by Toby Neal
“Well, then we should work well together,” Sophie had replied. “Because this particular wet cat is also a mother.” That motherly part of her wanted to feed the man seated so quietly and patiently before her, tease a smile out of him. . .
Raveaux was not her problem. Sophie set down her empty cup too hard, and a little tea spilt on her desk. “Paula has a meeting lined up for us with Mel Samson. We’re playing the part of insurance investigators, so we have to go over to the Finewell’s auction house again,” she said, mopping up the tea with a tissue.
“I expected as much.” Raveaux set his book aside.
“Did you find anything on your half of the surveillance footage?”
“I did not. I submitted notes and my report through the Security Solutions data portal. I saw nothing out of place. The staff seems to be following a partner protocol whenever they store or remove any items. There was no deviation from that, nor any specific suspicious activity in the footage that I reviewed.”
“Well, I did find something.” Sophie woke up her tablet with a tap on the surface. She slid it into a holder and turned it towards Raveaux so that he could see the screen. “There’s a slight glitch in the tape during the transfer of the gems from the assessor to Mel Samson, who logs them in and puts them away.” Sophie swiped through the footage to the exact time stamp that she had identified the night before. “See? The recording jumps. Even though the time stamp proceeds forward without interruption, that segment has been doctored.”
Raveaux’s level black brows drew together as he viewed the section of video. He fingered a dent in his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s watch the fifteen minutes leading up to the break in real time,” Raveaux said. “I want to observe the dynamics between Samson and Polat.”
Sophie’s respect for her new partner shot up a notch—he’d taken time to identify and memorize the names of the players, though his section of video hadn’t even contained them.
They watched a large woman with white-gloved hands, her hair a silvery helmet, as she opened a velvet-lined case containing the diamonds.
“I expected a male to be the inventory manager,” Sophie confided. “Her name—Mel Samson—had me expecting a man.”
Raveaux nodded. “Names can be deceiving. Samson’s curriculum vitae is impressive,” he said. “She is highly qualified. Multiple degrees in art and history, and a doctorate in nineteenth century antiquities. She’s been with Finewell’s for twenty years.”
The camera recorded the scene from above and at a slight angle. Sophie’s eyes widened in surprise as Raveaux begin interpreting aloud what the diamond assessor, a small, ferret-like man, was saying in the video to Samson.
“An exceptionally fine set. The settings are consistent with the time period of the set’s manufacture.” Polat adjusted his loupe, handling the main stone at the center of the necklace. “I observe the tiny flaw in the central diamond that is recorded in the previous assessor’s report. I will check the stones along the sides randomly, to verify that they are natural.”
“You don’t have to explain what you’re doing, Agrippa. I’ve heard your spiel before.” Samson said.
Sophie tapped Raveaux’s arm to get his attention. “I didn’t know you could read lips.”
He moved away from her touch. “A useful skill in our line of work. Please replay the recording—you distracted me.”
“Je regrette, pardon,” Sophie said, reversing the feed.
“Parlez-vous français?” Raveaux asked, his brows raised in surprise.
“Une compétence utile dans notre métier, n’est-ce pas?” Sophie smiled, teasing him a little. “A useful skill in our line of work, isn’t it?” Raveaux just looked back at the screen. He was so serious all the time! Sophie was usually the somber one in her work partnerships.
She re-started the recording.
The assessor was speaking again, and Raveaux continued his interpretation. “These gems are genuine. I can even see dust particles between the stone and the setting. The diamonds have not been disturbed from their mounts.” Polat set the necklace down and went on to the earrings, a similar monotone of explanation falling from his lips. Samson sat back in her cushy chair, crossing her arms over ample, caftan-covered breasts.
Sophie reached out a finger and paused the recording as they approached the spot where she had identified an anomaly. “We need to work up a full background on Mel Samson. I did not have time last night to research her using my DAVID software; I was too busy looking at the information on Finewell’s. Did you know the auction house has had major breaches at different locations in the last few years?”
A spark of interest lit Raveaux’s dark eyes. “I wonder if there’s a connection to Mel Samson.”
“Exactly.” It had been too long since Sophie’d been on a case, felt the thrill of the hunt, and been able to share that with someone. “We have a meeting with Samson in an hour, but after that, I want to take some time to do a deep background workup on her. Why don’t you follow up on Agrippa Polat while I do that?”
“Reasonable. Proceed.” Raveaux flicked his fingers in a gesture Sophie recognized as habitual. He probably didn’t know how arrogant it looked because his face showed nothing but focused interest.
Sophie pressed play on the recording again.
Polat finished his assessment, stripped off his rubber gloves, shook Samson’s hand, then took his leave.
Mel Samson gazed down at the jewels resting on the black velvet tray for a moment, and then closed the lid over the set.
Sophie stopped the recording and pointed. “There! See that little shimmer? She, or a cohort, cut the video feed and spliced something in. I believe that section contains the part where she removes the gems. See how long the pause is, as she looks down at the closed box? The substitution’s done so seamlessly that I almost missed it.”
They clicked through the frames one by one until Raveaux caught the tiny jump. Sophie screen-shot the frames and saved the glitched section to their case file.
The action resumed as Samson carried the jewels’ container to her assistant. The two of them proceeded down the elevator, and she stowed the box in the storage room’s locked shelf per protocol.
“It is as you suspected, Raveaux. The diamonds never made it to that safe.”
“We have likely solved the case, as far as who took the gems. But I’m interested in the bigger picture—how many times has Samson done this? How much has she cost this company? And who is her fence?”
“And why is she doing this, after a stellar career of twenty years with Finewell’s?” Sophie rubbed the gunshot scar on her cheekbone. “I think we should call Childer before we interview Samson. The diamonds may be unrecoverable if the fence has broken up the set and sold them already, even supposing we can get his or her name out of Samson. Neither of us is police anymore . . . we have to tell our client what we’ve found so far, and see what he wants us to do.”
“Sometimes I miss the clarity of my former life,” Raveaux said darkly.
Sophie ignored his comment and picked up her phone. “Paula, put us through to Mr. Childer at Finewell’s on speaker. Don’t take no for answer—this is an emergency regarding his case.”
“Right away, Sophie.”
Sophie put down the handset and turned to her colleague, resuming the thread of their conversation. “Clarity, Raveaux?” She snorted. “Here at Security Solutions, we deal justice to the highest bidder. There are days that priority system really bothers me. This case is not particularly one of them—I don’t honestly care about rich people’s diamonds and where they end up. I don’t mind being paid for finding that out for someone who does care. When I get upset, it’s about human trafficking, murder, or kidnapping, the kind of cases where only the rich can get their family members back.”
“I could not rest with that,” Raveaux agreed.
“And I don’t rest with it. I turn information over to the authorities, hoping they can use it, which they sometimes can—and I violate our clie
nts’ confidentiality anonymously to do so, not to mention a host of laws we bend in our investigations. I comfort myself with the fact that we’ve helped some, even if we can’t help all. Sometimes we can do more than police, because we are unfettered by due process of law. And that kind of makes up for the inequities.”
Raveaux’s expression remained cool, neutral—but his eyes held a wealth of sorrow and complex knowledge. “True,” was all he said.
The phone rang and Sophie picked it up. “Mr. Childer. Mr. Raveaux is here with me, and we have you on speaker.” She pushed the mic button and turned the unit toward Raveaux. “We have some information we think you need, right away.”
“I am all ears,” Childer said, his voice electronically thin.
Sophie laid out the information they’d uncovered from the video. “There’s a good chance Samson is your thief, but with what else I’ve discovered about your company’s situation, Raveaux and I wanted to offer you a chance to go after bigger fish, and uncover, potentially, a network that has targeted Finewell’s in the last three years.” Sophie detailed the breaches and losses she’d uncovered using DAVID.
Childer sputtered. “I was never told any of this! I’m concerned about what you are telling me, but we must get those diamonds back before the auction event. That is my priority.”
Raveaux leaned in to speak past Sophie. “Perhaps, Mr. Childer, we can leverage Ms. Samson to give the diamonds back and help us in a greater investigation by offering her clemency. We will not turn her in, if she helps us.”
A long pause. The phone line hissed as Childer thought it over. “Do it. I’ll speak to my chain of command about this, once you’ve recovered the diamonds for me.”
Sophie met Raveaux’s eyes, frowning. “You’re the client, Mr. Childer.”
“Yes, and don’t forget it,” Childer snapped, and banged down the phone.
Sophie frowned. “At least he was clear about what he wants us to do.”
“Yes.” Raveaux stood up, buttoning his jacket. “This will be a delicate interview. We need to subtly threaten Ms. Samson with legal consequences in exchange for the diamonds—but I think we should go for more. Finewell’s will reward your firm for doing so, even if Childer can’t see past his own priorities.”
Sophie reached for the faux clip-on insurance investigator name tags Paula had made and handed one to Raveaux. “You may take the lead. I have never been very good at delicate interviews.”
Raveaux gave a slight bow, and she could swear a hint of a smile hovered around his stern mouth. “I will do my best.”
Chapter Eleven
Connor: Day Two
Connor ascended the stone stairs behind Nine, the closest person he had to a friend in the compound. The compound’s main building was a step pyramid, and it took a while for the two of them to reach the room at the top.
“You sure you don’t want to bathe and change, One?” Nine asked over his shoulder.
“No. I may want to work out more.” Connor had just finished an hour of drilling with the recruits, leading them from the front row through participation rather than watching. He’d not only felt the need for a workout himself, he wanted to solidify his influence with the men by bonding with them through shared activity.
Connor didn’t need Nine to guide him; he knew perfectly well where the computer lab was. The Yām Khûmkạn computer room was positioned in the highest room of the compound, where the satellite internet hookup would receive the least amount of interference. The remote jungle location of the compound helped protect it, but added to other concerns.
Connor had avoided computers for the past two years—the wired world had been like a seventh sense to him, so early in his training with the Master that they’d decided he should shut that sense off in order to develop others.
Nine worked the combination on a solid steel padlock sealing the door of the computer room, its modern gleam a contrast to the weathered wood and stone surrounding it. “The lock is just to send a signal to any of the men wandering out of bounds that this area is off limits,” Nine said. He rattled off the code, and Connor memorized it.
Nine opened the door wide. “Enter. This is your space now.”
Connor stepped across the threshold, and the first thing he noticed was his violin.
The valuable vintage instrument was set on a pair of simple wooden brackets bolted to the wall, sealed and safe in its worn leather case.
The sight of that case stole Connor’s breath.
How had the Master obtained it? He’d left the violin in a storage unit in Honolulu, registered to his Sheldon Hamilton identity . . .
Connor ignored the computer equipment arrayed on a long table against one wall, and crossed the room to take down the case. His hands trembled as he undid the clasps to gaze at the lustrous wood and gorgeous curves of the most valuable possession he owned.
Small packets of silica gel fell out of the case as Connor lifted out the violin—whoever had transported it was trying to safeguard the instrument from injury from the damp of their jungle setting.
Connor was more than touched that the Master had somehow obtained the violin for him. At one time in his life, music had almost taken over—he’d been that addicted to the singing voice of the instrument, the precision and discipline of practice.
His father’s cruelty had shut down his musical passion in high school: “You’ll never make anything of yourself with that sissy crap.” He’d broken Connor’s violin, and almost broken his body, too, when Connor lashed out to get the instrument back.
His father had a course charted out for Connor that had involved a football scholarship and a place in his company—in his image, in his shadow, and under his thumb.
Connor had run away and stolen his first identity by stealing a wallet on the street. He’d spent hard years living in a squat, putting every penny he could steal into the stock market and shorting sales on a cheap computer. He’d learned to fight dirty and live rough, and those days were etched on his soul. He’d eventually bested his father and stolen his company from him; he’d read of the man’s suicide without emotion.
His first kill as the Ghost had been one of the most satisfying, and grievous, of his life.
He’d slowly, carefully, and craftily built his world, his life, just the way he wanted it—until he and Sophie had discovered each other online. She’d turned his dreams upside down and made them bigger and better.
All of those thoughts whirled through his mind as Connor stroked the satiny wood. Before he’d gone into training with the Yām Khûmkạn, he’d regularly spent hours a day in practice and performed with the Honolulu Symphony Orchestra on special occasions.
“What’s that?” Nine asked.
Of course, the man would never have seen one of these . . . “A violin.” Connor lifted his long-lost instrument to his shoulder. He set the bow to the strings, and coaxed a long, gentle opening note from them, unsure of when the instrument had been tuned.
He need not have worried. The Master must have had the instrument worked on, because the violin sang to him as it always had. He launched into a favorite Mozart piece, starting over when he hit a false note, as was his wont.
This violin, like computers, was an essential part of the life that he’d given up for the last two years. Given up to make room for his training. He didn’t regret that choice—but now the music wound around him like smoke, and filled him with a sensation akin to bliss.
The piece finally finished to his satisfaction, Connor lowered the violin. His whole body seemed to glow, reverberating with the remnants of the notes, as if they both surrounded and filled him.
Nine was long gone.
Sunlight slanting through the deep stone window slits, amplified by a beveled bronze plaque that reflected a spot of sun onto the white-painted ceiling, was the cool blue of late afternoon.
Connor set the violin back into its case. His hands and arms were trembling with strain, with tiredness; his fingertips felt blistered by the strin
gs. Though more physically fit than ever in his life, he was badly out of shape for the unique discipline of playing.
Touching that violin had been like drinking deep when he hadn’t known he was thirsty.
Connor sat down in the incongruously modern office chair in front of a bank of monitors, configured the way he liked them. The Master had prepared for him here, too.
All of this seemed to point to the Master being gone for a long time.
Nine reappeared in the doorway, carrying a tray set with several covered, steaming bowls, a pot of tea, and utensils. “I thought you might partake of the evening meal up here.”
“Thanks.” Connor’s attention was already diverted by the computers. Would that intuition that seemed to flow between him and the machines come back to him?
He cracked his knuckles and eyed the food Nine had brought. He needed a little time—playing had depleted as well as renewed him. “Are you going to eat with me?”
“No, I took my meal with the trainees in the hall.” Nine sat down at a computer rig beside Connor’s. “You should eat, though. I’ll get the Master’s email open for you—he wanted you to carry on the compound’s business.”
Connor uncovered one of the bowls, revealing a delicious-smelling curry over rice. He glanced at Nine. “Do you have any idea where the Master went? Or for how long?”
“He didn’t say.” Nine’s fingers rattled nervously on the keyboard. “But I think his trip might’ve had something to do with Pim Wat.”
Connor’s heart jumped like a spooked rabbit. The Master’s disappearance had something to do with Sophie’s deadly mother? He kept outwardly calm, picking up his bowl and stirring the curry with his chopsticks, then scooping it into his mouth.
