Indigo(34)

“What’s wrong, Plutarch?” The woman bent to stroke the dog’s head. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

I never had a dog when I was a kid. Or a cat. Any pet. Indigo didn’t know where the piece of knowledge had come from, but she recognized it as the truth. Real truth, not some blurred bit of untrusted memory.

Indigo got off the elevator with the old woman and Plutarch, and as the woman unlocked her apartment, Indigo took to the stairs. Low and fast, the shadow streaked up the gleaming marble. It was too well lit. It felt as though she were running in a spotlight. On the next floor, Indigo found the apartment number she’d been seeking. Two keys, two locks, and she stepped inside, taking the precaution of locking the door behind her.

The foyer was a hallway, not wide, lined with bookshelves on one side. The flooring was wood, and she used a shadow below her feet to cushion the sound of her steps. The short entry hall led into the living area and the kitchen, and she stood still for a moment. A single light burned within, a tiny lamp on a narrow table behind the couch.

Though the ever-present sounds of the city provided a background hum, Indigo could not hear any other living thing breathing within the apartment. It was as silent here as it had been at the warehouse. Her hand found the light switches, and in an instant the luxury of the place flooded her senses. Though it wasn’t large, it was expensively furnished. It looked like a dream after Nora’s scruffy place. The colors harmonized, the floors gleamed, and there was no clutter. The surfaces were dusted and orderly, the furniture modern. It didn’t look like the apartment of a man who’d been part of a child-murdering black-magic cult.

Demon worship pays well, Indigo thought. For the first time, she wondered what the Children of Phonos gained by the deaths of the children. She’d simply been ascribing the murders to “evil,” but there had to be some kind of profit in it for the cultists. Does sacrificing the real children reap tangible rewards? Are they all this prosperous?

The bedroom was as elegant and orderly as the rest of the place. Winston’s clothes were all name brand, and he must have had twenty pairs of shoes, which amazed Indigo. She opened a box in his closet to find a collection of watches, which simply bewildered her. Who needed more than one watch? They all told the same time, right? She shrugged and continued her search. The bureau held nothing out of the ordinary—clothing, medication, a few books. All novels. No grimoires or satanic Bibles. She couldn’t find a safe.

In the office area, part of the living room, she found a few paper copies of Winston’s financial dealings. A real estate broker, he had made a great deal of money. She was sure most of his records were on his computer, and though she turned it on, everything was password protected. She had some small skill in that area, but she was no expert. Should she take it with her, try to find someone who knew what to do and might be able to break into the files?

She looked at the paperwork she’d found more carefully. They were sales documents, mortgage papers, all items associated with his line of work. But as she shuffled them one last time and was about to push them aside, a shudder went through her as she realized one particular address was familiar to her.

The warehouse where the Children of Phonos would have sacrificed Luis Gallardo. Winston had been the broker on the sale, and the attorney had been Andrew Bullington, the prick who’d hurled himself out a window rather than face the vengeance of the cult he served.

As she was considering that, she kept going through the desk.

She found a printed directory.

It was in a file marked “Donors: At-Risk Children’s Intervention,” which sounded noble. But a quick glance told Indigo that the priestess’s address was in there, as were Bogdani’s and Allessio’s. She folded the document and slid it under her shirt. If she was going to work with Sam and both of their employers and blow the lid off the cult’s entire organization, figure out their connections to human trafficking and other crimes that had nothing to do with the occult, this list would be the beginning of that.

She heard a ding down the hall and the sound of the elevator doors opening. Another apartment adjoined Winston’s, and the newcomers could be going there, but Indigo had a feeling that her time had run out.

She clicked off the lights and concealed herself in the entrance hall, in the corner where the open door would hide her. She wrapped the gloom around her until she was swathed in darkness and waited. A moment later she heard the snick of a key in the first lock, then the second. It would have been simple enough for her to flee, but she had come here for answers. Marshall Winston was dead. She had to know who else had a key to his apartment.

In the light from the hallway, she saw a flash of red hair and glimpsed a face she recognized. Detective Angela Mayhew.

Like a bad penny, Mayhew kept turning up. For the first time, it occurred to Indigo that the detective hadn’t botched the criminal case against the Newells at all. That maybe Detective Mayhew was on the cult’s payroll, or even a member.

Tonight, the woman was trailed by her partner and junior, Hugh Symes. Detective Symes was thin and pale and looked unhealthy, while Mayhew was bursting with vigor. As she went down the short hall to the living room, she was saying, “Hugh, we have to call the captain after we’re through here. He’s going to want to know.”

“This guy Winston was a buddy of Captain Mueller’s?”

“Close enough that the captain knew exactly where to get an extra set of keys.”