Anarchy Found (11 page)

I check the ammo in my gun, holster it under my arm, slip my feet into some hideous loafers in the coat closet, grab my jacket and purse and walk out the door.

They had a saying about me back when I was a fearless nine-year-old. Everyone from my father to the ringmaster used to sing it in my ear whenever I’d get lost in a daydream about life outside the business.

If wishes were horses,
they’d say.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

If turnips were watches, I’d wear one by my side.

If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there’d be no work for tinkers’ hands.

That was the song, anyway. But that’s not what they’d say.

If wishes were horses, you’d ride forever.

But they were wrong. Wishes were motorcycles.

I left the business behind years ago and all my dreams went with it.

Chapter Thirteen - Molly

Cathedral Thirteen is on the far east side of town and when you stand on the top step, just in front of the grand arched double doors, the view of the mountains is magnificent. I know. I’m standing there now and I’ve got horses, and wishes, and motorcycles on my mind.

“Detective Masters?” A gruff voice pulls me out of the daydream and a tall, dark man ascends the steps two at a time like he’s late.

Which he is. Four minutes. I’m typically punctual when I’m not waking up drunk with a head filled with questions, but I’m not a stickler over four minutes. He extends his hand to me and a ring gleams with a bright red stone set in what is most surely platinum on his ring finger. It’s his right hand, so not a wedding ring.

Don’t judge me, he’s very attractive.

“I apologize,” he says, grasping my hand firmly and giving it a gentle squeeze. Handshakes intrigue me. Mostly because I like to compare them. And the gentle squeeze from Thomas Brooks comes off as seductive. “The complexities of this day are almost beyond description.”

“Interesting,” I say, letting go of his hand without squeezing it back. My handshake responses are almost as intriguing as the offers. I shake a lot of hands as a detective. And I shook a lot more as a special agent in the military. Very high-level hands.

But Thomas Brooks’ attention on me is fleeting. His mind is on his party tonight as SkyEye Inc opens its new headquarters in the rehabbed ruin I’m standing in front of.

“But you don’t need to worry about security,” I say. “You asked for four dozen officers this afternoon, and we’ve called everyone to accommodate this request. Your party will come off without a hitch.”

“Perfect,” he says, opening one of the grand doors and stepping aside to wave me in.

“Wow,” I say, as my eyes are drawn up towards the panels of colored glass depicting the constellations. “That… is…”

He laughs as I search for the words. “Nice, isn’t it. We’ve got all eighty-eight original constellations up there. And the spire is Polaris.”

“The North Pole.”

“Yes.” He smiles for the first time. He’s dark, that’s for sure. And probably broody. Much like I thought Atticus would be, but isn’t. But the smile breaks the clouds from his face and exposes the possibility of sunlight. “The stars under the spires. It’s poetic, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm, funny you should say that. I was at Blue Corp all this week.” I notice a slight twitch in his smile before he stops himself, and make a note of that. “And Atticus Montgomery has something very similar under his pitched ceiling. Only they’re the real deal.”

It’s sort of an insult, right? Comparing the headquarters of these two men, when they must surely be rivals.

“Ah.” He laughs it off. “But he has no claim to the sky, Detective. We’ve got all the eyes up there.” He smiles again and this time I don’t find the stress, but I do get a little chill up the back of my neck.

“Satellites. Yes. Very interesting. And I’m as curious as anyone what your purpose here in Cathedral City is.”

“I grew up here.” He waves me forward down the center of the cathedral. There are dozens of people setting things up, and we glide right through the fray like chaos must part for us, until we reach the back of the room and start down a long hallway to the offices. “And I’m a sentimental guy. There’s nothing quite like returning home as the Prodigal Son.”

“You’re hardly destitute and begging.” I laugh. “I’m not sure the parable fits.”

“Oh,” he says, “but it does. I left long ago and spent many a night dining with the swine of corporate culture and have finally come home to make good.”

“Huh,” I say, for lack of a better response. “So this party tonight is…?”

“Exactly what I said. Giving back and coming home.” He stops in front of a doorway and nods at it. “This is the control room and I want two men assigned to it as soon as they start bringing the equipment in. There’s an entrance in front, plus four on each side of what used to be the altar—two in front, two in back—and the back doors at the top of the old altar. Out back there’s a delivery entrance that will be closed and locked, manned by my own security. Your men will patrol all the exits and you will be in charge of the main hall.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, caught off guard with the sudden switch back to business. “It’s your dime, Mr. Brooks. Your wish is my command.”

“I expected no less, Detective Masters. I hope you bring your dancing shoes tonight. I put on a helluva party. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a million things to do.”

And with that he takes my hand one more time, gives it a gentle squeeze as he bows, ever so slightly, and turns to walk away.

“Mr. Brooks?” I call after him. “What will this room hold?”

He tsks his tongue and calls over his shoulder. “A good detective should be able to figure that out.”

I stand there and watch him disappear into a crowd of men who want things. Answers to questions, signatures on tablets, and an ear for whatever important bits of information corporate billionaires are subjected to throughout the course of a normal business day.

Jesus Christ. This town is filled with eccentrics. It’s a regular hotspot of intellectual oddballs. I turn to walk myself back out to go find Sergeant Seville, who will be running the off-duty officers we’ve got scheduled for today. Normally a lieutenant would handle my job, but since it’s private—Mr. Brooks is paying dearly for our services today—and we’ve got crime coming out our ears, I’m in charge.

It’s a punishment for being late on Monday, I realize that. But it’s an honor, really. Security is what I do best. And it’s an opportunity to meet some of the most prominent leaders in the community.

The next few hours pass quickly as Seville and I assign duty stations and place the requested officers in strategic locations around the exits. My curiosity about what Brooks is setting up in here is killing me, but no one seems to have any inclination to let me in on it. Hired help. That’s all I am to these people.

My phone rings in my pocket. The chief. So I bring it out and tab answer. “Masters,” I say in my professional voice.

“We’ve got another one.”

“Another what?” I say, annoyed.

“Suicide. At Blue Corp. They found him this morning, same as the last one. Alastair Montgomery is waiting for you.”

“Fuck,” I say under my breath.

“He’s pissed, Masters. This is not good for business and he says his tech department detects interference in the security cameras.”

“What? But they didn’t say anything when I was there on Tuesday.”

“Well, they’re saying it now. So get your ass down there and make that old man happy. He’s a major contributor to this city’s social programs—”

And the mayor’s reelection campaign,
I don’t say.

“—and he deserves answers.”

I get the hang-up beeps and look down at the blank screen as I process this. Murders. I suspected it and I’ve looked for more clues, but there were no signs in the deceased’s home. And the first suspected suicide was contaminated weeks ago after the case was closed. The second wife didn’t have anything useful to say when I questioned her. Dead end.

But something bad is definitely happening here in Cathedral City. Someone is killing people connected to Blue Corp. And someone wants us to know that.

It feels like a game. The kind of game a serial killer might play with a detective.

The kind of game that can quickly become personal.

Atticus is waiting for me in the lobby this time. In fact, he’s pacing. The place is filled with cops and an ambulance is waiting outside, doors open, like all it needs is a body to be complete.

“I have something to show you—”

“Detective Masters?” A voice bellows from across the lobby, and when I turn, old man Montgomery walks briskly towards me. “I need answers and I need them now. That’s three dead employees, Detective. And all of them occurred on these premises.”

I have an urge to point out it’s a private campus and while the outcome is certainly my problem, the fact that the deaths happened here is not.

But Atticus shoots me a look and I take that as a warning. So I rein it in. “I’ve already assigned a team of computer forensic specialists to look at your security footage, Mr. Montgomery. We don’t have an answer yet, but this is the department’s top priority. We will have beat cops on campus until we figure out what’s happening, all we need is clearance from you.”

I really don’t know if that’s true or not, but after Chief’s call, I’m betting this is the direction he wants to go. I might as well make the promises.

Montgomery senior stops mid-tirade and stares me down. “You have it,” he says. “But I expect results. This case should not be difficult for you, Detective.” He practically sneers my title. “You should be making better progress. In fact, you’re quite disappointing professionally. So if another incident happens on Blue Corp campus, you’ll be out of a job.”

I rein in my sigh as well. As if any of this is my fault. But thankfully Montgomery senior walks off, leaving me standing there with Atticus. I look up at him and he nods.

“Right,” he says. “You need to see this.”

I follow him to the elevators and we go up to the twenty-first floor. It’s the same one the last employee was found on, so I’m betting they did very similar things in their top-secret research and development duties. When the elevator doors open Atticus leads me over to the secure door to the inner labs. The corridor is small and narrow, and there are about fifteen people crammed up here, including the first responders.

“We’ve kept them all out until you arrived,” Atticus explains. That’s hush-hush speak for,
We have a clue that might need to stay secret.
He palms his hand over the biosecurity, waits for the lock to release, and then opens the door with a whoosh that says this lab has an internal air circulation system. I follow him in and the door slams closed behind me.

The body is immediately visible. He’s at the very back of the lab, slumped over a small desk. His right cheek is pressed flat against a black soapstone tabletop, and his eyes are open. A gun lies on the floor, directly below his drooping arm.

I squat down to inspect his hand, but Atticus’s fingertips lightly touch my shoulder. “Never mind looking for powder burns, Molly. This is what I need you to look at.”

I stand back up so I can look at what he’s pointing to and then my head goes fuzzy.