The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(124)

“CSI. Like the old TV show.”

“Exactly.” The detective sat back. “I imagine we’ll find lots of prints of yours.”

“Yes, you will.” She fanned her hands out. “I drove it for an entire day. Perhaps two.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s a work of art on wheels—or was.” There was a long pause. “Do you have any reason to think somebody would want Streeter dead?”

“I am not familiar with him at all. So I can’t really say.”

“We spoke to his girlfriend. She told us that he dabbled in drug dealing.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Mmm.” The detective sat forward. “You know, I’ve been either a policeman or a homicide detective for a lot of years. I mean, we’re talking decades. And I’ve developed a sense about things.”

“I imagine you would.”

“I guess I just think it’s a little curious.”

“What is?”

He shrugged and pulled the lapels of his sport coat in closer. The jacket was dark gray this time and didn’t really go well with his coloring, in her opinion. “Well, your two brothers disappear. And you show up in Caldwell. And suddenly, I’ve got bodies in different places. Two deaths in the same gallery in how many days? With the only real change that I can see being your arrival.”

Vitoria put her hands up to her heart. “I am a woman, Detective de la Cruz. Where I come from, we are not capable of any such things—how can you insinuate I could possibly kill anyone? Much less a security guard who was so much bigger than I am.”

“He was shot multiple times at point-blank range. Execution style. Guns are a great equalizer for height and weight discrepancies.” He made a steeple out of his fingertips. “And here in the States, women are equals—or at least I treat them as such. So it means they can drive well, and they can stand up for themselves, and they live their own lives. They can also decide to take over a drug ring for themselves, kill off family members, and make people who ask too many questions or get in their way wake up dead. How about that.”

Which card to play, she thought. There were a couple of choices.

After a moment, she lifted her chin. “Detective, I have been nothing but accommodating. Your officers are at the West Point house now, as we speak, getting security footage—”

“Well, see, there’s a rub on that one. You did let them in, it’s true, and we thank you for that. But it turns out the cameras were off, and have been for quite some time. So if you’re using that as an example of accommodation, it would go further if there was anything for us to use.”

She already knew all this, of course. It was the first thing she had checked when she had gotten back there last night.

“When were they turned off?” she asked.

“We’re looking into that.”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know what you find.”

“You can bet your life on it.”

Vitoria drew her long hair back and clasped her hands primly in front of herself. “Is there anything else for me?”

“Not right now, no. But something tells me there will be more. And I’m never wrong about these things.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Detective.” She got to her feet. “I also want you to know that I realize you are just doing your job here. I shouldn’t take things personally and I won’t. You don’t have any suspects for either of those deaths, no solid ones, at any rate—or you wouldn’t be throwing baseless accusations at me. My conscience is clear. I do not need a lawyer. And you may feel free to call me back down here anytime you like.”

“So you think you’re leaving, huh.”

“Are you making me a suspect? Or…how did you say it, a person of interest?” When there was a pause, she smiled at him. “Then I’m free to go, aren’t I.”

“Do you mind if we fingerprint you before you take off on us?”

It took everything in her not to narrow her eyes and glare at him. “Of course not, Detective. Provided you give me something to wash my hands off with afterward.”





FIFTY-SIX


Vishous had a plan and not a lot of time. As he sent himself up to the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters, he was fully armed, and sporting two empty two-liter plastic bottles of what had been Mountain Dew.

Evidently, there had been a Saved by the Bell marathon on during the day and Lassiter had had to keep himself awake for it.

As V penetrated the marble walls, he went right over to the fountain. Yes, he could have used a pair of sterling-silver water pitchers from the dining room. Or crystal flower vases from the second-story sitting area. Or gold urns from the foyer.

But hey, he had rinsed these bitches out in the billiards room before he’d made the trip, and what he needed were containers that held water. There was no reason to turn this into a ceremonial thing.

Getting on his knees, he unscrewed one of the green lids and pushed the open bottle under the surface of the water. The fill-up went well, air bubbles coughing out as the level rose inside the Dew. When things were done, he outed it, capped, and put the thing aside.

Repeat.

The plan was to take this water back to the Brotherhood mansion and get an assembly line going down in the cellar, in the room where he made his daggers. The Chosen who were willing to eyedropper hollow-tipped bullets for him so he could seal them with lead caps would undoubtedly be more physically comfortable up here, but he didn’t like the idea of the war invading this sacred space—