Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(14)

“Hot, right?”

“Yeah.” Noah took a moment to ensure that his voice was even. “So what’s her story?”

“Creative type. You know, a freelancer. But she used to have a real job. High level tech.”

Noah wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Yeah? Doing what exactly?”

“Consulting. Or something like that. But there’s a twist. Her boss was murdered last year.”

“What?” Noah looked away from the photo, startled. “Murdered how?”

“Shot at close range. She’s a person of interest. The investigation turned up evidence that she stole industrial secrets from her boss and sold them.”

“Is that all?” The comment was meant to be wry, but Zade didn’t get it.

“No. Another man was stabbed to death at the scene. Caroline Bishop hasn’t been seen since. But Mark was parading her around like a girlfriend for a little while before the murders, which is why she’s in my database. I tagged her photo file with my fave facial-recog program and yesterday I got a ping from the microcam I stuck onto Bea McDougal’s sandwich truck. Ran right over and spotted her just in time to start a tail.”

Noah studied the monitor. “She didn’t kill anyone.”

Zade gave a quick nod of agreement. “Which made me think that she was probably framed. Like Luke. She might know something. We should talk to her.”

Zade’s voice vibrated with suppressed emotion.

Zade’s twin brother Luke Ryan was another Midlands veteran of rebellion day.

As of last year, Luke had been chief of security for a Chicago billionaire—until the man was found with two bullets from Luke’s gun in his head. Luke himself had vanished, along with eighty million dollars in bearer bonds and a hoard of priceless antique jewelry. A manhunt was launched. Luke stayed lost. So did the loot.

Luke’s girlfriend Bea McDougal had changed her name and her appearance, then gone into hiding for reasons still unclear. Noah and his people kept track of her for Luke’s sake. Bea aka Marika now sold sandwiches from a food truck, never staying long in any one place. For the past few months she’d been in Seattle.

The Midlanders knew things about Luke that the police, Interpol and the FBI didn’t. Most importantly: that Luke was not a killer or a thief. It would never even occur to him to hurt someone innocent or rip someone off.

And he had to be alive. They just didn’t know where. Only an all-out psychopath with a full arsenal of augmentations and enhancements could have taken out a warrior like Luke.

Someone like, say, Mark Olund. Who hated them all ferociously.

But they had no proof, and they couldn’t reveal their suspicions without giving themselves away. Or so Noah constantly repeated to his restless crew.

“I’ll show you her conversation with Bea,” Zade said, thumbing his phone. “The microcam was slapped up under the awning.”

The still photo on the monitor was replaced by footage of lined-up people peering into a food truck window. “Caroline Bishop is third in line. Big black coat,” Zade said. “See her?”

Noah’s heart thudded heavily. The woman Zade had indicated was hunched and nondescript. The fisheye lens of the microcam fastened to the truck distorted faces. But he recognized hers when she looked up. The swift glimpse of wide, shadowy eyes was startling. She seemed much thinner and paler than in the photo. She reached for her sandwich, and asked Bea a question.

“No audio?” Noah asked.

“Conked out,” Zade said.

Bea flapped her hands in a gesture that was clearly meant to get Caroline Bishop to go away.

She didn’t. She appeared to be pleading.

Bea jerked back into the truck and slammed the window shut. The people behind Bishop in line protested. One man knocked on the window. The feed began to blur as the truck pulled away.

Caroline was left behind, standing on the street.

“That’s all. Didn’t look like Bishop was threatening her, did it?” Zade said.

“More like she was asking her for something,” Noah said. “Or begging her.”

“What I was thinking myself.”

Did you keep tailing her?” Noah asked.

“Yeah.” Zade held up his phone. “With this for a backup camera. They went to the hospital. Look.” He thumbed the phone again.

This clip showed a slim form in a fuzzy rainbow wig, a big red nose and a baggy patchwork suit. A huge rubber stethoscope hung around her neck.

“She’s a clown,” Zade said. “Cheering up the kids in the cancer ward.”

“How the hell did you blend in there?”

“Grabbed some scrubs from a closet and changed fast. Got lucky on the size. I filmed this from behind a food trolley in the corridor.”

The kids in the room were hollow-eyed. Some had IV’s, some didn’t. Most lay on rolling hospital beds. They watched the spectacle as she juggled fruit, did tricks and examined kids with her toy stethoscope. After her show the camera followed her down a corridor. She disappeared into a bathroom. The figure who emerged was shapeless and stooped, wearing the hat and oversized winter coat that Noah had seen on her earlier that day.

“She stopped in here next,” Zade said. The camera zoomed in on a storefront.

“Bounce Entertainment?”

“Her current employer, evidently.” Zade stared into his phone, syncing up the video stream with Noah’s monitor and zooming in for a closeup of the signs taped to the storefront window.