up the pen. “How's the divorce going?”

He shrugged. “The lawyers are involved now. It'll cost the idiot more than she'll gain.” His gaze flicked to Jackson and myself. “These the trainees?”

“Yeah.” Shona scrawled our names into the book. “We'll only be half an hour, Frank.”

He nodded and handed her a keycard. “Elevator two, as usual.”

“Thanks.” She flashed him a warm smile then headed off. We trailed after her.

“I take it you're not the cause of the divorce,” Jackson said as the elevator doors closed.

Shona swiped the card through the reader then hit the button for the twenty-fourth floor. “No, but he's definitely hoping I might provide warm arms to fall into after it.”

“Any chance?” I asked curiously.

She shrugged. “He's a nice enough guy, but I'm not after anything serious.”

“After the divorce, he probably won't be, either,” Jackson commented, amused.

Shona raised a pale eyebrow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Never. I love your athleticism too much to do that easily.”

She snorted and glanced at me. “Whoever said the way to a man's heart is his belly was totally off the mark.”

“I have no heart,” Jackson commented. “But I do have a very large appetite.”

“
That
is a statement I doubt any of us could deny.”

The elevator came to a halt, and the doors opened. Shona led the way out. The hall was wide, with a rich mix of wood, lushly painted walls, and thick carpet. The lights were muted, but brightened in sequence as we moved along the hall, lighting our way even as the shadows closed in behind us.

Rosen's apartment was down the far end of the hall, and was surprisingly barren of anything official. “Why isn't there any police tape around the door?”

“Maybe because he wasn't murdered in the apartment,” Jackson said.

Shona glanced over her shoulder. “Where
was
he murdered?”

“We don't know,” Jackson said. “And the police certainly aren't telling us.”

It was an honest enough answer because we
didn't
know where he'd been murdered. We just knew where his body had ended up—in the middle of our office.

Shona grunted and keyed in the security code. A heartbeat later the door clicked open. “The clock starts now, folks.”

We slipped past her and entered the apartment. The living and kitchen area was one vast, open space, and crowned by a sweeping curve of glass that overlooked the bright lights of Melbourne itself. The colors in the room were a mix of creams, browns, and blacks, which should have looked stark but somehow didn't. Splashes of bright color were dotted here and there in the form of large artworks, and the place was pin neat—which
was odd considering the cops had searched the apartment from top to bottom.

Jackson dumped his bag on the circular white coffee table and undid the zip. The device he pulled out looked rather like a handheld speed camera.

He obviously caught my confusion, because he said, “It's a frequency-modulated continuous-wave imaging radar.”

I blinked. “That makes me a whole lot wiser.”

He grinned. “Basically, it'll capture people or objects hidden behind walls.”

“And you're using this because you're expecting bodies behind the walls?”

“Well, no, but safe places, maybe.”

“The cops will have talked to his son and sourced out any safes.”

“Yeah, but it's totally possible senior had secrets junior didn't know about.”

Given junior's opinion of his father had been less than stellar the one time we'd talked to him, that was all too possible. I waved a hand airily. “By all means, then, continue. I'll search the laundry and other unlikely places, and see what I can find.”

He nodded and flicked a switch on the device. As the small screen came to life, I went in search of the laundry. If Rosen
had
installed secure storage in this place, I very much doubted it would be somewhere obvious, like the living area. I hadn't known Rosen well, but it had been long enough to not only dislike him, but to know that beneath the bluster and arrogance there was a very cunning mind.

The rest of the apartment was as vast as the living
area. There were three bedrooms—each one large enough to hold a king-sized bed, although only one of them actually did so. The second one was used as a storeroom, and the third had been turned into an office, complete with one wall of rather masculine-looking striped wallpaper. Rosen obviously hadn't believed in having guests staying over. I quickly checked each room for any signs of alterations or additions, but couldn't spot anything. There were no safes hidden behind any of the paintings, either. I moved on to the bathroom. It was opulent—all white marble and glass—and had a walk-in double shower as well as a spa bath. I checked the cupboards under the dual sink, but again, couldn't spot any alterations. The laundry netted the same result. This was looking like a waste of time, but it needed to be done. While it was unlikely Wilson's missing research notes would be found here, we still had to rule out the possibility that Rosen might have hidden information about the virus research here. After all, he'd not only been feeding the wererats—who ran most of Melbourne's underground gambling dens, and to whom he'd owed big money—information, but had been selling it to both the wolves and the sindacati. And he'd been wily enough not to do so from his office at Rosen Pharmaceuticals. Of course, if he'd blabbed the location of said information to his killer before he'd died—and that was certainly possible considering someone had been drugging information out of him for months before his death—it was likely that anything hidden here would be long gone.