Epitaphs (Echoes Book 2)

by Knite, Therin

  “Your attempts to trick me into dating you are not as subtle as you think, Lance.”

  He feigns offense. “Adem, how could you accuse me of being so devious?”

  “Well, you are the purported Master of the Love Craft. Not a stretch to think you’d also be the master of seduc—”

  Lance punches me in the arm, his cheeks reddening. “One more word, and I’ll break your nose.”

  The strike team men are now staring at us, eyebrows scrunched.

  I throw them a wide, white-toothed slasher smile and rub my arm. “Oh, you’re no fun. Go play your latest RPG and leave me to my boring research, will you?”

  He huffs and tugs his Ocom from a coat pocket. “Fine.”

  Holding the papers close to my face to ensure the strike team men can’t read the stray words on the curling edges, I review the primary information from the cases that could buy Briggs the time he needs to save his sinking ship. Right off the bat, I know why three highly trained teams of IBI agents had issues solving the double-hit: they picked up no biological evidence for any viable suspects, and the worse of the two crimes, a homicide, took place in an abandoned warehouse. There were no security cameras within a half-mile radius, and the killer (or killers) was smart enough (or calm enough) to avoid attracting street cam attention when they fled.

  What the IBI did discover is that the victim was one Andrew Stiegel, a college junior at the University of Baltimore. Computational engineering major. Top grades. Bright future. Already had a job with Chamberlain Corporation lined up a year in advance. Stiegel was a kid who was going places, who’d pushed all the right buttons at all the right times and had nothing left to do to win the rat race except lounge around in a dorm room for another year or so.

  He was shot four times in the chest inside that warehouse, sometime between midnight and two AM three weeks ago today. No gun was found at the scene, and though the model was determined from ballistics, the IBI’s weapons tracking system proved insufficient to locate it. It must’ve been a black market piece, produced illegally or swiped from a valid dealer and then modified to be untraceable.

  Stiegel’s family and friends and professors and even dorm-mate acquaintances were questioned, but none of them could reveal any reason why Stiegel would have been at that warehouse the night he was killed. According to his calendar, he planned to stay in that night and study for an upcoming exam in his most rigorous course. So how did he end up fifty miles south in a bird-shit-filled warehouse, four holes in his torso?

  The IBI teams couldn’t find the answer, despite retracing Stiegel’s every move over the past six months. There was nothing in the smart boy’s recorded life that indicated he was anything other than what he appeared to be. So either someone targeted him for reasons he had no hand in, or he was even smarter than his grades suggested—smart enough to be scarily skilled at hiding a second, dirty life beneath his squeaky clean exterior.

  My bet is on the latter, thanks to the second case, the one Briggs believes is related to Stiegel’s murder.

  I agree with him.

  The second case was a robbery. One I heard about on the news, in fact, a few weeks back.

  Two days after Stiegel was killed, a group of unknown thieves broke into the Washington Museum of Old World Art and stole fourteen priceless paintings by various artists. They were quick and efficient and ruthless. The security system was hit with a virus that disabled it in two minutes and kept it dead long enough to create a surveillance blackout zone in the wing of the museum where the paintings were on display. The security guards, all twelve of them, were gassed and woke up hours later with no helpful memories. The thieves knew exactly which paintings they were after and exactly how to bust open the steel and thick glass cases to retrieve them.

  They were in and out in fifteen minutes. And they have yet to be caught.

  The most successful art heist of the twenty-eighth century, the media is calling it.

  But how in the world is that related to Stiegel?

  Well…

  Stiegel’s body was found with one other major piece of evidence, this lodged inside his coat pocket and not his abdominal cavity—a pamphlet. One of those three-column foldout pamphlets organizations print for special events. The event in question happened to be a gala at the Washington Museum of Old World Art, a gala that featured all fourteen of the paintings that were stolen forty-eight hours after Stiegel was killed.

  And the icing on the cake?

  The gala paintings were pictured in that pamphlet, and all the paintings that would be stolen not long after Stiegel’s demise were circled on his pamphlet in thick black ink.

  He knew about the heist. He may have helped plan it. And someone, for some reason, decided to snuff him out before the grand robbery went off without a hitch.

  Who? and Why?

  Those are the remaining quest—

  Lance flicks the side of my face. “Yo, Adem. Snap out of your trance. We’re at DuPont’s house.”

  And those questions will have to wait.

  * * *

  DuPont’s family consists of a middle-aged consultant mother, a physicist step-father, an estranged older brother who plays guitar for a neo-grunge band, and, for some reason, Chelsea Lang, who’s sitting on an ottoman across from the relative trio when our group shuffles into the living room. It’s bright and airy, no curtains for the wide picture window, and the fleeting winter sun that beams through the glass illuminates several shades of grief.

  The mother is a mess, eyes red, sobs stifled, a crushed tissue in one hand. The father is either cold as a rock or he didn’t know DuPont well—there’s a picture on DuPont’s mantel that claims another father was in his life until his teen years—but the man comforts his partner as well as he can with limited resources. He’s sad for her, not the boy she lost.

  The brother is trying his hardest to keep a straight face, but there are tears hanging on his eyelids, and he wrings his hands so hard his skin turns lily white, like he thinks enough physical pain will render the emotional onslaught obsolete.

  And finally, there’s Lang, more collected than she was in the woods after our wreck of a chase but still quiet, subdued, and fidgety, teeth worrying her lips. A mixture of anxiety and sorrow fights for dominance of her expression, and I get the sense she’s here for a dual purpose. There’s something to mourn (her friend) and something to hide (a secret she’s afraid DuPont’s family may spill).

  As we all take our seats, or, in the case of Murrough, remain standing, I nudge Chai’s arm and quickly nod toward Lang without looking her way. Chai throws me a thumbs up to show she understands my direction, and the two of us sit side by side on a loveseat next to the throne-sized chair Dynara chooses. Murrough comes to a halt behind that chair, his elbows perched on the back frame. And Lance, left to his own devices, plops himself down on the only remaining seat in the room: a piano stool in a dusty corner.

  For half a minute, the room sits in silence, DuPont’s family waiting for another round of emotional blows, and then Dynara says, “Ms. DuPont, Mr. DuPont, Mr. Brighton, I’m very sorry for your loss, and—“

  Ms. DuPont spouts out, “Have you found the man who killed him? That monster! Has he been caught? Is he in jail—?”

  Dynara raises her hand, palm aimed at the mother, and the woman quiets at the sight of the warning glare on the agent’s face. Even people who’ve never met Dynara know she means much more business than the usual fed with a badge and high-level security clearance. She exudes an atmosphere of command, a tone of control, the scent of power, all wrapped up behind sharp green eyes that mask the hurricane inside. Ms. DuPont shudders when those eyes meet her own, and she bites her lip to keep her questions contained.

  “Ms. DuPont,” Dynara starts again, “I assure you that we’re doing all in our power to bring the person responsible for your son’s death to justice. In fact, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to ask you some questions regarding your son’s activities over the past year, to see if we
can establish any strange patterns or otherwise odd behavior that may have cropped up in his life recently. Anything and everything you can offer us will help us fill in the gaps in our investigation, and the more information we have to go on, the more likely it is we will find the killer and prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law. Do you understand?”

  Ms. DuPont nods.

  Mr. Brighton nods with her, his hand slipping into his partner’s and squeezing gently.

  The brother raises his hand, like he’s in a high school classroom.

  Dynara’s twitchy left eyebrow rises. “Yes, Mr. DuPont?”

  “Question,” the young man says. “What do you mean by ‘strange patterns’ exactly?”

  Dynara’s eyes start to roll right out of their sockets, but she catches herself and fake coughs, alerting Chai, who answers, “Anything you found concerning. Anything you thought was strange for Mark to involve himself in, no matter how he justified his participation. Anything you considered an inappropriate use of his time that he, for some unknown reason, defended. Anything that might have indicated he wasn’t always where he said he was going to be, or anything that might have indicated he was engaging in uncouth activities. Anything that comes to mind you’re tempted to label abnormal in regards to Mark’s personality or past behaviors.”

  The brother, who, judging by the patch on the front of his band vest, goes by ‘Newt,’ mutters, “Oh. That’ll be a short list. Mark never stepped out of line. No drugs, no petty crimes, no relationship drama. He was about as straight and narrow as a guy could possibly be. You don’t think he got into anything, like, illegal, do you? Because that was definitely not Mark’s deal.”

  No, but I bet it’s yours, I say in my head and not out loud to this man about thirty who has all the telltale signs of popping ecstasy at least once a day. Out loud, I reply, “We have no reason to suspect that Mark was involved in any untoward activities at this time. Our concern is that, through some recent change or occurrence in his life, he came into contact with an individual who sought to harm him. Was there any significant event or change in Mark’s life recently? That you know of?”

  The family members exchange glances, and Chelsea Lang, on her ottoman, perks up at my question. “Oh, I don’t think so—”

  “Ms. Lang, I’m so glad you decided to join us today.” Chai butts into the college girl’s words the way a pickpocket slips fingers into purses and bags. “After reading over that lovely statement you gave me, I realized I had a few additional questions for you. Can we talk alone in the next room, please?”

  Lang’s face drops from anxiety to outright fear. “Oh, I…sure?”

  Chai claps twice. “Fantastic. Come on, then. Let’s leave these fine folks to talk amongst themselves, and we’ll clear my questions up.” Her hand beckons for Lang to stand, and when those nimble brown fingers wrap around the girl’s arm, the jig is up. Any interference Lang hoped to throw into this interview goes out the picture window and onto the snow-covered street below. Chai all but drags the college girl out of the room and into an adjoining den. The last I hear of Lang is a startled squeak, followed by Chai’s hushed warning, inaudible to the DuPont family: “You shut up now, you hear? You interfere again, and I’m taking you in. With handcuffs and a walk of shame and charges for obstructing justice. Understand?”

  I don’t need to see Lang’s face to know she understands very well.

  “What was that about?” Brighton asks, staring at the doorway to the den. “Is Chelsea in trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Dynara says in a way that implies Chelsea might as well be dust in the wind for all the fucks she gives to the girl’s wellbeing. “No one’s in trouble quite yet, Mr. Brighton. That is, after all, the issue. We need to find the killer responsible for Mark’s death, and the sooner we do, the sooner you all can start on the road to acceptance and recovery. No one’s going to sleep well, including me, as long as that murderer is free, no?”

  Ms. DuPont sniffles. “By the old gods, how could something like this happen to my boy?”

  Brighton shakes his head and wraps one arm around his partner. “Agents, I can tell you with some certainty that there was nothing in Mark’s life that set off any alarms for us. Nothing we were aware of. Nothing he talked about. None of his calls or messages indicated anything was amiss in his life—though he did seem a bit stressed about his senior honors project. But that was all. I swear to you—”

  “What about the grant competition thing?” mutters Newt as he picks a strip of something green from between two teeth. “The one you told me about at dinner back in July? You made it sound pretty important, Mom.”

  The DuPont parents go rigid, the way cornered animals do when they’re seconds from being eaten, as if tensing up will send a signal to your brain to render you stone, too tough to chew. Brighton casts the coldest look his chilly exterior can produce at the family’s apparently dull-witted black sheep. Or perhaps the smartest one of them all.

  Newton DuPont hides a satisfied grin beneath the hand he uses to exhibit his poor hygiene. He knew damn well before this conversation started what he was allowed and forbidden to speak about. Feigning stupidity is his favorite way to break the rules. I’d bet all the money in my budding retirement account that Newt is every bit as smart as his younger brother was, if not more so. But where Mark was bent on using his brain to fulfill societal expectations, Newt chose the other path, subverting every last one. Including his family’s.

  If it wasn’t for his obvious lack of cleanliness, I’d offer to shake his hand. As it is, I send him a nod of respect and then home in on the parents. “A grant competition? What sort of grant competition?”

  “Oh, well, we…” Brighton stumbles over his words. “We’re not supposed to…”

  “Tell?” Dynara crosses her legs, interlocks her fingers, and begins to crack her knuckles, one at a time. “Well, honey, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re not city cops or those gullible chumps at the IBI. People don’t keep secrets from EDPA, and those who try…well, I’ll let the ominous atmosphere burning its way through your sensitive skin conjure up all the nasty images for you.”

  Ms. DuPont and Brighton both swallow, the former’s mourning tears a memory. Newt, on the other hand, leans toward the looming lion known as Dynara Chamberlain, interested in the gory underbelly of the story surrounding his brother’s death. Murrough grunts and flexes his biceps, an almost invisible motion, but his bulk, combined with Dynara’s widening serial killer smile, sets the parents into panic mode. Both of them throw up their hands, waving us off like they actually believe we’re wild beasts about to pounce.

  (Well, not Lance. He’s twiddling his thumbs in the corner.)

  I make a throaty noise to peel their attention away from the god of war and the general looming darkly behind her throne. “Ms. DuPont, Mr. Brighton,” I say, “I don’t mean to sound threatening in any way, but I feel the need to point out that it would be in your best interest to spill everything you know about that grant competition. Otherwise, your stay in Washington might become unpleasant.”

  Ms. DuPont shivers. “It’s already unpleasant. My son is dead.”

  “Ma’am, I hate to have to say this”—I raise my own hands in a mollifying manner—“but that is not even remotely unpleasant in the face of what will come if you try to lie to a federal agency like EDPA.”

  * * *

  The strike team extracts Sally Castile from a spa in Richmond City, where she thought she was hiding off the radar from government mooks and men in black. But there is no off the radar to Castile’s grade of criminal. A couple of cab rides, a hair dye job, and a scarf won’t save you from a thick hood, a covert van, and the ire of a team of well-muscled bruisers miffed about the rush-hour drive between the district capital and its lesser sister city.

  So at four thirty-six, the elevator at the end of the interrogation hall dings, echoing off the walls, and the doors retract to reveal May, two guards, and Castile, who’s wearing nothin
g but a pair of unbuttoned pants and a white undershirt. Her formerly green hair, now a poisonous orange, sticks to her face in damp hunks, sweat from the heat of the bag still beading on her skin. May marches her past where I loiter, back against the wall, and into the room with the one-way mirror where Dynara is waiting to attack.

  Castile swears when the door swings open wide enough to reveal the room’s other occupant: Anderson, who’s so red in the face he looks like a plum squeezed half to death by Murrough’s meaty fist. There’s a welt above his left temple where he made the mistake of trying to flee when the Security Captain and crew showed up at his home to collect him an hour ago. I wasn’t present, but one of May’s men told me Murrough clotheslined the fool, flipped him three-sixty so hard and fast he walloped his head against a concrete lawn ornament. A garden gnome.

  May all but shoves Castile into the chair next to Anderson, then backtracks from the room, slamming the door closed behind her. “Next time I got to go a hundred miles south to pick up a suspect kicking back at a spa, I’m going to stun her ass to high hell.”

  Chai, standing in front of the room’s window with a mug of cocoa in her hand, says, “She talk?”

  “Oh, yeah. Cursing and spitting like a snake on steroids.” May unbuttons her winter coat. “So help me the old gods, I almost beat her senseless. If the Commissioner makes me do anything with that woman again, I’m going to start with a shovel to the back of her fat head.”

  “I sure hope you mean Castile’s head.” I thumb through a news feed on my Ocom and glance at the message counter in the corner. None. Jin hasn’t messaged me in sixteen hours. Which either means he’s stilled curled up on his couch, nursing a brutal hangover, or he’s started his holiday dinner prep with a brooding pouty face and stubborn resolve to suppress his severe embarrassment over last night’s barroom disaster. “You hit Dynara with a feather duster, and you’ll probably end up in a ditch somewhere.”