Living with the Dead (23 page)

"And let's return to the original example," Hope went on. "Clairvoyants. Would you want people to know you could see what they were doing, anytime, anywhere? What would your friends think of that? Your husband or lover? Knowing you could spy on them?"

Robyn couldn't hold Hope's gaze. Yes, she had a point. But Robyn wasn't asking her to tell the world. Just her.

Damn it, Hope,
she thought,
I'm your friend.

"Yes," Hope said softly. "You are my friend."

Robyn looked up sharply. Had she spoken aloud? She looked into Hope's eyes, and knew she hadn't. And she shivered. God, she didn't want to, but she couldn't help it.

"Is
that
something you'd want to announce to your friends?" Hope said. "Is that something you really wanted to know about me?"

Robyn opened her mouth, but couldn't form words.

"I didn't think so."

Robyn quickly realized how foolish she'd sounded saying "tell me everything." Hope gave her only what she needed to know, with no mention of werewolves or demons or witches, keeping it all in the simplest terms possible. But even so, before long Robyn was totally lost.

Apparently the guy in the photo
was
an executive with a corporation... a corporation that employed people like Adele and Karl and Hope, and was known in their circles as the supernatural corporate Mafia. As for what that meant, how such a company operated, why no one ever noticed? Robyn didn't ask. The concept of a "supernatural corporate Mafia" masquerading as a regular business was enough for her to assimilate.

Hope was certain that what this Irving guy wanted was Adele. Apparently, being a rare race, clairvoyants were very valuable. As employees, Robyn presumed, though by this point, if Hope said he'd wanted Adele for a ritual sacrifice, she wouldn't have blinked.

"What all this has to do with the photo, and why Adele wants it back, I don't know. It would make sense if
Irving
was behind Portia's death. If he was trying to hire Adele, he wouldn't want the photo splashed over the tabloids, where a rival could track her down and make a better offer."

"He'd kill for that?"

"Sure." Hope said it with absolute conviction, as if it was no more in question than whether a rival
would
make Adele a better offer.

That would mean this guy knew Portia told Robyn to send the picture to the tabs. Maybe he'd been tapping Portia's phone. Or maybe Adele had used her powers and seen Portia type the message. It didn't matter. Adele had killed Portia and was after Robyn, and that was what counted.

Hope and Karl also suspected that this supernatural corporation was involved in the murder investigation, through Detective Findlay.

"He's a supernatural," Hope explained. "One of my powers is that I can detect other supernaturals. I picked it up with Findlay. I confirmed that the Nasts do have employees on the police force. Homicide would be one of the key positions. It's another way to survive unnoticed, heading off exposure threats and squelching the stories."

"Like you do with
True News,
" Robyn said. "So how did
I
get mixed up in all this? I seem to be the only person involved who's norm – not supernatural."

"It happens. Most of the population has no supernatural powers and we don't live in communes and caves. Imagine what would have happened if Karl hadn't been here to find you Friday. What would you have done?"

Robyn thought about it. "Eventually turned myself in. Then, I guess Detective Findlay would have taken over and I'd have found myself framed for murder. That is, if Adele didn't get to me outside the station."

"And if either of those things happened, would you have had any suspicions that Adele wasn't just a crazy woman? Or Detective Findlay wasn't just another cop doing his job?"

"No." She paused. "So I guess I should thank you guys for being here."

"You might not want to be too quick with that. Wait until after you hear our plan for getting you out of this."

ADELE

Ah, Adele, there you are."

Adele glanced up the stairs to a stocky figure with a ring of steel-gray hair, tucking in his shirt. Niko, the kumpania's bulibasha.

"Are you just getting in?" Niko lifted his arm, as if to check his watch, but his wrist was bare.

"Yes, I just got home."

He beamed an avuncular smile as she stopped beside him. "I guess Jasmine Wills had quite a night."

"I don't know. I kept losing her." Adele rubbed the back of her neck, wincing. She didn't need to fake that. She
had
spent all night looking for someone. Just not Jasmine. "I didn't get a single picture. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, kiddo. Can't expect results the first night."

He rumpled her hair, as if she was still five. Of course, when she was five, there'd been very little hair-rumpling from Niko. Even now, his touch made her flinch, remembering the beatings – those cold, methodical beatings as she'd lain naked on the cot in the main house basement, strap lashing down again and again until she was sobbing so hard she could barely draw breath to gasp her apologies, to promise she'd stop asking for her mother, stop crying for her, stop trying to run away.

Finally the beating would end. Niko would tell her she was a good girl, his breath coming fast, as if the exertion of the strapping was just coming upon him and he'd stroke her hair, her shoulder, her thigh until he'd abruptly leave the room. A few minutes later, she'd hear his footsteps on the stairs, leaving her alone in the cold, black basement until morning, when Lizette would come with fresh-baked lemon loaf and tell Adele she had to stop being so selfish, so naughty, wishing for a mother who'd abandoned her when the kumpania was happy to take her in, even if she was a durjardo – an outsider clairvoyant.

Once Adele's rebellion stopped, so did the beatings, as if she was a wild horse that had been broken. From then on, all she got from Niko was rumpled hair and avuncular smiles and, occasionally, a wistful look, as if he wished she'd show a little spark again, so he could take her back to that basement room and strap it out of her.

Now his hand rested on her shoulder as he talked to her. She didn't know about what, and faked a yawn, stifling it and saying, "Sorry, sir. It's really been a long night. What was that?"

"I said you might find getting photographs of Jasmine Wills easier than you think. Seems she's a fan of yours."

"Fan?"

"Her publicist called
True News
. With Portia dead, Jasmine is very interested in your – " He flashed a smile of too-bright veneers. " – creative talents. Now, you can't meet with her; that wouldn't be in the kumpania's best interests."

"No, of course not."

"And what's not in the kumpania's best interests..."

". . . is not in my best interests."

The rote response came automatically, and earned her another smile. "That's my girl. I left the publicist's number in your room. You may want to call her, see if you can get Jasmine's schedule. It would be a nice shortcut. Save you from long nights chasing her."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that."

Niko's chest puffed, as if he'd arranged the whole thing. Adele thanked him again – with Niko, there was no such thing as too much gratitude.

As Adele passed Lily's door on the way to her bedroom, she glanced in and saw the young woman sitting on the edge of her bed, smoothing her rumpled skirt, her eyes red, her underwear a white ball at her feet.

Adele glanced back at Niko's balding head as it disappeared down the stairs. Then she looked at Lily's nightstand, where his watch lay.

She smiled.

For a moment, she enjoyed the scene, then she erased the smile – or most of it – and leaned against the doorway. "I guess the phuri finally decided Hugh wasn't up to performing his husbandly duties."

Lily looked up and swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "They gave him longer than they had to, and we're grateful for their consideration, but it's my obligation to provide the kumpania with children and I'm happy for the chance."

Puling idiot. Even now she didn't have the guts to complain. Adele would have preferred sobbing rage, but her quiet tears were enough. By the end of her fertile period, she
would
be sobbing, curled up on the bed, with cold compresses between her legs. The thought cheered Adele, if only for a moment.

"I'm all right," Lily said, misinterpreting Adele's reason for lingering. "But thank you for stopping in. You're a good sister, Adele."

Sister, my ass.
If Adele had a sister, she'd be a lot brighter than this twit, who'd thanked Adele for bringing her coffee every morning, never noticing the bitter aftertaste of birth control pills. At the last meeting, when Niko had declared they might need to take the next step to impregnate Lily, Adele had watched the men's faces as they struggled to console Hugh, to act as if resigned to an unpleasant task. For the next year, the kumpania would monitor Lily's cycles and, when her time came, she'd be confined to her room for three days, while the men streamed upstairs to take their turn.

Adele excused herself and backed into the hall. As she turned, she saw Lily's cousin, Bernard, top the stairs, his corpulent frame quivering from the exertion, the crotch of his pants already straining with anticipation. Ah, duty.

"She's waiting for you," Adele said, as he lumbered past her into the room.

Adele's good mood lasted only until she closed her bedroom door and caught a glimpse of herself in her full-length mirror. Thoughts of Lily's impregnation made her consider her own predicament. She pulled her shirt tight and turned to survey every angle. Nothing. She lifted the shirt. Her stomach still looked flat.

Though the book said she shouldn't show for another month at least, it also mentioned that "small" women might show earlier. Adele didn't consider herself "small," but if that was a euphemism for skinny, then yes, she was thin.

Kumpania living didn't allow the level of privacy she'd need to conceal a pregnancy under oversized shirts. She had to be gone before she was showing.

If she didn't find those photos soon, she might need a backup plan – someone she could point to as the father. Someone in the kumpania. Otherwise, they'd presume she'd been sleeping with an outsider, and the kumpania would kill her for that, as surely as if they saw that photo.

She sat on her bed and considered her options. Her initial plan, if things went poorly with the Nasts, had been to seduce Niko while she negotiated with another Cabal. It would be hard for the phuri to punish her if their leader had chosen to bless her with a child. But now that idea might, ironically, have been thwarted by the unexpected success of her earlier scheme to get Hugh. If Niko got to enjoy Lily, he might not be as easy to seduce.

Her second choice was riskier. Seducing Colm would be easy enough, but Neala wouldn't like it. Still, Adele reminded herself, she had no intention of being around long enough to need this backup plan. She just needed to launch it so that if things went wrong, Colm could say, with conviction, that he was the father.

As she stood, she saw a message pad page on her nightstand. The phone number for Jasmine Wills's publicist. Adele was about to shove it into her drawer. She hoped to be gone before she ever had to produce a photo of Jasmine. But the note bothered her. It was too... convenient.

She dialed the number on her cell phone. After the fourth ring, a harried voice answered with what sounded like "café au lait." Adele paused, letting the woman say it again, the words plucking at a memory. Not "café au lait," but "Café Olé." Adele had stared at that sign for an hour yesterday, its play on words another source of annoyance as she'd waited for Robyn Peltier to finally exit the coffee shop.

Adele crumpled the note. She told herself it didn't matter, she'd already suspected that Robyn knew who she was, but that lead was a dead end anyway. Or was it? Her message had gotten to Adele's home, left with the kumpania leader himself. She could just as easily have told Niko everything. As Adele stared at the paper ball, she realized that's what this was: a warning.

See, I can get to you. I can expose you. I can kill you.

Adele pitched from her bed, her breath coming hot and fast. So Robyn fancied herself a player, did she?

Food and sleep would have to wait. Time to kill two birds. With two brothers.

FINN

Ms. Adams? It's Detective Findlay. Could you please call me back as soon as you get this message?"

Finn rattled off the number, then went to put the cell phone in his pocket, thought better of it and set it on his desk, on the remote chance that Hope Adams called back.

The detective room was empty. At ten on a Sunday morning, it often was. Anyone working was out on the street. Which is where he should be, and where he would be, as soon as he could haul himself to his feet again.

He'd called Hope Adams three times since last night, leaving three messages. He'd started with the simple
call me back.
Then he'd moved to the mysterious
there's been a change in the case I need to discuss with you.
Finally, urgent:
I have reason to believe Robyn Peltier is in danger.
No response.

At 8 a.m., he'd called
True News,
getting a sleepy editor who'd been there all night and offered to leave a message on Adams's cell phone – the same number Finn already had. At eight-thirty, he'd even borrowed another detective's cell phone, hoping the unfamiliar number might entice her to answer.

"Still nothing?" Damon said as he returned from eavesdropping on conversations pertaining to last night and the case.

Finn shook his head.

"I hope she's okay."

Finn tried to look concerned. He had no doubt Hope Adams was okay. Just ignoring him, listening to each message and rolling her eyes.
If that detective thinks I'm dumb enough to help him put my friend in jail, he can think again.

He knew Robyn Peltier wasn't responsible for the deaths and he was quite certain he'd met the young woman who was, but he couldn't leave that on voice mail or it could come back to haunt him in court.

Last night he'd rounded up a few witnesses who'd said they got a good look at the girl who'd killed Margie Damascus – the victim.

"We've got three similar sketches, Finn," his lieutenant had said. "And none of them could possibly be your girl in the photo." He'd laid a hand on Finn's shoulder, his fingers damp enough to leave a stain. "It's a common phenomenon. You saw the photograph. You were working through its significance as you followed Peltier to the fair. You saw this young woman acting suspiciously, and the three events merged into one – the girl on the phone was the girl in the photo, who was this girl at the fair." Lieutenant Balough had squeezed his shoulder. "I didn't get a degree in psychology for nothing. The mind is an amazing thing. Sometimes, though, it takes a few shortcuts."

To his credit, Balough had put a rush on the ballistic. But the technician had taken one look at the recovered bullet, which had slammed into a stone monument after passing through Margie Damascus, and doubted he could make a viable comparison.

Finn pulled up the photo on his computer and studied it.

"So she's walking with an older guy." Damon moved behind Finn's shoulder. "Looks like he has money."

Finn glanced back at him.

"That suit." Damon pointed. "Top drawer."

Finn wouldn't know, but he could tell that the suit fit the man better than his own fit him, so he supposed that was a good sign it was expensive.

"Top-drawer suit means a top-drawer executive," Damon continued. "I bet he'd be a lot easier to identify than the girl."

Finn agreed.