Ilona Andrews - Wildfire

“Did you clone her phone?”

Rogan winked at me.

“We found the recording of Brian’s kidnapping,” I said. “I emailed it to Bern. He probably shared it with Bug already.”

He stopped typing. “And you didn’t show it to me?”

“If I showed it to you, Rynda would’ve seen it. It would accomplish nothing except wind her up even tighter.” I headed to my car.

Rogan caught up with me. “Where are you going?”

“Back to BioCore. I have to convince Edward Sherwood to call House Rio and get an audience so I can eliminate them as suspects.”

“It’s not House Rio,” Rogan said. “I ran a financial analysis of BioCore. House Sherwood isn’t a threat to anyone in its current state.”

“I know, but I have to cross my t’s and dot my i’s.”

“I’ll come with you.”

If Sherwood decided to stonewall me and Cornelius, Rogan would come in handy. It was one thing to shut out Baylor Investigative Agency and a Significant of a minor House. It was another thing to say no to Mad Rogan.

I pretended to mull it over. “Promise not to break any buildings.”

He gave me his most polite dragon smile. “I promise.”

Cornelius and I used the driving time to brief Rogan on our morning visit there. I parked in the same spot, got out, and the three of us marched to its doors. The two security guards were still at their posts. The shorter one rose. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

“Please let Edward know that I have information about his brother,” I said. “Also, this is Mad Rogan.”

Rogan glowered.

The shorter guard paled. His friend picked up the phone and spoke into it in a quick, urgent whisper.

Rogan was examining the door.

“Please don’t break it,” I murmured.

“I want to see the apple tree with mushrooms.”

“If you stand right here, I’m sure you’ll see it when Edward comes out.”

A couple of minutes passed, then the white doors slid open, and Edward emerged, looking pissed off.

“So you’re behind this,” he said to Rogan. “And you brought your pet truthseeker with you.”

Apparently, Edward had found the Assembly newsletter that told him who I was and who my witnesses were. I wondered how many people knew I was a truthseeker by now. A familiar anxiety pinched me. I’d spent my life guarding my secret, because I didn’t want to end up as an interrogator. It didn’t matter anymore. Once we were a House, I could fend off any three letter agencies pressuring me to do their dirty work.

“She’s nobody’s pet,” Rogan said. “Least of all mine.”

And then he smiled. I knew exactly what happened when he smiled like that. If I didn’t spring into action, the building would collapse on Edward’s head.

“Don’t get upset,” I said. “He’s jealous of you because he’s in love with Rynda and you’re her ex-fiancé.”

Edward Sherwood turned a lovely purple color. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Cornelius smiled.

Rogan watched Edward with casual interest. “Like I said, nobody’s pet. Your brother has been kidnapped. Would you like to see the footage?”

Edward regained his ability to speak and decided that he would, indeed, like to see the footage. We moved to his office, where he viewed the recording. Then he swore and ranted for about five minutes. Words like “idiot” and “moron” and “told him a hundred times to take a bodyguard” were said. He balked at going to see House Rio, because he didn’t want BioCore and House Sherwood to appear weak. Then Rogan opened his mouth and all sorts of financial information fell out, and Edward decided that Rogan was right and they couldn’t look any weaker than they did already.

The visit to House Rio took four hours, primarily because their headquarters was across town and traffic was murder. We met with the Head of the House, her three sons, two daughters, and everyone’s spouses. Nobody knew anything about Brian’s kidnapping, nobody orchestrated it, nobody perpetrated it, and everyone told the truth.

On the way back to our base, Bug provided Rogan with an update. He and Bern had done wonders with the security recording, and tracked Brian’s car and the kidnappers’ vehicle all the way to I-10 West, at which point they left Houston proper and entered the stretch of small towns and a whole lot of nothing that lay between Houston and San Antonio. The proverbial trail went cold. I asked Rogan to drive so Cornelius and I could review Bern’s report. My cousin had combed Brian’s social networks and broken into his personal email account. The results were depressing.

“It has to be connected to Olivia,” I said. “Brian lived his life without making any waves: he went to work, he came home, he had no affairs, he expressed no strong political or religious views, he made no friends and no enemies.”

“So the man is a mushroom.” Rogan raised his eyebrows at me.

“Don’t be mean. He had one social network account.”

“Oh?”

“Pinterest.”

“Tell me it’s porn. Please.”

“He saved pictures of mushrooms to it,” Cornelius said helpfully from the backseat.

Rogan sighed. “I don’t understand why she married him.”

“You told me before that she married him because she needed stability.” Something Rogan couldn’t give Rynda even if he tried.

“Let me rephrase. I don’t understand why she stayed married to him. This isn’t stability, this is a slow suffocation.” Rogan turned onto our street, guiding the car past the security booth. “Rynda wanted to be loved. She needed to be loved. She needed someone who would take that extra step to support and shield her. Most of all, she needed someone to step up and be there. Instead she got this prick who torments his brother and runs away at the first sign of trouble, leaving her to pick up the pieces.”

“It’s not too late. You could be that strong supportive man for her.” And it just fell out.

Rogan parked the car in front of the warehouse, turned, and looked at me, his blue eyes incredulous. “Are you jealous?”

“Nope,” I lied.

He glanced back at Cornelius. The animal mage raised his hands, palms up.

Rogan pondered me for a long second and laughed. I managed to get out of the car without slamming the door. There was an unfamiliar Volvo parked in our lot. We had a visitor.

The Volvo rose in the air and gently landed in front of the warehouse door.

I turned. Rogan leaned against the Honda, his arms crossed on his chest.

“I like that you’re jealous.”

“Rogan, put the car back.”

“Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll consider it.”

Yes! “No. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“If you don’t go to dinner with me, I’ll have to do something drastic like stand by your window with a boom box blasting some idiotically sappy song.”

“Where would you even find a boom box?”

“I’m sure I can scrounge one up.”

I pretended to think it over. “Pick me up at six o’clock.”

“Seven,” he said. “It’s five now and you’ll be busy for the next hour at least. Have fun giving your samples.”

What samples?

The Volvo rose and slid back into its place. It had a custom plate ATCG105, which told me nothing.

Rogan walked away, heading toward his HQ.

Cornelius opened the car door and cautiously peered out.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Checking to see if it’s safe to come out.”

Everyone was a comedian. I sighed and went into my office.

A man waited for me in our conference room. Bernard sat with him. He looked up from his laptop and gave me a little wave when I came in.

The man was about forty, with the build of a marathon runner—lean, tall, long-legged. He wore a conservative black suit over a black shirt with a sleek black tie. His hair was dark and combed back from his face, the frame of his glasses was black too, and against all that darkness, his light blue eyes stood out.