Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(50)

“Sixty-two-year-old Caucasian male, in decent health, who made a fortune in the financial world.”

“Anyone want him dead?”

“Two ex-wives who were stupid enough to sign prenups and a dozen employees with pending lawsuits that accuse him of everything from sexual harassment to insider trading.”

Typical. What was it with rich guys having to be dickheads?

“So not the most popular guy.”

“I have Caleb running down the more obvious suspects. But—”

“But this murder was anything but obvious,” Duncan finished for her.

“Exactly.”

He strolled toward the desk, allowing his gaze to wander aimlessly over the room. He’d discovered over the years that clues rarely came attached with labels or blinking neon lights. Instead it was almost always something subtle.

A chair moved for no apparent reason.

A drawer not fully closed.

A recently repaired window.

Anything out of place that was inexplicably easier to notice with a casual glance instead of a focused search.

“Do you know anything about the coin that was stolen?”

Molinari shrugged. “I have the research department enlarging a picture of it. They haven’t found anything yet.”

“Yeah. I picked up a copy.” Not that it helped. Even with the details of the coin brought into focus it meant nothing to Duncan. He needed an expert. “Was it listed on his homeowners policy?”

“Not.”

“So, black market.”

“That would be my guess.”

“What about the other artwork?”

Molinari shuffled through the papers in her file. “It looks like most of the pieces have legitimate paperwork, but I’ll have it double checked.”

Duncan grimaced. No one would be stupid enough to display such famous pieces if they were off the black market. Unless they were forgeries.

His hand reached to pick up the stone vase that was safely wrapped in an evidence bag.

“What about the container?”

“What about it?”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have a damned clue. It looks old.”

It looked older than old. It looked ancient.

Holding it to the light, he studied the strange symbols etched into the stone.

“Can I keep it?”

Molinari frowned at the unexpected request. “It’s evidence.”

“I won’t let anything happen to it.”

There was a long silence as the chief weighed the need for information against protocol.

At last the shouts from the growing crowd of gawkers across the street made her heave a sigh of resignation.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. It’s already been dusted for prints,” she muttered. “What do you want it for?”

“Callie and her pet Sentinel are searching for the history of the necromancer in an effort to locate him. I want to start at the other end.” He glanced toward the black mark on the carpet where Calso had died. “The present.”

“You lost me.”

He lifted his head to meet his companion’s puzzled gaze. “If we find out where Calso got the coin and what makes it worth killing for, we might be able to use the information to discover who else was interested in the coin,” he explained, his mind already shifting through his various contacts. “There can’t be that many numismatists willing to dabble in black markets. This vessel can hopefully lead me to a specific dealer.”

Molinari gave a slow nod. “Clever, but we don’t know for sure that the vessel and the coin are actually connected.”

“It’s a place to start.”

The chief abruptly tossed the file back on the desk, her expression tight with frustration.

“Shit, I hate this.”

Duncan grimaced. “I think we’re going to hate what’s coming even more.”

Chapter Fifteen

The journey from Kansas City to Saint Petersburg might have been made in the blink of an eye, but it was as disconcerting as hell. It seemed no matter how great the power, you couldn’t jerk a body halfway around the world and nine hours into the future without it making a girl feel dizzy.

Moving to lean against the wall that was covered in delicately painted hieroglyphs, Callie sucked in a deep breath, waiting for her head to stop spinning.

Across the small room Fane stood in silence, unaffected by the teleportation.

Not that he was entirely happy.

Callie grimaced as her gaze skimmed over his large tattooed body, which was covered by a pair of casual khakis, heavy black boots, and a tight muscle shirt. There was no missing the rigid tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his starkly male features.

For all his stoic calm, Fane was royally pissed.

At her.

“Why don’t you spit out what you have to say before your head explodes?” she murmured.

He turned to study her with a steady gaze. “Would it do any good?”

She briefly considered the pleasure she’d found in Duncan’s arms. Had it been a mistake? Maybe. Did she give a damn? No.

“Doubtful,” she admitted with a rueful smile.

“Then there’s no point.”

“It might make you less grumpy.”

“Doubtful.”