Pack of Lies (13 page)

*be there in thirty*

And so the night I'd planned to spend following my mentor's directive to rest and recharge, I instead spent at a moth-eaten movie house with my coworker, eating overly buttered popcorn and watching a Cary Grant movie. Her idea, not mine, but I have to admit, the acting was great, the plot—even as silly as it was—didn't make me wince, and the eye candy, although stylized, was quality. And watching it gave me a little unexpected insight into my coworker. Plus, getting outside my head for a while made the self-doubt and depression take a powder. All good.

After, neither of us seemed to want to go home, and so we ended up in a 24-hour restaurant the size of a shoebox, and drank too much bad coffee and didn't talk about anything other than the movie. It was…nice.

“Y'know, if you think Irene Dunne was cute, I have a friend I should introduce you to.”

I was weirdly touched. “Shar. You fixing me up with your friends?”

“Friend, singular. If you're interested. She's about a year out of a bad breakup, so the worst of the psychotic behavior should be over, and the rest would probably just amuse you.”

I wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not that she had such an accurate read on me. But then, that was what Sharon did. I read scenes; she read people.

“It doesn't bother you? That I double-up my dating pool?” I'd wondered that; she and Nifty were both such straight arrows, pun intended.

Sharon arched one of those neatly shaped blond eyebrows at me. “You're bi. Big deal. I'm more worried that you'll go through the available dating pool here and we'll have to import people from the left coast to keep you occupied.”

I made a ha-ha noise. “Not likely. Y'know, thanks for the offer but…not right now. I'm not really in the dating mood right now.”

Sharon paused before taking a sip of her coffee and looked at me over the top of her mug. “Who are you and what have you done with Bonita Torres?”

“Very funny.” Okay, it was. I had a definite reputation, and normally I didn't mind it at all. But it was more reputation than fact, these days, and not just because of this case.

A sudden flash of dark eyes and the memory of a touch,
skin-to-skin, shivered through me, and I shut it down, hard. “I just…I'm tired, Sharon. Aren't you?”

“Yes. Of course I am. You're the Energizer Bunny, not me.”

Sharon was the oldest of the pack by six years, but we'd mostly broken her of reminding us of that fact. Mostly.

Now that we'd gotten on the topic, sort of, I wanted to ask her about the case, to find out if anything about it was bothering her, if she was finding her reactions to people slightly off-kilter or unusual, if she was feeling the same depression and doubts that I could feel hovering, just waiting for a way back in. But the nonwork atmosphere we'd established over popcorn and bad coffee was like a mist around us, keeping the words from getting said. I wanted to know, but I didn't know how to ask, and the moment passed.

Around 2:00 a.m. I finally staggered back to my apartment for the second time that night. My sheets were cold, and even a quick hit of current to warm them up didn't replace the feel of another body next to me. I could've had a warm companion for the asking. Hell, I had a little black book with names I could have called, even now, if I didn't want to be alone.

“There was a time,” I told the dark blue ceiling, “when my bed had hot-and-hotter running company. I was young and energetic and… And god, now I just want to come home and sleep.”

All right, that was just a smidge of exaggeration. But I had told Sharon the truth—I was tired. And right now, the way I was feeling, it was probably better I not have anyone
in my space who wasn't me. My nerves were shot and my sense of the universe needed adjusting.

The world wasn't any colder or darker than it had been a week before. I hadn't discovered any terrible truth about males of any species I didn't already know before. I hadn't learned anything about my own gender that I didn't know.

Intellectually.

Emotionally, that was another issue entirely.

I pulled the covers over my head, snuggled into my pillows, and searched for a happy place to take into my dreams. It was a long time coming.

 

Benjamin Venec wanted to be in bed. It was almost dawn, and good, law-abiding, reasonable adults were snuggled in comfortable beds, or just waking up to face the day, not shaking down dubious characters in even more dubious back offices.

“Man, I don't know nothing!”

Venec let a sigh escape him, not entirely feigned. “That? I find very easy to believe.”

Lizard was a skinny skank of a human, skin like the underside of a rock and the morals of a squid. He ran a massage parlor—legit, not a skin house or gambling cover—down in Chinatown that was gossip central for a certain type of Talent, “certain” meaning criminally minded. That was why Venec had decided to pay him a little social visit.

Well, that, and the need to actually
do
something more than just sit around and worry. Let Ian ride the desk and deal with the theory and the politics and the make-nice
with clients. He was more the hands-on sort, and sometimes hands-on was exactly what was needed. For the situation—and his own sanity. Being the boss was starting to make him a little crazy, like someone was pushing on his chest and the back of his neck at the same time, trying to squeeze him thin, and not even the training sessions with his pups were really scratching the itch to
do
.

Not that he was down here on PUPI business, tonight. Not officially. Tonight he was conducting his own investigation, for his own peace of mind. The two “exterminator” flyers he had found had sent him out into the street, talking and listening, and the gossip he got back was making him uneasy. While he didn't have Bonnie's kenning, or Ian's skill of reading the moment, or even Sharon's ability to truth-sense, uneasy feelings usually meant problems coming down the road, things you sensed, even if you couldn't quite see them yet. Maybe not now…but eventually. Benjamin Venec was a firm believer in being prepared for problems.

“Liz, if I find out that you've been withholding information, I'm going to be deeply disappointed in you.”

The speech, and his pose, was right out of a diet of too many mafia movies as a teenager. It seemed to work, though, because the Lizard turned an even nastier shade of pale, and his stubby little nose twitched like a rabbit's.

“I swear.” He made a production out of shuffling paper on his desk, but never let his hands go anywhere near the intercom, or the panic button set on the side of the desk. Not when Ben was watching. Lizard wasn't Talent, but he knew enough to predict what a pissed-off Talent could do. “We got some hotheads come in here after a day of work,
talking trash, but that's it. Nothing like what you're talking about. No violence, not even a shove. The supernaturals, they're good folk, mostly. Everybody gets along down here, so long as they're not the IRS.”

Cash-and-carry industry; rake in the dollars and don't worry about anything except not getting caught. Ben felt a sneer curl at his lips. He'd brought in coked-up bikers and current-wizzed Talent, and they'd all been good folk—when they weren't trying to take his limbs off or fry his brain.

“All right.” He leaned back, giving Lizard some breathing room. “If you do happen to hear something, anything, from anyone, you'll let me know, right?”

“Of course.” Lizard, deciding that the danger had passed, plastered on an ingratiating smile. “So, why don't you stay a while, relax, now that business is done? I have a new masseuse working, hands like silk over steel, she'd work those tension-knots out of you like something indecent I'm too much of a gentleman to mention.”

The offer was tempting, Christ knew. Two years ago, before Chicago and the fallout from there, he'd been a single operator chasing down bail jumpers and errant spouses, hiring himself out for short-term security gigs on the side. Not much glamour, and damn few thanks, but only himself to ride herd on, and the money was good. But when Ian had called him, out of the blue and ten years after they'd last said goodbye, he'd dropped everything and gone up to the Midwest. And then…and then Chicago, and everything After. That was how he judged time these days: before, and After.

But After had PUPI. Ian wanted perfection, and Ben had
to ride herd on the kids every minute, make sure they were as good as they thought they were, and then build them back up when they realized that they weren't. Keep them focused on the job, and not their hormones or…

Especially not their hormones. Or his own, for that matter.

His brain served him a flash of impossibly fluffed hair, and laughing eyes, perfume like warm peaches, and the whisper of an impossible blend of Boston upper crust and New York Latina in her voice, and he felt himself grow hard at even that memory.

Bonnie Torres. The moment he had first sensed her, searching the ether for her father's killer, he had known there was something about her, something they would be able to tap for the still-nascent PUPI team. He'd been intrigued by the feel of her thoughts, at first, the way she balanced passion and logic so cleanly. He hadn't expected the impact her physical presence would have on him. His own personal hell every day, the way she could flick his switches without even trying. And at night…

At night, when he didn't have to be Big Dog, didn't have to be the boss, the teacher…in the privacy of his own overheated imagination, sometimes her face overrode his current partner's appearance, and he let himself pretend, just for a moment.

“Thanks, but no,” he told Lizard, not without some regret. “I kind of like my knots where they are.”

What happened in New York City didn't always stay in New York City. In this case, what happened there was of great interest to a man in a quiet office building in Corpus Christi, Texas.

Two men, actually, although Ray West was more concerned with his brother's interest than his own.

William West did not, at first glance, appear particularly important or imposing, despite the luxurious corner suite he occupied. Seen on the street a bystander would notice that his hair was brown and slightly shaggy, his suit was nice but not particularly stylish, and that he had the attitude of a man who had somewhere to be, right now, and get out of his way. And that bystander would, if he or she were a smart human, get out of his way.

Ray had worked for his brother for twenty years now, and not even the memory of the scrawny kid with a lisp
Bill used to be kept him from feeling a sense of awe and menace hanging around his brother as an adult. Something had changed in Bill during college, or maybe it had just come to the fore once he had enough power to not worry what others thought, but Ray didn't question it. Not when that hard, cold willingness to use people made them all a great deal of money.

As his right-hand man, Ray worked very hard to keep Bill from getting upset. Some days it wasn't possible—there seemed to be so many things that annoyed his brother. Today, though, would be different. He had just gotten in from the airport, barely stopping to drop his bags off before coming to report on the results of his trip. “She agreed to your proposal. Things are already in motion.”

Ray had brought their pet Talent—a young man with the ability to do what they called the Push—with him, ready to start work, assuming that his negotiation would be successful. You assumed success, you got it; that was the West way.

The fact that their target was Talent as well was no barrier: human or fatae, Talent or not, they were all tools to be used.

Bill nodded, placing the dossier he had been reading down on his desk, and getting up from behind his desk and going to the oversize sideboard that ran the length of his office. He lifted the hinged door and took two wineglasses down, holding one up in question. Ray nodded. It was first thing in the morning, but they had both clearly been up all night—he on the plane, his brother doing whatever his brother did in this chilly office, all alone.

“Of course she has,” Bill said in response to his brother's
comment. “It's an obsession with her, to stop her brother from successfully establishing his plan to keep Talent accountable for their actions. She will snap at any straw, and we offered her a very tempting one.” He poured a measure of ruby-red liquid from a decanter into the glasses and offered one to Ray, who took it with pleasure. They clinked glasses lightly, toasting to their new venture.

Oskar, their Talent, wasn't good for much else—he was a straw of a human, jumping and starting at every noise, but he could convince a nun to do a striptease, if that's what you wanted from him. Their Talent, augmented by Aden Stosser's knowledge of her brother's personality and thought process, and especially his weaknesses…it was a perfect match. With her directing their Pusher, they could undermine not only her brother, but also his partner. With both of them incapacitated by doubt and uncertainty, their cadre of half-trained investigators would be ineffective at best, and ideally fall apart completely. Even if anything were traced back… Aden was the one with the known grudge, and the black mark already attached to her name. Oskar would claim that she hired him, and nobody would doubt it for a moment.

Neither Ray nor Bill were Talent. Ray never felt the lack; he couldn't say if his brother did or not. Certainly they had enough Talent working for them, one way or another. West Enterprises, Inc. was a consulting firm with specialized clientele worldwide, ranging from media to military, with fingers in both the Null and Talent communities.

You could work with Talent, but you didn't have to like them. Ray felt that Talent were…not quite normal, not quite predictable, like cats. Dangerous cats. Having met with the
woman, unlike his brother, Ray had a hesitation—not to the plan itself, but the possible consequences. He thought about phrasing it delicately, or not mentioning it at all, then shrugged. Bill was in a good mood; it was probably safe to say something.

“You know she's nuts, right? We can't trust her a step without our hand on the back of her neck, because god knows what she'll hare off to do, and take our Talent with her.” Not that he was worried Oskar would implicate them in any way; he was well-paid to behave, and his heirs would be even better-paid if he died loyal.

“She is not crazy,” his brother said in correction as he returned to his desk and sat down in the chair, motioning for Ray to sit down as well. Bill's voice was calm, almost amused, and deeply confident, as though the universe would not dare order itself any way other than he planned. “She is obsessed. Much the same way her brother is, ironically, if toward a conflicting goal. A family characteristic I am quite pleased to make use of, for my own purposes.”

Ray sat down and looked into his glass, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Bill had read the dossier; he knew how Aden Stosser thought, and how she would react—that was his skill, in judging people's basest instincts, and then making use of them to accomplish his goals. That, he always said, was the secret to his success. Aden Stosser was just another such tool.

But Ray remembered the look in the woman's eyes, the way she had practically quivered at the thought of getting another chance at her brother's organization, and a faint
unease settled in his mind. Tools could break, or slip, even under the most cautious hand. No. He was tired from the flight, that was all. Aden Stosser was crazy, and powerful, and that made her dangerous, yes. But his brother was just as powerful and, Ray admitted to himself, just as crazy in his own way.

Bill didn't seem to notice his brother's unease. “I have to go to Cincy tomorrow, for a meeting. You'll be able to keep an eye on things here?” He didn't look up to see his brother's reaction: of course Ray would cover things. That was his job.

“You'll be back on Thursday?” Ray leaned back in his chair, a heavy mahogany piece older than he was, and forced himself to appear unconcerned and in control of things, taking another sip of his wine. Aden was the last piece they had needed, and now she was theirs. Nothing would go wrong. Nothing would
dare
go wrong.

“Friday at the latest. I'm not expecting any difficulties.”

“Difficulties. No, I can't imagine they would give you any at all.” The two brothers smiled at each other, for once in perfect accord. The project Bill would be closing—the acquisition of a particular piece of legislative support—had been in the works for a year, and the final deal was a foregone conclusion.

But the word plucked at the unease, again. Difficulties. Humans were always the variable, the thing you couldn't be sure of, and when you brought magic into the equation…. Ray chewed at the inside of his mouth, thinking, then brought the subject up again, despite his better judgment.

“This Aden, why does her brother's little project bother her so much?”

Bill looked at him, and Ray wished he'd kept his mouth shut and his hesitations hidden. But it was too late now—falling back was worse than stumbling forward. “Much as I don't want Stosser's eye turned on me, personally,” he went on, “you'd think these Talents would want everyone in compliance with their own laws, not breaking them.” It didn't make sense, and he wasn't comfortable with things that didn't make sense. Human reactions weren't always logical or practical, but they made sense, once you understood the players and their desires. Aden Stosser…her desires were contradictory, confusing, making an already unpredictable situation even more difficult to gauge. “So what's her game?”

“I don't know and I don't care,” Bill said. He took a sip of his wine, looking deep into the glass, following some thought of his own. Ray got the feeling that he was barely in the same room anymore. “I know what she wants, though, and it's what I want, too. If she can stop him, then we won't have to worry about his brats causing trouble, later.”

West Enterprises was legal…but their clients weren't always. And for that reason, it was in the interests of West Enterprises, Inc., et al to ensure that the so-called Private Unaffiliated Private Investigators never became any sort of player. Bill West believed in taking care of potential problems before they became actual ones. That was how his business had thrived over the years.

“I won't have one of our projects derailed because they were sniffing around.”

Ray let himself chuckle, considering the expensive wine
in his glass. “Careful, you're one step away from sounding like the foiled villain in a Scooby-Doo cartoon.”

Bill stared at his brother, his gaze even and cold, making Ray immediately regret his moment of levity. “I have no intention of being either foiled, or a villain. Merely successful.”

And what Bill West wanted, he got. No matter how many bodies it took.

 

Dreams stalked me though the night, some of them in black and white, like the movie Sharon and I had watched, and some so saturated with color it made my eyes hurt. And there were faint mutterings, like someone in the room next door speaking my name over and over, so I couldn't hear details but couldn't tune it out, either. Kenning while you slept was a one-way ticket to headacheville.

Despite the dreams, I somehow managed to sleep through the usual garbage trucks and car alarms my neighborhood was heir to, but a sharp noise inside my own apartment finally woke me up. I lay in bed, tangled in my sheets and still groggy from crap sleep, and tried to figure out what the hell that noise was. I didn't own an alarm clock—hadn't since my freshman-year roommate's alarm had shorted out the third time. So what the hell…

The third ring gave it away. The phone. Right. Half the time I forget I even have a phone, because nobody ever uses it. If the team wants to reach me, they pinged, and…there wasn't really anyone else these days who needed to talk to me.

Except one.

A glance out the window showed me it was still early, although well past dawn. He would have been up and had breakfast already, counting down the minutes until he could risk calling without me snarling in his ear. Sometimes having someone who knew you that well was…

Well, it was nice. Even if he was a morning person with a morning person's impatience to get things started.

I slid down off the loft bed and padded naked across the space to pick up the phone. “Heya, J.”

“Bonita.”

Uh-oh. J only used my full name when he's in formal mode. Well, two could play that game. “Yes, Joseph?”

He chuckled, letting me know that there wasn't a catastrophe waiting to leap, just him yanking my chain. “Will you be joining me for dinner this weekend?”

This wee…ah, shit.

“Of course I will,” I said with an assurance that I don't think even he could tell was faked. I hadn't ever missed J's birthday dinner, not even when I was doing my semester in Madrid. And this year I'd totally, completely forgotten about it.

Damn it, I was total crap. I bet Bobby—J's first mentoree, now a high-powered lawyer out in California—had not only remembered, but already booked his flight home.

I reached across the desk and grabbed a pen, and scribbled
dnr J Sat
on the back of an envelope that came in yesterday's mail. “The usual for gifties?”

“What, I should suddenly change my stripes now?”

I laughed at that, despite feeling that I was a disappointment, a loosah, all that crap. I rubbed the back of my neck,
trying to work out the kink there that was making my head ache. “Just figured I'd ask….”

We made some more small talk, and then hung up, leaving me feeling not quite out of sorts, but moderately fey and feckless.
Loosah,
the voice muttered in the back of my brain.
Disappointment. Failure.

I hated not being the perfect student for J. On top of being an overachiever, I loved him as much as I'd loved my dad—maybe more, part of me admitted—and it hurt to think I might have missed his annual birthday dinner. Especially since he wasn't a young man, and each one, god forbid, could be the last.

I sat at the desk, and stared down at my phone. It was a battered relic of the pre-cell phone age, and wasn't safe-wired—because my core ran cool, it didn't usually interfere with the phone lines—but I'd grown up in a household that had everything grounded to a fare-thee-well, and it still bothered me, a little, that I didn't need to take those same precautions. J had reassured me, over and over, that my running cool didn't mean I was any less powerful than anyone else, but it was true, I wasn't high-res the way Nick was, or Pietr. Even Sharon and Nifty could generate more buzz than I could, and the Big Dogs? They could take us all in a blackout, and not raise a sweat, I suspected.

Yeah, I had the recall, and the kenning, and a fair hand at crafting useful spells but…in the
Cosa
you weren't judged by how much money you had or how good-looking you were, but by how much power you could channel. Current was currency. At least if you were a Talent. The fatae had other ways of counting, but they did count.

I frowned, two fingers drumming the top of the receiver as the thoughts sparked and jumped in my brain, driving the doubts to the sideline. Counting. Who counted?

The scene at the Gather emphasized that there was politics everywhere. Lonejack, Council, even the fatae had their levels, from the piskies at the bottom and the greater dragons at the top, second only to the old ones nobody ever talked about anymore. It was all about how much power you could contain and control.

Power. Power and prestige. It was starting to come together in my brain, although I wasn't quite sure what “it” was, yet. Status. That girl had been—was—lo-res. The dossier Venec had put together said she was blue collar through and through, the first in her family to go to college, probably at the ki-rin's urging. Her mentor had disappeared from the picture when she was seventeen, not unusual, but… The ki-rin had shown up the year after, and had seen something in her, something special. I got the feeling that she'd hung her entire sense of self, her well-being, on that, on being a chosen companion, and now that was gone, or at least damaged, broken.