Women of the Otherworld 10.5 - Counterfeit Magic (9 page)

It was Ethan grabbing the mail, shirt untucked and half-buttoned, feet bare. He stepped halfway out, and propped the door open with his back. Then he stayed there, flipping through the mail with his back to us. I broke my spell and motioned that we’d continue our approach.

We were close enough to call a greeting when Ethan’s cell phone rang. He answered, still sorting mail. Then he stopped.

“Who is this?” he
said,
voice loud and harsh enough to reach us.

We vanished under fresh cover spells.

“Either you give me your name or—” Pause.
“Absolutely not.
Anything you have to say to me, say it in the next thirty seconds or—” Pause. His shoulders went rigid, then he spat. “Fine,” and hung up.

He tossed the mail inside and tucked in his shirt as he stepped in after it. The door didn’t even get a chance to close before he was striding out again, shoes and keys in hand. Seconds later, the Mercedes roared from the drive.

“Follow?” Savannah said as she broke her spell.

“Absolutely.”

* * * *

Ethan went straight to the club, fast enough that I was glad I’d let Savannah take the wheel. We parked where we had after last night’s match, then cut through the wooded field again. Ethan’s car was there, alongside an old Camaro, complete with an eagle on the hood and big-breasted women on the mud-flaps.

“Classy,” Savannah said. “Love the mud flaps. I didn’t think they still made those.”

“No hit on the plate,” I said as I finished searching it on my phone. “Fake.”

“Like I
said,
a classy guy. Since we don’t have a name, I vote for Guido.” She caught my look. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure there are perfectly nice guys named Guido.
In some universe.”

We made our way inside the barn. Ethan and his guest—no, I wasn’t calling him Guido—
were
in the office. We zipped into the main room under blur spells. In the silence, the voices came clearly through the closed office door.

Ethan was talking. “—listened to what you have to say. Now I’d like you to leave.”

“I’m only trying to help,” the other man whined.

“No, you’re trying to blackmail me. I suspect you’re new to it, so let me give you some advice. In order to
effect
a successful blackmail scheme, you need to know something blackmail worthy.
Something important to your victim.”

“Important? Your brother is trying to sabotage your operation here and—”

“The second piece of advice? Do your research. Make sure your information is reliable. If you’re going to try passing off lies, at least be sure the lie will work. Know who you’re dealing with.”

“I know who I’m dealing with. A guy who gave up his
life
to look after a kid brother who’s now—”

“Turning on him.
Ruining the business.
After I devoted my life to raising him.
After I built this club so he’d have a place to fight. Is this where I start ranting? Swear vengeance? As I said,
sir
, do your research. You’ve cast me in a very poorly fitting role. You can bring me all the evidence you want; my answer will remain the same. I trust my brother.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Perhaps I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have
work
to do.”

* * * *

We zipped out ahead of Ethan and his visitor. The other man left. We followed and got a few pictures of him. Then we went back to the barn.

Ethan was still in his office.

“Hey,” Savannah said. “I hope it’s okay coming by like this—”

He turned in his chair, the squeak cutting Savannah short.

“Hello, Georgia,” he said. “Or do you prefer Savannah?”

Before I could find my voice, Ethan continued. “You woke me up in the middle of the night, you know. I suddenly remembered where I knew you from. Well, not you.
Your mother.
I met her once. I was sixteen, just starting to see ghosts. My father had heard that Eve Levine knew a spell that would fix that.”

“Fix it?”

“Take away my powers. Or at least make them more manageable. Necromancy drove my grandmother mad.
An old story.
My father didn’t want that for me, so he took me to your mother. Turned out the rumor was false. There is no such spell. She was nice enough about it, considering her reputation. Gave us some vervain to help me banish ghosts and told us where to buy more.”

“Since you know my mother’s rep, you know why I used a fake name. No one’s going into a ring against Eve Levine’s daughter.”

“True, but that’s not the side of the family you’re trying to hide. I contacted a few sources this morning. Information is still trickling in, but I did get the identity of your father.
Clever of the Nasts, sending a witch as a spy.
Please tell your family that if they insist on sending spies and blackmailers, I’ll file a complaint with the interracial council. I hear they’re actually getting off their asses and doing something about issues like this.”

“We’re trying,” I said.

Ethan turned to me, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“If you want to complain to the council, that’d be her,” Savannah said. “Alternatively, you could hire Lucas Cortez to defend you. That’d also be her. But if you want to send a message to the Nasts, that
wouldn’t
be me. I could try, but I think they have special spells on their L.A. office now, just to make sure I don’t get past the front door.”

I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Paige Winterbourne. I’m—”

“Head of the interracial council,” Ethan finished. “And wife to Lucas Cortez.”

It’d been a long time since I’d been identified in that order.
“Right on both counts.
But I’m not here representing the council or the Cabal. I’m investigating the death of Jared Cookson—the young man who bet against his teleporting half-demon sister. Can we talk?”

Brotherly Love

Once we’d settled into chairs in Ethan’s tiny office, I explained the situation. As investigative techniques went, this was far from ideal. But he’d thrown us a curve ball with his knowledge of Savannah, and coming clean seemed my only option.

When I finished, Ethan took a moment to gather his thoughts, calmly, seemingly unconcerned that it might make him appear to be concocting a story. As he paused, I looked around the office.
A sterile and efficient workspace… with one exception.
On a shelf, amidst binders and books, were half a dozen boxing and wrestling trophies.

Tommy’s awards, not displayed in the main room as advertising, but here, kept by Ethan.
Odd that he’d do that if he’d dissuaded Tommy from a professional career.

“If Jared Cookson is dead, we know nothing about it,” Ethan said finally. “Yes, we thought he cheated. Yes, Tommy discussed it with him. And by discussed, I don’t mean he took him for a beer and gave him betting advice. Tommy is our enforcer, however uncomfortable he might be in the role. He followed the boy and demanded our money back. Jared resisted. According to Tommy, he didn’t resist past a few blows. After getting our money back, Tommy left him walking and talking.”

“Or so Tommy said,” Savannah said.

“Which means it’s the truth. But I don’t expect you to believe that, so please feel free to ask him yourself.”

“A blow to the head could still do it,” I said. “Like that fighter who collapsed last night. Jared walked away,
then
later he became disoriented from a concussion and ended up in the bay.”

Ethan shook his head. “Tommy is very careful about that. No hard blows to the head. An attack designed to scare, not seriously injure.”

“Maybe that’s his usual way of handling things,” Savannah said. “But that’s not how this one went down.
The kid smart-mouthed Tommy.
Or your brother’s adrenaline was running high from the club. Things got out of hand.”

“Not Tommy.”

“You keep saying that. We heard you saying it to that blackmailer, too. Protesting a little much, don’t you think?”

Ethan’s cool gaze met hers. “Not protesting at all.
Simply stating facts.”

“That blackmailer accused Tommy of betraying you,” I said.
“Of trying to shut down the club.
He said he had evidence.”

“Manufactured evidence.”

“You sound damned sure of that,” Savannah said.

“I am.”

“What did he accuse Tommy of?” I asked.

Now those cool eyes turned my way. “A matter unrelated to this boy’s death. A matter that is being taken care of and that, I can assure you, has nothing to do with my brother.”

A matter of murder, the death of two fighters.
A matter that someone thought was related to Tommy
Gallante
. I wasn’t sure I disagreed.

* * * *

We tried to get more from Ethan, but the only thing he’d provide was a location for his brother. To be honest, I was surprised he gave that, but I suppose he knew we’d track him down sooner or later, and he didn’t want to start trouble with the council.

Tommy was at a gym in Santa Cruz, where he worked part-time, as Ethan did as a paramedic, providing a legitimate source of income for the authorities.

The gym was what I’d expect—shabby but clean, a place for local fighters to train and a place for neighborhood kids to learn the basics.

“And look who teaches the kiddies,” Savannah said, rapping her knuckle against a dog-eared poster. It promised free after-school lessons, taught by former state champion Tommy
Gallante
.

“I bet he does it for free, too.” She shook her head. “Some people, huh?
Raising a kid who isn’t their own.
Running a squeaky clean business.
Finding time for community work.
There’s good and then there’s too good.”

“I’m not sure how good you can be if you’re running an illegal gambling operation.”

She looked at me. “You’re running an illegal gambling operation?”

“I thought we were talking about the
Gallantes
.”

“Oh, right. Damn.” She looked over at me. “Do you think we
could
run an illegal gambling operation?”

I pushed her toward the doors. She swung them open and breezed through, and for perhaps the first time since she’d turned sixteen, Savannah walked into a room full of young men and not one glanced her way. That may have had something to do with the drama playing out ringside.

A hulking young man was leaning over the ropes, sweat dripping from his bald head. Behind him, his opponent staggered toward his corner, blood trailing in his wake.

“Now will you fight me, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch?” the bald fighter shouted to someone ringside.

The reply came so softly I barely heard it. “No, and it doesn’t matter how many bouts you win, Max, I’m not ever going to fight you.”

With a snarl of rage, the fighter leapt over the ropes and flew at his unseen target. Two guys rushed in to the other man’s defense, but he only rose from the bench, waving them off. As he did, I saw his face. Tommy
Gallante
.

Tommy stood his ground as the bald fighter loomed over him.

“I’m not fighting you, Max, and that’s not an insult. I’m just not interested.”