Ascendant- a Mira Raiden Adventure

by Sean Ellis

  DiLorenzo turned to his partner, resignation overcoming his earlier rage. “She’s right, Jeff. We’re investigating the wrong crime. We should be trying to figure out why someone wanted to whack the doc.”

  Winslow was taken aback. “Okay, smart guy. Where do we start?”

  DiLorenzo turned and went to the door. Mira’s back was visible as she approached the stairwell leading to the ground floor of the precinct, but he reckoned she could still hear him if he spoke loud enough. “Jen, could you please have a sector car drive Miss Raiden to her hotel. It’s the least we can do after inconveniencing her.”

  “A car?” blustered Winslow. “What, are we running a damn taxi service?”

  DiLorenzo shrugged. “If the politicians like her so much, I’m sure they won’t mind our using city vehicles to shuttle her around town.” He tried to sound sarcastic, but a part of him that he couldn’t deny felt something for the tough but nonetheless beautiful woman walking on bloodied feet down the stairs of the precinct station house. And he wished he could do more.

  He turned to his partner and tried to put a conspiratorial spin on his act of mercy. “Whoever killed Aimes was after that thing in the exhibit, too. Mira Raiden seems to be the resident expert on it, and whoever did this knows it. I also have a feeling that she won’t just let it go. In fact, my gut tells me that if we stay on her, she’ll go right to the heart of whatever is going on.”

  As if by some psychic premonition, the concierge was waiting for Mira with a pair of complimentary hotel issue shower slippers the moment she stepped through the doors into the spacious lobby of the Park Lane Helmsley Hotel. On the surface it seemed like a thoughtful gesture, but the slippers made little or no difference to her bare feet on the carpeted floor, not after walking on the abrasive concrete sidewalks. She suspected that the offer of the footwear had more to do with protecting the hotel carpets than any concern for her personal comfort. She pushed through to the row of elevators without exchanging a word.

  Somehow she maintained her unflagging exterior until, at long last, the door of her suite was closed and locked. Only then did she stagger toward the freshly made bed and collapse.

  She lay there for a long time, hoping for sleep to steal over her, but her mind would not turn off. In spite of a fatigue that seemed to reach to her very bones, she was jittery.

  Rising from the bed, she dragged herself into the bathroom and started drawing a bath in the Jacuzzi tub. She turned the hot tap until the water temperature was almost unbearable, then let the tub fill up. It seemed to take forever for the water level to rise above the movable jet nozzles, at which point she activated a timed switch on the wall to turn the bath into a frothing cauldron. Finally, at long last, she took hold of the dress and pulled it over her head. She broke into uncontrollable laughter when the fabric tore apart in her hands.

  “Well, I guess you served your purpose.” She tossed the ruined garment in the wastebasket, and slipped out of her black bikini briefs and dropped them in as well.

  Leaving a folded towel on the floor beside the Jacuzzi, she took a tentative step into the nearly scalding water. The sudden flash of pain was an almost welcome contrast to the numbing ache that had settled into her muscles. She eased herself down onto the edge of the tub then slipped her weary body into the frothing water. Extending a toe from beneath the surface, she turned off the flow from the spigot. It only took a moment for her body to adjust to the temperature. Almost immediately, she could feel the tension and soreness seep away. She stretched beneath the raging water, leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  In spite of the fact that she had chased down Aimes’ killer and co-conspirators, she knew that her part in the drama, which had begun with the assassination, was far from over. She remained certain that the killers had been after the Trinity and was not entirely ameliorated by DiLorenzo’s assurance that the artifact was secure. She would have to check it out for herself.

  She found her contemplation suddenly sidetracked by the thought of the detective. She thought him an inflexible bureaucrat who probably cared more about getting a conviction than seeing that justice was served. Nevertheless, something in his intense dark eyes had appealed to her on a level that she rarely visited. Perhaps it was simply animal magnetism or the mythic lure of the Italian Romeo. DiLorenzo was by no means unattractive. She found herself wondering if her attempts to bait him had not been a subconscious attempt at flirtation.

  With a shake of her head, she thrust the detective’s face from her thoughts and forced herself to concentrate on the mystery behind the attack at the museum.

  The helicopter was a clue that would surely leave a trail, as were the automatic weapons. Getting access to such hardware was far different than stealing a car or buying a Saturday night special in a back alley or a pawnshop. However, DiLorenzo would surely pursue such obvious leads.

  She chuckled at how quickly he had returned to her thoughts.

  “Why kill Aimes?” she said aloud, without opening her eyes. Maybe the sound of her own voice would help her concentrate.

  Why indeed had the mercenaries targeted her old friend? Aimes had not been merely a target of opportunity. What had he done or known that warrented his assasination? Therein lay the key to unriddling the conspiracy.

  Mira shifted under the surging foam, trying to redirect the massaging action of the Jacuzzi jets to other aching muscles. Already she was feeling better, restlessness being replaced by relaxation. She stretched again, welcoming the heat into her pores.

  She realized suddenly that her assumption about the Trinity was in no way founded. The timing of the attack on Aimes might have been a coincidence; perhaps the elderly researcher had racked up a gambling debt to some shady underworld figure. She quickly frowned at that idea. The complexity of the assassins’ scheme did not support such a mundane scenario, though upon closer examination it was difficult to conceive of any plot that would require such a wanton display of force.

  Aimes was the key. She could not escape that conclusion.

  The bath worked wonders. She raised up enough to pour some liquid soap onto a loofah and commenced scrubbing away the blood and sweat of her ordeal. When she was done, she felt alive and refreshed, but at the same time, ready to surrender to the need for sleep.

  On an impulse, she twisted beneath the still frothing surface of the bath, pressed her body close to the massaging jets of water, and shifted until they were positioned in just the right place. Then, as the pulsating water worked its magic, she closed her eyes again and let her thoughts drift.

  Not surprisingly, Michelangelo DiLorenzo found his way into her daydream, and this time she did not send him away.

  Three hours later, Mira stepped out of the elevator and crossed the lobby of the hotel. The concierge stepped forward, offering to call for a cab, but she dismissed him with a shake of her head.

  She now bore little resemblance to the woman that had trudged through the foyer earlier, or to the person that had left the hotel room the night before. Despite the autumn chill, she wore a pair of tan cargo shorts, turned up once into a cuff on either thigh, along with a short tank top of clingy, powder blue fabric that didn’t quite reach her belt. When she walked, the hem of the garment exposed her midriff. Except for the well-worn Dr. Martens boots, tied with bright red laces, she looked like somebody on her way to the park for a jog.

  She quickened her pace on the sidewalk, more out of impatience than urgency. Despite, or perhaps because of their long relationship, the impact of Aimes’ death had not really sunk in at an emotional level, but the prospect of shedding light on his murder and protecting the Trinity filled her with a sense of purpose. She was in a hurry to get started, and as she strode toward her destination, the last vestiges of lingering tension in her limbs melted away.

  She hiked north on Central Park West, the golden leaves of deciduous trees in the park a constant companion on her right, counter-pointing the pervasive odors of rubbish, urine and automobile exhaust that marked
the experience as singularly urban. Adding to the sensory feast was a cacophony of honking car horns from the paralyzed flow of traffic that started at 59th Street and stretched all the way to the museum.

  As she drew closer to the source of the problem, Mira found that pedestrian traffic was also bunching up. Crowds of idle spectators had gathered around the barricades that cordoned off the sidewalk and grounds of the museum. Numerous police cars and other emergency vehicles were haphazardly parked on both sides of the street, along with a small army of vans bearing the logos of different network affiliates and satellite news services.

  Mira pushed through the throng, ignoring the murmurs of recognition. She soon found herself at the front of the gathering, facing the same impediment as everyone else: a series of blue and white wooden barricades presided over by a row of unblinking New York City police officers.

  An annoyed frown touched her lips. The prevailing circus atmosphere had caught her off guard and she was irritated by the delay. As she turned her head from side to side, looking for some member of the museum staff to recognize her and sanction her presence, a soft voice reached out from directly in front of her.

  “Ms. Raiden?”

  She turned to find one of the police officers gesturing to her, and she removed her sunglasses to make eye contact.

  “Are you here on official business, ma’am?”

  She grinned ruefully at being called “ma’am.” “You could say that.”

  He nodded and waved her forward, pushing one of the barriers aside to permit her passage. “We thought you might put in an appearance. Detective DiLorenzo requested that you not kill anybody.”

  She arched an eyebrow as she passed the young man in uniform. “Then would you be so kind as to let the detective know that he is a smart ass?”

  “That’s common knowledge,” replied the officer with a chuckle. “I guess I don’t need to tell you to watch your step in there.”

  She thanked him and proceeded up the concrete steps to the familiar entrance into the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial. A swarm of activity that began on the steps carried over into the museum itself. Functionaries scurried about like drones, giving the perception of accomplishing something, though what exactly that was remained a mystery to Mira. She passed them by and headed for the stairs.

  It was there that she began to see the aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. Bullet gouges in the floor and walls of the hallway and on the steps themselves had not yet begun to be repaired. She saw workmen carrying debris away, bringing in replacement panes of glass and working in nearly every part of the museum. A pang of guilt at having contributed to the ruin made her want to put her sunglasses back on.

  The mock-up of the Atlantean king’s tomb seemed to be the focus for all the activity. As soon as she entered, a bookish middle-aged man rushed over to greet her.

  “Oh, goodness. Miss Raiden, it’s so good to see you. What a nightmare this has been.”

  His name was Jonathan Overby, the museum’s liaison to Aimes, and evidently a closer friend to the octogenarian than she had realized. Mira was moved by his obvious grief. She shook his proffered hand. “Jonathan, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Overby pressed his hands to his chest, as if overcome with emotion. It was a decidedly feminine gesture. “He was like a father to me. And he loved this project.”

  Something about the way he used the word “father” struck her. Throughout her childhood she had entertained fantasies of just such a relationship, but Aimes had never deigned to let her into his life. Even though Aimes had always been there, she knew next to nothing about him as a person. “Did Walter have any family?”

  Overby nodded, grateful for a listening ear. “A daughter, Rachel. The police are trying to track her down.”

  The knowledge stung her at a deep emotional level, but she filed the information away, focusing on the matter that had drawn her to the museum. “What is the status of the exhibit?”

  Overby seemed to brighten at the opportunity to perform his sole function. “Well, the museum is a shambles, and that, of course, includes the exhibit. However, if the police would stop getting in our way, we’d be able to have things up and running in a matter of days.”

  “What about the Trinity?”

  “Safe and sound. It has a dozen different security measures: infrared, thermal and motion sensors; pressure triggers; lasers; multiple cameras. No one got near it. We know how important it is, Miss Raiden. You made sure of that.”

  “May I see it?”

  “Certainly. This way.”

  She followed him onto the dais where the Trinity altar was situated. Though the artifact had been at the forefront of her thoughts for several weeks in anticipation of the exhibit, she had not actually seen it in its display during that time. Neither had she had the chance to get a good look at it in situ the previous night.

  The designer of the altar had incorporated the security system into the presentation, and though the setting wasn’t strictly authentic, the end result was fascinating. Suspended in a magnetic levitation field above an array of blinking laser lights was the ultimate artifact of the Atlantean civilization: the Trinity.

  The Trinity’s six-sided crystal was no longer white, but rather a dull gray, its perfection marred by a fracture that bisected it from one corner to another. Mira involuntarily recalled the moment she had fired a bullet into it, putting an end to Marquand Atlas’ second attempt to usurp the throne of Atlantis, and his misbegotten existence as well. Cracking the crystal had silenced the relic’s display of supernatural energy, but the net effect to the power of the Trinity was anybody’s guess. That uncertainty had been at the heart of her argument to keep it out of public view. What if there were other men like Atlas out there who knew how to awaken it yet again?

  Yet despite her concerns, despite the fact that there had been a direct and violent attack against the museum, centering on the exhibit, the Trinity seemed to be, as Overby had stated, safe and secure. And yet, her intuition told her that something was not quite right about the tableau.

  “Can you open the case?”

  “Open? I, ah, well . . . yes, I can. But why do you want me to?”

  She unleashed the full potency of her smile. “Humor me.”

  Overby walked around to the other side of the altar and fumbled with one of the stones until it popped open on recessed hinges. Underneath was a numeric keypad. He entered a sequence of ten digits, then waited for tone indicating that the system was deactivated. Another button raised the transparent cover. A whoosh of air indicated that the interior of the case had been sealed in a vacuum.

  She tentatively reached for the artifact, seizing it out of the magnetic field with a gentle tug. The repelling forces caused it to twist in her grasp as if it were alive, and for just a moment she was afraid that might be the case.

  Overby watched without comment as she felt it carefully with her fingertips and held it up to the light for a close visual inspection. Her face was unreadable, creased with a deliberate frown of intensity. She paid careful attention to the damaged crystal where her bullet had struck the essential blow to end Atlas’ mad apotheosis. Then, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, she handed the relic to Overby without a word and turned away.

  He hurriedly replaced the Trinity in the magnetic field, then reactivated the complex security systems. When the final beep signaled that all the measures were armed, he raced after her.

  He caught her as she was beginning her descent of the stairs. “What did I tell you? Nothing at all is amiss with the Trinity.”

  “Nothing at all,” Mira echoed, without looking or slowing. “I don’t think you’ll have anything more to worry about.”

  Overby had to yell to reach her with his voice. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the Trinity in that case is a forgery.”

  THREE

  The noise of the city did not decrease with twilight or the subsequent fall of evening. Yet, at the onset of her third night in
Manhattan, Mira had already begun to tune out the din. She filtered through the racket, straining for the sounds that might signal the approach of an unwelcome visitor, and glanced down at the alley below to verify the message her ears—and her intuition—were receiving, namely that her activities continued to go unnoticed, then swung her attention back to the matter at hand.

  She looped in several yards of the woven kernmantle climbing rope so that the end of the line would not be visible to anyone walking along below where she now dangled. The climb had been fairly easy, but the specter of imminent discovery by a passerby had haunted her from the moment she lofted the lightweight grappling hook over the parapet above.

  She tied a loose figure-eight knot around the excess coil of rope and, with her feet planted against the brick exterior of the building, gripped the framework of steel bars that blocked access to the fourth story window of Walter Aimes’ apartment. The bars were spotted with rust, but otherwise solid. She didn’t think she would be able to bend them apart with the carbon-steel pry bar tucked in her climbing harness like a dagger. However, where the steel was joined to the brick, screwed in with thick bolts of similarly hardened metal, there was a chink in the building’s armor. The metal may have been impervious to her assault, but the masonry in which it was embedded was old and brittle.

  She slipped the pry bar under the cage-like gate near the lower left-hand corner, gripping it with hands protected by black leather fingerless gloves, and pushed with her legs for maximum leverage. The screw, along with a fastening bolt at the other end, exploded out of the brick, leaving a hole about an inch in diameter. The operation had not exactly been silent, but the noise was no louder than a distant car backfiring.