“Will do.” Ella glances and Liam and me. “You two come with me. Prelim teams only did a general safety sweep, so we’ll have to rip the place apart top to bottom. It’s a pretty big house, three floors, but I don’t want us to split up. There may have not been any dangerous magic at Jameson’s, but if Slate was involved in some kind of underground supernatural business, there could be wards and other magic traps in here. We’ll sweep together. Starting with the attic and working our way down. Clear?”
Liam and I nod.
“Good.” Ella opens her door. “Let’s get going.”
“Wait,” Amy blurts out, “what the fuck is that?” She points to the end of the street, where something is blowing snow into the air. But it’s not a plow.
I lean forward. “Holy crap. Aren’t those…?”
News vans. A massive horde of news vans churning snow six feet high as they charge toward Slate’s townhouse in a race to get the best position.
Ella slams her hand on the steering wheel. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Somebody spilled the beans about Slate to the media?”
“Ella,” Amy stammers out, “I think we better hurry inside.”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding toward my own door, “that sounds like a good plan to me.”
We make a run for it.
And fail. Miserably.
When we’re halfway to the front steps of the townhouse, the first two vans screech to a halt beside each other, one of them dangerously close to ramming the bumper of Slate’s Lexus. The sliding doors fly open, and two competing news teams leap out of their vehicles. They swarm around us like mosquitos, with microphones raised and cameras bobbing along behind them. A dozen questions smack us in the face in five seconds flat, and before we have a chance to rebuff a single one, the rest of the news crews arrive—all ten of them—and we’re surrounded. Cut off from Slate’s steps by several hulking cameramen.
We can’t move.
At least not without hurting anyone…
“Sir, are there any leads in the murder investigation?” a woman probes.
“Ma’am, how did Mayor Slate die?” a man all but screams.
“What was the motive for the murders? Was it related to Satanic practices?” another man bellows.
“Why aren’t the police here? Why has Mayor Burbank allowed DSI first access?” a tall lady whines.
“Why—?”
“What—?”
“Who—?”
“Where—?”
“When—?”
Ella slowly opens her mouth, trying to formulate a response to this circus. And then it happens:
One reporter makes the mistake of sideswiping Amy with a mic. The fuse lights. Amy’s face turns tomato red. She gives the reporter two seconds to back off, but the man doesn’t react to her venomous glare. So she tactfully rips the microphone out of his hand and heaves it all the way across the street. It dings off the side of a public trashcan and disappears into the snow bank beneath.
The male reporter gawks at Amy, and a hush falls over the crowd.
“Hey,” a nearby woman says, “there’s no need to get violent!”
“Excuse me?” Amy barks. “What do you call this shit you people are husking? Tranquility?”
The woman’s eyes widen, and she backs away. I don’t blame her. I’d back away too if I wasn’t pressed up against the exterior of Slate’s house, with several pointy brick bits biting into my skin.
Ella, flustered by Amy’s outburst—we’re on TV, and it’s probably live, and this is not the kind of publicity DSI wants—raises her hands in a calming gesture and opens her mouth once again to try and get a handle on the situation. But then the man who lost his mic crosses his arms and steps even closer to Amy, challenging her. Which is a huge mistake. Because despite her short stature, Amy can definitely break every bone in his body and is more than willing to render the man a floppy skin bag full of mush on the sidewalk.
Amy Sugawara fought terrorists for several years. (And a pissed-off djinni, at least once.)
This reporter guy is literally thirty seconds from permanent disability.
Ella finally speaks. “Sir, please step away from my teammate. We are on an official—”
“That’s exactly the problem,” says the same woman who backed away from Amy’s ire. “Why are you on this investigation? What gives you Kooks the right to—?”
A siren screeches across the street, silencing everyone. The reporters all whip around to find the source of the noise, but I’m pretty sure I spot it first: an old Crown Vic with incognito police lights installed in the cab. They’re flashing now, red and blue, reflecting off the fluttering snowflakes in the air. The kaleidoscope effect is almost blinding, but I peel my eyes and keep watching as the driver’s side door creaks open and a man in a trench coat emerges from the car. The siren cuts out as the man closes the car door behind him and makes his way across the snow-covered asphalt.
When he nears the reporters, he pulls a wallet from his coat pocket and flips it open, revealing a badge. He’s an Aurora PD detective.
“I don’t know what you all think you’re doing,” the detective says in a loud, harsh voice, “but you have no right whatsoever to harass the detectives assigned to a murder case, or to deny them entry to a crime scene.” He shoots a glare at the cameramen blocking the front steps of the townhouse. “I don’t care how much you want a juicy story out of this—clear the way and let these nice DSI agents inside. If you continue to harass them, for a second longer, so help me god, I will arrest every single one of you, live, on television, for all your families to see. Understood?”
The reporters look from the detective to us and back again. And slowly but surely, they clear the sidewalk in front of Slate’s townhouse. Not the sort of people to look a gift horse in the mouth, Amy, Ella, Liam, and I quickly regroup and hurry up the steps to the front door. Ella produces a key, which must have been on Slate’s body, and unlocks the house. One by one, we slip inside the foyer. Except for Amy, who lingers on the top step.
She glances at Ella. “I still need to check the car.”
Slate’s Lexus sits surrounded by news vans, dirty snow now sprayed against its sides.
Ella, holding the door, bites her lip. “You could do it later.”
“They”—she pointedly glares at the reporters—“might contaminate the scene. I’ll be quick.”
Ella sighs. “Please don’t beat up anyone.”
“Don’t worry, sister.” She starts back down the steps toward the muted onlookers. “I’ve got Mr. Hero Cop for crowd control.”
“Who is that anyway?” Ella mutters. “You recognize him?”
“Nope. Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Ella looks like she really wants to grab Amy and drag her inside. But she refrains. “Just…hurry up and don’t kill anybody.”
Amy chuckles and replies, “Funny. My therapist tells me that all the time.”
Chapter Nine
A moment later, the door is closed behind us—Ella, Liam and me—and we’re beating the snow off our boots in Slate’s toasty warm foyer. Finally free from the media madness, we take in the sight of the grand little house around us.
A sprawling mansion it is not, but Arthur Slate sure did have expensive taste. The ceilings are high, sporting crystal chandeliers, soft yellow light caressing the rooms. Oil paintings adorn the walls, in the hallway, in the living room, in the small study, a few of which I think may be original works. Black and white photographs, framed, vintage, fill up the large gaps between the paintings. Snapshots of old Americana, small town and country life. And finally, in what spaces remain—watches and clocks.
So many watches and clocks.
I’ve never seen this many watches and clocks in one place in my life.
They all look antique. Faces trimmed in gold and silver. Leather bands. Crystal detailing. Ornate black hands moving in sync as the seconds tick by. There are even a few polished wooden pieces in the mix, cuckoo clocks threatening to r
elease a bird on the hour, every hour. In the far corner of the living room stands a half-finished grandfather clock, the wood still light and fresh from carving. A few large cogs and a pendulum are sitting in a nearby armchair, waiting for their maker to come home and finish assembling them into his latest masterpiece.
They’ll be waiting for a long time, I guess, until the beneficiaries in Slate’s will swing by to pack them up…or throw them away.
Ella, still trying to shake off the shock of our confrontation outside, says, “Man, I knew the guy made watches and stuff, but this is a bit ridiculous. Even in retirement, how on earth did he find the time to make all of these?” She bends closer to a little round clock with a gold flower detail hanging on the wall above a side table. “This is incredible work for a new hobbyist. Do you think he got into this stuff before he retired from politics?”
I shrug. “Maybe so. Could have been dabbling in his office, in between vetoing bills and making public parade appearances.”
Ella snorts. “Too right. He was a character, wasn’t he?”
“To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to him until he lost his last election. I was just a teenager back then, so…”
“Of course.” She smacks her cheek playfully. “I forget you’re so young sometimes, Cal. And you, too, Liam.”
Liam snaps to attention, having been staring off into space for the past couple minutes. “Yes, ma’am?”
Ella shakes her head. “Okay, boys. Enough dilly-dallying. Up the stairs we go.”
For the next thirty minutes, we scour the attic and top floor of Slate’s house for any clues that might relate to his death. But our discoveries are…less than helpful. Liam finds a particularly angry bat that chases him out of the attic and nearly sends him tumbling down the ladder to a broken neck. Ella bumps into a box of Christmas decorations while trying to pop the top on a bin labeled IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS, and brightly colored holiday cheer rains down on her with a vengeance. And I trip over a loose board on my way into a guest room and ram my head into the door so hard it leaves a noticeable swollen knob right above my temple.
Yeah, Mayor Slate’s house is a whole bucket of fun.
After being thoroughly dominated by the upper levels of the house, we groan our way back down to the second floor, where Slate’s office and bedroom are located, along with a modest home theater.
Amy meets us at the landing. “Find anything good?”
“Nothing yet,” Ella replies. “How’d it go on your end?”
Amy grins. “Well enough.”
Oh, I can’t wait to watch the news tonight.
Our group now complete, Ella guides us to the aforementioned office.
It’s like something straight out of a movie set. Solid oak furniture. Bookshelves lining three walls. A massive picture window overlooking Slate’s fenced-in back yard, heavy gold and red curtains framing the view. An expensive carpet that matches the curtains stretching across the hardwood floor. A reading nook with an antique-looking armchair, a small table, and a tall lamp. And, of course, a desk fit for a British politician.
The desk is twice the length of Riker’s and significantly more organized. There’s an inbox-outbox tray on the left end, papers neatly stacked in each one. A fancy Apple desktop with a huge screen sits perfectly aligned in the center, with a MacBook Air lying closed nearby. An hourglass paperweight rests atop a manila folder, from which the edges of some white papers peek out. And finally, behind the desk, pushed in neatly in front of the desktop computer, is a large, genuine leather office chair.
Slate may have not been a mayor anymore, but he certainly didn’t lose his sense of political grandeur during his unfortunately short-lived retirement.
After we all finish gawking at the room, Ella clears her throat and says, “Let’s get back to work, guys. There are a lot of books in here, and plenty of places to hide sensitive material. So this could take a while.” She points a finger at the desktop computer. “Amy, why don’t you take a crack at that and see if you can get into Slate’s files? If it’s password protected and we can’t get in, then we’ll take it back to HQ with us and have the IT guys pry it open. Liam and Cal, start searching the books for any suspicious texts—also, make sure you check behind and underneath each book. I’ll start sorting through the crap in Slate’s desk. Okay?”
All three of us nod at our de facto leader and start our assigned work.
For twenty minutes, we find no clues. I flip through sixty-eight books, looking for any texts with supernatural subjects, but find nothing except tax codes, accounting lessons, and thirteen dictionaries, all in English. Liam, my partner in the book search, sighs from the other end of the room, as he pulls out yet another encyclopedia volume that should have been trashed thirty years ago. Meanwhile, Ella is on her knees, sifting through what appears to be a junk drawer in Slate’s desk, while Amy is furiously flipping through a stack of used sticky notes she found somewhere, presumably trying to find Slate’s computer password.
Then, Ella’s phone rings, disturbing the quiet of the room. She tugs it off her belt, checks the screen, and answers, “Dean here. What do you need?” Someone I can’t hear responds. “What?” Ella springs up and marches around the desk, to the picture window. “Are you sure?” A pause. “Damn. Okay. I’ll be down there with help in a minute. Just hold them off.” The call ends, and she jams the phone back into its belt clip.
Amy looks up from her sticky notes. “Problem?”
“Reporters climbing the fence, trying to get into the yard. Don’t have enough manpower patrolling down there. Because we didn’t think the press would be joining us for this excursion.”
“Should we call for backup?” I suggest.
“No.” Ella waves her hand dismissively. “They won’t get here fast enough. I’ll go down myself. And take Liam with me.” She doesn’t say she picks Liam over me because the poor guy is clearly bored out of his mind, but that’s the impression I get from the half-smile she tosses my way when Liam perks up like a dog offered a new toy.
“We’ll be back in a few,” she adds. “You two finish up in here. If you don’t find anything, move on to the bedroom.”
“Got it,” Amy and I say in unison.
Ella heads for the door, Liam trailing behind her. But before she crosses the threshold, she pauses and says, “And for god’s sake, be careful.” Then she’s gone.
I shove my latest book back on the shelf and mutter, “Why do I feel like that was directed at me?”
“Asks the man who fell into a pool of blood earlier today,” Amy retorts.
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“So you say.” She flips through the last few sticky notes. “But really, Kinsey, are you surprised that—Ah ha!” She tosses the whole pile of notes onto the desk, except for the second-to-last one. Scribbled across the small yellow sheet is a single word with a few numbers on the end. “This must be it!”
I maneuver around the desk to watch her type in the phrase, and sure enough, it’s the correct password. The login screen is replaced by a desktop background filled with three dozen blue folders. They all have incomprehensible names, seemingly random combos of numbers and letters. The dock at the bottom of the screen has only a handful of apps in it, notably MS Word, Google Chrome, iTunes, Calendar, and some program with a plain black box as its icon. When Amy mouses over the box, the label that appears above it is a series of four question marks.
“Well, that’s not suspicious,” I mumble.
“Nope,” she replies. “Not at all.”
“I wonder if it’s rigged to self-destruct or something. Maybe if you click on the wrong thing…”
“It’ll activate a virus that wipes the hard drive?”
“Yeah. And that black box looks a tad menacing too.”
“I agree.” She drags the mouse cursor to Google Chrome. “He’s still got his browser open from the last time he logged in. You think it’s safe to bring it up?”
I mull over our options. “If we u
nplug the computer and take it back to HQ, we’ll lose the current browser session, so…”
“You’re right.” She throws me a smirk. “And if the computer explodes, I can always blame you.”
Before I can get another word in, she clicks on the Chrome icon. The window pops out of hidden mode and fills the screen. For a moment, we wait, tense and half cringing, sure the computer will activate some kind of countdown sequence to blow itself up, or some virus will black out the screen with a huge skull-and-crossbones motif. But when nothing concerning happens after five seconds or so, we lean toward the screen again and check out the tabs that Slate had open before he left his home for the very last time.
Three of the tabs are standard news sites.
The other one is his email account.
Amy clicks over to the email tab without hesitation, bringing up Slate’s inbox. At first, we don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Bills. Coupons. Order confirmations. A few personal emails from distant relatives. But then, in the left-hand sidebar, where all the folders are displayed, I spot one with those same four question marks as its label. I point at it with my index finger, and Amy wordlessly navigates to it. When she clicks on it, all the regular emails disappear and are replaced with a set of archived emails that are about as far from normal as you can get without moseying on into the Eververse.
Amy clicks on the first one in the list. “What the…?”
The title of the email is written in a language I’ve never seen, using symbols that I honestly don’t think an Apple computer should be able to support. The body of the email is even worse, with the same symbols strangely distorted, out of alignment, overlapping one another. Even if I knew this alien language, I still wouldn’t be able to read this email. It’s almost like it’s…two layers of protection. Written in a strange language that most people wouldn’t know, and then encrypted again for extra security.
“Amy, the black box app.”
“A decryption program?”
“Must be.”
“Give me one second.” She clicks through the email client’s options until she finds the one to download the email as an HTML file. It appears in the downloads folder on the dock a second later. “Okay, here we go.” With a deep breath, Amy quickly taps on the black box app. We both recoil, just in case, but the computer doesn’t explode this time either. Instead, a window that resembles the Mac OS Terminal pops up, and the menu at the top of the screen is replaced with a single option: Open File.
Shade Chaser (City of Crows 2) Page 7
