“I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Annie exchanged glances with Cham. “What could Channel Five News possibly want from me?”
“I want to know about your involvement with Princess Amelie and Jordan Wellington’s murders.”
How did she know about Jordan so soon?
Avoiding eye contact with Cham, Annie examined the journalist as if the woman was a clue to solve a crime. Older than Annie but not by much, Rebekah’s shiny blonde hair was well coiffed and pulled back in a barrette. Her business suit cut close to her petite frame, and her kitten heels were sexy and smart.
How does she do that every time?
Annie judged that the put-together journalist had money and connections based on her clothing, hair, and nails. Her nature must be curious—she holds on when there’s a lead to follow and doesn’t let go. The woman must know or suspect something, but what?
“Listen Rebekah,” she said finally. “I’m not in charge of the cases. I’m a consultant. Jordan’s death hasn’t even been released to the public yet. His parents don’t even know. How did you find out?” Annie wondered if the journalist had illegally obtained the information. But how? An IT tech somewhere?
“Police scanner. Can you tell me what these cases have in common that a CPD consultant would be called in?” Rebekah Stoner remained cool and unwavering. Her voice never faltered, her hands remained sturdy, and she kept her head up and shoulders back. The journalist wasn’t giving anything up.
“I can’t release any information on the cases. You know that. Harassing me at my home won’t change that. I don’t know what you think you’re aiming for, but there’s nothing here. It’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Just one more question. How did you disappear from the alley after your meeting with Jack? I followed you, and by the time I arrived, you were gone.”
Cham held Annie’s arm and squeezed. She knew he wanted to protect her and keep her calm, but Annie simply burst out laughing. With the laugh, she finally released all the energy and emotion she held inside.
“Really. It sounds like you’re implying I can appear or disappear in a what, blink of an eye?” Annie finally said. Letting Cham lead her away, she entered her house and slammed the door behind them, leaving Rebekah to stare incredulously.
Watching through the thin curtains hanging from the front room windows, Annie saw Rebekah head for her car, a silver four door with tricked-out hub caps. When the reporter pulled away, Annie paced, a new stress attacking her.
“Ryan warned me.” Nervous energy propelled her to the back den. Switching on the light revealed piles of papers covering her sofa, her computer resting on the ottoman, and the printer sitting in the middle of the floor. Miscellaneous folders and notepads lay scattered across the carpet and chairs. “I suppose I can file all of this away now.” She sighed, removed a pile from the couch, and sat down. Curling herself into a ball, Annie wrapped the blanket around herself. “What am I going to do about the reporter?”
“I don’t know. For now, just keep your conversations with Jack to the phone, okay?” Cham sat beside her, reaching for her hand.
Annie shook her head and leaned against him. “How is this not affecting you so much?”
“Well the reporter’s not hounding me, and the suspect didn’t kill my dad.” Cham wrapped his arm around her shoulder, absently stroking her hair. “It pisses me off. I can’t believe we think of guns.”
“No one knew we were moving him.” She closed her eyes, a momentary reprieve from the case. The FBI had promised to keep Jordan’s murder out of the press until the following evening, allowing them time to contact the family. Milo was permitting them to wait until morning.
How did Rebekah find out so soon?
“I dread telling them tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to, remember? I’m still the lead, though I don’t think that’s changed anything.”
“Yeah, probably not.” Annie yawned. Her eyes fluttered and her breathing slowed as she fell asleep against him.
*
Breaking bad news to family members was a part of the job Annie disliked the most. It’s hard to be present in someone’s life at the most vulnerable and sad times, and in this case, from what Annie gathered, the relationship between Jordan and his parents was rocky at best.
Trying something new, Annie dressed in a suit, somber and professional. Not as well cut to her frame as the FBI agent’s or the journalist, the suit hung from her shoulders, and the sleeves fell past her wrists, almost too long for her petite arms. Maybe she’d use magic to adjust it later, just not today. She didn’t want to wait any longer.
Maybe I’ll even buy a new one. Annie sighed as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail, smoothing the frizzy, curly hair best she knew how. Most of her hair turned to a soft wave, but several more stubborn curls remained tightly packed around her face. Maybe I’ll shave it all off.
They teleported to the Wellington family property, a large expanse of land in the middle of central Illinois. Annie had chosen a more feminine, slim shoe, which created a difficult walk down the long driveway. She instantly regretted wearing this pair as her heel constantly got stuck in the ruts of the dirt drive.
“Can we just teleport?” The answer would be a no. Popping in to a family’s property was against Wizard Guard protocol. Instead, Annie and Cham walked along the path, Annie stumbling as her feet wobbled inside her shoes.
The driveway, long and winding, was surrounded on both sides by large, thick hedges. As they wound around a corner, the Wellington mansion came into view, as did the large property when they entered a circular drive. Gardens stretched for many acres on all sides, and additional buildings dotted the landscape. Annie and Cham stepped up to the wide porch.
The grand structure wrapped around a large mansion, and as Annie peered around, she had a sense of smallness and unimportance.
The house was decorated with delicate gingerbread trim and an ornate front door with an intricate, stained-glass window. Everything about the house appeared well appointed, beautifully hand-carved, and handmade. Someone had taken time and great care to build this house, and it was truly stunning to look at, though not to Annie’s taste in the least.
Annie no longer found herself surprised how Jordan and Amelie’s circles became entwined. Their parents both powerful and wealthy; eventually their worlds would meet.
“Ready?” Cham said.
She shrugged as he pressed the doorbell. Several chimes rang out a lovely song Annie knew. Still anxious, she shifted several times in her spot, smoothed her ponytail, and straightened her jacket until the bell ceased singing.
We should have come last night.
An elderly gentleman opened the door wearing a neatly pressed black suit and straight tie. Annie thought he might be the butler. Regardless, it seemed too early for such formality. Hunched forward as the man walked, he showed them to a large sitting room, inviting them to take a seat.
The room, encased in a floral wallpaper pattern of pinks and greens, left Annie feeling entombed. More than one Victorian sofa filled the space, with two placed together in the shape of an “L.” Opposite the sofas, two delicate chairs and several small tables rounded out the furniture pit.
Every surface in the room, from the tables to the mantel, was covered with accessories. Fancy glass statues, brass boxes, a humidor—it was a mix without purpose or direction. It felt claustrophobic.
Pictures covered the entire length of the fireplace mantel, laden with portraits of a girl at various ages and what Annie assumed were her children. Glancing quickly around the room, she noticed that pictures of Jordan seemed to be left out. Taking a seat beside Cham, Annie found the sofa hard and uncomfortable and sat stiffly with her hands in her lap as they waited for Jordan’s parents to come.
“This place has all the warmth of an ice cream cone,” she muttered.
“It’s a little suffocating.”
Soft footsteps glided across the wooden floor behind
them. A petite elderly woman, shorter than Annie and severely stooped, entered the room. Though it was just after nine in the morning, Mrs. Wellington was fully dressed as if on her way out the door. Her buttoned silk shirt and slacks hung from her thin frame. Gingerly, she sank into a high-backed chair across from them, her sad eyes directed at Annie, though not quite looking at her.
“Ma’am. I’m Robert Chamsky, and this is Anne Pearce. We’re with the Wizard Guard. I’m sorry, Mrs. Wellington, but I’ve come with some bad news,” Cham said, leaning forward in his seat.
“No one ever socializes at nine in the morning with good news, Mr. Chamsky. Jordan was troubled. I’ve been expecting this to happen, with that girl dead, too,” Mrs. Wellington said, her voice soft and frail.
Annie walked to the woman and put her arm around her.
“When did my son die?” Mrs. Wellington slumped in her chair.
“Late yesterday. We apologize for the delay in notifying you, and we are so sorry for your loss.”
Loud, pounding footsteps came from the entrance, reverberating through the room. Mrs. Wellington shrank back in her seat, her shoulders drooping, and looked at her hands much like Jordan had done during interrogation.
“Out of my house!” roared the man entering the room, who Annie assumed was Jordan’s father.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re here to inform you—” Cham began. He positioned himself between the man and Mrs. Wellington, as if to protect the woman from her husband. He stood taller by six inches and several pounds more than Mr. Wellington, yet the man didn’t shrink at his size.
“I don’t have a son, and I’m not discussing this with you. Out, both of you, before I call your supervisor! Now!”
Annie gave the woman a compassionate smile before they scampered from the room without saying goodbye.
*
With Rebekah Stoner on the loose, Annie and Cham carefully chose a new way to meet with Jack, teleporting to the top of the Cook County Morgue and waiting for the FBI agent to let them in.
“Coffee! My hero,” Annie said as she took a recyclable cup from the tray Jack brought them and drank a quick sip, nearly spitting out the burning liquid. Embarrassed, she accepted the napkin Cham summoned and wiped her face.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
She nodded sheepishly.
“Then how did it go with his parents?” The Wizard Guards followed Jack down a flight of stairs, passing a woman in a slim suit, long hair, and slim heels coming up from a floor below.
“Hi Jack,” the woman said as they passed. She entered the door and headed down the hallway, her hips swaying wildly. Both Jack and Cham watched her sashay away.
“His parents. Wow!” Annie said, her voice louder than necessary. The hallway door slammed shut, and both men turned to the sound of her voice. Annie offered Cham a raised eyebrow; he blushed through his freckles.
“Sorry. A few more floors,” Jack said and led them to the basement while Annie explained Jordan’s parents, the cold house, and lack of pictures with the victim.
Jack frowned. “His father sounds charming.” They stopped at the entrance to the waiting room. Jack took a look inside as an employee, possibly the medical examiner, was working in the morgue. He saw the man walk past the large window that separated the morgue from the waiting room. He held up his hand. “So how did this happen?”
“We anticipated magic, not bullets. They sent a magical to kill him via nonmagical means. This threw us,” Cham said.
Annie glanced out of the small glass strip in the door. The ceiling camera swept the waiting room and back across to the hall opposite where they waited. The coroner entered the autopsy suite.
“We underestimated someone. We have to live with that mistake,” she said.
“Who murdered them?” Jack asked.
“We’re sure Wolfgange Rathbone executed the orders, but we don’t know who actually murdered them,” Cham said.
Pensively, Jack watched Annie watch the camera with a sinking feeling that the most important case he ever needed to solve wouldn’t have an answer to their central question: Who killed Princess Amelie Maxillian?
“How can I help?” Jack asked.
“I wish we could read you in, but Rathbone is a powerful wizard and there’s no proof. The Wizard Council is intent on keeping you out. At least for now,” Cham said.
Annie was grateful for Cham taking the lead; her partner, a perfect complement to her, was usually the less emotional Wizard Guard. But this wasn’t just another case; for her, it was something more. Annie concentrated on the camera. When the cameral swung toward the hallway, Annie waved her palm across the window. The engine of the small machine stopped blinking and the motor died down, blanketing the waiting room in silence.
“We’re good,” Annie advised and slipped through the door; as if on cue, the coroner exited with the multiple vials of blood for Jack to deliver to the lab. The FBI had ordered standard toxicology tests like any other case, but magical blood held a secret. Two extra chromosomes gave witches and wizards their powers. Jordan’s blood would reveal this and expose them.
“Jack, good you’re here,” Dr. Martz said when they entered, handing him the forms. The doctor eyed Annie and Cham, his eyes drawing inward and the crow’s feet growing deep with confusion. Their smiles did nothing to ease his anxiety at their presence; he shifted his weight between feet as he struggled to not stare at them. His discomfort was not for any particular reason—it was just a sense the doctor had.
Once Jack signed for the evidence and returned to the forms to Dr. Martz, the medical examiner turned for the autopsy room, his legs nearly running for the safety of the lab, leaving the doors to swing shut on their own.
It was eerily quiet in the corridor; they were hyperaware of the smallest sounds as if a bomb burst forth. The whispers down the hall echoed, and their rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the cement.
“Ready?” Annie asked Jack.
“Does it matter if I’m not?” Watching Annie take hold of the vials gave Jack a stomachache just thinking of the tampering. He turned away, unable to view the additional destruction of evidence. Annie chuckled and chanted the spell.
“Essence of the magic, release itself,
Return to its owner so that none can see.”
As the spell worked the blood in the vials bubbled and popped against the glass. The magic sizzled as it extracted itself from the blood. Jack, hearing the magic in progress, turned. His gaze never left the glass tubes.
Annie explained, “The bubbling is the magic releasing itself from the blood, so when it’s tested it’ll look like any nonmagical's blood.”
The bubbles ascended to the top of the vial and floated into the air, dissipating into nothing. Annie ran a crystal over the tubes, which remained dull with the absence of magic.
“That’s it? The blood is good?” he asked. Not understanding magic, he could only believe them when they advised him that everything was fine. Jack remained skeptical as Annie handed him the vials.
“We won’t put ourselves in unnecessary danger. Trust us, it’s fine.”
“I’m sure my acceptance of all the evidence-tampering isn’t a good thing.” He chuckled and stared at the vials of blood.
“It still bothers you a little.” Annie said, holding two fingers out an inch apart. “Just a little.”
“Please let me know what else I can do for you. I want to help catch this guy.”
“You will. We promise,” Cham said.
Jack nodded once and took off for the labs.
Chapter 21
When the answers didn’t fit or made no sense, Rebekah Stoner questioned the conclusions, digging deeper for an answer that explained the problems.
The journalist had worked enough cases that she understood policy and procedure, the chain of command, and how the FBI and Police Department worked together. Anne Pearce didn’t fit. It was as if the woman was wearing heels in a gym.
It wasn’t only Anne—Jordan Wellin
gton, once the only suspect in Princess Amelie’s murder, also didn’t fit. After attempting to track the elusive boyfriend—just like Anne, Jordan was virtually nonexistent on the internet—Rebekah finally tracked his hometown to southern Illinois after several days.
With her story load light and no reports due that day, Rebekah took the day off and traveled to Jordan’s home town of 1,500 residents to nose around. The downtown area was small, consisting of a bank, drug store, grocery store, and movie theater. Several storefronts were empty along Main Street, and yet there were two drinking establishments, one on each corner.
Past the bars and an open lot sat the elementary school; Rebekah pulled into the parking spaces and parked the car along the line for designated visitors. The school was an institutional, one-story, square building covered with an ugly yellow façade. Two traffic cones blocked an open manhole on the cracked walkway, and Rebekah skirted the danger as she walked up to the locked front entrance.
“Excuse me. What are you doing here?”
A tall, wide man, dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, khaki pants and a collared shirt that were covered with dirt, held a large rake smudged in various places. His hat kept the sun from spoiling his clear face; his large rake made Rebekah nervous.
“I wanted to speak with someone in the school. Are they out for lunch?” She glanced at her watch.
“Miss, it’s summer vacation. No one is here until the end of August. Is there something I can help you with?” His warm, wide smile lessened Rebekah’s nerves.
“I’m so embarrassed. I guess I thought someone would be here. I’m Rebekah Stoner, a reporter from Chicago. I’m doing an article on Jordan Wellington. His death is so sad and unexpected,” she said respectfully, waiting for a response from the gentleman. He said nothing. “Do you know who I can talk to about him and the family?” she pressed.
“You’ll get nothing from anyone around here. That family keeps to themselves. Kids didn’t go here. Went to some fancy boarding school.”
Wizard Hall Chronicles Box Set Page 22
