The Billionaire's Heir (Sucubus For Hire Book 1)

by Michael Don Anderson

  Hardwicke nodded. “Go on.”

  “I have no leads on Thrace’s disappearance. It happened in broad daylight and they were prepared for a werewolf. Tranq dart obviously dosed for a preternatural. No mistaking who the intended victim was. No ransom demand for him since. Just like Vincent. Made me wonder if the two kidnappings were related. If so, why.”

  Hardwicke’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “What’d you come up with?”

  “I’m pretty sure the Atlantic Street Revenants aren’t involved in the boy’s disappearance. And Amperdyne’s gonna get screwed no matter how this falls, unless they recover the boy personally.”

  “Old territory,” complained the pretty agent.

  “I’m just catching up with my thinking. So who else has motive? For the boy, could be anyone wanting cash. Only no ransom. For Thrace, I thought the pack might still harbor a grudge. Or might know who did.”

  Hardwicke nodded. “You’re finally making sense. Keep going.”

  “I always make sense, even if you don’t follow my logic.” I paused a moment to let my criticism sink in. “Killian wasn’t surprised by Thrace’s disappearance. But he was confident that a search warrant would prove that the missing werewolf wasn’t there.”

  “What possible motive could they have?”

  “I keep trying to make it about money. The way everyone else has been. But that’s where events aren’t making sense. Vincent has access to his personal accounts. Only a few hundred thousand at best.”

  “Untouched. We’ve been watching,” interjected Wisniewski.

  “And Thrace has most of his earnings from Gibraltar unspent in a savings accounts. More than Vincent can access.”

  Hardwicke shrugged. “Also untouched.”

  I grunted. “So money doesn’t seem to be a motive.”

  Hardwicke tapped the table with a well-manicured nail. “The alternate theory is that someone’s trying to hit Gibraltar hard. Payback for something personal instead of business.”

  “Does Henry Gibraltar look like he does personal?” I laughed bitterly.

  A young man came in with a tray. Blue eyes. Light brown hair. One of the sons. He set a coffee-mug in front of Wisniewski, water next to Hardwicke and a glass of white wine in front of me. The coffee smelled strong. Turkish style. I couldn’t get of whiff of anything but that.

  The young man put a bowl of some kind of stew inbetween the two agents. Shredded cabbage and ground beef from the looks of it. There were sausages. And two empty plates.

  “Thank you.” I was the only one to acknowledge him before he rushed off. He avoided eye contact. Even with my sunglasses on.

  “We’ll eat. You talk,” insisted Hardwicke.

  I was confused. Wisniewski had taken second seat to this interrogation. In fact, she’d hardly spoken at all since being accused of Lone Ranger tactics. How serious was the problem between them?

  “Fine. As I was saying, money doesn’t seem to be a motive. Neither does a personal attack on Gibraltar. This isn’t about anything that straight forward. If either were the real motive, the boy would’ve turned up dead already. Not just the security guards.”

  “How are you so certain that the remains are them?”

  “I told you, Hardwicke. They’re the only John Does in the morgue.” I left Chandler out of it. He wasn’t crucial to the facts. And I wasn’t sure I’d get any more cooperation if I outted him as MI-6. “In fact, I was thinking that whoever took Vincent couldn’t risk keeping the men around. Or alive.”

  “Unless they were co-conspirators.”

  “Highly unlikely. Too much risk for the reward. Especially if money’s not the objective.”

  Hardwicke looked as frustrated as I felt. “Not money. Not revenge. Let’s pretend you’re right. What then?”

  “I keep bumping into the question, why do what they did? Why take the boy but demand no ransom? Why kill the Amperdyne men but make them impossible to identify? Why take Thrace at all?”

  “And?”

  “And each of these things buys them time.”

  Hardwicke stopped eating. “I get what the coroner meant now. Back to that question. Time for what? I’m also starting to see how your brain works. It feels plausible. And you’re right. Nothing else is making sense.”

  “I don’t see why we’d give up revenge so quickly.” Wisniewski spoke with less forcefulness than normal. Hardwicke glared at her and she went back to eating in silence. Watching us over her stew.

  “I’ve already asked the obvious question. What happens with Gibraltar Global Industries if Vincent is gone longer than not? As far as I can tell, nothing.”

  Hardwicke played with her spoon, nodding. “The boy’s just the heir. He’s not intrinsic to anything day to day. His absence is only a distraction for the grandfather.”

  “Not as much of one as his murder would be. Which hasn’t happened.” I sipped my wine. Not chilled. But sweet enough. “So again, what or who benefits from keeping Vincent away from his grandfather for a longer period of time?”

  “You don’t have any clue, do you?” Hardwicke stared at me disappointed.

  “Not yet. But I’ve just learned that the werewolves know something. And that those two charred bodies are likely the security team. Vincent’s still alive. Probably. Unless he’s literally mixed in with that barbeque.”

  “Do you have to?” complained Wisniewski.

  Hardwicke brushed past her objection. “But?”

  “My gut says he’s not. That he is alive. And the key to this whole thing.”

  “We considered an inside man. But Thrace was protecting Gibraltar when Vincent went missing.”

  “What if the boy wanted out?”

  Wisniewski held her spoon mid-bite. Staring at me. “Out of billions of dollars?”

  “Out of being a prisoner.” I shook my head at her lack of imagination. “But what if you’re right. What if there was an inside man? And it’s Thrace?”

  “Inside as in, he got his pack to help?” Hardwicke shook her head. “They’re incredibly homophobic. They wouldn’t do it out of the kindness of their hearts.”

  “Anton’s got money. Maybe he hasn’t drawn it out yet because it’d lead right back to Killian. Take the boy. Later, take Thrace. Once the boy is safely away, Thrace escapes from his abductors and siphons the money to his pack over time.”

  “That’s a lot of supposition. I’d need more than your gut to get a federal warrant to watch Killian or his people on their own lands.”

  “My gut’s all I have right now.”

  “We can get her their financials. It’s part of their Federal registration agreement.” Wisniewski waited for Hardwicke to consider it. “If you think that’s a good idea.”

  “Alright, already. Stop playing the meek and mild. It’s disconcerting.” Hardwicke scowled. “Just tell me when you do crazy shit like sending a civilian into a werewolf pack’s territory.”

  “Deal.” Wisniewski smiled. “And I’ll have those financials for you before the end of the day. If they own or rent anyplace that they could hold the boy, with or without a warrant, you can check it out.”

  “Thank you. I was running out of leads.”

  “Hopefully the charred remains will shed some light.”

  “I don’t think they will. Killing the bodyguards was inevitable. They were too well trained. Taking them with the boy was just a distraction. A delaying tactic. Killing them hides any details of who took them. And why. If we hadn’t found the remains—figured out who they might be—we’d still think they were in on it. Wasting more time.”

  “We already have a watch order for all public transportation. If Vincent runs, someone will spot him.”

  I stared at Hardwicke and raised my brow. “Why use public transportation?”

  “Shit.”

  “Oh yeah. Shit is right.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The agents dropped me off at my car. There was no sign of Chandler lurking in the shadows, so I drove back to my office. Lost in th
ought. I was so distracted that I didn’t even drive around the block once before parking. I’d forgotten about my mystery stalker. And the bomb.

  I kept replaying the questions in my head as I walked from the garage. It made me oblivious to the people I passed. And the cars that went about their business. Even the ones blaring music as they cruised the boulevard.

  It was out of character and dangerous. A side-effect of being full. Or maybe just my singlemindedness in solving this case. Something woke me from my thoughts just inside the building. I looked up from the industrial carpet that lined the hallway. Something was wrong.

  A sound. No. The lack of sound. I didn’t hear the bleating of a goat. And one of the tenants had his outer office door opened because it was a nice day. I felt a gentle breeze brush past me from outside. He’d never have left his door open if an animal had been raising a ruckus.

  I paused at the entrance to our office. Janet was sitting at her desk going through emails. Unperturbed. She looked up and smiled. “Bee. You’re back!”

  “Safe and sound.” I frowned at her. Her smile wilted with uncertainty. I waved toward the hallway. “Where’s the goat?”

  “Oh!” She burst out with laughter. “The same place they were yesterday.”

  “Did it die?” I’d asked for sick or dying goats. Wouldn’t be hard to lose a few if they were sick enough.

  She shook her head. “You reminded me to use my initiative. Not just a fridge. Soundproofed the room and installed a small ventilation system.”

  “Wow. How much did that set me back?”

  “Ten grand.”

  My mouth dropped open to protest when she chuckled wickedly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bee. I did pay extra for the same-day rush. But it’s a small room. Four hundred and sixty-three dollars.”

  “Good job.” I went into my office and plopped into my chair. I tossed my sunglasses into a bowl specifically for them and leaned back. A faint bleating startled me and I stood up. Tracking the noise. Aware of the musky scent.

  “Janet!”

  She rushed in, a grin already plastered on her face. “You found the venting system.”

  “My office? Of all places?”

  “It was either your office or a tenant’s. Since you’re the one—eating them, I figured fair is fair.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t’ve run it through the existing air ducts?”

  “The bleating travels. As you can hear.” Her face relaxed and she sat on the edge of my desk. “What happened with the werewolves?”

  “Later. I’ve had to go over those details twice already today. What’ve you got for me?”

  “Bad news I’m afraid. The linguists we hit up all replied that they’d never seen the script before. It vaguely resembles Sumerian writing according to one of them. But only in the sense that it doesn’t resemble anything else even remotely.”

  “Clearly, whoever left it expected me to be able to read it.”

  “So you’re sure it’s one of your people?”

  “Who else?”

  Janet pursed her lips together. “I can check federal law enforcement to see if any succubi are incarcerated pending execution. We might find out what it says that way.”

  “I doubt it. The last time we tried to reach out to a succubus in prison, neither she nor the Feds would let her talk to me.”

  “Can’t hurt to ask.”

  “Fine. Check. But usually someone notifies me as a professional courtesy. Or preternatural courtesy. Some kind of guilt ridden motivation. Hey, we’re killing another one of your kind. We know you’re rare and all. Sorry but just thought you should know. In case you know them.”

  Janet glared at me. “Someone’s in a mood. Did it go that badly with the werewolves?”

  “Quit asking. But no. I’m not grumpy because of werewolves. Or the goat bleating into my office through the vent you kindly had installed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Someone’s reaching out to me. Expecting me to respond to whatever’s in that note. And I can’t do anything about it because I don’t know a damned thing about the language. I’m not usually so helpless.”

  “There are still people looking into it. The ones you specifically asked me to email came up empty. But they forwarded the request to likely scholars. Someone will know something.”

  “What if the sender’s just passing through town? What if they leave never to be found again because I didn’t respond?”

  She studied me with maternal concern. “I’m sorry, Bee.”

  “I know, Janet. And I’m sorry. Feeling sorry for myself when a sheltered, teenaged boy is out there somewhere dealing with the real world on his own for the first time. In the worst possible ways.”

  “No leads on the kidnappings?”

  “Something. Not enough. Even if Vincent participated in his own escape from his grandfather, there are a lot of bad people out there. Someone who might take advantage of his innocence.”

  “He’s not you, Bee. He’s not a little girl who never knew her family.”

  “Shut up, Janet.”

  “Bee!”

  I growled low and feral. “I know. I should shut up instead. I’m not getting overly involved. His situation’s nothing like mine.”

  “But you protect the innocent. And the young.”

  “That’s where I’m being hypocritical. Historically, Vincent would be considered a man. He’s old enough to be one. But I keep thinking of him as a child. Because of how he was raised.”

  “Would it matter if you thought about him as a grown man?”

  I stared at Janet. Blinking. “It might. It just might. I’m a bloody fool. What age was your first crush?”

  “Kindergarten. A boy with big ears and buck teeth. The nicest, smartest five-year-old I’d ever met.”

  I gave her a look. “Your first sexual crush?”

  “How are you defining sexual? You mean romantic? I was pretty much smitten in kindergarten.”

  “Someone after you’d hit puberty!”

  “Mr. Joseph. Fourth grade substitute teacher while Mrs. Paddock had her first baby. He was only twenty-two or something at the time. All the girls thought he was dreamy. Why?”

  “Because Vincent might’ve found a reason to run away. A romantic relationship that hadn’t existed before. A crush on someone who was accessible in a world where he was trapped.”

  “Surveillance would’ve covered that.”

  “Not if we weren’t looking for it.”

  “A teacher?”

  “He’s homeschooled. It’s possible. Only—only the staff is almost exclusively male. That might narrow down the search really fast.”

  “Oh, Bee. Sometimes you are so human.”

  I felt a flash of annoyance. “Pardon?”

  “You’re making the same assumption about Vincent that fathers and mothers have been making about their sons since time began.”

  I frowned, my brows narrowing. Then it hit me. “That Vincent likes girls.”

  “What, you think only the werewolf might be gay?”

  “Thanks, Janet. I needed a kick in the skirt.” I stood up, feeling liberated. “Finally something to do.”

  I grabbed my sunglasses and slipped them on. Checked my beret to make sure it was pinned firmly in place as I marched toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Call Gibraltar’s people. Tell them I’m coming to review footage again. And Janet, tell them. This isn’t a request.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  At Gibraltar’s villa, I was immediately led to the same video room without any fuss or bother. The word was out. Cooperate with me or else. I didn’t even get an acknowledgement of my arrival from Yuri Kamaguchi. With Thrace gone, they’d be responsible for all security until the matter was resolved.

  I waved my escort away and began to scroll backwards in time. I paused and viewed any contact between Vincent and the staff. Most of the employers were in their late twenties to mid-thirties. That didn’t matter.
Young love was blind to a lot of things. Including an age gap that might offend modern sensibilities.

  I didn’t waste a lot of time on listening to conversations. Or worrying about what anyone constructively did. All I focused on was Vincent’s face. When I saw his expression change the first time, I could’ve slapped myself. It was that obvious.

  Janet had guessed right. Vincent didn’t like girls. He wasn’t enthralled with the vampires. But when he gazed at one particular member of staff, it showed. Anton Thrace. Vincent had a crush on the gay werewolf.

  But was it reciprocated? I didn’t see adoration on the man’s eyes. For the most part, Thrace didn’t seem to notice the boy at all. Was it misdirection? Make everyone think he didn’t like Vincent to protect their relationship?

  If Thrace felt the same, it would explain why he might’ve helped the boy escape. A better reason than sympathy for a trapped animal. A chance for them to be together.

  Would that make Thrace desperate enough to reach out to his old pack? Pay them for helping the two lovebirds be united? Freed from the tyranny of a domineering and probably homophobic grandfather?

  And there was no question. The werewolves were involved. If they were helping Thrace instead of being involved in kidnapping him, there was only one motive. Money. A lot of money to overlook the fact that the Thrace and the boy were gay. Money was a less convincing motive if they were on the other side. There’d have been a ransom. And I had to believe that both kidnappings were for the same reason.

  The possibility changed some events in my mind. If Thrace and Vincent wanted to be together for the long haul, he’d disappear with the boy. And they’d need all of Thrace’s money to survive on the run. They could never stop running. Leaving it in his bank account argued against it.

  Thrace had struck me as more sensible than that. Definitely not cold-blooded enough to kill the two Amperdyne men. So who then? Killian? On his own? To protect his pack’s involvement? Then hide the truth from Vincent and Anton both?

  Another thing nagged at me. Less than two more years and it wouldn’t have mattered. They could’ve been together no matter what Gibraltar wanted. Not running from the law. So why would they run now? What would make them desperate enough? Unless the old man had begun to suspect the relationship. Planned to get rid of the werewolf. As in permanently.