Keri Arthur - Fireborn

“You own a large chunk of forest?”

He nodded. “As I said, I need to be able to commune with nature on a regular basis.”

We came out of the forest abruptly. The clearing was lush and green and sloped gently down toward a stream that was rock-lined and dotted with winter flowers.

He stopped and got out, then grabbed a basket from the back of the truck and motioned me to follow him. We walked down to the stream, where he set up a picnic on a grass verge near the cheerfully bubbling water.

“So,” he said, flipping the basket open to reveal sandwiches, cakes, a bottle of wine, and a thermos. “Tell me about phoenixes. Are you creatures of flame or flesh?”

“Technically, neither. We’re spirits who have three forms available to us—flesh, fire, and bird.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Bird?”

I half shrugged. “A firebird. It’s a form that’s really only practical at sunset, because it’s the only time our rather exotic red, orange, and yellow plumage doesn’t stand out.”

“Huh.” He opened the wine and poured two glasses. “Is it true that a phoenix rises from the ashes of its death?”

I nodded. “We have a life span of one hundred years.”

“Meaning you have to relive those shitty teenage years over and over?” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “That has to be the pits.”

I grinned. “We only have to do it once. We’re reborn into adulthood after that.”

He handed me a glass, then raised his own. “To never having to face teenage years more than once. And the hope that this sharing of information doesn’t end here.”

I snorted softly, but nevertheless clicked my glass against his. The wine was cool and fruity without being too sweet. “Speaking of information sharing, how about you start?”

He opened one of the foil-wrapped packages, revealing chicken and avocado on rye. “Have you ever heard of a Professor James Wilson?”

I picked up one of the sandwiches and shook my head as I bit into it. It tasted incredible, but I was always horribly famished after a flame up, and I demolished it rather than savoring it like it deserved.

“Ah,” he said, eating the other half at a more leisurely pace. “He worked in the research division of Rosen Pharmaceuticals.”

Who just happened to be one of our major competitors and was, coincidently, owned and run by Lady Harriet’s ex. To say the two did not get along was like saying rain was wet.

“Wilson was murdered while on his way home two weeks ago,” he continued. “According to witnesses, the killer had a scythelike tattoo on his right cheek and wore a red-hooded cloak.”

What was the likelihood of Baltimore and Wilson—both of whom worked for privately funded research labs—being murdered within a matter of weeks of each other and the murders not being connected somehow? Realistically, slender to none. We might have no witnesses for Mark’s murder, and he might have been tortured rather than torn apart by a red cloak, but it still seemed too much of a coincidence. At least to my radar, anyway.

And yet something Jackson had said earlier niggled. I frowned. “Why did you seem so surprised to see our dead red cloak, given the description you were given matched the ones that chased us?”

“Because they really don’t match. All the witnesses were close enough to note a marking on his cheek and yet made no mention of the way he smelled, his gauntness, or the red eyes. That seems rather odd to me.”

“Witnesses to hideous crimes are often unreliable when it comes to providing solid information.”

He grimaced. “I know, but it still strikes me as odd.”

I wondered if Sam thought it was odd, too. Not that he’d ever tell me one way or another. “What happened to the red cloak? Did anyone try to stop him?”

“No, and you can’t blame anyone for that, given Wilson was apparently sliced up pretty badly. The red cloak disappeared down a nearby sewer drain, and no one has seen him since.”

And weren’t likely to, I suspected, unless they were game enough to head into Brooklyn. Was that the real reason Sam had been there the night I’d saved his life? Had he been trying to find Wilson’s murderer? It seemed logical—and it would also explain why the red cloaks had been so determined to get rid of him. Maybe he’d been close to uncovering their location.

“So was Wilson simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, or do you think there’s something more behind his murder?”

“Personally, I think it’s very likely the sindicati are behind it.”

The sindicati were basically the vampire version of the mafia—only a hell of a lot more dangerous. I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because the sindicati have a finger in every nasty pie in this city, so why couldn’t they be involved in the murder of a scientist working on a top-secret project?”

“They’re more likely to attempt to kidnap him and gain his secrets than kill him,” I said. “He’s no good to anyone dead. Besides, I can’t imagine them working with the likes of the red cloaks.”

“They’d work with whoever—or whatever—was best suited to the job they wanted done.” Jackson’s voice was grim, making me suspect he’d had dealings—or, at the very least, crossed paths—with the sindicati in the past. He added, “However, I haven’t been hired to find Wilson’s murderer. My employer is more interested in retrieving his research.”

My eyebrows rose. “When was his research stolen?”

“The day after his murder. Whoever did it hacked into Wilson’s computers at the research foundation and completely erased every note Wilson had made.”

“They didn’t have backups?”

“They did. Someone broke into the foundation the same night and did a hatchet job on the backup system.”

All of which was a chilling echo of what had happened after Baltimore’s murder. “Have they tried to retrieve the erased information?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t successful.”

Meaning whoever was responsible knew a thing or two about computers, because it wasn’t easy to so completely erase information from a hard drive. “So who’s your employer? And what does this have to do with Professor Baltimore’s murder?”

He unwrapped another package, this time revealing thick slabs of corned beef on sourdough with a lavish helping of mustard pickle. Not my favorite, but given how much my belly was still rumbling, I wasn’t about to be picky.

“Denny Rosen—the company president, not the gadabout son—employed me after getting little satisfaction from the team the investigation was handed over to.”

Three guesses as to who that was, I thought, amusement running through me. “I don’t suppose you know the name of the detective currently in charge?”

“Sam Turner.” He paused, eyeing me. “You know him?”

“Used to.” I shrugged and tried to ignore that tiny, insane fraction that wished I still did. “Good luck getting information about the case out of him. He’s always been a clam when it comes to discussing any aspect of his work.”

“I actually make a point of not talking to the cops. They tend to get antsy about private investigators snooping around their patch during an ongoing investigation.”

“That’s probably a good move.” I licked the sweet pickle mustard off my fingers and said, “So why did Rosen point you in Baltimore’s direction? I’m gathering he’s not just doing it to piss off his ex.”

“He’s not.” He picked up his wine. “Although I suspect there is an element of that. They sure do seem to hate each other.”

Well, given the rumors suggesting infidelity and theft of research on both their parts, I could understand why. At least they had good reasons for the hate, unlike a certain cop I knew.