by Keri Arthur
She ignored the minister and added, “The kite might yet come after you and Lloyd and anyone else involved in those projects. We’d like to prevent that, and would appreciate the military’s cooperation.”
“The military takes care of its own, Agent Ryan.” He tilted his head a little, his gaze intensifying, as if he were trying to see into her head and her memories without actually using his psi skills. Or maybe he was simply recalling the past and juxtaposing his memories of a flame-haired child against the woman who now stood in front of him. Comparing the two and drawing God knows what conclusions. “And my involvement in those projects was in the area of training, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”
A chill prickled across her skin. His words were an indication that his comparison had drawn the obvious conclusion. But for now, it was one she had to let ride.
“General, getting information out of the military is harder than getting blood out of the proverbial stone. So no, I have no awareness of either your or General Lloyd’s position in Hopeworth.”
“I would be surprised if that was the truth, Agent Ryan.” He glanced at Wetherton. “If you wish to discuss the funding matter any further, please call.”
Wetherton nodded, his expression still a mix of confusion, irritation and concern. And Sam had every intention of finding out why.
Blaine met her gaze again, gave her a remote smile that sent another bout of chills down her spine, then turned and walked out the door.
She didn’t relax, and she didn’t move. Not until she heard the soft ding of the elevator button and then the electronic hum of machinery as the elevator moved down.
“Would you care to explain what the hell was going on between you and General Blaine, Agent Ryan?”
“I’m afraid that would involve revealing details of an ongoing case, Minister, so no, I can’t discuss it.”
He grunted, his expression suggesting he was far from happy.
“Well, come into my office and I’ll give you my schedule for the next few weeks.” Then he spun on his heel and stalked back into the office. She followed him in. It was a huge expanse, filled with the latest chrome-and-glass furniture and plush leather sofas. The minister was a man with expensive tastes, obviously. His office was situated in one corner of the building, so two of the walls were all glass. The view over the city and the bay would have been truly amazing—a vista of fading sunlight, sparkling lights and blue-gray ocean—if not for the rain still sleeting down.
Wetherton stalked over to his desk and picked up a folder. “My schedule. You’ll notice I have several important meetings at various restaurants in the evenings. During these events, you will keep an eye on proceedings from a distance.”
Which was standard procedure, but she wasn’t about to point that out. What it did mean was that she might need to place a bug on Wetherton himself. He obviously had secrets he didn’t want her to overhear. She stopped in front of the desk and accepted the folder. “Why was the general here?”
“As you probably heard, he was here to discuss military funding.”
“Did he ask anything else? Or mention anything else?”
Wetherton sat down on his plush chair and frowned. “What he and I discussed is really of no importance to you. You’re my bodyguard, nothing more.”
Despite his arrogant tone, she gave him her politest smile—even if all she wanted to do was smack his dumb ass. But since she’d probably have to work with this man for several months, she knew she’d better play nice. At least for a little while.
“And as your bodyguard, I have the right to question you about certain people. General Blaine was with you last night, and yet he shows no obvious sign of injury. I think that’s a little odd, don’t you?”
Wetherton’s frown deepened. “Not really. All it means is that he wasn’t injured in the attack.”
She picked up the newspaper lying on his desk and threw it across to him. “So you’re telling me that photo—the one that shows blood pouring from a wound on his head as he’s carrying you away from the car—is fake?”
Wetherton picked up the paper and studied it. “It might not be his blood.”
“Minister, I was there last night. I was one of the two people who helped save your ass. I know for a fact that the general was injured. So, I ask you again, what was the general doing here and what did you talk about?”
“I told you—just the military budget.” Wetherton threw down the paper. But despite the calm assurance in his voice, the hint of concern in his eyes was stronger. Which meant that maybe he recognized something had happened here this afternoon, even if he didn’t know what it was.
And did he not know because his memory had been erased? Blaine had been able to use his powers despite the deadeners, so that was more than likely.
“What time did he arrive this afternoon?”
“He had a five o’clock appointment.”
She glanced at her watch. “So, you discussed the military budget for just over an hour?”
“Yes.”
“And is that usual?”
Wetherton shrugged. “It all depends.”
On what? On how much information the general needed to siphon from him? Why could he not see that something was very wrong? Or could he see it and just wasn’t about to admit it to her? And if that was the case, why not admit it when she was the person being paid to protect him?
Nothing about this situation was making any sense—including her two vastly different reactions to a man she could remember seeing in her dreams but not in real life. Until now, that is.
She frowned and tried a slightly different tactic. “Why was Blaine in the car with you last night, anyway? Are you friends?”
Wetherton hesitated. “Not really. But my wife knows his wife, so we occasionally see each other during social events.”
“What is his wife’s name?”
“Anne Blaine.”
“I mean before she married him.”
He paused. “I think her surname was Grantham, or something like that. I’d have to ask my wife to be certain.”
Sam nodded. “Was his wife in the car last night?”
“No.” He hesitated, and she had a sudden feeling that he was searching for the “right” answer. Odd, to say the least—especially since she’d sensed no outright lies so far. Just avoidances. “He said she was ill, but they had the tickets and he didn’t want to waste them. He’d come by taxi, so I said we’d take him home. He doesn’t live that far from us.”
“You mean not far from your wife’s house and not your Collins Street apartment?”
“Yes.” He paused. “I’m afraid my wife wasn’t able to cope with the long hours I worked, nor did she like the constant media attention that came with being the partner of a politician.”
And wasn’t that a well-rehearsed excuse? “I’m sorry to hear that, Minister.” No sense in totally annoying him, as tempting as that might be. “So, getting back to my original question—why was the general here, talking to you about the military budget, when you’re the Minister for Science and Technology, not the Minister for Defense?”
“Easy. Certain military research allowances come out of the Science and Technology budget.”
“But why? Isn’t that why there’s a defense portfolio? To assign and control the military budget?”
“It’s the defense portfolio,” he said patiently, as if he’d answered this question a million times. Or as if he were talking to a simple child. “Therefore, it concentrates on defense items. Personnel, big hardware items, small hardware items, et cetera. The research section of the military is lumped in with my portfolio.”
Well, there you go; she’d learned something new. “Just one more thing, Minister, and I’ll let you get on with your work.”
“Good.”
“I need to do a sweep of your office, just to make sure there are no bugs or anything.”
“I can assure you, this office is swept regularly, and nothing has ever been found.”
/> “I’m sure it hasn’t, but it’s still part of my job to check.”
He muttered under his breath, then stood up. “I can go get a cup of coffee, I suppose.” He paused. “And the door will remain open.”
“Minister, if I wished to snoop through your paperwork or filing cabinets, I’d simply pick up the phone and get a court order.”
He grunted and walked out. Knowing she was in full view of the secretary, she began her check, searching quickly and efficiently. She didn’t find any bugs, but she did manage to place her own.
All she had to do now was sit back and hope it picked up some clue as to what the hell was going on with Wetherton—and what his true connection was to Blaine.
EIGHT
GABRIEL SHOWED HIS ID TO the black-clad police officer keeping watch and ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape. The rotating red and blue lights of the nearby police vehicles washed across the night, splashing color across the white-walled ten-story apartment block directly ahead. The building had million-dollar views over Albert Park Lake, which became part of the Grand Prix racetrack when Formula One was in town. Douglass might not have had much money in her accounts, but she did have this apartment. Maybe she owned others; it wouldn’t be the first time someone had invested in property rather than put up with the low interest from banks.
“There are three apartments on each floor. Douglass lives in 1003, which is the one with the lake view.” Illie was looking at his notebook more than where he was going, and Gabriel rather churlishly hoped he’d run into something. But the man seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to objects in his path and sidestepped each one at the last moment. And all without actually looking up. “The building has keypad number and thumbprint code security in place, and the system records all visitors.”
“You’ve checked the records for her apartment?” Gabriel flashed his badge at the officer standing at the heavily barred front door and nodded his thanks when the officer keyed the door open for them.
“Yes. No visitors recorded for the last forty-eight hours,” Illie said. “She left her apartment at five forty-five this morning and returned at two thirty this afternoon. She was alone both times.”
Another State Police officer stood at the elevator. Gabriel again showed his badge and asked, “Who’s the officer in charge up there?”
“Captain Marsdan.”
Who was the head of Sam’s squad when she’d been a State Police officer, and a man with no real liking for SIU interference. But he was an excellent cop and, despite his adverse opinion of the SIU, he was probably the reason they’d been called in so fast.
They made their way up in the elevator. Illie shoved his notebook in one pocket, then retrieved a small crime scene monitor from another.
Gabriel watched with mild amusement as Illie activated it, then tossed it into the air. It was always easy to tell raw recruits from those who had been with the bureau for years, simply because the newbies followed the rules to the letter. Those who had been around for a while recorded information only when there was actually something to record. And in cases like this one, there’d be a CSM in place anyway, so there was really no point in doubling up.
Black uniforms dominated the fifth floor, several interviewing neighbors and others guarding Douglass’s door. Gabriel flashed his badge yet again and stepped inside the apartment.
A spherical CSM hovered in the middle of the living room, red light flashing to indicate it was recording. It swung around as he entered. “ID, please.”
“Assistant Director Gabriel Stern, SIU, and Agent James Illie, SIU,” Gabriel said almost absently as he looked around.
Douglass might have made a ton of money, but aside from the location of her apartment, there was little to indicate wealth of any kind. In the living room there was only a small TV, a coffee table and a brown leather sofa that had seen better years. The pale gray walls were bare, and the claret-colored, heavily brocaded curtains had that aged, dusty look that only came after years of neglect.
“A woman of minimalist taste, isn’t she?” Illie commented. “Hard to imagine, given the image she’d presented at Pegasus.”
“Yeah, it is. Do you want to check out the rest of the apartment, see what you can find?”
Illie nodded, and Gabriel looked around as a balding man in his mid-forties came out of a doorway to his right. The captain himself. Surprise flickered briefly through Marsdan’s small brown eyes. “I didn’t think this case was big enough to bring out an assistant director.”
“It is when the case has links to an investigation already underway.” Gabriel walked across to the doorway Marsdan had exited through. It led into a bedroom—the place where Kathryn Douglass had met her death.
And it hadn’t been an easy one, if the evidence indicator tags were anything to go by. There were at least ten of them, but only five of those caught his immediate attention. They were spread across the room, each one joined by a trail of blood that was already beginning to dry and darken. They were an indication of where the body had lain. Kathryn Douglass had been torn apart.
His gaze rose. A warning had been painted—in what looked like blood—on the wall.
Do not revive Penumbra. Douglass was warned. She chose to ignore it.
Something inside him went cold. Penumbra—the project that seemed most likely to have produced Sam.
What the hell did Kathryn Douglass have to do with that project? She was far too old to be one of the children raised from those projects. And according to her records, she’d never been a part of the military, even if the foundation she controlled had deep military links.
So who was the warning aimed at? The military? The SIU? Or someone else entirely?
Someone like the mysterious, ever elusive Sethanon? But what did he have to do with someone like Kathryn Douglass?
Or was it, he thought, reading the message again, nothing to do with Penumbra itself, but rather Douglass—perhaps in partnership with the military—attempting to revive that project in some manner? Was that why only some files had been destroyed during the break-in at Pegasus?
And was it a coincidence that not only had a fire destroyed the Penumbra project, but whatever project Douglass might have been working on? Again, he seriously doubted it.
“Who reported the murder?” He walked over to the wall, carefully avoiding the outlines, blood trails and evidence markers.
“A neighbor. Apparently she heard screams and strange thumping.”
“Did she hear any voices? Or see anyone enter or leave?” Gabriel stopped and looked a little closer at the writing. It smelled like dried blood to his hawk-sharpened senses, and given the almost scraped effect of each letter, it appeared something other than fingers had been used as a writing tool. He’d guess rolled-up paper, or something like that. It certainly wasn’t the type of effect achieved with cloth, though there’d obviously been plenty of blood-soaked material lying about.
“The neighbor didn’t hear the elevator or any other voices, but these apartments have very good soundproofing,” Marsdan said. “The screams would have to have been extremely loud for the woman to have heard them at all.”
“How many minutes passed between the report and a squad car arriving?” Gabriel stepped back to take another overall look at the writing. The letters sloped to the left rather than the right, which was usually a good indication that the author was left-handed. Not that that meant anything in itself. A good percentage of the population was left-handed these days.
“The report came in at three fifteen. The squad car was here by three twenty-one.”
Gabriel looked around. “That’s fast work, Captain.”
“There was a car in the area.” Marsdan shrugged. “They saw no one coming out of the building, and after gaining access to the apartment via the building’s super and finding the body naked and in pieces, they immediately secured the main door.”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Naked?”
Marsdan nodded. “The bedding was
rumpled. We’ve already sent it to the lab to test for body fluids and DNA.”
Meaning Douglass might have known her attacker extremely well. “Is there a fire exit?”
“Yes, but it’s alarmed. No one has come in or out of it.”
“No broken windows or anything like that to indicate entry from the rooftop?”
“No, sir.”
Then how had the murderer gotten in or out? There had to be something here, some access point Marsdan and his men had missed. “What about the air-conditioning ducts or vents? Does the building share a single system, or does each apartment have separate air-conditioning units?”
“The second option, I’m afraid.” Marsdan paused. “And so far, the only prints we’ve picked up are the victim’s.”
“Not surprising. Whoever did this obviously had it well planned.” Gabriel paused, remembering what Douglass had said about bringing research home. “Has she got an office? Or a safe?”
Marsdan raised an eyebrow. “Both. The safe was open, but our murderer set fire to the contents rather than snatching them. We’ve asked Forensics to sift through the ashes and see if they can discover what the safe might have held.”
Gabriel suspected they wouldn’t find very much at all. He looked past Marsdan as Illie came to the door. “Yes?”
“I found something you might want to look at.”
“What, exactly?” Gabriel asked, as he and Marsdan followed Illie through the living room.
“This apartment has a guest bathroom as well as a regular bathroom. It’s little more than a toilet and washbasin, but it’s situated on an outside wall and has a small, wind-out window which I presume is meant to give ventilation.” Illie glanced over his shoulder. “The window was open.”
“Big enough for someone to get in?”
“Someone? No. Something? Yes.”
Illie stopped in the doorway and Gabriel stepped past him. As his partner had stated, the room contained nothing more than a toilet and a basin. The soap sitting on the edge of the small metal basin was old and cracked, suggesting this room hadn’t been used in quite a while, though the toilet itself was spotless. The window above it was roughly two feet in diameter, which was certainly big enough for someone to crawl through if they weren’t so high up. With the winder in place, though, the amount of space the window could open was severely restricted. Windows and winders could be broken, of course, but this one was still intact. And right now, it was open only a couple of inches.
