Death March: Black Magic Outlaw Page 22

  She spun around and reached her arm behind her back. The effect enhanced her bust. The frilly edges of her black bra squeezed against supple flesh. At this angle, the modest cleavage wasn't so modest. She caught me looking, and I didn't care.

  "It's just a short and jeans," she said.

  "I'm talking about the sexy underwear."

  She pursed her lips, shrugged, and turned back to the base of the tree.

  "I see what's going on. You're teasing me."

  "No," she returned, not bothering to turn back to me. "But I do like the way you look at me."

  I groaned in pure torture. My phone buzzed, and things were already tingly down there.

  "Watch it," texted Evan. "Had some hooligans approach the geocache. Having officers lock area down."

  I scanned the trees. I didn't see anybody, but my eyesight was still recovering from Milena's flashlight. I held off on the spellcraft. "The cipher's already solved," I told Milena. "People were scoping out Evan's site."

  "What? How could the internet do in minutes what the FBI couldn't in a month?"

  I shook my head. "Having three ciphers at once must've made the pattern obvious. I don't know these kinds of things."

  A car passed in the distance. Headlights swept over the branches above our heads. I caught the gleam of a metal box. I chuckled.

  "What?" asked Milena, on all fours and peering between the tree's exposed roots. Her tight jeans waved in my face.

  I crossed my arms. "Is this a pole-dancing technique or what?"

  My phone buzzed again. Kasper messaged, but it wasn't him. "Darcy here. Found more notes. Has pics of piper marie and nick. Inside stuff that proves he murdered them. Rando pic of Shen too. Gonna sanitize it."

  Evan texted. "That's evidence!"

  "Sorry, it's what they pay me for," she replied. "I'll leave pics of them being scouted, but not of their bodies. They deserve more dignity than to be highlights in a Manifesto documentary. Plus, they're technically missing, not dead. I'm removing Shen too. He's been through enough."

  Shen was already in the photos at the apartment, but maybe this would lessen the emphasis on him. "She's right, Evan. This is the job."

  He answered quickly. "Fine. Leave rest at location. Sending my sergeant to recover before other civilians arrive."

  All she said was, "Word."

  I pocketed the phone and laughed when I saw Milena digging through the dirt with her hands. She was almost up to her elbows in it. "What are you doing?"

  "It has to be here," she grumbled. "I think the dirt's loose."

  My voice went deadpan. "Oh, look. Up in the tree. There's a box."

  She spun the flashlight upward until she found it. I scratched the back of my head nonchalantly. I was confident of the act until Milena got up, pulled on my belt buckle, and dropped a handful of dirt down my pants. "Maybe that will settle you down," she hissed.

  "You're sexy when you're dirty."

  "Good." She dusted her hands off on my jeans, which would've felt better if my crotch wasn't all grainy. When she was done I shook the soil down my legs. The process involved removing my boots and upending them as I hopped awkwardly on one leg. She watched me fussing with my clothes for a minute until she asked, "What are you waiting for? Do your thing." She motioned up to the metal box.

  I considered explaining the intricacies of grains of dirt near my junk but decided to keep what dignity I had left. I nudged the geocache with a shadow and smoothly caught it. How's that for sexy?

  I set the box down and opened it. It was just a brown leather journal in a plastic bag. Folding open the pages revealed stacks of photos sleeved between. Shen, Diana, Simon, Darcy, Quentin Capshaw, me, Kasper, Evan, Emily, and Fran. The only dead body pictured was Diana, and it was a single uninspired shot. I quickly realized what this was.

  "Manifesto watched his victims before taking them on. He keyed in on signs of spellcraft and documented them. He was methodical. Look at this." Covering up the photo of the murder, I showed Milena a scene through the window of Shen's house. He stood before Diana, holding a glowing rose in his palm. An illusion, like he'd spawned at Quentin's hotel. The flower maker. And Diana was mirroring the same spell.

  "Beautiful magic," whispered Milena.

  "He was tutoring her, just like I do with Fran. Manifesto caught them, and she died because of it." I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt.

  While Milena caught up with the group chat, I flipped through the journal. I wasn't sure what the other geocaches contained, but what I had was a goldmine. Page after page of crazed serial killer ramblings. Several pages had been torn that likely coincided with the notes in the other boxes—maybe even the ciphers. The book I held was more than that. This was Manifesto's master journal.

  "Whoa."

  The pictures too. Much had evidently been destroyed in his apartment fire, and some had remained on display, but the stacks in this book were his active cases. His leftover murder targets. Flushing him out of his apartment had escalated his timetable. Manifesto had dropped whatever notes he had left in hopes of revealing the truth to the people of the world.

  I wondered if I had a right to take that away from them.

  But this was surely not the way. Killing innocent animists trying to make a buck. Besides, this was the job, right? Sanitize the Society's involvement. I didn't kid myself that they were the good guys, but they weren't going around murdering entertainers.

  I drew a single photo from the collection, careful not to get prints on it, and slipped it into the plastic bag. I wiped it down, closed the box, and repeated the precaution. Then I dropped the box in the hole Milena had dug and kicked some dirt over it for good measure.

  With Manifesto's journal tucked under my arm, I texted the group. "Found box. Sanitized."

  Evan responded with, "..." and then, "On my way."

  Good. The fewer questions, the better. I steadied Milena's hand as we climbed out of the park and returned to the car. We'd done it. Manifesto's master plan had been derailed. Plenty of people would whisper in macabre awe at his killings and motivations, but no proof against us would surface.

  As for Manifesto's last box? A ruse to throw the authorities off my scent. A single photo of a single person: what would have presumably been Manifesto's final target. The hypnotist, Quentin Capshaw.

  I knew he was safe, but Special Agent Rita Bell didn't. The police would deem him in immediate grave danger and pick him up. Call it an inconvenience for saving his life—I wouldn't feel guilty over it. The crafty hypnotist would no doubt spin his near-death experience into a TV special or two.

  The crux of the ruse was a common magician's deception. Watch the hand that's moving, not the one hiding the real trick. The police would be all over Quentin tonight, leaving me room to do what needed to be done. Finding and ending Manifesto.

  Chapter 42

  We were both unusually quiet on the drive back. I didn't know why, exactly. The quick success had gone off without a hitch. The entire team played their parts. Sometimes it felt like, together, we could do anything.

  But what was left unsaid intruded on the ride. I glanced at Milena as the lights of the city washed over us. She idly hummed beneath her breath, probably imagining a multitude of ways tonight could have been normal. Still, she was completely content. That was part of why I liked her. Both our lives were fucked up in so many ways. It was a shit connection, maybe, but it was an undeniable one. Besides, with her, nothing felt fucked at all.

  I should put that on a valentine. Cisco Suarez, a regular Romeo.

  She turned and caught me staring. We locked eyes for a moment. She straightened and bit her lip. The only thing I could imagine was kissing them. I tried to clear my head. Well, I didn't try that hard.

  I flicked my gaze to the street and swung into a turn.

  "What's next in the plan?" she suddenly asked. It broke the silence. Broke the moment.

  But that had already happened. I sped forward and through an intersection as the lig
ht switched to yellow. Behind us, a windowless black minivan accelerated.

  I cursed. Being followed was getting real old real fast. Admittedly, a silver T-top straight out of the eighties with a giant black phoenix on the hood didn't exactly blend in. A man still deserved his privacy.

  So I ran through the calculations. Four or five in the van, probably. I wasn't scared of that, but I had Milena with me, and busy city streets to boot. I was trying to shift the attention away from me, not attract it.

  As I crossed into Brickell and approached the main drag, the follow van pulled away.

  Which simplified matters. It also gave me an idea.

  I drove under the skyline of condos and past the Friday celebrations. It was just about ten at night, which meant I had an hour or so to hit up one particular restaurant. But why wait?

  As a double-waxed Aston Martin pulled away from the curb, I veered into a strip reserved for valet and parked right in front of Carbon. I wasn't a dick about it—they had four spaces and I was only taking one. Besides, I was trying to make a statement.

  "You don't need to take the keys out," instructed the valet, assisting Milena out of the vehicle. She thanked him while hiding a bundle under her shirt. He rounded the car and held out a hand for them. I stuffed them in my pocket as I passed. "Sir, you can't—"

  "Take it up with the owner," I replied.

  "But—"

  "I'll be quick."

  I pushed into the door with Milena's arm hooked under mine.

  "Reservation?" asked the hostess. She wore a backless evening gown and was a model in her own right. Her eyes flitted with horror over our ensembles. Scratched-up tank top, both wearing jeans, and mine weren't even the fancy kind. For her part, Milena was pretty but looked like she'd been digging holes in the backyard all evening. Black dirt stained her forearms and knees.

  Present company excluded, the chic restaurant was filled to the brim with well-dressed well-to-dos. A hip jazz fusion group lined the stage in baby blue duds. The bustling wait staff slalomed through the hive of activity with practiced ease.

  My eyes landed on Beaumont, white tuxedo jacket and all. Given current events, I figured he'd be stationed at his corner table in the back. "He's my reservation," I told the hostess while brushing past.

  The vampire's eyes fixed on me almost instantly. He nodded along as a pair of business associates in the booth chatted him up. The men were white collar, lawyers or financial advisers or something. I didn't clock them as vampires. Then again, I knew next to nothing about Clan Beaumont.

  "Where are they?" I demanded as I strode up to his table.

  His cheeks twitched. "Mr. Suarez. This is ill-advised."

  Milena's sharp intake of breath alerted me to the converging security. A heavy hand plopped on my shoulder. I shoved him away without looking, stepped up onto the platform of the VIP booth, and slammed my fist onto the white-clothed table, rattling their cocktail glasses.

  "WHERE ARE THEY?"

  This time the men behind us ripped Milena off my arm. A large man grabbed me in a bear hug. I snapped my head backward and broke his nose. While he stumbled, I spun and hit him in the belly, just a touch of shadow lacing my fist. He doubled over hard. I feinted at the one escorting Milena away. He flinched, never noticing the shadow wrapped around his ankle. He fell unceremoniously on his ass. I stepped toward them and barred my arm over Milena protectively.

  "Stop," said Beaumont, and his voice was so commanding that everybody immediately complied, including me. For a second I wondered if I'd been hit with a compulsion. I dismissed the thought and chalked it up to being pragmatic. I came to get answers, not to fight, and Beaumont's goons had backed down.

  I glared at the restaurateur. "I want them," I growled.

  Leverett Beaumont held a hand up and faced his associates. "Excuse me, gentlemen. We'll resume this tomorrow. Same time, same place?"

  They nodded emphatically and showed themselves out. Beaumont wiped his lips with the napkin on his lap and motioned for the kitchen. "Shall we?" I backed away as he stepped down. The security staff grumbled. "That will be all," he told them. Cars honked outside and he noticed the flabbergasted valet appealing to the hostess. "And make sure my guest doesn't get towed. He'll be leaving in a minute." That last statement was made with a huff of annoyance and was directed at me as much as to his employees.

  The real estate broker headed into the kitchen without checking whether we followed. In a minute we were again in his impressive wine cellar.

  Leverett Beaumont casually wiped his hand over his hair, making sure it was still plastered to his head. "It's unwise to treat our arrangement so publicly," he said tersely.

  "What arrangement? You delivered a message from your vampire bosses. That's your job as a lackey."

  His eyes snapped into vicious slits. "I am under no one's heel, vampire or human."

  "Tell it to your employees or your groupies or whoever you're trying to impress. I don't give a shit about your disdain for the Obsidian March. So what? We both have the same enemy. What does it count for if we don't help each other?"

  He sighed patiently at Milena. "Is he always this obstreperous?"

  "Obstrepe-what-did-you-call-him?" she snarled. She pulled the small Uzi from under her shirt.

  He sighed again. "Unruly. Difficult."

  "Oh." She relaxed. "That's actually pretty accurate."

  "I had a feeling." Beaumont ignored the firearm, crossed his arms over his tuxedo jacket, and appraised me. "What is it you want?"

  "This is about what you want. A partnership, right?"

  He nodded.

  "It's pretty obvious you need an enforcer in Wynwood. Someone to wreak havoc with vampire operations. It's pretty obvious you're maneuvering me into that unwitting position."

  That had him pause a moment, hesitant to cop to the charge. He finally gave a level nod.

  "Well, I hate to break it to you, but that's never going to happen. You don't work for anyone; I don't work for anyone. Understood?"

  His jaw flexed. "But... ?"

  "But I am going after the March, for my own reasons, and if you want some semblance of a partnership, I need something in return."

  Leverett leaned against a nearby shelf. "You do have something in return. The protection of you and your friends while in Brickell."

  I snorted. "We have that anyway. This is an upscale district. You don't want violent crime scaring away the locals. It'd be bad for business. And that's especially true if someone came after me, because I have a habit of breaking things. Look what happened at Kasper's place."

  "The tattoo artist." He swallowed in clear distaste. "I didn't know about that before the fact. They don't inform me of their idiotic offensives. Already they're positioning that as the Manifesto Killer's doing."

  "So they do know about him?"

  He shrugged. "There's little they don't know about. The Obsidian March has informants within police and government offices. Usually their actions are very shortsighted."

  "And this isn't?"

  "That attack most definitely was. The cover-up, not so much. Using the Manifesto Killer for shade is not the Magnus I know. It's far too clever for him."

  "It won't be clever when I smash his face in."

  The vampire calmly pursed his lips. "It's an ugly business—the violence—which is why you have my protection, freely given, as you point out. Your vendetta against my brethren is also freely given. That is a fair trade to my eyes."

  I shook my head. "It's not enough. A few days ago I didn't even know vampires infested this city. I've... been away a while. I've been distracted with Agua Fuego. And I'm sick of being tailed by the Obsidian March. I need more info on them. Safe houses, waypoints—how to get to that dickhead Magnus."

  The vampire shook his head. "Out of the question."

  "It gets you what you want."

  "Regardless, I can't give you anything you couldn't get on your own."

  My tone soured. "If I could get it on my own, I wo
uldn't need your partnership."

  "Yet that is where we find ourselves," he explained. "If you act on inside information, the March will be quick to figure where it came from, especially after your little show this evening. They would eviscerate me."

  I growled and turned away. "What are you worth then? This isn't an alliance." I nudged Milena's back. "Let's get out of here. I was wrong about this guy."

  She gazed back and forth between us before tucking the subgun away and heading up the narrow staircase.

  "Hold it," relented the vampire.

  I turned slowly, expectantly.

  Beaumont sighed. "I can't give you Magnus. He's too careful about security. You missed your chance at him," he added with a tinge of disappointment. "But I can give you something. A stepping stone."

  I closed in on him. "Who?"

  "I understand you've already met her. Magnus' favorite companion, Tutti."

  The corners of my mouth slid into a devilish grin.

  Chapter 43

  We stopped back at the condo to rendezvous with the others. Darcy handed me the contents she'd sanitized from her geocache. Evan wasn't around—still managing his team—but he only had specifics of the first murder, which was well known by the police. Nothing there needed censoring.

  I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door. Usually I would've been content to just drop Manifesto's journal onto my nightstand, but Fran was around and she'd already displayed a penchant for curiosity. The last thing I wanted was her perusing the ramblings of a psychopath. Call it dad instinct. I moved into my closet and shut it behind me.

  To call it a walk-in closet was criminally unimaginative. I'd seen smaller kitchens, and few shared the same luxury accents. Manufactured hardwood flooring with a weathered gray finish, espresso shelves and glass-door cabinets against the walls, an island with a marble top in the center, and a leather chair beside a double-wide mirror for soaking it all in. Every drawer and shelf was equipped with accent lighting.

  The funny thing was, besides two suits and a few going-out duds, the shelves were just lined with stacks of jeans and white tank tops. I kept telling myself I needed a makeover, but there were always more pressing concerns.