Trace of Magic (8 page)

“She’s got nothing to say.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Special Agent Sandra Arnow said, following after us.

Clippity-clop, clippity-clop.
Like a horse. How could she even walk in those stilts? Yeah, I’m about to be hauled into an FBI interrogation room, and I’m thinking about her shoes.

“She’s got rights, and she doesn’t want to talk to you. She saw nothing; she knows nothing. Any questions you have can go through her lawyer.”

Wasn’t that contradictory? I mean, if I have rights and don’t have to talk to her, then why would it matter that I don’t know anything? And then why would my lawyer need to answer any questions? Not that I have a lawyer. I don’t even have a mailman.

Price dragged me down the stairs away from Arnow. She watched us with narrowed eyes, tapping crimson fingernails on her thigh. She didn’t look like she planned to give up.

We went back outside into the snow. The smoking goon was still there, but now he gave us a glowering look like he’d like to cuff us. I waved as we went around the corner, returning to the snowmobile.

Price pulled on his helmet and brushed the seat clean. I put the pink bowling ball back on my head.

“What now?”

“Can you find his trace?”

I’d been looking the moment we walked up to the door. “Yeah. He’s still alive.”

Price gave me a narrowed look. “How long before it fades out for you?”

Shit. If I was as weak as I pretended to be, I probably wouldn’t still be seeing it.

I shrugged. “Never can tell.”

He gave me another of those penetrating looks. I stared back wide-eyed, even as my stomach plummeted. I could tell I was becoming a puzzle to him. I didn’t have a choice, not if I wanted to find Josh. But moving to Tahiti was beginning to look better and better.

Chapter 8

WE CLIMBED BACK on the snowmobile and took off up the street. I didn’t know where we were going, but I was just happy that Price wanted to put some distance between us and Arnow in case she decided she wanted to snatch me up after all.

It was eerily quiet in the city. The snow hushed everything, and most everything was closed. I could hear plows running to clear the main streets, but there was a hell of a lot of snow to move and I was betting it would be close to a week before they got the streets cleared.

After a while it became clear that Price was actually heading somewhere. He went back down into Downtown through the Prockney Tunnel. That was jarring. A fair bit of snow had drifted down inside, so that helped, but we had to slow down to nothing when the road went dry. I expected Peltier would be shitting bricks if he were here and saw what we were doing to his machine.

Once through, Price headed for the center part of the rim where the Buffalo River dropped down into the caldera. My fingers were getting cold inside my gloves. The rest of me was plenty warm—either Price was made of some serious hot stuff, or he was getting me all hot and bothered. I didn’t want to even think about it.

The wind picked up, and the snow was starting to whirl drunkenly. If it kept up, we were going to have a blizzard. Often-Wrong, the weather guy on the news this morning, had been disgustingly excited about this storm and the two or three that were following in. It was an official snow emergency. He kept nattering on about how he hoped everyone had emergency supplies and they should hunker down and stay in place.

“We aren’t going to run out of gas, are we?” I shouted.

He shook his head. I think. It was hard to say.

I was beginning to consider shoving my hands up under his coat when he finally slowed down. We were in a canyon of skyscrapers. Snow-mounded cars lumped up along the roadway. He navigated up onto the sidewalk and pulled up outside the Franklin Watley building. Josh’s employer. A red closed sign blinked brightly over the subway entrance at the end of the block.

Price killed the engine and I got off, putting my helmet on the seat. The building was made of a blue-gray granite polished to a high sheen. The front had a portico with columns and two-story glass windows. Price had parked under the portico.

“It’s not open,” I said. “Nothing is.”

Actually, the diner would be open. Patti and Ben didn’t close except for a few holidays. People counted on them. Especially in bad weather. My stomach growled. I could really use one of Ben’s giant hamburgers with bacon, bleu cheese, and sautéed onions and mushrooms, plus a huge mound of crispy fries and a chocolate shake. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t get in,” Price said.

I eyed him. “How?”

He didn’t answer. He went to the door and pulled on it. Locked up tight, and not just with ordinary locks. There was magical security here, too. I didn’t bother telling him. He was a cop; if he didn’t expect there to be magical locks, then he was an idiot. He’d never struck me as particularly stupid. All I knew was that these far exceeded my paltry picking skills.

He fished in his pocket and pulled out the little flip-open wallet containing his badge and ID. He pressed it against the seam between the doors. Yellow tentacles flowed out of it in every direction. They wriggled across the glass and through the cracks surrounding the doors. More and more poured out until the doors were covered in solid yellow. It shimmered a moment, then faded. The glass vanished with it.

“Come on.”

Price reached out and pulled me through the doorway. I turned to look back and the glass was back. I blinked, impressed. That wasn’t your basic police department-issued magic. Nice being supplied by the Tyet.

A shadow swept over me. It was all too easy to forget his connection to the Tyet. Too easy to forget he didn’t wear a white hat. At best, it was gray. The worst part was that I was starting to like him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noting my sudden chill.

“Nothing,” I said, pulling out of his grip.

He watched me a moment longer as if debating whether or not to push. “Do you know where Josh’s office is?”

I shook my head. “Taylor does.” I pulled out my phone, but he shook his head.

“Don’t. FBI is probably listening in. I don’t want Agent Arnow to know we’re here.”

“I’m getting really tired of Agent Bitch,” I said, glad I’d never turned my phone on yesterday.

The corner of his mouth quirked. “Look for the building directory.”

I wandered around. The reception area was a museum full of expensive artwork. A sculptured glass chandelier the size of a buffalo lit the space. Or would have, if it was on. I checked by the left bank of elevators, circling around the lobby back to the reception desk. I shook my head at Price.

He went behind the desk. “Computers are probably password protected. Use the landline. Call your sister.”

“You don’t think her phone is tapped?”

“Might be, but I doubt they’ll be listening to her in real time. You, on the other hand, have caught Arnow’s interest. She’ll be paying close attention.”

It was almost reasonable, and I didn’t really have any other options, so I did as told. Taylor sounded groggy. “What time is it?” she mumbled.

I checked the massive clock embedded into the far wall. “Just after noon.” We hadn’t gone to bed until four in the morning, and Price and I had left the house around nine. “We’re at Franklin Watley. Where is Josh’s office?”

Silence met my question, then in a choked voice she answered, “Twenty-fifth floor. Room 2562.”

“Go back to sleep,” I said, knowing full well she wouldn’t. I dropped the phone back into the cradle before she could ask any questions and relayed the information to Price.

“Why aren’t there any security guards?” I asked, following him to the elevators. I hated riding in them, but walking up twenty-five floors didn’t seem like a good option either. Especially with Price. At least our time trapped in a small box would be short. I hoped, anyhow.

“Even guards have to follow snow emergency protocol. Everyone has to go home so they don’t get stranded and starve or freeze to death if the power goes down.”

Made sense. He hit the elevator button. Nothing happened. He hit it again. And again. Because if once doesn’t work once, more times will make it happen. I smirked. He didn’t see.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, keeping the laughter from my voice.

“They must have locked the elevators down as a precaution. Stairs it is. Let’s go,” he said, striding off down the hallway to the stairs’ entrance.

Price was breathing a little rough by the time we reached the tenth floor. I was just getting warmed up. I’ve been known to take the stairs down to the Bottoms and back. Work takes a girl where it takes her. And she’s got to follow. I don’t have a car, and the train doesn’t run down there.

I’d left him two floors behind by the twentieth landing, and I don’t know where he was when I got to twenty-five. I pushed through the fire door into a long, plush hallway. Every sixth light was on. It was like walking into a mausoleum. Not that I’d ever been in one, but this place seemed like dead people ought to be stacked up to the rafters.

A sign said Room 2562 was off to the left. I headed that way, turning through a maze of gloomy corridors until I found his office. I reached out to try the handle and stopped. The door wasn’t latched. I pushed it wider. The space inside was brighter than the hallway. His outer wall was all glass and gave an excellent view of the crater. Or would have, if it wasn’t totally white outside. The snow had increased since we came in.

I switched on the light. His office looked like you might expect: piles of papers, ledgers, notebooks, and folders littering most surfaces. He had a big mahogany L-shaped desk and one of those leather chairs with little rivets making a diamond pattern all over it. Bookshelves lined one wall with a little seating area with a table and chairs off to the right. As offices went, it was huge.

It had already been searched.

Josh was nothing if not a clean freak. You could move a magazine sideways on his coffee table and he’d have to come straighten it, usually in less than a minute. He had radar for that kind of thing. Even though things looked neat enough for an ordinary person, the lopsided stacks of papers and disorganized tchotchkes would have sent Josh around the bend.

I went to his desk. I had no idea what I was looking for. I checked out the trace. He’d been here within the last twenty-four hours. It was probably the last place he’d been before he’d gone home and been attacked. Others had followed, but I didn’t recognize their trace.

“Do you have bionic legs or something?” Price asked as he strode in. “Remind me not to try to run you down on foot.”

I would do no such thing. Hopefully when I started running, he’d never catch me. “The door was open,” I said. “The place has been searched. Josh would never leave his office like this.”

Price’s attention sharpened, and he went into cop mode. “What makes you say that?”

“Let’s just say he could walk through a mud bog without getting a drop on him,” I said. “He doesn’t
do
untidy.” I gestured around me. “This is downright messy. He’d go into convulsions before he left it like this.”

He surveyed the room. “The FBI would have seized everything. I’m a little surprised they haven’t cleaned him out already.”

“Maybe Franklin Watley was looking for evidence or sensitive documents. They had to know he was being investigated. If he was embezzling, presumably it was through work.”

“The question is, did they find what they were looking for?”

“Actually, the question is, what are
we
looking for?” I asked. “And don’t go all Velma on me and say clues. ’Cause
duh
. What constitutes a clue?”

“We’ll know it when we see it,” he said, most unhelpfully.

“Gee, thanks, Velma.” I sat down at the desk. I was looking for whatever hadn’t been found. Josh has always been a straight arrow and not particularly imaginative, but he apparently had another side, which meant I should be looking for good hiding places.

I pulled out all the drawers and turned them over, then felt around the drawer cavities for hidden compartments or documents taped inside. I decided I needed to be thorough and I got down on the floor and looked inside.

I didn’t find any secret writing or codes or hidden compartments, but I was beginning to sense a distinct pulse of magic. Except it seemed to come and go. At first I thought I was imagining things, but it kept happening. I stood up and blinked into trace mode, but didn’t see anything except the usual—trails of people coming and going, and a couple of knickknacks holding charm spells. I could usually see evidence of magic in trace mode. There was a safe behind a picture on the wall with a magical lock, but Price and his badge made quick work of that. There wasn’t much inside; some folders, cash, and a velvet box with a diamond and emerald necklace. I’m pretty sure that was destined for Taylor’s neck.

Price left the necklace and cash, and shoved the papers into a satchel he found in the small coat closet. Josh even had a private bathroom. Price disappeared in there to check for anything hidden in the toilet or behind the sink. I doubted he’d find anything. That’s where cops always look. Crooks, too. We all watch the same movies.

That sense of subtle magic kept chewing at me. I paced slowly around the room. The further from the desk I got, the weaker it got. I frowned. There weren’t a lot of tracers who’d even feel it. He must have paid a lot for whatever it was. Nobody else knew it was here, either. If he’d done it—whatever it was—with company consent, they’d have already popped it open. Probably. I was pretty sure the company had done the search. Nothing was damaged. Someone breaking in wouldn’t have cared what sort of mess they left.

I zigzagged back toward the desk, trying to get a better sense of the source of magic.

“What are you doing?” Price asked from the bathroom doorway.

I held up a hand and kept moving. I stopped each time the pulse faded and then inched forward when it returned. The closer I got, the more it quieted. Curiouser and curiouser. Not to mention fucking impressive.

I worked my way to a spot just about where his chair would be if he decided to prop his feet up and look out the window. Not that Josh ever did. He never slowed down enough to just look at the scenery.

The magic quieted. I stepped away from the spot, and it began again. I stepped back on. Stopped.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re doing?” Price demanded. He’d come up to stand on the other side of the desk.

“There’s something in the floor,” I said. I fished in my pocket for my knife. I flicked it open and kneeled down. The rug fought back against the cutting. As soon as I stuck my blade through it, I got stuck. It was like someone had grabbed it in a vise. Magic tingled in my fingers, heating the knife to red-hot. I yanked my hand away and shook it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing I can’t fix,” I said and dug out one of my nulls. It was a marble, just like the two I’d used when we’d run from the goons, but this one was a hell of a lot stronger.

I set it down in the middle of the dead spot and activated it. There was nothing to see, but I could feel my magic spread out like a sponge and suck up the other spell until it was all gone. I kept a finger on the null, palming another in my other hand. The absorbed magic sizzled up through me and I channeled it back into the second marble. Most tracers couldn’t do that, either. Like I said, I’m special. I grimaced inwardly. Sort of like meat in the supermarket that’s about to go rancid and they put it on sale to get rid of it. Having the power I did hadn’t been much of a blessing, to say the least. It hadn’t helped me find out who killed my mother or what happened to my father. I pushed the thought away. Those were old problems.