Keri Arthur - Fireborn

She snorted. “You should check out Denny Rosen if you really want someone untroubled by morals. That man has not gotten where he is by playing nicely, let me tell you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, while Rosen Pharmaceuticals might have held a government contract for research on that damn virus, he wasn’t above sharing the information in order to line his own pockets.”

I frowned. “Why would Rosen risk doing something that could destroy not only a very lucrative contract, but possibly his own company?”

“Greed,” she replied. “It’s a huge motivator. Especially when you’re heavily in debt.”

“And Rosen is?”

She nodded. “To the tune of nearly a million dollars. Apparently, he has a very nasty gambling problem—he’s the type who would bet on two flies walking up a wall if the odds were good enough.”

“And you discovered all this in the brief time he came to see you?”

“Of course.” Her smile was fleeting but smug. “Rosen may be very adept at hiding his problems from government scrutiny, but—as I have said—I’m very good at what I do. And I don’t always have to fuck them to do it. Rosen, unlike Wilson, is an easy read.”

Which made me wonder why the government wasn’t working on some sort of device to prevent the minds of people in such important positions being read. Or maybe they were and, like the red plague virus, it just wasn’t common knowledge.

I glanced in the rearview mirror again. The white Ford wasn’t visible, but that niggling sense of unease refused to abate.

“Have you any idea who Rosen is indebted to?”

Amanda frowned. “That I couldn’t quite catch, as he was trying not to worry about it.” She waved a hand. “But it was a long, titled name that had something to do with a rat.”

“Not Marcus Radcliffe the third?”

“That sounds about right.” She studied me for a moment. “I gather you’ve come across him in your investigations?”

“You might say that.” Unfortunately, Radcliffe was now in Sam’s hands, and he no doubt now knew about Rosen’s debt problems. Of course, that didn’t preclude the possibility of us talking to him. Who knew? We might uncover some morsel Sam had missed.

And at midday tomorrow, vampires would start walking the streets.

I turned onto Spencer Street and said, “Okay, where in Southern Cross have you stashed your bags?”

“It’s locker number ninety-two in the train concourse.”

I grunted and swung into the station’s parking garage. After finding a spot on an upper level, I said, “Do I need a locker key or code?”

“Code. Nine zero five seven.”

I opened the door, then hesitated. “Be here when I get back.”

“I can’t go anywhere without passports or clothes,” she said, expression amused. “I’ll be here.”

I studied her for a moment, not convinced, then half shrugged and got out of the car. But I didn’t go all that far. Once I was out of immediate sight, I stopped the phone recording, ducked down behind an old four-wheel-drive, and waited.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Amanda walked by, my coat fully zipped up so that only the ends of the hospital gown were visible. Unless you looked really close, it simply appeared as if she were wearing a light summer dress. I waited until she’d stepped inside the elevator, watched it descend until it was obvious it was going straight to the ground floor, then ran for the stairs. I called to my spirit form as I did so, felt the fires within surge to life, but—just as quickly—splutter into nothing. Goddamn it, I was still too low in energy to become fire. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and prayed like hell the parking garage’s elevator was as slow as most of them seemed to be. I was almost at the bottom of the stairwell when the door opened and a mom and two kids stepped in. Only fast footwork on her part saved us all. I gave her a quick apology, then dashed out. The concourse was packed. I paused and scanned the crowd heading to and from the retail center above us.

After a second or so, I found Amanda. I tagged along after her, remaining at a distance but nevertheless keeping her in sight. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t head for the lockers in the main train station, but rather the ones located at the bus interchange terminal.

I waited until she’d opened the locker; then, phone in hand and Sam’s number on the screen ready to call, I walked up behind her and said, “Just as well I wasn’t inclined to take the word of a thief and a whore.”

She jumped and turned around, but her expression was one of annoyance more than surprise. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She grimaced. “I guess you’re not as gullible as you seemed.”

“No.” I showed her the phone. “Give me one reason not to hit this number and hand you over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go for it. I know for a fact that is neither Henry Morretti’s number nor anyone else who provides a contactable front for the sindicati.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “It’s actually the number of someone I think might be much worse where you’re concerned.”

“And who might that be? The cops? They’re hardly likely to be concerned about a widow deciding to take a holiday.”

“Maybe not, but I’m betting the police might be interested in our little conversation—which, by the way, I recorded. However, this isn’t a direct line to any cop.” I watched the amusement flee her face. The fury that took its place was an ugly thing to behold. Finally, I was glimpsing the real Amanda Wilson. “This is the number of a PIT detective.”

“And what is PIT?”

“They’re the Paranormal Investigations Team, and sit somewhere between the police and the military.” I plucked the duffel bag from her hands. She resisted, but only briefly. “Basically, they have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to investigate and solve paranormal crimes. I’m afraid your husband’s death falls under that umbrella.”

“And this should scare me because . . . ?”

“Because they are not bound by the same rules as the police.” I slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped back and waved her ahead of me. “I was in their hands recently. They gave me a drug that not only forced me to answer their questions, but restrained my psychic abilities, leaving me unable to defend myself for several hours afterward.”

Her gaze shot to mine. “And what abilities might you have?”

I gave her a smile that held very little humor. “Run again without holding up your end of our bargain, and you just might find out.”

Her gaze lingered on mine for a minute, as if to assess whether I meant what I said; then she sighed. “There’s a USB in the side pocket. That holds all the promised information.”

“Conveniently, I have no computer to check this fact.” Nevertheless, I found the USB and shoved it in my pocket. Then I searched the rest of the bag, found two more, and took those, too.

Her expression became even more sour, and I hadn’t thought that was possible. “And now it’s my turn to demand you uphold your end of the bargain.”

It was tempting—very tempting—to tell her to go to hell, but I’d learned over my many years that karma had a way of biting you on the ass. Breaking a deal—even if it was with someone like Amanda—was never a wise move.

“You know where the car is, so lead the way.”

She did so. Five minutes later, we were driving out of the garage and heading down Spencer Street.

A casual look in the rearview mirror revealed we were once again being followed by a white Ford. This time, that niggling sense of wrongness became a rock.

“What’s wrong?”

I glanced at Amanda. “We’re being followed.”