Vendetta (14 page)

“I
said
I can take care of myself,” she said. “And it looks like you can’t.”

Despite his predicament, Gabe laughed. He held out his hand and she helped him up. Her hand was strong around his.

“How many black belts do you have?” he asked.

“Four. And I’m a sixth-degree in taekwondo,” she said. She made a fist with her right hand, pressed it against her open left hand, and bowed. “Although we are taught to remain humble about our achievements.”

He imitated her gesture and bowed back. “I honor you.”

She straightened and began to walk again and this time he kept up with her. He had no idea where she was taking him and he was glad he was still armed. He spotted security cameras pointed at strategic spots and wondered who was monitoring them.

They came to a large building attached to the main house that Gabe assumed was a garage. She keyed in a code and the door thrummed open. She stepped over the threshold and Gabe followed after.

They were standing in a weapons armory. Submachine guns hung from racks and semiautomatics and other sorts of handguns lined metal shelves. Boxes of ammunition were arranged in rows the way some people lined up their spices.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” she said.

Her demeanor had changed. She was not the shrinking violet she had originally portrayed herself to be. He wondered if she had a society pin of her own, and if she had been at the meeting that night. It would have been a simple matter to take it off and conceal it once it was clear that the authorities were trying to round up the organization’s members.

“Well,” he said, “it looks like you’re up to the task. Do you have any idea where your father might have gone that you haven’t shared with the police? If you had reason to withhold information—” she drew herself up, offended “—I understand, and I need to know it. Now.”

She looked at him blankly. Then she studied the arsenal of weapons and crossed her arms. Whatever bravado she had mustered to take him down and lead him here, it was evaporating.

“You said he called you,” Gabe said. “Did you inform the police of that that last night?”

She hesitated, and then she shook her head. “He told me not to.”

“That’s okay,” he soothed. “Did you try calling him back?”

“Yes. It was blocked.”

Not for law enforcement
, he thought. He said, “If you know your father’s password we can try to trace the GPS coordinates of where he used it.” It was a long shot, but maybe Ellison had a system in place to allow his daughter to contact him when other people couldn’t.

She hesitated. He just waited. Then she nodded and said, “Okay. I do know it. All right.”

Once Gabe had the coordinates, he punched them into the map function on his own phone. A map came up with a pin for a location in upstate New York, near the Canadian border. He showed it to her and she nodded eagerly.

“We have a lake house there.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Now we have somewhere to look.”

“Then let’s pack.”

She picked up an Uzi and handed it to him. She hefted a Glock G28—available to law enforcement only—and set it down. She selected a G26 instead. The G26 was smaller, more lightweight. It was telling that she didn’t have a packed “go” bag containing weapons, clothing, money, and other necessities. She didn’t embark on commando raids like this as a matter of course. But her single-mindedness also told him that she knew how to use these weapons, and had before, in some capacity.

She reached beneath the shelf and picked up a leather bag. She put the Glock into a holster and grabbed a box of the correct caliber of ammunition. She took the Uzi from him as well and packed it.

When she was finished, Gabe hoisted the strap over his shoulder. Soon they were heading toward the front door. Bruce Fox met them there. He looked from Celeste to the bag to Gabe and subtly blocked the exit. Gabe noticed and went on guard.

Inside job?
he wondered.
Can Fox be trusted?

“Miss Ellison, may I ask where you’re going?”

“Just downtown to look at some photographs,” Gabe answered for her. “We may have a lead regarding her father’s absence.”

“We were told we couldn’t file a missing person’s report for twenty-four hours,” Fox said.

“That was before I became involved,” Gabe replied. “Now if you’ll let us pass.”

Fox looked at Celeste. “May I ask what’s in the bag?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Gabe asked.

Boom, his hackles were raised. He said, “As you may surmise, Mr. Lowan, I’m charged with ensuring Miss Ellison’s safety when her father’s not present.”

“Duly noted,” Gabe said. He flashed his own version of the polite, professional smile and made it clear that he and Celeste were leaving together. Fox scowled at him, then sighed and made way.

“Please check in, Miss Ellison,” Fox said to her. “And if you hear from your father, please let us know.”

“Please do the same,” she said crisply.

Then they were out the door.

“We’ll take my car,” Gabe said. When she looked over at him, he added, “Less easy to track.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

C
at forced herself to doze until she just couldn’t lie still any longer. She groaned, turned over, and covered her head with her pillow, but it was no good. Her brain was engaged, puzzling the few clues she and Tess had gathered about Angelo DeMarco’s disappearance, then shifting to pondering her father’s. Her heart thudded as if it were revving up to normal speed through her exhaustion and she licked her lips. Then she slid a hand over to Vincent’s side of the bed. An experimental touch of the mattress came back empty; Vincent was gone.

But he had programmed her coffee pot to begin dripping at eleven-fifty-five—
how had he known?
—and as she finished her shower, put her hair in a ponytail, and padded out to the kitchen, her first cup of the day was steamy and tasty.

Like him.

There was a text on her phone:
Nothing yet.
The number was one she didn’t recognize. A new burner phone for Vincent. She counted back three days. Yes. It was time for her to switch, too. It was like their first months together, stealth and phone numbers that lasted three days, stolen moments… and falling in love.

Despite everything—the seriousness of Vincent’s predicament, Angelo DeMarco’s dire situation—it felt good to collaborate on a case with Vincent the way they had in early days of their relationship. It felt right. They had done a lot of good to protect victims, exonerate the falsely accused, and deliver the guilty to the DA. Although Vincent was in terrible danger, he had been back then, too, and they had still managed to help a lot of people. In some ways it was easier now, because they could include Tess and J.T. in their work. They had procedures in place to protect themselves. And they had a clearer view of who their enemies were.

Like Gabe
.

But Cat refused to give Gabe any more space in her mind as she quickly dressed in a blousy white shirt, dressy jeans, and her flat boots, and met Tess at the precinct. Tess was glowing—at least, she was until she took a sip from her travel mug—and Cat grinned at her.

“Why didn’t you just dump it out and go to Il Cantuccio?” Cat asked her.

Tess rolled her eyes. “For the dumbest reason I can think of: J.T. made it for me.” She held up a hand. “Don’t tease me. I’m so mortified.”

“Tess, I wouldn’t tease you about that. It’s sweet.”

“He looks so happy when he makes it. It would be like kicking a puppy.”

Cat thought a moment. “Does he drink it too?”

“Yes. He doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with it. He thinks a French press is something you would buy at Easy Pickin’s.”

“You should tell him. He’s smart, Tess. He’ll figure it out. And it’ll be like the Valentine’s Day flowers—more embarrassing than if it comes straight from you.”

Captain Ward was in, and they made known their objections to their treatment at the hands of Agents Ass and Hat—their private names for them, of course. Captain Ward surprised them by telling them that Gonzales had personally called him that morning to praise them for locating the vagrant and “saving his life.” If that was a move calculated to take the wind out of the sails of “the girl team,” it didn’t, but it did reinforce Cat and Tess’s observation that Gonzales was at least trying to act like less of an ass than Robertson. Or else he was just shiftier.

They tried researching the alleged phone number on the Turntable matchbook, sampling a wide variety of area codes, with no luck. Then Cat suggested they try changing the last numeral at the end of the string and bam, success:

“Maple Studios,” a woman’s voice said.

“Hello, may I ask what kind of studio you are?” Cat said, as Tess began typing into her desktop computer. A website popped up. Maple Recording Studios, located on Long Island.

As Cat tapped the screen with her finger, the woman said impatiently, “A recording studio.” As if that should be obvious and Cat was an idiot for not knowing. Pure New York all the way. “Like for musicians? Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m working with a guitarist named Angelo DeMarco,” Cat said. “He told me to book another session with you and to set it up for the same time as before, but I, well, I can’t find my notes and I don’t remember what he told me. Can you help me out?”

“No,” the woman said.

“Please?” Cat pushed. “He said he’d, like, fire me.”

“Wait. Are you talking about Angel?”

Cat looked at Tess, who silently applauded. Cat reached in her purse and grabbed Angelo’s eight-by-ten glossy photograph. She described him to the woman.

“Yeah. Sounds like Angel.”

“Oh my God,
please
help me out,” Cat pleaded. “It’s Tuesdays at three, right?”

“Look, we promise our clients privacy.”

Cat sniffled. “He said one more mistake and I’m history.”

She sounded indignant. “Are you kidding? What is he, sixteen?”

“He’s rich.” Cat sighed. “And I really need this job.”

“I thought so.” The woman sounded smug… and resentful. “I figured he must have a daddy paying the bills. Because he’s not making any money with
that
voice, know what I mean?”

“I
do
,” Cat whispered. “So… wait, it was Thursday, right?”

“Yes. It was always Thursdays. But he hasn’t been in nearly a month.”

“Oh.” Cat feigned confusion. “He told me he was just there.”

“Nope.”

Cat was just about to thank the woman for her time when the woman said, “Have you tried Soundaround? He went a couple times, told me they overcharged. Maybe he went back, gave them another shot.”

“That doesn’t sound familiar,” Cat said. “Can you think of anywhere else I might try?”

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this line of work, honey? My niece just graduated from beauty school. She’s set for life. People will always need their hair done.”

“Next time I come in with Angel I’ll have to check out your hairstyle,” Cat said.

“DeMarco,” the woman mused. “That sounds familiar.”

“It’s a very common name,” Cat said. “There’s DeMarcos all over New York.”

“Well, I wish I could help you out, but just look in the phone listings and maybe you’ll find the right studio. You know, you can specialize in beauty treatments. Do waxing, or nails…”

“Okay, thank you so much.” Cat hung up.

“Got it and got it,” Tess said. “Good work.”

Cat had to go to court to testify on an unrelated case—testifying was a frequent duty for law enforcement officers—and when she returned after lunch, Tess had acquired a warrant to begin a financial forensics investigation into Angelo DeMarco. At the suggestion of Captain Ward, the warrant had been carefully worded and kept very narrow to avoid a toss-back from a judge, none of whom wanted to go toe-to-toe with Tony DeMarco.

Still, through the years, Cat and Tess had refined their ability to find one breadcrumb, then two, until they launched themselves on a trajectory to answers. They would never have lost their bragging rights as having the most cleared cases in the city if it weren’t for the fact that most of their recent work had been off the books.

One of the first crumbs they examined was a series of payments Angelo had made to Claudia McEvers, which stunned them both. That was the redheaded security staffer at the penthouse, the one who had provided a retinal scan
and
warned them to steer clear of Robertson and Gonzales.

As detectives do, they tossed theories back and forth about why Angelo would have dealings with McEvers. Their ideas ranged from the reasonable—maybe she did side work for him off the books, went on errands for him or made payments he didn’t want his father to know about—to the ridiculous: she was his mother, her appearance altered by plastic surgery, and he wanted to help support her without drawing attention to his actions by doling out too much cash.

“Or how about this: Claudia is
blackmailing
Angelo,” Tess ventured.

“But the amounts are never the same.” Cat opened up more windows on the screen. “She’s got a decent bank balance. Savings, retirement plan.”

“She buys his beer,” Tess said. “Or his cocaine. Or pays for his recording time. About Maple’s policy about protecting clients. If you were a famous rock star, you wouldn’t want your groupies to know your schedule.”

“Or a kidnapper. Maybe the kidnapper followed him there, and targeted him,” Cat said.

“Exactly,” Tess replied.

Because they could now look into McEvers bank account to follow Angelo DeMarco’s payments, they were able to justify prying into her work history. By mid-afternoon, they had established that she had once worked for Curt Windsor, and the breadcrumbs became nuggets of gold. Curt Windsor was Tori Windsor’s father, and the man Vincent had been recently indicted for murdering. And yes, Vincent
had
murdered him, after Windsor had beasted out. Cat had watched Vincent break Windsor’s chest open with his fist and yank out his still-beating heart.

Curt Windsor had been a beast, but not like Vincent. He had been a corrupt, evil bully who transformed into an even worse beast, and he would probably killed his daughter, Tori, if Vincent hadn’t “kidnapped” her. It turned out that when beasts were in each other’s presence, they had a multiplying effect on their bestial natures—they were more aggressive and feral, mindlessly violent. Once that had been made known, Cat had better understood Vincent’s barbaric execution of Windsor.