Chapter Two
A plastic skeleton spun from a lamppost beside the river, one bony hand knocking against the pole every time the wind caught it.
Two blocks later, somebody had hung a witch from a balcony.
Halloween was two days away.
People paid good money to scare themselves this time of year. Fake corpses. Fake blood. Masks designed to make strangers look dangerous.
I’d seen enough of the real thing that none of it did much for me.
Cold mist streaked the windshield as I drove toward Riverside. Wet leaves shone under the streetlights, and most of the city was still asleep. The only people out this early were bakers, delivery drivers, cops, and men like me who got called when somebody else’s night had gone very wrong.
Bancroft had called before dawn.
He had an urgent protection assignment for me.
A woman named Stella Moon had spent the evening with a wealthy casino owner who’d turned up dead after she left. The police were looking hard at her. Her employer wanted somebody with her until they knew whether being connected to the murder made her a suspect, a target, or both.
That was enough for me to get dressed and start driving.
I didn’t know Stella.
I didn’t know the dead man.
And nobody had given me a reason yet to believe somebody intended to hurt her.
My job was to make sure they didn’t get the chance.
The Riverside buildings rose ahead through the mist, glass and old brick overlooking the black water.
Stella’s address belonged to one of the newer mid-rises, the kind with underground parking, controlled entry, and enough money behind the lobby doors to make residents believe strangers stayed outside.
They usually did.
I slowed near the entrance long enough to check the approach, then drove on and parked two blocks away.
When I walked back to the lobby, the concierge behind the desk was waiting for me.
That told me Stella had followed instructions before I’d even met her.
I showed my Bancroft Risk Group credentials through the glass partition. The concierge checked the name against his screen, looked at me again, then released the interior door.
“Ms. Moon authorized temporary access to her floor,” he said. “This will get you through the lobby and activate the elevator.”
He slid a black key card across the desk.
“Nothing else?”
“No, sir. It won’t open her apartment.”
“Good.”
The man glanced at me.
Most people expected private security to want more access, not less.
Bancroft had built the company on discretion. If a client’s building handed us a master key without asking questions, that became a security problem of its own.
I pocketed the card.
“Where does the service stair exit?”
“Rear loading area. The door from the residential floors is alarmed only if it’s held open. You can exit without a separate card.”
“And the garage?”
“Two levels underground. Residential elevators connect directly.”
I thanked him and crossed the lobby.
Pale stone floors reflected the warm lights overhead. A bowl of miniature pumpkins sat on a console beside an arrangement of bronze leaves and black candles. The decorations looked expensive enough that nobody would mistake them for a grocery-store impulse purchase.
The elevator required the temporary card before the button for Stella’s floor lit.
I rode up alone.
By the time the doors opened, I knew the obvious route from her apartment to the elevator, the location of the service stair at the opposite end of the hall, and which direction would take us toward the garage.
I didn’t expect trouble, but expecting nothing was how trouble got close.
Stella’s door had a camera above the frame. I knocked once and stepped back far enough that she could see all of me.
Nothing happened for several seconds.
Then a woman’s voice came through the door.
“Hold your ID up.”
I did.
The silence lasted long enough for her to read it.
“Who sent you?”
“Bancroft Risk Group. Locke Stonebridge contacted my boss.”
The deadbolt turned.
A second lock turned.
The door opened only a few inches.
Stella Moon looked at my credential first, then at me.
She was smaller than I’d expected, maybe five-four, with pale skin and a chin-length black bob cut blunt around her face.
A white streak near one temple broke through the dark hair like someone had dragged a brush of paint through it.
Most of her makeup was gone, leaving only a faint shadow of black around dark brown eyes that looked like they hadn’t closed for more than a few minutes all night.
She wore black leggings, a charcoal shirt, and socks, but no shoes.
She wasn’t smiling either.
Her gaze moved over my face, my jacket, my shoulders, then met my eyes.
She didn’t look frightened of me, which would make the job easier.
I looked at her face a second longer than I needed to, then checked the door locks.
“Geo DiNero?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
“Locke said you were coming.”
“He said you agreed to protection.”
“I agreed to having someone with me. Whether it’s you depends on this meeting.”
It was a fair distinction.
“Then meet me first.”
One corner of her mouth moved.
It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close.
Stella opened the door wider.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside, and she locked the door behind me again without being asked.
The apartment fit what I’d seen of her so far.
Moody without being gloomy. Charcoal upholstery, black metal, dark wood, and deep wine-colored cushions warmed by low lamps instead of harsh ceiling lights.
Blackout curtains covered most of the windows, though one narrow gap showed the gray river morning beyond the glass.
Nothing looked staged to impress anyone.
A few crystals sat beside books on a shelf. Tarot decks were stacked in a lacquered box near the den. Framed art broke up the walls without cluttering them.
The sight lines were clean, and the locks were good. Both made my job easier.
Stella folded her arms.
“So what exactly did Locke ask your company to do?”
“Keep you protected while the murder investigation goes where it goes.”
“You’re not here to prove I didn’t kill Antonio?”
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“That’s refreshingly clear.”
“I don’t investigate homicides, and I’m not the police. I need enough information to understand what could put you at risk. Anything beyond that belongs to whoever’s handling your legal situation.”
“Locke’s already arranging an attorney.”
“Good.”
Stella walked toward the living room.
“Do you want the short version or the version where two detectives stood in here before sunrise asking whether I murdered a man I’d just had sex with?”
“The version that tells me what they know.”
She sat at one end of the couch. I took the chair opposite instead of crowding her.
Her shoulders lowered a fraction.
“They know I was Antonio Bellacorte’s last private appointment they can currently confirm. His chief of security told them I was there.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mikhail Volkov.”
I hadn’t heard the name before.
I waited.
“The casino footage from the important part of the night is missing or corrupted. They said they’re still figuring out how much of it is unusable.”
“That matches what Bancroft was given.”
“Then did he tell you about the card?”
“What card?”
Stella’s expression changed only slightly; her fingers tightened where they rested against her thigh.
“The Tower.”
I waited for more.
“It’s a tarot card. Antonio hired me for a reading after the rest of the booking.”
“The rest being the private appointment?”
“Sex.”
I nodded.
Stella watched my face for a reaction.
I gave her none.
“During the reading,” she continued, “I pulled The Tower. Antonio asked me to leave it with him overnight.”
“And you did.”
“Yes. The police found it beside his body.”
A tarot card belonging to the last known private visitor sitting beside a dead man would matter to homicide detectives, whether or not I believed cardboard predicted murders.
“Was leaving cards with clients normal?”
“No.”
“Why did you agree?”
“He asked. It was one card, and I expected to get it back today.”
“Bellacorte was alive when you left?”
“Yes.”
“He was standing beside the bar when I walked out.”
“And the safety check happened afterward.”
“Once I was outside the casino.”
I leaned back.
“I believe that’s what you told Locke. I’m not asking you to convince me you’re innocent.”
“That’s good, because I’ve had enough of that conversation for one morning.”
“What I need to know is whether anybody besides police has contacted you since Bellacorte died.”
“Not yet.”
“Anybody unusual in the last few days?”
“No.”
“Anyone who knew about the booking?”
“The Network. Antonio. Apparently Volkov. Anyone Antonio told.”
“You have threats connected to your work?”
“No.”
“Personal threats?”
Her eyes sharpened.
“No current ones.”
The word current stood out.
I didn’t know what she meant by it, and it wasn’t mine to pull out of her.
“Then until something changes, we treat the risk as unknown.”
Stella exhaled and turned toward the windows.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’d rather move you somewhere that isn’t the address police, Bellacorte’s staff, and anyone who can connect you to the booking already knows.”
She turned back to me.
“Where?”
“A secure place in the Mill District.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’m not disappearing indefinitely because you say so.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She went still.
I rested my forearms on my knees.
“I’ll tell you what I think is safest. You decide whether you’ll do it. If you decide against something, I need you to understand the risk you’re accepting. That’s the arrangement.”
Stella studied me for a long moment.
“You always work like that?”
“When the person I’m protecting is capable of making her own decisions.”
“And if you think I’m making a bad one?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“You won’t lock me in a bunker?”
“Not unless the bunker comes with very good legal paperwork and you’ve signed it.”
Her mouth twitched again.
This time it became a brief smile.
“Fine. I’ll relocate.”
“Pack light.”
“I assumed you weren’t moving my furniture.”
“Good. We’re already communicating.”
She stood.