Gentleman Takes a Chance (45 page)

Tom took a look at Rafiel who was driving while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with some very strange song about never growing old. "Yeah. But only over the phone."

"We are talking over the phone!" Kyrie said, as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

"Oh . . . you mean . . ." Tom took a deep breath. "Well, I'm not going to ask you to go anywhere or anything, just wanted to know if Anthony is okay staying till six or so? Because it will be till then before I come back."

"All right," Kyrie said. "A long shift but . . . he's been pulling those."

It seemed very strange to Tom that she didn't ask him why or where he was going, or even what he was intending to do. It wasn't that Kyrie was overly inquisitive or determined to have him live in her pocket. It wasn't even that she demanded to know where he was at all times. But when he called to tell her he was going to be late for something, she asked why. Normal human curiosity. He thought of what Kyrie had said about Dire. "He has impersonated Rafiel before." But surely Dire wouldn't say that about himself if he was impersonating Kyrie. Besides, Tom remembered the description Kyrie had given of how Rafiel sounded over the phone—all breath, no voice . . . Kyrie didn't sound that way. And, on yet the other paw, Kyrie sounded exactly like she did when she was harassed and shorthanded.

"I'm sorry if I am putting you in a bind," he said. He'd discovered nine-tenths of a good relationship was preemptive apologizing even if you didn't know—sometimes he would say particularly if you didn't know—what you had done wrong. He'd found that his social skills, blunted by looking out only for himself for much too long, sometimes missed fine points of the effects his actions might have on Kyrie.

"You're not," Kyrie said. "I'll manage. Anthony was planning on staying at least that long, and Keith has come in. We're okay."

"Oh. I'm just . . . I'm with Rafiel. I'm helping him run an errand."

"All right. Call if you're going to be later than six. Or I'll worry."

"Right," Tom said, and hung up.

Rafiel, pulling into the parking lot of the aquarium, gave Tom a quizzical glance. Perhaps it was just Tom's expression—there was more amusement than there should have been. "She upset about you staying out late?"

Tom did his best to glare at Rafiel. He was fairly sure this was wasted effort. All his efforts to glare at the policeman before—glare him into silence; glare him into being sensible—had met with chuckles. This time was no exception. Tom shook his head. "If you're going to tell me 'better me than you,' even I am not stupid enough to buy that."

"Uh . . . no, dude. I'd rather it were me, but I didn't know she kept the shackles quite that tight."

"She doesn't." Tom frowned. He tried to think of how to explain what had disturbed him about the call. While he thought, Rafiel drove around the aquarium to the back, the overflow parking lot. They were all empty, but Tom imagined that the front parking lot, visible from Ocean and Congregation, was not the best choice for stealthy work. And they must be stealthy. Or at least not stupidly obvious. "It's . . ." He tried to figure out how to explain it. "It's more that she didn't seem her normal self."

"Oh?" Rafiel said, and for once there was no smirk behind his expression. "Do you think something is wrong?"

"It's quite possible," Tom said. "But she's at the diner, so . . ."

"So she's either safe, or there's nothing you can do to make her so."

"Yeah," Tom said. He didn't like it, but it was the truth. "If it's something that can happen in front of a whole bunch of people, my being there won't stop it."

They got out of the car and Rafiel led them to a side door, where, after trying a variety of keys, he found one that clicked the door open. Rafiel was carrying the cardboard box they'd gotten from Tom and Kyrie's house. It contained a surveillance system that Tom had been meaning to install around the diner.

"I must need to get my head examined," Rafiel said, as they stepped into the warmer, dark interior of the aquarium. "This is so many levels of illegal."

"Stealthy," Tom said. "Many levels of stealthy. We must make it stealthy. I mean . . . we can't solve this in the open. I mean, if you wanted to, what could you tell your assistant, what's his name? McQueen?"

"McKnight." Rafiel said with an odd sort of groan.

"What are you going to tell McKnight? That you smelled something funny while you were a lion? They'd have you committed. So . . . we have to do things . . . in creative ways."

"Right," Rafiel said. He gave the impression of speaking through clenched teeth. "Creative. Right."

Rafiel took them past banks of gurgling aquariums filled with fish. "Who feeds the fishies?" Tom asked. "Or do they eat each other or something?" He squinted at the label on the nearest tank, which said piranhas. The sound track of some nature program he must have watched, and forgotten, in childhood, ran through his head. Something about piranhas skeletonizing a cow in a matter of minutes. Tom had never been able to understand what a cow would be doing in the water, and he very much hoped that no one at the aquarium dropped a mooing heifer into the tank.

Rafiel waved a hand dismissively. "People can come in and feed them," he said. "That's not an issue. We only sealed the room with the sharks, but I understand it's open and McKnight comes in, when needed for personnel to clean the tank and feed the sharks, then he seals the room again." He looked over his shoulder. "At least that's the plan. I don't think it's happened yet."

He stopped outside a sealed door, and took out something very much like an exacto knife, with which he pulled—deftly—the police seal off the door and the handle. "I'm going to hell," he said under his breath.

"Well," Tom said. "If you're a believer, you know, it's a good question whether our kind has normal souls or if—"

"Tom, that isn't helpful."

"Well, I'm not a believer, myself, but it's a fascinating idea. Are we judged by the divinity of humans, or by some . . . you know, animal god?"

Rafiel pulled the door open. "Not right now it isn't a fascinating idea. I'm facing the problem of living with my guilt about breaking police regulations. I don't even want to
think
of anything else."

They were in the big dim room that Tom had heard described several times, but never seen till now. Walls and ceilings had been sculpted to look like the inside of a cave, stalactites and stalagmites delineating paths. Though, Tom thought, it was expecting rather too much of suspension of disbelief to think that the stalagmites had formed benches by natural processes. And the speckled-cement stairs with their metal railings, leading up to an observation platform—probably nine by nine feet wide—also with metal railings and planters with curiously plastic-looking flowers, just about killed that natural structure feel.

Rafiel went up to the platform and looked around nervously. He looked as if he expected doom to fall at any moment. Like . . . he thought his superiors would be psychically warned or something. And Tom, who'd been a juvenile delinquent and delighted in breaking rules long before he'd known he was a shifter, could only smile at him.

"It's not funny," Rafiel said. "I could be fired if anyone finds out about this." He clutched the grey box of surveillance equipment against his chest, as though it were a shield of righteousness. "Good lord, I could be
arrested
."

Tom didn't realize he was about to cackle till the sound bubbled out of his lips despite his best efforts. "Sorry, sorry," he said, to Rafiel's glare. "It's just I was thinking . . . we could be killed. We could be discovered as shifters—and ultimately killed—and you're worrying about being arrested. I mean . . . if they came for you, what's to stop you taking off in lion form?"

"What? Other than losing my identity, my family, everything I've worked for?"

Tom sobered up. He too could leave. At any moment, he could just go. It was easy. Take to the wing, and forget Kyrie and The George, and Keith and Rafiel and Anthony and Notty. No. What good was it to save yourself by losing everything that was important to you?

"Exactly," Rafiel said, softly, having read Tom's expressions without need for words. He shrugged. "But your point is taken too. In the maze of dangers we face, risking being arrested is not so very bad. And then I doubt we will be arrested, or even found out. At least with a bit of luck." He looked above himself, then around at the walls of the fake cave. "But we forgot something, Tom. Neither of us is an electrician. How are we going to put these up?" He waved the package containing two cameras and a mess of electrical stuff.

Tom grinned. "Well . . . you know . . ."

"Oh, don't tell me you used to wire cameras in people's houses while you were homeless. There are things I don't want to know."

This time Tom's gurgle of laughter poured out, without his ability to control it. "No. But when we had The George remodeled, the electrician didn't have an assistant. Nice man, but . . . you know, semi-retired. Did it cheap. One of Anthony's acquaintances."

"And?"

"Well, he needed help. Holding this, twisting that. Third hand kind of stuff. And I didn't have anything better to do. I was recovering from . . . near death. And he liked to talk . . . Seventies, you know, and no one wants to listen to him most of the time."

"So he taught you electrical stuff?"

"A bit. Jackleg stuff," Tom said. He brought out the little set of tools he'd slipped into the pocket of his jacket earlier, and grinned as Rafiel looked surprised. Just now and then he liked to upstage Mr. Unflappable Trall and be better prepared. He looked up and pointed to a light. "I think we'll tap that light," he said. "It's close enough to the stalactite and the plastic plants, that we can sort of run the wire behind and no one will know."

Rafiel looked at the light in turn. "Any idea how you'll reach it?"

"Oh, sure," Tom said. "I stand on the railing."

"Uh . . . I see. And if you fall?"

"I won't," Tom said.

"Really?"

"No. Because you're going to hold my ankles."

Rafiel looked up at Tom, who'd propped himself up, with a foot on either of the intersecting metal railings. He looked doubtfully down at the railings, which he wasn't even sure should be able to support that weight, then up again at Tom, who was fiddling with the light cover, and doing something underneath. After a while, Tom trailed a wire down, and pulled it, so it followed, kind of behind one of the cement stalactites that dropped down from the ceiling and around the edge of the railing.

"How much wire do you have?" Rafiel said.

"Enough," Tom said. "Right. I'm going to jump down now."

"Not while I'm holding you," Rafiel said, and stepped back.

Tom's feet wobbled on the railing, he started tilting forward. Rafiel reached up. Grabbed his wrist. Pulled. Something at the back of his mind said it was better for them to fall on the platform than on the tank. They toppled to the floor. Rafiel hit his elbow and his head, and gathered himself up. "Are you all right?" he asked Tom who had fallen in a heap, and was pale and shivering.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Only . . ." He shook his head and scrambled to his knees and, on his knees, across the platform, to the planter, the box was tilted up against. Fishing in the box, he brought out the camera, which was about the diameter of a dime, and about as thick. He stuck it to one of the planters, well hidden in the foliage, the wire behind it. Then, as he seemed to make sure that the camera lens was unobstructed, he said, "When I was little, we had goldfish. At least, I wanted a pet, but you know, we lived in a condo. No place for pets, really, so my dad got me a bowl with goldfish. He also started calling them Schroedinger fish, because—well, I wasn't very interested and it wasn't in my room—it was in this passage between my room and the walk-in closet, and I didn't always remember to feed them. So Dad said every time we checked on them, it was not sure if they were alive or dead till we actually saw them. I remember this one time I forgot to feed them for like"—he narrowed his eyes with thought—"five days? When I came back to feed them, they all congregated in one spot, you know, clearly waiting for food.

"The sharks looked like that," he said and, for the first time, looked up to meet Rafiel's gaze. "Just like that. As if they were pet fish, used to being fed by people, you know?"

Rafiel sighed. "I'd say they are. I just wish we knew by whom."

"Well . . ." Tom said, and gestured towards the camera. "That will tell us, right?"

"Yeah," Rafiel said. "If they come in, of course. I mean, what with . . . you know . . ." He shrugged. "The room is sealed. Or will be again, once we leave. If it's a casual thing, if she just brings her boyfriends in, and someone . . . like the crab shifter, doesn't like it . . ."

"But if it's not," Tom said, "then we'll get it. The camera is motion-activated and it connects to my laptop, which is at the bed-and-breakfast. It will sound an alarm . . ." He gave an impish smile. "At least as soon as I install the program."

"Right," Rafiel said, but the idea didn't please him. There had to be another way around it, some other way to make things work. He didn't like the idea of just sitting down and waiting for some poor sap to be thrown in the shark tank. Not the least of which, because the poor sap would then be doomed. "So, why did you think you needed a surveillance system for The George?"

Tom stood up and dusted off the knees of his pants, as if this would fix the dust all over his clothes from having fallen headlong onto the observation platform. "I thought, you know, with the stuff that was happening at the back before . . . murder and all . . ." He shrugged. "I thought if a bunch of shifters were coming to the place, called by pheromones, we'd do as well to have early warning and proof if any of them had . . . control issues."

Rafiel, raising his eyebrows, reasoned that his friend trusted other shifters about as much as he did. They climbed down the stairs. Rafiel opened the door to the shark room, waited till Tom went by, then sealed the door again, initialing it once more, and putting in the date and time on the destroyed seal. "I'm going to hell." This time Tom didn't seem disposed to argue.