Shadows in the Starlight, page 2
Even as the thought formed, a thin tendril of smoke began to rise from the pile of wood shavings, carrying an acrid chemical smell. Small, bright flames licked across the pile and slithered toward the house.
Kate sank down onto her bed and considered her options. She had a rope ladder in her closet, and if she had to, she could break one of the windows and climb out. But if she left the house by the bedroom window, the intruder would see her. Going down through the house didn’t seem any safer. Her best bet was to stay where she was and hope the police response came in time.
If indeed the alarm had been triggered.
The jangle of the front doorbell brought her leaping to her feet. She was at the door, throwing aside the first dead bolt, when it occurred to her that the bell might not be a harbinger of rescue. For all she knew, it could be the intruder’s ploy to get her out of her bedroom.
She peered out the side window, looking for any hint of the strobing light that might indicate a police response. Unfortunately, no light at all found its way into the narrow side yard.
A loud thump came from the floor below. Startled, Kate jumped back from the window. As she did, she realized the source of the noise—the back door had been forcibly opened. She heard the faint sound of footsteps, and a familiar voice called her name.
Weak with relief, Kate threw back the locks and cracked open the door. “Be careful,” she yelled. “There was someone in the backyard. He was in the house, too.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll check it out.”
Long minutes passed before she heard footsteps on the stairs. She peeked out again, then swung the door open wide.
“Thank God it’s you! Did you see him?”
“No. The sick bastard is long gone. There’s no one here but you and me.”
Maybe it was her strained nerves, but that observation struck Kate as more ominous than comforting. Her eyes dropped to the gun in her rescuer’s hand.
Of course there would be a gun. Who responded to an intruder alert unarmed?
On the other hand, who took time to add a silencer to their weapon?
Kate’s gaze flashed up to that familiar face, and what she saw confirmed her fears. The first bullet tore through her shoulder, spinning her around and sending her pitching facedown onto the carpet. Oddly enough, she felt the impact of the floor before her mind registered the pain of the gunshot wound. Then the pain came in a screaming, blinding rush.
The second shot slammed into her, and the third. There might have been more, but Kate was beyond the point where such things mattered. Her entire world began and ended with the white-hot agony radiating from her chest into her useless, twitching limbs.
Dimly she was aware of a cool pressure at the base of her neck, and in some corner of her mind she understood what was about to happen.
A lifetime of fear and resentment fell away, and Kate welcomed Death with a gratitude so vast it bordered on affection.
CHAPTER One
A sudden gust of wind blew in from the ocean, carrying the tang of salt and the recent memory of winter’s chill. It ruffled through the late-spring garden and swept across the balcony of a white clapboard house built by some prosperous, long-dead sea captain. The two men seated on the balcony broke off their argument and reached to steady their wineglasses. A silence fell between them, heavy with the windswept echoes of distant shores, distant times.
Ian Forest glanced at the sea, finding no pleasure in the spectacular view his perch afforded. The ocean reminded him of a spiteful ex-wife, endlessly reciting his secrets but reserving the right to keep a thousand of her own. He swept an impatient hand across his forehead to brush aside his windblown hair and wondered, not for the first time, why Salvadore Anselm kept a house on Martha’s Vineyard. Both men had roots in island cultures, and to Ian, this scenic, tourist-infested hell was a reminder of the exile they shared.
Perhaps that explained why Salvadore called him here so frequently. Perhaps he chose this place because it gave their meetings an unspoken subtext: Of course you will serve me, for what other choice remains to you?
Ian stifled a sigh and turned his attention to his host, a lean, fit man of indeterminate age. Salvadore’s face was unlined, but he projected an aura of experience and power that, along with his thick silver hair, tricked the eye into seeing a man in his mid fifties. His ethnicity was equally elusive, though few people moved past the Italianate name to ponder the slight tilt of his sapphire-blue eyes and the sharp, angular lines of his face. Salvadore’s origins might not be betrayed by his face, but his character, more often than not, was written across it plainly enough. At the moment, his gem-colored eyes held a faint sheen of malice, and his decidedly unpleasant smile celebrated the dark joys of privilege and position.
“Shall we move on to the item of business?” he suggested.
Salvadore’s voice—a silky baritone that retained an indefinable Old World accent—was a perfect match to his appearance. Their people aged slowly, but it had always struck Ian as odd that their speech patterns were likewise unaffected by the passage of time. Constant, conscious effort was required to keep from lapsing into their native tongue—or for that matter, into some older version of the languages spoken in their adopted homelands.
It suddenly occurred to Ian that their conversation had lapsed into the old language as it grew more heated. Salvadore’s return to English decreed an end to their dispute. Ian acknowledged this with a slight nod that signified, if not defeat, at least recognition of battle deferred.
“I’ve decided to put the clubs under new management,” Salvadore announced. “Tonight will be your last evening at Underhill, so enjoy it while you can.”
Ian suppressed a wry smile. He’d spent years keeping the sleazy “gentlemen’s clubs” profitable, but insinuating that he enjoyed watching young girls undress to bad music was deliberately insulting. So, for that matter, was the assumption that he might actually rise to snap at such tawdry bait.
Instead, he lifted his wineglass. “Here’s to the new manager’s success.”
Salvadore’s cool stare acknowledged the irony in Ian’s toast, but he drank to it nonetheless. Among their kind, even the most superficial ritual words held power.
“We’ll need you to begin your new assignment right away.” Anselm paused, lifting one silver eyebrow in mocking inquiry. “Unless, of course, you intend to observe the ritual mourning for your liege lord?”
Long years of practice enabled Ian to keep his expression pleasantly neutral. In mourning? Not bloody likely. His only regret concerning Wallace Earl Edmonson’s passing was that he hadn’t had the pleasure of watching the bastard die.
No, make that two regrets: not knowing where the earl was buried made it impossible to spit on his grave.
“I can begin at once,” Ian said mildly. “Be assured that Edmonson’s passing will be marked with all due honor.”
Salvadore responded with a knowing smile. “No doubt. And for your service, you’ve been granted a singular honor: you are entrusted with untangling the earl’s affairs. Not the council’s business,” he cautioned. “He handled those matters admirably, but a few of his side projects were … somewhat questionable.”
Ian had few illusions concerning the boundaries of “council business.” The council would never openly admit to taking a monthly tithe of Edmonson’s sex and drug trade, but what other reason could they possibly cite for their unquestioning support of the man, other than the substantial financial contributions his dubious activities made possible?
“Define ‘side projects,’ if you will.”
Anselm’s expression darkened at this breach of protocol. Their business was conducted under a strict code of law and tradition, with the understanding that vague definitions, subtle evasions, and a highly selective version of the truth would provide the necessary flexibility.
“You require specifics?” he demanded in a tone that mingled reproof with incredulity.
“I do, yes. Edmonson’s life was long, eventful, and thoroughly misspent. Give me a place to start.”
For a long moment, Salvadore sat in silence, his face eloquent with the battle between pragmatism and custom. “The alliance with Dennis Walsh,” he said at last. “It seems unwise to involve the captain of a city’s vice squad in our affairs. He’s in a position to learn too much about us, and it seems likely to me that any man who can be bought by one person will eventually sell to another.”
Ian rolled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers as he chose his next words. “We are in agreement concerning the man’s character,” he said carefully, “but I understand Edmonson’s reasoning in this matter.”
“And you concur?”
“No, but I’d prefer to address my concerns as a separate issue.”
Salvadore shifted impatiently and glanced down at the antique sundial in the garden below. “Go on.”
“Edmonson’s recruitment of Captain Walsh was a response to changes in the structure of local law enforcement. When the city had separate divisions for drugs, gangs, and sex crimes, it was considerably easier to arrange for certain things to fall between the cracks. Unfortunately, it occurred to some enlightened official that crimes involving drugs, sex, and gangs were frequently related, and not infrequently committed by the same individuals. An experimental vice squad was put into place. When it started to prove too effective, Edmonson thought it necessary to subvert some of the top people.”
“How?” Before Ian could respond, Salvadore grimaced and shook his head. “Never mind—I don’t care to know. I find the appetites of such men … distasteful.”
“But profitable.”
Salvadore nodded, either missing the subtle rebuke or choosing to ignore it. He reached for a pottery decanter and refilled their wineglasses. They both sipped, letting the honey wine slip across their palates.
The mead was exceptional—light, fragrant, and surprisingly dry. Under the circumstances, however, Ian would have preferred a less civilized drink. The sordid matters under discussion were hard enough to swallow without providing so vivid a contrast.
Apparently Salvadore thought so, too, for he carefully placed his glass aside before continuing. “Very well, you’ve presented the logic behind Edmonson’s decision. What is your opinion of this matter?”
“Our ties to Captain Walsh have become personal, and therefore dangerous,” Ian said bluntly.
“Ah. You’re speaking, of course, of our new foundling. How much of a problem is she likely to be?”
Ian glanced meaningfully toward the glass doors that led into the upper floor of Salvadore’s house. In the room beyond was a wall safe, which held, among other treasures, a blue crystal that magnified the owner’s innate ability to perceive things her eyes had never seen. Neither of them had any claim to the gem, but they were agreed on the folly of placing so powerful an inheritance in the hands of an untrained, untried changeling—especially one whose loyalties were far from certain.
Anselm conceded the point with a slight nod, “Your recommendation?”
“We could remove the source of her grievance.”
Dark blue eyes flashed reprovingly to Ian’s face. “Killing a high-ranking official might be an occasional necessity, but in this case, the benefit hardly justifies the risk.”
The hum of an approaching powerboat caught Anselm’s attention. His eyes focused on the driver, then took on a slightly malevolent gleam.
Ian followed the line of Anselm’s gaze. A sleek white boat cut through the wind-ruffled water and pulled up to a skillful stop by the dock. The driver swung himself up onto the dock, moving with surprising grace for someone his size. He was not much above medium height—perhaps an inch or two short of six feet—but he was considerably broader and more muscular than either of the men observing him. His hair was nearly as dark as Ian’s, and his sun-browned face proclaimed his Native American ancestry.
As if sensing the men’s scrutiny, the newcomer looked up toward the balcony. He shielded his eyes against the sun with one hand and lifted the other in greeting.
Ian’s jaw tightened in annoyance. He had not forgotten the beating he’d taken from those hands, or the way those kind brown eyes could turn as flat and focused as any attack dog’s—an analogy, come to think of it, that lay entirely too close to the truth.
Understanding crashed over Ian, and he turned incredulous eyes to his host. “That man is an enforcer.”
“So?”
“You assigned him to befriend Gwen. To watch her, yes, and to report back any difficulties she might be having, but surely with the goal of helping ease her way into her new life!”
Anselm’s chuckle was as dry and cool as snakeskin. “It’s not like you to be so naive. Our new foundling—”
“Gwen,” Ian interjected. “Gwen Gellman is the name she knows and uses.”
“Very well, Gwen is a potential problem. You know that as well as I do. You also know problems tend to take root and grow if not swiftly eliminated. As for friends, she has enough of those—too many, for that matter. She has no need of another, and certainly not a man like Jason Cross.”
That struck Ian as the best opening he was likely to get to reopen their earlier discussion. “I couldn’t agree more. The man you call Jason Cross—”
“Enough.” Anselm’s open palm struck the table, and his tone rang with finality. “He has been thoroughly tested. For the last time, let it go.”
Let it go? Ignore the fact that Edmonson’s attack dog was trotting at Gwen’s heels? For several days now, “Jason” had been posing as the estranged son of Gwen’s mentor, a man recently murdered by Edmonson … or someone in his employ. Ian had his suspicions about that, but Anselm shrugged off his concerns. He was satisfied that Jason Cross had shifted his loyalty from Edmonson to the new regime. As far as he was concerned, there the matter ended.
Unfortunately, Gwen had accepted Jason for who he claimed to be. By all appearances, he’d already found a foothold in her life—a feat that Ian had been unable to duplicate.
So he swallowed his protests and watched in glum silence as Jason Cross loped up the wooden stairs to the balcony, making less noise than one might expect. Whatever he saw in Ian’s face seemed to amuse him.
“Am I late?” he said casually.
“Your timing is admirable.” Anselm sent his companion a sly, sidelong glance. “We were just discussing how best to clean up after your former master.”
Jason’s smile dimmed. “With all due respect, the Middle Ages ended about five hundred years ago. I don’t appreciate being referred to as if I were—”
“A rottweiler?” supplied Ian helpfully.
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘slave’ or ‘serf,’ but sure, that will do.”
Anselm dismissed this exchange with an impatient wave of one hand. “I understand that your … father, the late Frank Cross, assisted Gwen with her investigations. Have you been able to replace him in this endeavor?”
“Not yet. In fact, I haven’t suggested it to her.”
“Really. What have you been doing?”
“Let’s see,” Jason began, “I’ve moved into my father’s house, started a new job, set up local accounts, and taken care of a hundred little things that make an identity theft bulletproof.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Such as making sure the real Jason Cross doesn’t wander onstage?”
“That won’t be a problem,” the man said flatly. To Anselm he said, “Gwen trusted Frank Cross, and she’s inclined to extend that trust his son. But how far would this impulse go, if right out of the box I started prying into her business?”
“A reasonable argument,” Anselm allowed, “but the sooner you can start monitoring her investigations, the better.”
“I’m on it.” Jason smiled fleetingly. “I signed up for a couple of programming classes I could probably teach. Boring as hell, but it’ll provide an opening.”
“Why not simply present yourself as a computer expert?”
“Anything that’s too convenient and coincidental is likely to raise questions in Gwen’s mind, and I don’t want to give her a reason to start looking into my background. It’s better if she thinks I started playing around with Frank’s equipment because it was there, and got interested in learning more.”
Anselm conceded this with a shrug. “Is she likely to wonder why you’re such a fast learner?”
“I doubt it. If anything, she’ll wonder why anyone would want to bother. Another benefit of this approach is it allows me to screen information without raising suspicion. Since Gwen isn’t expecting too much from me, she’ll be more likely to assume that I’m passing along everything I know.”
“I’ll have to trust your judgment on this matter. When do you think you can start?”
“Soon, I think. I’m playing it by ear.”
“Very well. Now, what progress on Captain Walsh?”
“Gwen knows that Walsh was hooked up with Edmonson, but she hasn’t started focusing on that part of the puzzle. She’s been obsessed with proving that Frank Cross’s death wasn’t a drunken accident.”
Anselm’s gaze flicked to Ian. “That could be a problem.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“And you, Jason, will work with Gwen to discover and eliminate connections between Edmonson and Walsh.”
A small, grim smile touched Jason’s lips. “She’s not going to cover for her ex-boss, I’ll tell you that right now.”
“Did I suggest that? Walsh has criminal associates. Such men live dangerous and uncertain lives.”
“In other words, you want the middlemen eliminated before she’s able to connect all the dots,” he surmised.
“Aptly put.”
“What about Walsh? Hands off?”
“For the time being. Focus on the girl, and keep her from inquiring too deeply into our affairs. We need to know what she knows, preferably before she knows it.”
Jason let out an incredulous huff. “Right. Since Gwen’s an easygoing gal without a shred of curiosity, that shouldn’t be a problem. Anything else?”
“There are, in fact, two more things: You can spare me your sarcasm, and you can stay out of her bed.”
