Movement beyond the doorway drew his attention, and he stepped into the front, main room. It was…a lot to take in.
In the center, as expected, a sofa and armchair, an old TV on a cabinet. Ceiling fan.
But on the edges: file cabinets. One after the next, after the next, after the next.
Fox whistled. “I’m starting to see a pattern: all of you are insane.”
Abe and Devin each stood at a cabinet, drawers pulled out, full of so much paperwork they sagged.
“Clear the house,” Eden instructed Evan, and went to join Abe.
Fox stayed rooted in place. “What is all this?”
“Apparently,” Devin said, “over the last thirty-some-odd years, while the rest of us were trying to live normal lives–”
Abe snorted. Of the thirteen, the man with nine kids from nine women didn’t count as “trying to be normal.”
Devin made a face and kept going. “Norris was keeping track of each of us, and saving every newspaper clipping, coupon, flat rental advert, and library circular that he thought might make mention of us, Project Emerald, and government conspiracies.”
“And alien abductions, too,” Eden said, peering over Abe’s shoulder at the yellowed newspaper he held in his hands. “I’m not one for slandering the dead, but…”
“No, Norris has been out of his gourd for a long time,” Abe said. “But it had been getting worse lately.”
“Wait, I thought you hadn’t seen him in a while,” Fox said, frowning. He wanted to walk over, to see what sort of nonsense they were all three leafing through – but he also really, really didn’t. “How soon is recently?”
Abe shrugged and kept rifling. “About two weeks, maybe? We kept in touch off and on. I’d call him, check up on him, and he’d always want to start reminiscing about the past. That was when I would make my polite excuses and hang up.”
“And you didn’t think you ought to tell us this?”
“I knew where he lived.” Abe shrugged. “That didn’t tip you off?”
“I assumed that was just your magic spy voodoo whatever.”
Abe finally paused and lifted his head. Sent Fox the barest scrape of a wry smile. “Charlie. After all you’ve done in your life, all that you’ve seen, you don’t really think that I’m a better spy than you, do you?”
“I…” The room shifted around him; maybe the world tilted.
Abe went back to the file folders in front of him. “There’s too much here to properly sort through. Some of it might be valuable, but most of it’s just rubbish.”
Fox took a deep breath – a mistake given the stink of this place – and rubbed some of the tension out of his neck. “Abe’s right.” And someone had to decide what they were doing next; the only thing here worth finding was Norris, and that was a warning that they needed to hurry. “We can’t look through all this, and it probably doesn’t matter anyway.” His balance returned as he gave directions. “We gotta call this in, and get back on the road. Eden, do you have a contact who you can trust? All this” – gesture at the cabinets – “needs boxing up. There may be something in it that can help our case when this eventually all blows up and makes the papers.”
She nodded and reached for her phone. “Yeah. On it.”
“Dad, you should–”
“Guys!” Evan called from deeper in the house. “You should really come see this!”
The bedroom was situated off the kitchen, and the dirty linens brought a whole new aroma into the mix. But the most notable thing was the collection of maps. Huge, blown-up maps of London and its surrounding suburbs. Addresses circled in red.
“This is…” Evan said, “some real serial killer shit.”
“Said the sniper,” Eden quipped.
Abe stepped up to one and reached to touch one of the circles, hissing through his teeth.
“What?” Fox asked.
“I know this one. It’s Morgan’s place.”
“Then let’s head that way.”
“No, he won’t be there, not now. But I know where he might be.”
Fox paused, on their way back to the van, and looked back at the sad little shack in the middle of a muddy field, its herd of rampant goats. Eden had in fact called a former colleague, someone she trusted to handle the whole thing correctly and respectfully. Norris was dead; there was nothing they could do for him, and staying here, losing time while there were others still alive, getting their prints and DNA all over everything – that would be folly.
But he took a moment. A handful of seconds. To feel truly, deeply sorry for this man. For his filthy home, and his tidy workshop, and his ugly, ugly death.
Then he climbed into the van.
Nineteen
Axelle’s hands tightened on the wheel of Raven’s Land Rover as she braked to a stop at the curb. A uniformed valet stepped from beneath the awning and headed her way, ready to take the car. Her anxiety climbed with every second that ticked by, every step the valet drew closer. While she was driving, hands sure and steady on the wheel of the car, she’d known that the ball was in her court.
If a threat materialized, she could evade it…or, if need be, mow it down. She had absolute faith in her ability to outrun the police, or any kind of goon squad that might be sicced on them. Not because she had the faster vehicle – the Rover was luxurious, and powerful, but she did miss her GTO – but because she was, hands-down, the better driver. Simple statement of fact.
But once she stepped out of this car, her advantage was gone, and she was just little old her again, in over her head, reliant on people she didn’t know that well or trust all that much. About to walk into a lion’s den.
As if she could sense Axelle’s hesitation, Vivian said, “It’s quite alright,” from the backseat. If it was meant to comfort, her tone fell well shy.
“Come on, ladies,” Raven said, gathering her bag and popping open her door before the doorman could get to it.
Axelle let out a shaky breath and peeled her clammy hands off the steering wheel.
~*~
Raven had no doubt that the true Gleaux headquarters was wedged tight between the ribs of some slick, shiny high-rise somewhere owned by Pseudonym. But the office of its CEO resided in a four-story, white stone townhouse affair that bridged the gap between residential and glass-fronted business sectors. It sat on the end of a long row of such townhouses, each wide and grand, with marble balustrades surrounding their front gardens and black-painted doors with gilt-edged plaques beside them.
A doorman in a smart uniform ushered them into a lobby dressed like that of a vintage hotel. A charming sort of opulence with its floor-length drapes, plush rugs, muted lighting, and the cascading crystal chandelier that hung above the circular front desk, throwing off soft yellow light that fanned across the floor and ceiling in shard-shaped geometrics.
The male receptionist looked up from his computer and regarded them through rimless spectacles. “Good afternoon.” He had the BBC voice down pat. “May I ask for your name, please?”
As instructed earlier, Axelle stepped forward to offer one of Raven’s cards.
“Raven Blake,” Raven said, slipping her sunglasses into her bag. “I’m here to see–”
“She’s here to see me, Geoffrey,” the same smooth male voice from the phone said.
Raven turned to the owner of that voice, and her first thought was: Handsome.
Her second thought was: Damn. Really fucking handsome.
“Hello.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Clive Mahoney.”
He was younger than she’d expected, close to her own age, and he wore his black hair too long in the front. It worked. But his eyes were the feature that arrested her: bright, almost electric blue.
Oh, behave, she told herself as she accepted his shake. She was around beautiful people all the time. Now was not the time to lose her head to something as silly as instant attraction.
“Hello,” she said, firmly, and gave what she thought was a very formal hand
shake.
He turned her loose immediately, didn’t linger, or press her hand, or try to make her feel trapped. She noticed that. His smile was wide, and straight, and white – she noticed that, too.
“If you ladies would be so kind as to follow me,” he said, stepping back and indicating a direction with the sweep of an arm. “I’ve got a conference room all set up, and refreshments have been ordered.”
The problem, Raven reflected, as he led them down a short hallway, was that everything about his manner and appearance had set her at ease. If her family was any indication, that sort of ability was anything but trustworthy.
~*~
Albie lowered his binoculars with a frown. “Half the offices have the curtains drawn, and the other half are empty.”
“Hmm,” Miles hummed from behind him. He was fiddling with his laptop, trying to bring up the feed on the tiny camera he’d given Axelle to place. “She hasn’t taken it out of her bag yet…” He trailed off. “Wait. Empty?”
Albie scanned again, to be sure. “Yeah. I can see the desks, and there’s no one at them.”
Scrape of shoes on the gritty rooftop, and Miles joined him, lying flat on their bellies, peering over the low retaining wall of the building across the street from the Gleaux offices. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, and he didn’t exactly care. His nerves had been jangling ever since Raven announced her mission this morning. Something was wrong. He just had to find out what.
“It’s two o’clock,” Miles said.
“So maybe they’re at lunch.”
“Everyone all together? I dunno.”
Damn it, he needed to get in there and see what was actually happening. The girls were savvy, but would they look for the same things he would? The little damning details? Were they as cynical as he was? They certainly weren’t as well-versed in committing crimes.
He bit his lip a moment, deciding, and then eased back from the edge.
“What are you doing?” Miles asked.
“I’m going in.”
~*~
The conference room didn’t look like any of the others Axelle had seen in her life; in fact, it shared some qualities with Baskerville Hall. Rather than a utilitarian table with leather ergonomic chairs, a long, high-gloss cherry dining table with ornately carved legs dominated the room, crouched beneath an elaborate chandelier, this one composed of hanging glass panels. Very seventies-chic. The chairs, the same cherry as the table, heavy, hard to move, with clawed feet, boasted plum-colored velvet seats that matched the curtains.
It was lavish. It was strange.
Clive, who struck her as the sort of silver spoon, moneyed man who genuinely believed the world was as wonderful as his own personal sphere, pulled out their chairs for them and went around to sit opposite Raven. All his attention was on her, and why wouldn’t it be? It gave Axelle a chance to palm her phone and type out a quick text beneath the cover of the table.
1st floor conference room. She fired it off to Albie and then settled in to play the dutiful assistant.
She probably would have looked better organized and professional if she’d taken notes on a tablet. But now, she pulled out a small notepad, pen, and, tucked into the notebook’s spirals, the tiny camera Miles had given her earlier. She flicked the side of it with her thumbnail, hoping she’d succeeded in turning the thing on properly, and set the notepad on the table, camera aimed at Clive.
He hadn’t noticed a thing, talking to Raven, a smile on his face that was wider than professional interest warranted.
“…your associates?” he was saying.
“My assistant, Bitsy,” Raven said with an offhand gesture. “And one of my new managers, Margaret,” she said of Vivian, who sat stone-faced and straight-backed on Raven’s other side.
Bitsy? Fucking Bitsy? Axelle bit back an inappropriate retort and tried to smooth her expression.
“It’s a pleasure to have you all here today.” Clive smiled at all of them, now, and Axelle picked up on a waver in Raven’s voice. She was charmed by the man.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t stay very long, but we do appreciate your hospitality. As to the samples–”
“A moment, if you would,” Clive said, and the door opened behind them.
Axelle twisted around, too fast, a startle reflex, every muscle tensed and ready to propel her out of her chair and into a fight stance. In that moment, she was intensely aware of the weight of her purse in her lap, the heaviness of the gun Albie had given her.
But it was only an assistant wheeling a tea cart, laden with teapot and cups, cans of soda, bottles of sparkling water, little cookies and cakes on small white plates.
She let out a breath and faced forward again – but not before she’d scanned the assistant and his cart for signs of anything suspicious.
Vivian caught her gaze and lifted her brows in a pointed reminder. Don’t eat or drink anything.
Axelle nodded and hovered her pen over her notepad.
“Won’t you have something?” Clive asked. “We have a variety, and the biscuits were baked fresh this morning–”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Raven said firmly.
“Ah.” Clive’s smile turned chagrined. “Straight to business then, I see. Alright. Leave the cart please, Nicholas, in case our guests change their minds.”
The assistant bowed and left the room.
He bowed.
You Brits are weird as hell, she texted Albie.
“As I said,” Raven said, and whatever hesitancy she’d felt at first, whether it was attraction or nerves, had been purged from her voice now. “We don’t have much time for this meeting. Not on such short notice.”
“I see.” His smile slipped, and though still handsome, he was far less charming when he was straight-faced. “Well, we offer a selection of three different sample jars for gift baskets such as the one you’ve received before. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing them.” He reached for the little box off to his left and pulled out three small glass jars, their metallic screw-on tops all different colors. “For dry skin,” he said, tapping the blue top, “oily skin,” the green, “and mature skin,” he said of the red.
Raven’s smile could have cut diamonds. “For aging skin, you mean.”
“We don’t like to use that word in the beauty industry.” He unscrewed the tops and laid them all on the table, revealing white cream in each. “Care to try them?”
No, Axelle thought. God knew what was in that cream. She’d watched too many action movies, and her mind was throwing up crazy anthrax/acid/nerve agent theories.
Raven’s smile softened a fraction; it almost looked genuine. “I’ll take them with me, if that’s alright, but I’m already very familiar with the dry skin formula. In fact, I’ve used my own jar up entirely.” She laughed, low, almost sincere. “Are these the sample sizes themselves?”
Their conversation turned to specifics about face cream that Axelle didn’t care about. She tuned them out, and focused instead on watching Clive Mahoney as covertly as possible.
He wasn’t a fidgety man. Physically confident, and growing more relaxed as he slipped into professional speak. He’d wanted to observe some social niceties, and Axelle didn’t yet know if that was because he wanted to impress Raven, or if he was just the sort of stuffy old school type who thought getting straight to the point was crass.
He didn’t look like someone who performed any kind of physical labor: smooth hands, no calluses, buffed nails. But his face was tan, and his shoulders filled out his slim-cut suit jacket. He went to the gym, then. And he obviously spent plenty of time in front of the mirror styling his hair into artful disarray each morning.
As she studied him from beneath her lashes, he reached to smooth a hand through its glossy thickness, pushing his forelock back along his crown.
That was when she saw it.
With his hair out of the way, she could see a sheen at his temple. Sweat. He was sweating.
Axelle’s pulse leaped, and she t
ried to play it cool as she leaned back in her chair and angled her notebook a fraction, trying to capture that shiny spot. She snuck a glance behind Raven’s back and met Vivian’s gaze. The woman’s lips were drawn tight, and she slid a speaking glance toward Clive before returning her gaze to Axelle. She’d seen it too.
Axelle cleared her throat. “Um. Excuse me.” Her British accent was terrible. “Could you point me toward your rest- your washroom?”
Raven turned toward her, and though her face stayed neutral, her eyes flashed. What are you doing? They were supposed to stay together.
She didn’t want to see what Vivian’s eyes were doing right now.
“Of course,” Clive said smoothly, and the look he shot her was polite – but curious. “If you turn left out of the door, it will be three doors down on your right.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be right back.” She left the camera, took her purse, and slipped out before Raven could tell her not to go.
~*~
Albie was realistic. He knew he wasn’t a hulking, intimidating guy like Mercy, or Candy. He didn’t entertain fantasies of kicking in doors and storming palaces John Wick style. For him, effectiveness always boiled down to one thing: preparedness. He’d learned how to shoot, how to fight, how to kill. He wasn’t Fox – he didn’t possess that freakish penchant for hand-to-hand – but he’d become proficient. And on a day like today, working an op like this, he knew how to play to his strengths.
The building where he and Miles had set up shop was empty, a For Rent sign in its front windows. They’d made use of that. When he left the roof, he went back down through its vacant interior, to the nondescript office area where he’d left his bags of supplies.
He stripped out of his jeans, black shirt and boots. Traded them for a suit that, while not tailored, fit him well enough to allow him to pass for a businessman. Wingtips, and a tie, and a belt. And under it all, his flak vest, Velcroed tight, hidden by the wide cut of his jacket.
Prodigal Son (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 3) Page 16
