Tales of the Otherworld (46 page)

Such things could usually be handled diplomatically, one side or the other surrendering control without loss of face. Here, though, the vampire angle added a dimension that ensured Thomas Nast would not back down willingly. So, by protocol, they had to consult the CEOs of the other two North American Cabals to attempt a resolution. If that failed, they’d call on the impartial inter-Cabal judges for full mediation.

Paige could have joined the fray, pressing her claim on behalf of the council. But as she put it: “Let ’em fight. Hopefully we’ll have the case solved before they decide who it belongs to.” Which was further proof that I’d married a very smart woman.

We’d just arrived in our driveway when my insurance contact called back.

“Billy Arnell had a quarter-of-a-million-dollar life-insurance policy,” I said as we settled into the living room, where Cassandra had been reading the newspaper.

“Who’s Billy Arnell?” Cassandra asked.

“The dead guy,” Savannah said, sitting beside Cassandra. “Pay attention.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand isn’t too shabby,” Paige said. “Not
suspiciously high for a guy that age with a wife, an ex-wife, and four kids. But it would be a nice chunk of change. So who gets it?”

“His current wife is the sole beneficiary.”

“Ah, the grieving widow…who was in quite a hurry to get her dearly departed into the ground.” She paused. “She works in retail, doesn’t she?”

“A grocery store clerk.”

“Probably not much hope of a hidden medical background there, but let’s go see what we can find.”

I left Paige to her Internet research. After about thirty minutes, she called me upstairs.

“I’m on a roll for lucky breaks today,” she said as I walked in.

“Terri Arnell has a medical background?”

“No, but Middleton High has an incredible alumni site and grads with way too much free time.”

She pointed at the screen as I sat down. “Meet Teresa—Terri—Arnell, nee Regis. We have her parents’ names, her date of birth, educational highlights, careers past and present, husband’s name—with a convenient link to
his
alumnus page—plus the name, birth dates, and pictures of their daughter, their current address …”

Paige shook her head. “An identity thief’s wet dream. For our purposes, though, the information only rules out leads. Terri doesn’t have any medical background. She graduated from high school and married Billy the next year—she was nineteen, he was thirty.” She shuddered. “I really hope she wasn’t his kids’ babysitter. Anyway, all her regular jobs have been in retail, and her only listed volunteer activity is helping Billy’s softball team.”

“Hmm.”

“My sentiments exactly. Far from promising. However—” She flipped to a page of graduate photos. “You saw a man at Terri’s house. The one who stopped you from speaking to her. Did he give you a name?”

“No. I barely had a chance to give mine. It was a rather abrupt dismissal.”

“Care to take a shot at finding him?”

I moved closer and started looking through the years surrounding
Terri’s graduation. No one seemed familiar. Then, in the graduating class two years before hers, I saw someone who did—the morgue assistant. But he wasn’t the man who’d kept me from seeing Terri, so I was about to flip to the next year when I stopped.

“What was Terri’s maiden name again?”

Paige clicked on the bookmark. Siblings: one sister and one brother. I clicked the link for her brother, and it took me to Greg Regis—the morgue assistant. According to his profile, Regis had been enrolled in medical school, but hadn’t graduated. Now he worked in the hospital “with plans to resume his medical training.”

“That explains how Terri got Billy’s body released so quickly,” Paige said.

“And it might explain why Regis was so eager to show me the photos ‘proving’ an animal attack, and to espouse an honest belief in the existence of the chupacabra.”

We told Cassandra what we’d found.

“Good,” she said. “So now you’ll return to Middleton and prove this theory.”

“That, I fear, would be difficult and likely dangerous. We have no right to be solving the case. That’s the province of the Middleton police. All we can do is bring these links to their attention.”

“Which you have?”

“Through my contact at the
Middleton Herald.
I explained my findings and asked his opinion. He was very intrigued by my discoveries, which he’s going to pass along to his contact at the police station.”

“And that will be enough?” Cassandra asked.

“I hope so.”

When my father finally
did
take us out to dinner, only Paige and I joined him. Paige had persuaded Savannah to eat earlier. I appreciated that. Having Savannah around when my father explained about the Portland office would have been awkward. In her presence, I must be careful of the example I make, and I had a feeling that tonight it wouldn’t be a good one.

My father knew Paige liked small, intimate bistros, so he’d selected the most exclusive one in Portland. Years ago, he’d learned that this favored political strategy—blatantly catering to a target’s tastes and desires—didn’t work on me. Yet when I fell in love with Paige, he’d found a way around that. I might refuse a trip to New York, but if he offered it
for
Paige
, knowing how much she’d enjoy the break, how could I refuse?

Paige had been flattered, as most people were, thrilled that he’d taken pains to get to know her, proof that my father was working toward a better relationship with me. I’d known better.

I’d decided to let Paige figure it out for herself. While my decision had been rooted in my confidence in her intelligence, my silence had been a
betrayal
of trust only fully apparent after she found out. It did not, as I expected, take long. After the New York trip, she’d confessed her suspicions. When I’d been unsurprised by her conclusions, she’d realized I’d seen through my father’s ploy all along.

Paige and I rarely argue. We might passionately debate outside matters—the progress of an investigation, the interpretation of facts, or some aspect of ethics—but on a personal level, we rarely squabble or fight. It is as if, recognizing that we both have enough external conflict to deal with, we wish to keep this one arena of our lives free from petty arguments. But when Paige found out that she’d been, as she put it, “played for a fool” as I’d “stood by and watched,” I’d learned that trust truly is the cornerstone of a relationship and even the strongest one can be tested if you deliver a hard enough blow.

So in taking us out to a restaurant Paige would love, my father committed a serious tactical error. He realized this when she ordered bisque and mineral water, and refused any wine or entrée, declaring she’d lost her appetite.

My father then switched strategies and began asking about Savannah—had she decided to pursue art postsecondary and if so, did she have any schools in mind? Safe conversation, designed to reduce any building antagonism. Paige was having none of it and deflected all queries to me. Then, when the entrées arrived, she said, “You put Adam—and me—in a very awkward position, Benicio.”

My father opened his mouth.

She continued. “You gave Adam information he knew Lucas should
have, and asked him not to pass it on. His only option was to ignore that. And my only option was to tell Lucas what he should have heard from you.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. You thought Adam was gullible enough to buy your story and keep his mouth shut. Your intention was to use him to sweeten the package before you presented it to Lucas—the same reason you designed those ‘conjoined’ offices for us.”

My father blinked.

“Yes, we know who’s supposed to occupy that main office. Next time you have a secret, make sure everyone working on it
realizes
it’s a secret. But the point of those offices, like hiring Adam, was all part of your strategy. You knew Lucas would never accept a Cabal satellite office of his own. But one that offers employment for a newly graduated friend? Plus the chance to work with his wife?”

My father’s gaze shot to me. “That wasn’t—”

“Your intention,” I finished. “It never is.”

“I realize I may have handled this poorly, Lucas.”

“There is no way such a thing could be handled well.” I cut into my salmon. “You have built a satellite office near my home. I can mitigate the damage by managing it myself, which ethically I’d never do. Yet if I refuse, then I accept—on behalf of my family—the danger of having the Cabal so close.”

“That’s not—” My father caught my gaze. “I wouldn’t do that to you. This is merely a proposal—”

I arched my eyebrows. “A proposal? I believe that is the step that precedes construction, not follows it.”

My father didn’t miss a beat. “True, but in today’s market, I could easily refit and resell the offices at a profit, which is exactly what I’ll do if you don’t wish to accept my offer.”

“Then I’d suggest you call your real estate agent.”

“I’m not asking you to manage a Cabal satellite office, Lucas. This is something altogether different.”

“A new division for Cortez Corporation,” Paige murmured, remembering Ibsen’s earlier words.

My father nodded. “Yes, and that new division would be internal security. A Cabal watchdog. You’d continue to do exactly what you’re
doing now, except from within the organization, where you’d have complete access to Cabal resources and our full cooperation.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I said.

“Why not? Law enforcement does it—policing their own. I recognize the capacity for abuse that is intrinsic in the Cabal structure. With power comes the temptation of abuse. I want to stop the worst offenders. The Cabals
must
do that to be the kind of organization the supernatural community needs. And you’re the best person to help us reach that goal.”

I suppose he expected me to thrill to those words. Knowing that made the knife dig in all the deeper, breaking through the scabs of old wounds, and I was a teenager again, accidentally discovering that Cabals weren’t what he raised me to believe—a utopian communal organization for supernaturals, with the Cortez family as its beneficent leaders.

I could hear my father’s voice again, dictating execution writs as casually as if he’d been ordering office supplies. Later, when we attempted reconciliation, I’d heard that same voice, lamenting the “abuses” within his organization, vowing to clean them up, as if they were a cancer that others had planted.

Today those abuses continued unabated. But now he was telling me
I
could change that. No longer a naïve child or an idealistic youth, I was a young man with delusions of knighthood—a condition best handled by satisfying those delusions.

Gotham is corrupt, son, and you’re the only one who can save it.

“Paige?” I said, barely trusting myself to speak. “I think we should leave.”

“I agree.”

I led her out, my hand against her back. We had just stepped onto the sidewalk when my father strode up behind us, his bodyguards staying discreetly inside the glass doors.

“Lucas.”

I kept walking, Paige beside me. My father fell into step on my other side.

“I know you’re upset, but I hope you’ll reconsider. Think what this office would mean for you. A steady income, less travel, and a chance to work with Paige, pursuing a goal you both believe in.” He stepped in my path, then turned to face me. “This
is
what you want, isn’t it?”

I stood there, gaping, unable to believe he’d so blatantly exploit my dreams and fears to satisfy his own agenda. I wanted to say something, but there was no calm or measured response that wouldn’t sound like the tantrum of a hurt child.

Paige’s warm fingers enveloped mine and she tugged my hand.

“Lucas? Please. Can we go? It’s cold.”

With that, she saved me from having to make any response. I could turn away from my father and busy myself taking off my coat and putting it around her shoulders, then lead her away.

My father didn’t follow.

Once around the first corner, Paige tried to pass back my coat, but I refused. My blood was running too hot to need it.

We walked for three blocks in silence. Paige didn’t try to get me to talk about it. She never did, knowing I would if and when I was ready. Nor was there any danger of her trying to downplay the situation by convincing me that my father hadn’t meant to manipulate me or, worse, that I was overreacting.

Paige was the one person whom I could trust to understand my father’s actions and how they would affect me. So we walked in silence, and it was enough to know she was there for me, as she always was. I don’t think she’ll ever know how much that means to me.

As we passed a small park, we took the path leading inside. I don’t know if I led or she did. Perhaps neither, the choice being made by mutual understanding.

Back from the road, we found a gazebo sheltered by trees. Paige cast a questioning glance toward it, and I changed direction. Once inside, she led me to the most secluded spot on the benches.

I sat, and she eased onto my lap, her skirt hiked up as she straddled me. Her lips moved to mine and we kissed, her usual playfulness replaced by a sharper edge, an urgency I desperately needed.

Her hands soon slid down my shirt and undid my pants. She stroked me, her grip firm, bordering on rough, and everything else—every thought, every worry—fell away. When my fingers moved under her skirt to her panties, she worked them off. Then, after one last glance around, she lifted her skirt and arranged it to hide us, then slid down on me.