by Dan Willis
There was a pause on the phone while the sorceress processed that information.
“How would this person know about that?”
“Trust me,” Alex said. “He knows. I think we may be looking for the wrong things.”
“If your contact is right, he might have significantly narrowed our search. The only reason to spend the money to murder Senator Young would be if the murderers needed him, and only him, out of the way.”
“It would have to be about something only he had control over,” Alex said.
“There are ninety-six Senators, Alex. What could Senator Young possibly have exclusive control over?”
“I’ll call Mrs. Young; maybe she’ll know. In the meantime, we need to keep searching. Can you call Detective Norton and pass this on?”
“He’s going to want to know where you got your information,” Sorsha said. “I want to know too.”
Alex chuckled and shook his head even though Sorsha couldn’t see him. There was no chance he would tell his FBI consultant girlfriend that he was working for the likes of Lucky Tony Casetti.
“Sorry, doll,” he said. “That’s confidential.”
“Don’t call me doll.”
She said it with a growl in her voice, but Alex could tell she was smiling.
He hung up and called Tiffany Young, but got no answer. Scooping his nickel out of the coin return, he dropped it back into the phone and gave the operator the number for Lieutenant MacReady.
“How did it go with Zelda Pritchard?” Alex asked when the police lieutenant came on the line.
“The only way she’s our thief is if she’s got a twin sister,” MacReady said.
“Her alibi’s tight?”
“Waterproof.”
Alex stifled a curse.
“There’s some good news though,” MacReady went on. “I looked into little miss debutante, and did you know there have been four robberies of museums and art galleries in cities where she’s been staying?”
“That’s mighty coincidental,” Alex said. “I hate coincidence.”
“Me too,” MacReady agreed. “I just don’t know what to make of it.”
Since Alex didn’t have anything helpful to add, he bid the Lieutenant good afternoon and hung up. He hadn’t exactly figured Zelda for the thief, but she might be the spotter for a gang, picking out the targets and casing the buildings ahead of time. Determined to find out, he fished another nickel out of his trouser pocket and dropped it in the coin slot.
“Hello, Alex,” Lyle Gundersen greeted him once Alex identified himself. “Have you had any luck with our case?”
Alex explained his fruitless conversation with MacReady.
“I could have told you that Miss Pritchard wasn’t involved,” Lyle said when Alex finished. “In fact, if I remember correctly, I did tell you. And I wouldn’t put too much stock in that bit about museum robberies occurring in cities where Zelda’s been. Criminals attempt to rob museums and galleries almost as often as they do banks.”
Alex hadn’t thought of that, but Lyle was the Smithsonian’s Deputy Curator, so he would know about such things. Despite that, Alex wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“I think we might still have a chance to catch your thief before he blows town,” Alex said.
“You think he hasn’t already left?” Lyle wondered. “I mean, he’s already got all the cards.”
“You know that,” Alex said conspiratorially, “and I know that, but our thief doesn’t know it. I want you to start calling around to your warehouses just like you did before, and ask them if they have more of the loom cards.”
“No one would believe that, Mr. Lockerby. We never split up pieces of an exhibit.”
Alex ground his teeth and thought fast.
“What if some of the cards had been damaged?” he asked. “Would you have sent them out to be repaired?”
“That’s done sometimes,” Lyle admitted after a pause. “But in this case, with so many cards and us only needing a few for the display, that wouldn’t have been done.”
“Again,” Alex said with exaggerated patience, “we are the only ones who know that.”
“I see,” Lyle said, catching on at last. “You want me to pretend that cards were sent out to be repaired and then not returned to the box with the others.”
“You call around, ask people to look for them…”
“And the thief has to stay close until they’re found,” Lyle finished. “Assuming he finds out.”
“He found out last time,” Alex pointed out.
“I see your point, but I don’t understand how this is going to help you catch the thief?”
Alex had a date with Zelda Pritchard tonight, to an opening at an art gallery. If she was the inside man for a gang of thieves, she’s press Alex for details of these new lost cards.
“For now, it just gives us time,” Alex said, not wanting to tip his hand.
There was a long pause on the line while Lyle thought Alex’s plan over.
“All right, Mr. Lockerby,” he said at last. “I’ll do as you ask.”
Alex thanked him and hung up. He decided he’d be very glad when his trip to the nation’s capital was over. It was early afternoon and he still had to check on Sherry, meet Lisa Baker for Sal’s second autopsy, and get back to his hotel in time to take a shower and go to the gallery opening with Zelda. Before he could do any of that, however, he’d need to ditch his mafioso babysitter. It used to be that his life would get in the way of his cases. Now it was his cases getting in the way of his other cases.
“I really need to get Mike trained up so he can start doing more of this,” he said to himself, then pushed the glass door to the phone booth open and headed out.
Benjamin Robertson exited the Senate office building and headed along the paved walk to the street. Ben was a young man, in his twenties, with a lean, athletic build, handsome features and dirty blonde hair. For the last three years, he’d served Senator Dixon of Maine as an aide. Dixon was a corrupt, pompous ass, which suited Ben just fine, since it made being the Senator’s aide an easy job.
As Ben reached the street, he had the outward appearance of a man without a care in the word, even stopping to light a cigarette before flagging down a taxi. In reality, it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking as he took a drag.
“You know the Forum?” he asked the cabbie once the Taxi pulled up.
“Sure,” the man said in an easy drawl. “The fancy club over in Georgetown.”
“That’s the one,” Ben said as he slid into the back seat.
Fifteen minutes later, the cabbie let Ben off in front of a simple brick building in the middle of a long row of businesses. The only thing that set it apart was a brass plaque at the top of the stoop with an engraving that read, The Forum.
Known as one of the most luxurious and exclusive private clubs in the city, The Forum had been around almost as long as the capital itself. Only the most elite of Washington’s power brokers were granted membership.
Well, them and Ben.
Digging into his pocket, Ben produced a heavy medallion made of brass. It had a book on one side with an eagle on the reverse and he handed it to the man at the door. A few moments later, the man handed the token back and pulled the door open.
“Enjoy your time with us,” he intoned.
Usually Ben loved to hear those words. Words that powerful men all over the city lusted to hear, but most never would. Today though, his mind was preoccupied with the news he bore.
The lobby of the Forum was sumptuous and elegant, done in dark woods and brass with Persian carpets on the floor. A stair ran up on the right side, leading to the upper floors, with a coat check to the left. Ben handed over his overcoat and headed through the central doors to the lounge.
Normally, this was where business took place. The Lounge at the Forum had been the scene of many a brokered deal or political maneuver. There were leather couches and overstuffed chairs scattered about, with bookshelves along
the walls and a great hearth at the back. It still being early, only a few of the club’s members were present, reading the paper or engaging each other in a game of chess.
Ben passed through without giving the room or its occupants any notice. At the end of a small hallway on the left side of the chamber, there was a small room with writing desks, stationary, and a few telephones. A full-length mirror hung on the wall, surrounded by a carved wooden frame, inviting members to check their appearance before reentering the lounge. It was the mirror that Ben sought so earnestly.
When he reached it, he took a small book from his jacket pocket and tore out a page with a simple rune on it. After taking a moment to fold it, Ben tucked it between the mirror and the carved frame, then touched it with his cigarette. The pass rune blazed to life in a burst of gold and green, then the mirror wavered, like rippling water, and disappeared.
In the space the mirror used to occupy was an opening that led to a stone hallway. Ben knew it was a vault, an extra-dimensional space created by a powerful runewright. One more powerful than he was, at any rate.
Stepping through the carved frame, Ben moved down the hall to the library. It was the main room of the vault, and spiraled up for several stories. Rows and rows of books on art, history, science, and most importantly, magic occupied the ever-present shelves. Several men were scattered throughout the space, each reading quietly. Again, Ben ignored them. He climbed the grand staircase up to the second floor and moved to a heavy oak door that had been polished until it shone. Being careful not to touch any part of the gleaming door, Ben lifted the knocker in its center and let it fall.
“Come,” a voice said after a moment.
Ben took a moment to make sure his tie was straight and his suit coat was buttoned, then he took hold of the door knob and pushed. Beyond was a cozy reading room, with a hearth at the back and comfortable chairs arranged around a low table in the center. Three men sat in the circle, each with a book in their laps.
“I bring you greetings, masters,” Ben said formally.
“Who are you?” the eldest asked. He was a man in his late sixties at least, with gray hair and a gray beard that hung down several inches from his chin. Ben knew him, of course; his was name was Rupert Simons, a Master in the Legion.
“Journeyman Robertson,” Ben said.
“You work at the Senate office building,” Master Torrence said. He was a heavyset man in his forties with bushy black eyebrows and a bald pate.
“That’s correct, Master,” Ben said.
“Since it is not yet the end of the workday,” said Master Morrow, the youngest of the men, “I assume your reason for coming is somewhat urgent. Please have a seat, Journeyman Robertson, and tell us what urgency concerns the Legion.”
“Thank you, Master,” Ben said, taking the first convenient seat. “I learned today that the D.C. Police are still investigating the death of Senator Young.”
Master Torrence scoffed, squeezing his book shut with a bang.
“The Police have no authority,” he said. “The case has been handed off to the FBI, and I’ve been informed by our man inside that they’ve already closed the books on the Senator.”
“I understand that, Master,” Ben said, being careful not to sound disrespectful, “but three people went through Senator Young’s papers last night after the Senate offices closed. One of them was a D.C. Policeman and, he was overheard saying that he had evidence that Senator Young was murdered.”
The three masters exchanged looks, and the room was still for a long moment.
“You said there were three people at the offices last night,” Master Morrow said. “Was he the only policeman? Who were the others?”
“I got this information from a source outside the Legion,” Ben said. “He said only one was a policeman. As for the others, there was a blonde woman, dressed fancy, and a man in an expensive suit who was some kind of detective.”
Master Morrow swore.
“A blonde woman with expensive clothes,” he said to the others, then shook his head. “That has to be the New York sorceress, Sorsha Kincaid.”
At that revelation, Master Simons leaned forward in his chair.
“The other man,” he asked Ben, “you heard he was a detective.”
When Ben nodded, the old man pressed on.
“A private detective?”
“I doubt it, Master,” Ben said. “No private detective could afford an expensive suit.”
Simons scoffed.
“This one can,” he growled.
“Something wrong, Rupert?” Master Morrow asked.
“Yes,” Simons said, setting his book aside. “You remember that operation in New York last year, with the election?”
Morrow nodded.
“That’s where Master Jones failed to deliver on his promises.”
“I knew Malcom longer than you,” Simons said, wagging his finger in Marrow’s face. “He didn’t botch that job, a private detective named Alexander Lockerby figured it out and threw a monkey wrench into the whole business.”
“How could a lowly PI figure out about the mind runes?” Master Torrence asked, disbelief plain in his voice.
“Lockerby is a runewright,” Simons said. “Claims to have a powerful finding rune.”
“That would make sense,” Morrow said. “It’s the perfect rune for a detective.”
“He must have more than just one powerful rune,” Simons said. “He didn’t just figure out what Malcom was up to, he figured out a way to stop it.”
Morrow and Torrence exchanged questioning glances while Ben observed quietly. He didn’t know who Alexander Lockerby was, but the fact that three Legion Masters seemed to regard him as a danger gave him the shivers.
“We should relieve this Lockerby character of his lore book,” Morrow observed.
Simons shook his head.
“We considered it,” he said, “but shortly after Malcom’s death, Lockerby started working directly with Andrew Barton, even has an apartment in Barton’s fancy lighting rod.”
“Empire Tower has heavy security,” Torrence said with a nod.
“On top of all that,” Simons continued, “Lockerby is known to have a vault. If his lore book is in there, we’ll never get it.”
The three of them sat for a moment, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.
“Malcom Jones died in police custody if I remember correctly,” Master Torrence said, folding his arms over his prodigious gut.
“Lockerby works with the police,” Simons said with a shrug. “No doubt he tipped them off.”
“How did he get the police to believe that Malcom was using mind runes?” Morrow pressed. “It’s not like he could show them any evidence.”
“The sorceress,” Simons said. “Lockerby convinced her, and she got the cops on board. And it might interest you to know that at the time Malcom died, he was being questioned by Sorsha Kincaid herself.”
“You think she killed him?” Torrence asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It doesn’t matter,” Simons answered. “Sorcerers are a dangerous lot, and the fact that she’s here is trouble.”
“It isn’t very likely that she’ll be able to figure out our plans,” Morrow said.
“They were reading Senator Young’s bills,” Torrence said. “That fact alone says that they’re on the right track.”
“True,” Morrow admitted. “But have you ever read legislation? Most of it is written in legalese, and it’s practically unintelligible. The odds of her or the detective discovering anything they could trace back to us are remote.”
“Remote or not,” Simons barked, “I have no intention of ending up like Malcom. I say we make sure Mr. Lockerby doesn’t figure anything out.”
The statement hung in the air for a moment, then the other masters nodded.
“What about the sorceress?” Master Torrence asked.
“According to the papers, Lockerby is the brains of their partnership,” Simons said. “If we remove him, sh
e’ll be no threat.”
“What if the papers are wrong?” Torrence added.
“Sorcerers are powerful,” Morrow said, “but there are ways to deal with that.”
“I don’t want to tip our hand,” Simons said. “Leave the sorceress alone unless it becomes absolutely necessary. For now, focus on the detective.”
“All right,” Morrow said, setting his book aside and picking up a pad of paper from the low table. “I’ll see that the P.I. is taken care of before he can interfere further.”
“I’m worried that too many people believe Senator Young’s death wasn’t an accident,” Torrence said as Master Morrow scribbled. “I think we should move up our timetable.”
“That would require overt action on our part,” Simons said. “Right now we’re just a fairy story, a fantasy made up by people who see conspiracies in every shadow. If we move openly, we confirm our existence. The government will start looking for us.”
“Yes,” Torrence conceded, “but this is worth the risk and we both know it.”
“Fine,” Simons said. “Make the arrangements.”
Master Morrow finished writing on his pad, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a rune book. Paging through it, he tore a page out, then dropped it on top of his pad. A moment later he lit it with a gold cigarette lighter and the rune paper vanished, leaving an embossed pattern behind on the paper. Ben knew from experience that it was his personal mark, put on the paper to guarantee its authenticity. After a moment, the lines of the rune faded and disappeared. They were still there, just invisible to the naked eye.
“Here, Ben,” Master Morrow said, handing the paper over. “Take this down to the coat check and give it to Henry. He’ll know what to do with it.”
Ben accepted the paper, then stood to leave.
“And Journeymen Robertson,” Morrow continued, more formally. “Good work bringing this to our attention.”
“Thank you, Masters,” Ben said, inclining his head to the three men, then he turned and strode from the room.
