Whatever Nick was into — whatever she was into — it wasn't good. But the fact that no one knew her — no one suspected her — gave her the clear advantage at the moment.
She had trusted Nick. She still trusted Nick. But the fact that she trusted him without question, and that he was clearly in possession of something that was never meant to be his, was probably the best reason to stay as far away from him as she could get for the moment.
She had to get to the bottom of this by herself.
Royal Crown...
It sounded so familiar. She closed her eyes to concentrate. Her mind flashed to the afternoon of Jenny Taylor's birthday as she fled Attila's Café after kissing Nick.
Nick.
She didn't want to think about Nick, or his irresistible kiss. She tried to push the memory away, but it continued, her mind trying to focus on what her eyes had taken in, but never seen — the building just across from her... the jewel-encrusted crown.
Royal Crown Securities.
She asked a couple walking their dog to point her in the direction of the trolley. She felt a certain sense of urgency but kept her pace leisurely. She was in no hurry to find out what was lying in wait behind locked doors.
When she eventually made it to the trolley, she rode for several circuits before finally disembarking in the financial district, and slowly pacing past Attila's Café and then to Royal Crown Securities.
She stood outside for a very long time, waiting for the calm, but for whatever reason, she was on her own. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. Or if she was dreaming, or crazy, or wide awake; none of the possibilities felt like a better option than the other. She tried to mimic the calm as best she could, as she pulled open the front door and went inside.
The lobby was spacious and marbled and cold.
"May I help you?" asked an approaching woman, with salt and pepper hair, in a smart brown business suit.
"I need to access a safe deposit box."
"Do you have an account number?"
"No." she tried not to sound disappointed, "I only have the keys."
"Right this way," smiled the woman, as though it were a perfectly normal occurrence to only have keys.
The woman escorted her through a set of heavy doors, down a wide hall and into a small room with barren walls, a lone table with a dark glass top sat in the center sided by practical chairs.
The woman closed the door behind them. She crossed to the table and ran her security badge across the top of it. After a moment, a drawer on the side of the table popped open.
"If you'll place your keys in the scanner," she motioned to the drawer, "we can verify the box number."
She placed the keys in the drawer. The woman shut the drawer and waited. Seconds later a green light illuminated the tabletop from within.
The woman placed her hand on the corner, flat against the top. A red beam of light scanned quickly over her hand.
It was a computer, she realized, disguised as a table.
The green illumination became a series of words.
Priority One-Seven
Steven A. Edwards
Richard R. Rubin
Notification: 14:28 PM 18-September
Seconds later, all but one name disappeared: Richard R. Rubin.
The drawer popped open, the woman pulled it out and held it between them.
She took the keys and re-pocketed them while the drawer was replaced.
"This way," the woman escorted her through the lobby and around to a bank of elevators.
The last set of doors on the left slid open and an older gentleman greeted her, "Good afternoon," he said, extending his hand to her. He was well dressed, and fit. What remained of his ginger blond hair was trimmed short. "Richard Rubin, Securities Director."
She took his hand. "Genevieve." The familiar calm washed over her as she said the name.
He dismissed the woman in the brown suit with a nod then motioned toward the elevator.
They rode in silence to the twenty-fifth floor, though as her awareness grew, it might as well have been a discourse in all things Richard. She tried to keep her focus on him, to keep her awareness close.
Richard Reese Rubin. Friends and family call him Rick. Colleagues, tended toward Rich, which he didn't care much for, having something to do with the fact that he was rich.
He was divorced, with three children, and an illegitimate grandchild on the way. He blamed his ex-wife's hatred of him on their daughter's wild ways.
It was an odd sort of logic, but he was sure about it.
He wondered if Judy had gotten a hold of David yet.
Blah, blah, blah... she tried to dig deeper, to get at some sort of relevant information.
How had she managed to get both keys? The guy who'd come in July only had one key... What was his name again? ...Nick – something or other, it reminded him of Thanksgiving... Grace, he remembered. Nicholas Grace.
It wasn't his place to pass judgment on who held the keys, but that didn't mean he didn't have his opinions. Obviously Xavier's key had been stolen by whoever had killed him.
Killed Lewis Xavier. Her breath caught in her throat.
He wondered what part Nicholas Grace had played in all of it. He was probably the one who pulled the trigger.
Nick couldn't have been involved in killing Xavier.
He looked like a hoodlum, but the fact that he drove a Porsche and spoke French, German, and Chinese, indicated he was much more dangerous than that. A professional.
But, Nick was just a researcher... And wait, Porsche? Nick's little black car is a Porsche?
Nicholas Grace – definitely not his real name.
Of course it was his real name... or maybe it was just a cover... like her name — names... she pushed the thought from her mind.
And what of her, this unassuming girl, who gave her name as Genevieve. Was she Genevieve Auberon, one of the accounts legitimate heirs, like David?
David? Could he mean David Xavier? Is that the David Marcus had been made reference to earlier?
Where was David? Surely he was on his way by now. And if this Grace character wasn't here, was it because he had sent her in his place, or was he dead?
Dead? What kind of people was this guy used to working with? And how could he just stand there and smile at her cheerily if he thought she was a murderer?
He escorted her to an office with his name on the door. "Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked. "Water, or juice?" Or maybe a scotch? I could use a scotch.
"No, thank you."
"Are you familiar with the terms of the account?"
"No."
He cleared his throat. "As per the terms, designated by the original proprietors of the account," Lewis Xavier, and Gerard Auberon, "the box in question was relocated, upon verification of death, before an official transfer of rights on the account."
Gerard Auberon. 'Genevieve, you have to concentrate,' the British accent, had said, the man she thought was Gerard.
"Both keys are still required to open the box that has now been secured at a new location, and other security measures, previously discussed with the original proprietors," bio-locks "have also been set in place, and are currently awaiting initial coding."
She couldn't quite make sense of the scatter of thoughts in his head concerning bio-locks. They excited him, this new technology that used DNA.
"Tell me about these other locks."
"Bio-locks," he smiled. "They're absolutely state-of-the-art. DNA encoded and Biometric. Each requiring its own specific DNA match taken from multiple points over a period of time, from a living source."
"Whose DNA?"
"They haven't been encoded yet. The locks are in place, locked, but can't be unlocked until they are first coded. Then they can be unlocked, which would require the DNA sources to be both alive and on site."
"How long will it take to encode the locks?"
"Twenty-four hours from the time we have the sample."
"Then
lets get started," she heard herself say.
Rick retrieved a small electronic device from his desk. "This is a print scanner," he informed. "In order to either verify your authorization or to create a new authorization. Just place your thumb here," he directed.
She was pretty sure how it was going to turn out. She'd been fingerprinted before. Quincy had taken a youth group on a trip to the Winner Police Department in order to give the group the low-down on why crime was bad... No one under the age of 13 was allowed to go — except her.
She placed her thumb on the scanner. After a few seconds it beeped, he put the scanner back on his desk, synced it with his computer, and waited. Then he picked up his phone, pressed one button, said his name into the phone and hung up. "We have your information, Ms. Auberon, a technician will be here momentarily to take your DNA sample."
Ms. Auberon. Odd that it didn't seem odd at all that he had called her that. Ms. Auberon.
Genevieve Auberon.
She took a breath, repressing the sense of overwhelm. She searched his thoughts for information about what was in the box, but he didn't know.
It wasn't his job to know. His job was to keep it secure, and collect sizable checks in return.
She couldn't imagine what could possibly be so important to be hidden away so securely. Something that was in some way connected to her, something so treasured that there were those willing to steal it, to kill for it, and even die for it.
It made her angry to think about it.
The technician arrived a few minutes later and introduced herself as Mari. She was short, less than five feet, with long dark hair, pulled tight into a ponytail at the back of her head.
Mari explained the process of gathering DNA, and then ran a cotton swab along the inside of Genevieve's cheek.
Mari Cho. She didn't trust Rick, she was sure that he was trying to manipulate poor Genevieve in some way, which had something to do with a promotion Mari had been passed over for. Once the client saw her, the job was hers, but the credit still went to the dick's in suits. Bastards. "Okay," Mari asked, "do you want to be left or right?"
"Who doesn't want to be right?" Genevieve smirked.
Mari laughed. "That's good, I like that." She wrote the word: RIGHT on Genevieve's sample.
Genevieve abhorred the fact that she was part of some ridiculous, probably generations-old controversy, that she knew nothing about. And now, because she was tired of not having a choice, she was throwing herself directly into the middle of the fray — still without any knowledge of what she was getting herself into, but right now, she was the one holding all the keys, and that had to be worth something.
Holding all the keys... all but one; someone else would have to be coded to the other bio-lock... but maybe there was a way that she could hold that key as well — say, if she were the only one who knew who the other lock was encoded to. "Mari," Genevieve said, just above a whisper.
Mari lifted her brow, surprised, and thrilled that Genevieve had remembered her name.
Genevieve turned back the cuff on Nick's hoodie, exposing the discoloration of blood. She wasn't sure how she was going to manage to communicate what she wanted, but as it turned out, she didn't have to.
"It's not yours?" Mari whispered.
Genevieve shook her head slightly.
Mari nodded, reached into her jacket pocket and retrieved a small pair of scissors. "It's actually a very fascinating process," Mari began to elaborate on the process of extracting and encoding DNA, while she discretely and carefully cut out the material stained with blood, placed it in a bag and labeled it: LEFT.
Rick sat at his desk, looking impatient.
"Thank you, Mari." Genevieve took her hand.
Mari nodded, "My pleasure." She retrieved a small pager from her pocket, and turned it on. "I can send you updates as often as hourly if you'd like or I can just notify you upon activation, whichever you prefer."
"Upon activation should be fine, I think."
Mari nodded again, and then left.
"One last thing," Genevieve crossed to Rick's desk. "I'll need the new location."
Rick was concerned about the fact that David had not arrived yet. He should have been here by now. He punched something up on his computer and a small machine on his desk spit out a plastic card, the size of a credit card. "This pass card will get you into the outer vault. The Box coordinates are printed on the card in UV ink." He flipped on a small lamp near the machine, and held the card under it. A series of numbers — coordinates — became visible under the light. He retrieved a pen from his desk, "This pen has a UV light in it." He removed the top of the pen to reveal the light, shining it briefly over the card before replacing the top of the pen and handing them both to her.
"Thank you for your help." She extended her hand.
He gripped her hand. "I'll see you out." He wondered if he would ever see David again, or Gerard, or if she would be returning as sole heir to the account, with some new person to authorize.
She pulled her awareness back; it was becoming easier to control. She slipped the pen and pass card into her pocket, pleased with herself for being a step ahead.
Chapter 27
Fate Is An Elegant, Cold-Hearted Whore
Time to return home and pretend that nothing had happened, that nothing had changed. Until Nick got home at least, and then she would finally get to the bottom of whatever all this was — whatever she was in.
She made long, deliberate, strides off the elevator and out the front door. It wasn't as unseasonably cold as it had been this morning; she took in a lung full of air as she pushed through the door.
"What the fuck!?" a voice boomed.
She turned, startled. "Paul? What are you doing here?"
But he didn't have time to answer—
The déjà vu was so strong she barely had time to react. Without thinking she reached for him, and pulled him to her with all her strength. A bullet hit the wall beside them, where he had been standing a mere fraction of a second earlier, The bullet spit fragments of wall back at them, that stung as they glanced off skin.
"Holy shit!" Paul yelled.
They turned together reaching toward the front door. Another shot shattered it before they reached it, Paul hesitated briefly, but Genevieve wasn't stopping. She pushed him through, and they stumbled into the lobby.
People inside Royal Crown were running about, yelling. A small team of armed security guards, streamed into the lobby from a corridor opposite the one she'd first entered.
Paul grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against the wall. "Okay, okay, okay," he muttered. "I have to think for a second." He wrapped his hand around hers and they walked at a brisk but steady pace, near the wall down the corridor she'd first been down and through a door marked 'MAINTENANCE' which led to a very long corridor. That ended with a large steel door.
"What are you doing here?" Paul demanded.
"I could ask you the same thing, Paul."
"Did Nick ask you to do this?"
She stopped and yanked his arm, forcing him to stop, just before they reached the door.
"Did you know what he was planning?"
"Uh, yeah." Paul shoved through the door, to a loading dock, in the parking garage. "You think it's just luck that I know where I'm going? I can't believe he dragged you into this. I've been shadowing the guy for two years now. I thought I knew him better." Paul pulled her towards the stairs.
"Shadowing? What are you, a spy?"
"Not exactly."
Just as they exited the stairs at the top of the second level a searing stab sliced across the left side of her chest and tore through her shoulder. She shrieked.
Paul, who was running beside her, yelled at the same moment.
"Jen!" Paul's voice was sharp, yet somehow distant. She felt herself falling, being pulled to the ground behind a nearby car and then—
Propelled by a sudden burst of anger she lurched forward, free from Paul's grip. The lights flickered above th
em. Paul was muttering and swearing indistinctly behind her. She ignored him.
Two men with guns were racing toward them.
She recognized them from the alley. These were the two that had lived. Sparks of electricity prickled her brain as her consciousness expanded. This was Paul. He was in pain, the bullet that had sliced through her had caught in his shoulder, but the adrenaline would keep him going. His thoughts were confusing to her. Somehow, in his mind he was holding her in his arms. She shifted her focus to the two in front of her.
"Time to die, Princess." This was Embry Farold, the man with white blond hair from the alleyway, who had been so upset when his lackey's had shot themselves.
The other was Shawn Weston. She wasn't going to get away from them this time.
These were the men who had killed Lewis Xavier.
They fired their weapons.
She felt the bullets zip past her left side, one just higher than the other. Chips of concrete spit back at them as the bullets hit the wall behind her.
Shawn wasn't sure how he'd missed her.
"What the fuck!?" Embry growled. He'd shot her; he knew he'd shot her. It had to be some kind of trick. "What are you playing at you half-breed scum?"
They fired again, and again, and again.
She felt the bullets zip by her, all of them smacking into the concrete behind her.
"What the hell?" Shawn knew he hadn't missed this time, his mind raced into overload. She's going to kill us. She's going to make us kill ourselves!
His will was weak, and it was hers now; she could feel it. "Defend me," she ordered.
"No!" Embry screamed as Shawn turned his weapon toward him. "What are you doing!?"
They both fired, but Embry was quicker. Shawn's bullet struck Embry low on the right side of his abdomen; but Embry's bullet hit Shawn directly in the face.
It was a rather odd thing to witness from Genevieve's point of view. Shawn's last thought – Lucy – as he fell to the ground, dead.
Embry clutched his side. "You fucking half-breed!" he growled at her.
Embry backed away, his gun still aimed at her as she stepped forward and took the gun out of Shawn's hand and pointed it at him. No more than 10 feet between them, Embry fired again. The bullet hit the car behind her.
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