Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(22)

“Interesting,” I say, letting go of his hand without squeezing it back. My handshake responses are almost as intriguing as the offers. I shake a lot of hands as a detective. And I shook a lot more as a special agent in the military. Very high-level hands.

But Thomas Brooks’ attention on me is fleeting. His mind is on his party tonight as SkyEye Inc opens its new headquarters in the rehabbed ruin I’m standing in front of.

“But you don’t need to worry about security,” I say. “You asked for four dozen officers this afternoon, and we’ve called everyone to accommodate this request. Your party will come off without a hitch.”

“Perfect,” he says, opening one of the grand doors and stepping aside to wave me in.

“Wow,” I say, as my eyes are drawn up towards the panels of colored glass depicting the constellations. “That… is…”

He laughs as I search for the words. “Nice, isn’t it. We’ve got all eighty-eight original constellations up there. And the spire is Polaris.”

“The North Pole.”

“Yes.” He smiles for the first time. He’s dark, that’s for sure. And probably broody. Much like I thought Atticus would be, but isn’t. But the smile breaks the clouds from his face and exposes the possibility of sunlight. “The stars under the spires. It’s poetic, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm, funny you should say that. I was at Blue Corp all this week.” I notice a slight twitch in his smile before he stops himself, and make a note of that. “And Atticus Montgomery has something very similar under his pitched ceiling. Only they’re the real deal.”

It’s sort of an insult, right? Comparing the headquarters of these two men, when they must surely be rivals.

“Ah.” He laughs it off. “But he has no claim to the sky, Detective. We’ve got all the eyes up there.” He smiles again and this time I don’t find the stress, but I do get a little chill up the back of my neck.

“Satellites. Yes. Very interesting. And I’m as curious as anyone what your purpose here in Cathedral City is.”

“I grew up here.” He waves me forward down the center of the cathedral. There are dozens of people setting things up, and we glide right through the fray like chaos must part for us, until we reach the back of the room and start down a long hallway to the offices. “And I’m a sentimental guy. There’s nothing quite like returning home as the Prodigal Son.”

“You’re hardly destitute and begging.” I laugh. “I’m not sure the parable fits.”

“Oh,” he says, “but it does. I left long ago and spent many a night dining with the swine of corporate culture and have finally come home to make good.”

“Huh,” I say, for lack of a better response. “So this party tonight is…?”

“Exactly what I said. Giving back and coming home.” He stops in front of a doorway and nods at it. “This is the control room and I want two men assigned to it as soon as they start bringing the equipment in. There’s an entrance in front, plus four on each side of what used to be the altar—two in front, two in back—and the back doors at the top of the old altar. Out back there’s a delivery entrance that will be closed and locked, manned by my own security. Your men will patrol all the exits and you will be in charge of the main hall.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, caught off guard with the sudden switch back to business. “It’s your dime, Mr. Brooks. Your wish is my command.”

“I expected no less, Detective Masters. I hope you bring your dancing shoes tonight. I put on a helluva party. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a million things to do.”

And with that he takes my hand one more time, gives it a gentle squeeze as he bows, ever so slightly, and turns to walk away.

“Mr. Brooks?” I call after him. “What will this room hold?”

He tsks his tongue and calls over his shoulder. “A good detective should be able to figure that out.”

I stand there and watch him disappear into a crowd of men who want things. Answers to questions, signatures on tablets, and an ear for whatever important bits of information corporate billionaires are subjected to throughout the course of a normal business day.

Jesus Christ. This town is filled with eccentrics. It’s a regular hotspot of intellectual oddballs. I turn to walk myself back out to go find Sergeant Seville, who will be running the off-duty officers we’ve got scheduled for today. Normally a lieutenant would handle my job, but since it’s private—Mr. Brooks is paying dearly for our services today—and we’ve got crime coming out our ears, I’m in charge.

It’s a punishment for being late on Monday, I realize that. But it’s an honor, really. Security is what I do best. And it’s an opportunity to meet some of the most prominent leaders in the community.

The next few hours pass quickly as Seville and I assign duty stations and place the requested officers in strategic locations around the exits. My curiosity about what Brooks is setting up in here is killing me, but no one seems to have any inclination to let me in on it. Hired help. That’s all I am to these people.

My phone rings in my pocket. The chief. So I bring it out and tab answer. “Masters,” I say in my professional voice.

“We’ve got another one.”