The Thief

When she could speak, she said in a rough way, “What of Eduardo? Have you found anything of him?”

“No. We have not.”

“Why would anyone hurt them?” she asked, partially to have it look good, but also as an expression of her true sorrow.

They had been children once. They had all been children…once. How had it come to this? Then again, given how hard and horrible their youngest years had been, and the means by which Ricardo had lifted them out of that poverty, how else could it have ended?

“Why…” she breathed.

“Ms. Benloise, do you really want me to answer that?”

She pulled herself out of the past. “Yes.”

“If you notice the time stamp, you’ll see that it’s well after business hours. And yet there are three guards on the premises as your brother works late—and the security cameras watch only the back door and gallery space, not either of your brothers’ offices or the entire rear portion of this building. And the reality is, when we continued to view the footage, there were a number of other people who came and went, all after hours, all to see your brother upstairs. You’ve got to ask yourself, what kind of legitimate business could he possibly be doing?”

“I…I don’t know.” She looked into the man’s kind brown eyes. “What of the bodies, though? There were dead guards when they left?”

“One of the men came back. It was just before dawn. He worked fast and took them out. They must have gotten access to the security code or a key somehow. By the time the staff returned in at nine a.m., everything was cleaned up.”

Vitoria sat back and stared straight ahead.

“My question to you is,” the detective said, “do you recognize either of those men who took your brother?”

“Let me watch again.”

She reviewed the footage two more times, leaning in as close as she could get to the screen. When she sat back again, she did not have to lie.

“No, I do not. I’ve never seen them before.”

But she would recognize them in the future, for sure. That was why she had watched again and then one more time.

De la Cruz cleared his throat. “This should not surprise you, but that was not the first time that man in the overcoat came to see your brother.”

“No?”

“He had been there before that night. We have the footage a good month or so prior to that attack—and he had been to the gallery a number of times.”

Vitoria made a noncommittal noise and stared ahead, summoning in her mind the features she had seen on both of those killers.

“Ms. Benloise, you told me that you were staying in your brother’s West Point house.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “I am.”

“Would you mind if we searched those premises and got access to any video monitoring equipment there is on that property?”

Vitoria tried to marshal her thoughts—and after a moment, she nodded. “Certainly. Help yourself.”

It was naive of her to think that no other people would have shown up on the footage—people who might be arrested in conjunction with illegal activity thanks to what she had allowed the police to see.

Was she doing herself and her ambitions harm in granting further access? What if the business she had come to take over got decimated by all this evidence? Then again, the police undoubtedly knew far more than they were letting on.

And if she had to start everything from scratch, then she would.

The detective started to talk again, but she wasn’t paying him any attention. She was too busy trying to chess-move this evolving situation. And in the end, she knew she didn’t really have a choice with regard to the West Point house. If she didn’t give them permission, it would be as it had been here at the gallery—they would very certainly get a court to clear any obstacles she might put up.

Besides, it was critical that those two attackers be stopped, whether she did it behind the scenes or the police did it in front: If she wanted to be in business, she might well be a target as Ricardo and Eduardo’s sister—kill or be killed had never been more applicable.

Although that was assuming those men were still alive. Perhaps their fates had already been served by someone else?

“I want to help you in any way I can,” she intoned, whether or not that was appropriate to whatever he was saying.

“We appreciate that.” There was a pause. “I just have one more question for you. What were you doing here the night you came after hours?”

Vitoria shook herself. “I’m sorry?”

“The security footage from three nights ago shows you arriving at the rear door and being let into the gallery by a man. Can you please explain what you were doing?”

She cleared her throat and projected upset. “As I hadn’t heard from my brothers, I called a number they had given me long before all this. A man answered. He told me to come to the gallery as soon as it was convenient and so I did.”

“Does that man work for the gallery?”

“I believe he does security. He made me feel…very uncomfortable. He threatened me—I was scared so I departed as soon as I could. And you know, it was odd. Margot and I—when she came to see me before she left the night she was killed…you know, I never put this together…” She looked up in alarm at the detective. “But she brought him up. She told me…she said he had made a pass at her, but she had turned him down and…I mean, she seemed scared.”

“What is the man’s name?”

“Streeter. His name is Streeter. I didn’t mention this before because where I am from, we do not speak of such things. But it is all different now. Everything…is different now.”

“Would you be willing to come down to headquarters and give a statement?”

“Is there any way I could do it tomorrow? I really…I want to go lie down. I’m not feeling well…”

“Absolutely.”

She stared into his eyes. “I want you to catch those evil men, Detective de la Cruz. They need to be in jail for the rest of their lives for what they did to Ricardo—and what they must have done to my other brother.”

De la Cruz nodded. “That’s my job, Ms. Benloise. And I’m very good at it.”

FORTY-EIGHT

As night fell, and Jane continued to sleep in their bed, Vishous went out naked to his computers and sat in his Captain Kirk chair. He had taken his leather jacket with him as he’d left their room, and after he lit up a hand-rolled, he went fishing in its pockets.

The civilian Whinnig’s gun was your garden-variety poodle shooter, a nothing-special Smith & Wesson nine millimeter, and as he kicked out the clip, he checked the bullets. There were three left, and he freed them of their confines, rolling them around in his palm.

Why hadn’t they worked against that entity? V had shot the shit out of the shadow that had gone after him and had wounded it. But Whinnig had said that his bullets had gone right through without effect—and his injuries had certainly been consistent with an undeterred attack from a strong enemy.

Maybe the report was false. After all, the kid who had died—and come back, hello—hadn’t been combat trained. But, Jesus, how trained did you have to be to notice whether or not you were wounding the thing trying to kill you?

Sitting forward, he lined up the three bullets in a little row, their flat bottoms and copper-colored hats exactly what you’d expect to see from the kind of civilian ammo you could get in a Dick’s Sporting Goods store.

The thing V worried about was whether the Omega was improving on a prototype. Shoring up weaknesses in a creation to make it a more effective weapon. The vampire race’s enemy was soulless, evil, and a scourge on the fucking planet—but it was far from stupid. And a weapon that couldn’t withstand getting shot at was less effective than one that could.

V sat back and smoked for a while, his brain cranking along on the variables.

When his mental calculator kept showing him zeroes, he got frustrated and decided to check in with some of the Facebook groups to see if anything was out in the species yet about the attack. The brother, Aarone, had gone home and was undoubtedly talking to people in the glymera.