Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  She scrutinized the two men on the floor like she could half believe what Piper was saying about them. Cliff took his hand off her mouth. “Now, what’s your name?”

  She gasped. “Iona Pax.”

  Cliff stroked her upper arm. “Iona, you’re going to civilize us so we blend seamlessly with the rest of you high society types. And if you try to get anything past us, well, I might not see it, but my friend here will. He’s to profiling what the FBI is to serial killers, only better. Got me?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Now, relax,” Cliff said jovially, cutting the tension in the air with a mood swing that nearly gave Piper whiplash. He hugged her from the side, gave her a peck on the cheek. “What do you like to do for fun? Sky’s the limit, and you’re the boss. Just one small thing. I did five tours with the SEALs. There are like six men on the planet that can put me down, not that I’m boasting. So unless you know one of them personally, don’t go making a public scene or a lot of people are going to get hurt, and I’m going to make you watch it all go down without touching a hair on your pretty little head. So you’ll be the greatest mass murderer in history by proxy by noon tomorrow.”

  She nodded. She was getting good at nodding, Piper thought. Though he sensed nothing passive or tamed about her, nothing even vaguely tamable. What exactly had they gotten themselves into?

  ***

  Cliff reached for the empty box he’d set on the counter upon entering the bathroom, the purpose of which had perplexed both Augustin and Ainsley. He forced the four flaps back by running his hands over each crease in the cardboard. Then he reached for his belt, loosening the strap.

  Piper gave him a strange look. It was only when Cliff had the garrote stretched around Augustin’s neck, and was slicing off his head with it, that it dawned on Piper that the belt had never truly been just a belt. “I wondered why you wore that thing. Maybe if the wooden nobs at the end were ebony as opposed to red oak, which is just a little too fashionable.”

  “Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t watch,” Cliff suggested. “Might get this relationship off on the wrong leg.”

  Piper, agreeing, clasped his hand over her eyes.

  “Maybe if you blocked the door, we can keep this off the news,” Cliff coached.

  Piper backed up until he could block the door with his bodyweight.

  Cliff bent at the knees to reach around Ainsley’s neck. He already had Augustin’s head in the box, after shaking it dry over the sink to minimize blood oozing out the cardboard box. Additionally, he had taken the precaution of lining the bottom with Augustin’s silk shirt.

  Piper grimaced. “I never stopped to consider how much energy it took to clean up after a murder. Almost takes all the fun out of it. Is that a core competency? Because if it’s not, maybe we should outsource it.”

  Piper’s nervousness getting the better of him, he was babbling. “Speaking of… Pretty soon there won’t be assassins anymore so much as niche players. Killers who prefer guns, killers who prefer poisons, those old school guys who prefer a sword. The age of the generalist is over.”

  “Try and not be such a prisoner of your own theories,” Cliff said, depositing Ainsley’s head in the box after shaking it off in the sink. He was starting in on the hands, presumably to eliminate chances of identifying them off their fingerprints.

  “What do you two need me for?” Iona said. “You sound like you’ve been married for the last ten years.”

  “I think you just answered your own question.” Cliff sighed loudly as he forced the garrote past the wrist bones to sever Augustin’s left hand.

  Piper, made nervous by the loud noise, put his ear up to the door.

  Afraid the garrote was taking too much time, Cliff dropped it in the sink, and reached for a sixteen inch dagger he had sheathed between his shoulder blades.

  Piper sighed. “You brought a concealed weapon to an art museum?”

  “The ceramic blade is for any occasion calling for a metal detector.”

  Cliff cut off the other three hands in seconds.

  “I still stand by my age-of-specialists-over-generalists theory,” Piper said, eying the samurai sword.

  With the last of the body parts in the box, Cliff sealed the contents by tucking the corners of the flaps.

  Piper took his hands away from Iona’s eyes, and quickly had to cover her mouth with them to stifle the scream. “Sorry, should have warned you that was a rude awakening.” He regarded the two headless, armless bodies. “Just so you don’t think us elitist, we didn’t kill them for being shallow, self-serving pigs. Live and let live, I say. This was a crime of necessity.”

  Piper regarded the seriocomic image of Cliff holding the box in his hands in full view of the bodies. “Aren’t they going to question three high society types walking to the door carrying a cardboard box between them?”

  “Only until they hear the screaming in the bathroom,” Cliff said. “Then those questions are going to pale before much bigger ones.” He thrust his hands at Piper. “You carry the box, I’ll escort Iona. She’ll be less likely to scream knowing I can snap her neck a lot faster than you can.”

  “You two need to work on how to pick up girls,” Iona said.

  Cliff squeezed her upper arm. “Be glad you’ll be around to give us tips.”

  “That veiled threat was entirely uncalled for,” Iona said. She winced at the pressure he was applying to her upper arm. Cliff nodded for Piper to pull up the rear behind him.

  Things went pretty much as Cliff had predicted, with all eyes going to them as they sauntered towards the exit, until someone heard a scream in the bathroom. And then they were suddenly all but invisible in the melee.

  FOURTEEN

  Cliff listened to Piper and Iona moan and carry on upstairs, as they had for the last hour. “Yeah, yeah. Go at it any longer and I’d say you have something to prove.”

  He listened as the couple repeatedly fell off the bed. Between the thuds on the floor and the house shaking from all the hammering of bodies against the wall… “I guess they left so the remodelers could have a chance to work,” he mumbled.

  Shouting louder for their benefit, “Hey, make sure you put in a bigger window, will ya? And I’d like a Jacuzzi tub while you’re at it. That walk-in shower barely has room for me to scratch my own ass.”

  Not able to stand it anymore, he threw down the copy of Vogue.

  He picked up the Architectural Record magazine and flipped through it before throwing it back on the coffee table. “This profiling stuff sucks. She’s definitely into fine living and styling.” Glancing around the room for the umpteenth time, he noticed the interior décor beat anything in the magazine. “But what does that mean?”

  The Bullmastiff barked at him. “What, was that the answer?” Silence. “Or you’ve been asking yourself the same question?” The dog barked in the affirmative, a little too on cue; it was unnerving. “You’re a strange dog, Sasha, you know that? Your eyes, and that expression on your face; it’s too human for a dog, too smart.” The dog yapped twice in a row, seeming to indicate agreement.

  ***

  Sasha flashed on her recent past. She had been an unwitting subject of Hartman’s experiments to expand his own mind. When he grew frustrated with his efforts and poured his secret elixir down a drain, it emptied into the yard, where she and the other dogs had unrestricted access to it. As was true with the rest of the Bulmastiffs roaming Hartman’s estate, it wasn’t too long before her brain was far too big for her dog’s body. Following Hartman’s disappearing act, what’s more, the dogs had little choice but to make their own way in the world. Thor, their pack leader, gave the order for them to flee, and to this day, remained in psychic communication with them. Albeit his communiqués were few and far between.

  After fleeing the Hartman estate, she had stowed away on a container vessel docked at Oakland’s harbor. There were dog fights aboard ship; just how the decadent captain and his crew passed the time crossing one ocean after another. Sash
a figured she was taking liberties with Thor’s instructions to lie low, but she didn’t see as it mattered into exactly what corner of the dog-fighting underworld she crawled. So long as she remained off-radar.

  When the ship landed in England, her psychic Geiger counter started red-lining. Iona nearly broke the needle from some miles away. She was plotting her next jewel heist. Her mind was racing along so many tracks at once, Sasha thought maybe she was a nut case, locked in some sanitarium.

  But Sasha couldn’t resist her urges any more than the rest of her pack to “marry up” in order to stretch herself. Maybe she was keyed to Iona, furthermore, for reasons that would remain unclear to her for some time. Maybe that’s why she popped out at her in a sky full of bright lights, all Renaissance figures pushing their creativity thresholds as part of their fight or flight response to a crashed global economy.

  Sasha just let Iona find her in her villa one morning, when she returned home from a heist. She was drop-dead tired, and couldn’t argue the benefit of this dog waiting on her hand and foot, anticipating her every need. Sasha brought Iona her laptop. Brought her a battery-powered footbath to soak her feet. Dragged her gently into the bathtub and ran the water for her, adjusted the Jacuzzi thrusters just so. When Sasha took care of her own needs, as well, without burdening Iona, her fierce independence seemed like poor reason to look the gift horse in the mouth.

  It wasn’t long before the détente period of mutual distrust, stemming from the mysterious appearance of a genetically-enhanced super-dog, faded into genuine affection and codependence. After all, unbeknownst to Cliff and Piper, Iona had many dealings with scientific masterminds, anyone of whom might have procured this dog as a gift to her in hopes of wooing her.

  ***

  Cliff ran his hands over the plush leather sofa. “I want to get up, but I can’t seem to pry myself away from this thing.” He looked heavenward at the latest evidence of sexual bravado upstairs. Their boisterous activity was vibrating the building in waves. He went to the window to see if someone was taking a jack-hammer to the street. Finally, on the third coincidental vibration; he decided an earthquake and its aftershocks were lending them more cachet than they deserved. “Settle yourself down, Cliff; it’s just an earthquake.” He found his way back to the couch. “Just an earthquake is all it is,” he said in a raised voice. He returned to caressing the sofa. “I suppose this is the poor man’s substitute.” Sasha barked agreement and climbed on the couch, settling into the same sensuality of soft leather against her skin.

  A few minutes later, he had a decision to make: let their amorous sounds drive him out of his mind, or out of the house.

  Cliff stepped on to the veranda where he could view the rest of the villas pouring down the hillsides like stone waterfalls. “Rich people! How do they stand themselves?” The Bullmastiff, which had followed him onto the patio, etched the number 10 into the floor of the veranda with one of the nails on her right paw, and barked at him. “Ten million. That’s right. I guess we’re pretty rich now, too. But it’s a little too early on to call me a hypocrite.”

  He eyed Sasha, pondering her unnerving ability to get inside his head. “You’re no ordinary dog, are you?” She yapped. “Some kind of science experiment?” The dog barked ardently. “I’ll be damned.” He gazed up to the next floor at the latest flurry of sex sounds. “Their passion is clearly driving me out of my mind. They have me talking to dogs, and worse, I think they’re talking back to me.”

  He shouted upstairs for Piper’s benefit. “You wait until it’s my turn, pal. Payback’s a bitch!” The sounds of sexual ecstasy continued unabated. “So he’s not easily intimidated,” he mumbled to himself, exasperated. “I suppose that’s why I like him.”

  Cliff, about to step back inside, saw the telescope, camouflaged by one of Iona’s sexy body-stockings which had been thrown over it, a yoga outfit maybe. As he undraped the telescope, he sniffed the article of clothing.

  He moved the telescope around without adjusting its setting. He had a pretty sharp focus into a lot of terraced houses on the opposite hillside. “So, what does this mean? She’s a peeping Tom? She’s researching her next boyfriend from the list of eligible bachelors?” So far he’d found a few candidates that fit either theory: handsome, clearly polished, rich men, who didn’t mind hanging out half-naked on their verandas. They perched like eagles eager to swoop down off their patios and prey on whatever rodent human beings deigned to climb up the hills uninvited.

  And that thought triggered his latest theory.

  “There are different kinds of predators, Cliff.” He fondled the body stocking in his free hand. “A thief? If so, you suddenly got a lot more interesting.” He returned his eyes to the terraces to see which one came into focus sharper than the others. It was one with valuable paintings on the wall; at least he assumed they were valuable; he was no art critic. “An art thief, maybe. Sounds appropriately feminine. Hate to think she was a car thief.” He confirmed the cars in range of the scope weren’t as sharply in focus as the artwork.

  “I suppose that comment was sexist, but I’m a traditionalist. I like women to cook, clean, and steal high end art that goes well with the throw rug, and spares my hard earned money.” The dog growled. “Sorry you don’t agree.”

  He noticed the Bullmastiff played particularly close attention to him as he explored the multi-level houses spanning the hillside in three and four stories. Growing despondent with the spectacular view of villas from the telescope, he let the eye piece fall to below eye level. “Well, which do you think it is? Peeping Tom? A woman who does her homework before stepping out with a guy? Or a thief?” Sasha barked at option three. “Yeah, I like that answer best, too. That would at least excuse all her high living. Just a cover. I’d hate to think she was attached to all this wealth, and I’d fallen for a material girl in a material world.”

  He heard Iona and Piper padding downstairs. “At last. Surprised they can still walk.” He stepped back inside.

  The twosome strolled up to the bar to hydrate with a couple Rum Collins, using the vanilla rum. “Alcohol dehydrates you, I hope you know,” Cliff explained. “Likely finish you off as hard as you two have been going at it.”

  “We’re pretty hydrated from lapping up each other’s sweat,” Piper said. They demonstrated for him, licking the perspiration off one another’s neck and shoulders.

  “Ha-ha,” Cliff said. “I see you’re both as psychically linked to this dog as it is to me.” The Bullmastiff licked the sweat falling from the amorous couple on the floor, then lapped at their sweaty calves.

  Piper poured a drink for him and Iona; they downed it. “Suppose you need a come down after that natural high, huh?” Cliff said. “Something to take the edge off.”

  “Your profiling is getting better,” Piper said.

  “Speaking of… So tell me, Iona, how long have you been an art thief?”

  Iona slowly sipped her drink to buy herself time, and debated her answer.

  “Relax.” Piper massaged her shoulder.

  “What’s she hesitating for?” Cliff asked.

  Piper explained, “She doesn’t trust the serendipity that brought us into her life. Believing if it’s too good to be true, it probably isn’t.”

  “I’m a big fan of freaky coincidences.” Cliff pulled at the dog’s neck folds. “How Piper and I met. I’m telling ya, when it’s meant to be, the universe finds a way to materialize your dreams for you. Of course, you have to be willing to go with the flow. Put up much of a fight with distrust, suspicion, fear, whatever else, and the magnetism fades, and you’re back to spinning your wheels in the mud.”

  Iona snorted a laugh that appeared like both casual dismissal of his equally casual philosophizing, and defense mechanism, meant to throw him off the scent. She went back to sipping her drink and biding her time, and figuring out how to handle the two high functioning men.

  “Now what’s got her goat?” Cliff said.

  “She’s not used to guys she can’t
wrap around her fingers,” Piper said.

  Iona lowered her eyes to make her harder to read, feeling a little too unmasked, Cliff thought.

  “She goes for the high IQ types,” Piper explained, “using her high EQ to play them better than a safe cracker plays a tumbler. But we seem to be both high IQ and high EQ.”

  “Some part of her must have felt a need to take her game to the next level,” Cliff remarked. “Like I said, the universe, the instant you shift your intent, reacts just as quickly.”

  “I agree.” Piper rubbed that knot in her shoulders again. “I guess that makes our SQ pretty high too. Spiritual Quotient,” he explained, winking at her.

  Iona finished her drink. “I’m not just an art thief.” She set the martini glass down. “It’s a convenient way to pay for my other hobby.”

  “And what’s that?” Cliff grabbed a fistful of the dog’s loose skin and squeezed.

  “Don’t tell us,” Piper said. “I want us to figure it out. You can talk about being an art thief, though.”

  ***

  Iona appeared to be weighing how much to tell him and Cliff, probably figuring this could all come out later, be used against her. For all she knew, they were a couple undercover cops, and that whole bathroom scene had been staged; faked murders to rule out the cop angle. Cliff was right; Piper did feel psychically dialed into her, seeing straight into her mind. Cliff, too, and the dog, for that matter.

  It was as if a psychic field generator was magnifying their interconnectedness. Maybe the house had been built on intersecting energy lines running through the Earth the way energy lines ran through the human body that acupuncturists tapped for healing. He’d read of such things. He’d even seen documentaries alleging the military used them to chase after UFOs.