Chapter Two #2
The white streak flashed against Stella’s hair when she turned.
I got up.
“Eat something first.”
Stella looked over her shoulder.
“That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“It was a suggestion made by a man who doesn’t want you getting dizzy halfway down the stairs.”
“I’m not dizzy.”
“When did you last eat?”
She considered that.
“Before I went to The Exchange.”
“Then I’m upgrading the suggestion.”
Stella sighed.
“You’re going to be annoying.”
“You’re probably right.”
She went into the kitchen.
I stayed near the edge of the living room while she put bread in the toaster and pulled yogurt from the refrigerator. She filled a glass with water and drank half of it before the toast came up.
She ate standing at the counter while I checked the view from the windows without touching the curtains.
“Do you always travel with tarot cards?” I asked.
Stella glanced toward the den.
“I work with them.”
“I thought The Network was your work.”
“It’s one of my jobs.”
She finished the yogurt and rinsed the spoon.
“I do private readings too.”
“Here?”
“No. I don’t bring clients into my home.”
That answer came fast.
“I rent an appointment room at The Silver Thread in the Victorian Quarter. It’s a metaphysical shop.”
“Tarot, crystals, candles.”
“Books, jewelry, oracle decks. But yes.”
“And you need another deck because the police have one card from the first?”
“Exactly.”
She walked into the den.
I followed only as far as the doorway.
The room held a desk, computer setup, bookshelves, more decks than I’d expected, and several crystals arranged beside a brass lamp. Nothing resembled the theatrical fortune-teller nonsense I’d seen at tourist fairs.
Stella opened a drawer and took out a deck wrapped in cloth.
“You don’t believe in it.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I believe you can read cards.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No.”
She tucked the deck into an overnight bag.
“Do you think it’s all fake?”
“I think people are good at seeing patterns.”
“And I’m guessing you like patterns you can verify.”
“I like most things I can verify.”
Stella zipped the bag.
“Then we’ll probably irritate each other.”
“You’re probably right.”
Her phone rang from the kitchen.
Stella stopped.
I turned toward her.
“You said nobody had contacted you.”
“They hadn’t.”
She went back to the counter and checked the screen.
Her face tightened.
“What?”
“The call came through the number I use for tarot appointments.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
She let it ring once more.
“If you answer, don’t give them anything they don’t already know.”
Stella gave me a look.
“I do know how phones work.”
“I’m learning that.”
She answered.
“Stella Moon.”
A man’s voice came through faintly.
“Ms. Moon. Mikhail Volkov.”
Her eyes met mine.
I moved closer, not enough to take the phone.
Stella tapped the speaker icon herself.
“I know who you are,” she said. “The detectives mentioned you.”
“I’m sorry they involved you in this situation.”
His voice was smooth, controlled, and professional.
Stella leaned one hip against the counter.
“They involved me because Antonio was murdered after I left his penthouse.”
He paused.
“Yes. It’s an ugly situation.”
“You confirmed my appointment.”
“I answered the police honestly.”
“Then what do you want?”
Stella didn’t soften the question.
I kept quiet and listened.
“I wanted to offer assistance. Mr. Bellacorte had enemies, Ms. Moon. Powerful men often do. His death may create complications for people who were near him.”
“Complications like being suspected of murder?”
“Exactly.”
Stella’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“What kind of assistance?”
“Counsel. Resources. People who understand how to manage a situation before it becomes something larger.”
“You can manage a homicide investigation?”
“I can make sure you aren’t crushed under one.”
Volkov kept his words polite, but the pressure underneath them was clear enough.
“You don’t know me,” Stella said.
“I know Antonio trusted you enough to bring you into his private residence.”
“He paid me to be there.”
“That doesn’t make you less deserving of help.”
She glanced at me.
I kept my expression neutral.
Volkov continued.
“You’re in a vulnerable position. I can make certain the right attorneys are involved, the right questions are asked, and this problem goes away before it damages your life.”
“And what would I owe you?”
He paused slightly longer this time.
“Nothing.”
Stella smiled without humor.
“Men with influence don’t usually call women before breakfast offering expensive favors for nothing.”
“I respected Antonio.”
“So did plenty of people, apparently.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I already have help.”
Volkov’s voice cooled by a degree.
“The Network?”
“My arrangements aren’t your concern.”
Silence held for another beat.
“Be careful who you trust, Ms. Moon.”
“That sounds almost like advice.”
“It is.”
“Then thank you for calling.”
She disconnected.
The kitchen went quiet.
I held out my hand.
“May I?”
Stella gave me the phone.
I checked the incoming-call information, then handed the phone back. The number gave me nothing useful.
“He knew police had spoken to you,” I said.
“He’s the security chief at the casino. Maybe they told him.”
“That’s possible.”
“He knew Antonio had enemies.”
“That’s also believable.”
Stella studied my face.
“But you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like anybody who offers to make a murder problem disappear before breakfast.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Did Bellacorte ever talk about him?”
“No.”
“Any reason Volkov would think you’d accept help from him?”
“No.”
I nodded toward her bag.
“Finish packing.”
“You think the call changes something?”
“I wanted you moved before he called. I want it more now.”
Stella took the phone back.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one I have.”
She held my eyes for a second, then headed toward the bedroom.
“Ten minutes.”
“Take fifteen.”
“Now you’re being generous.”
“I’m trying to become less annoying.”
“It isn’t working.”
The bedroom door closed behind her.
I almost smiled.
By the time Stella came back, she’d traded the socks for black boots and added a dark jacket. The overnight bag hung from one shoulder.
She seemed more awake without being rested.
She was ready.
“Anything you absolutely need from the den?” I asked.
“The deck is packed.”
“Do you have your medication and identification?”
“Both are in the bag.”
“Then we go.”
I took her bag before she could object.
She opened her mouth.
“It keeps one of your hands free.”
Stella closed it again.
“That was annoyingly reasonable.”
“I have moments.”
I checked the hall through the door camera, then opened the apartment door.
The hall was empty.
The elevator was less than twenty yards away.
The service stair was farther in the opposite direction.
The elevator was our fastest route out of the building.
I stepped into the hall.
Stella followed and locked her apartment.
We’d made it three steps when Stella stopped.
She hadn’t slowed first.
I turned.
The color had drained from her face.
“Stella?”
Her eyes weren’t on me.
They were fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
One hand went to her temple.
“Don’t take the elevator.”
“What did you see?”
She swallowed hard.
“The doors. Someone waiting. A needle.”
Her other hand caught the wall.
I moved toward her but stopped before touching her.
“Are you going to faint?”
“No.”
Her answer came thin.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.
“Don’t take me that way.”
I didn’t believe in visions.
I believed in information.
And changing routes cost us nothing.
“We’re taking the service stair.”
Stella nodded.
I shifted her bag to my left hand and kept my right free.
“Stay beside me.”
We moved fast.
The service door stood at the far end of the hall.
Five yards away, it opened.
A man came through wearing a dark jacket and a baseball cap pulled low.
He saw me.
His hand disappeared inside his coat.
I dropped Stella’s bag.
“Back.”
She moved immediately.
The man lunged past me for Stella instead of reaching for a gun.
I caught his wrist before he reached her and drove him into the wall. Something metallic skittered across the floor—a prepared syringe.
Stella made a sharp sound behind me.
The stairwell door slammed again, and a second man came through low and fast, trying to get around me.
Stella kicked the dropped syringe away before he could reach it, then backed toward the apartment side of the hall instead of letting herself get trapped between the two men.
The first man drove an elbow toward my throat.
I turned, took it against my shoulder, and hit him hard enough in the ribs to fold him.
The second grabbed Stella’s jacket.
She twisted instead of pulling straight back and slammed the heel of her hand into his face.
He cursed.
I caught the back of his coat and dragged him away from her.
He spun with a knife.
I trapped his wrist, drove it down against the edge of the wall, and heard the weapon clatter to the floor.
The first attacker recovered behind me.
Stella saw him before I did.
“Geo!”
I ducked.
His fist went over my shoulder.
I turned into him and put him down with two strikes.
The second man tore free and ran for the stairwell.
The first followed.
I started after them.
Then Stella made a strangled sound.
I stopped.
Her hand was against the wall again.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and her breathing came too fast.
I let the men run, kicked the stairwell door shut, and turned back to Stella.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did either of them inject you?”
“No. I kicked it away.”
“Did the knife touch you?”
“No.”
Her breath hitched.
“I’m okay.”
She was upright.
For the next thirty seconds, that was enough.
“Stay where you are.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I picked up the syringe by the capped end.
The syringe was loaded.
Beside it lay a bundle of heavy zip restraints that must have fallen from the first attacker’s coat.
The restraints and loaded syringe told me they had come to capture her, not kill her.
I set the syringe back beside the restraints and photographed the capture gear.
A compact communications unit had landed near the baseboard during the fight.
I crouched beside it.
Stella took one careful step closer.