Lure of the Wicked Part 12

She chuckled, her green eyes a dark slash of wry amus.e.m.e.nt. "Sir, I can honestly say this isn't the strangest job I've ever had to take on. Don't worry about me. I'll let you know if this unease turns into anything tangible."

"Tangible?" He hesitated. "Like . . . a vision?"

"You'll sleep better if you think so," she replied with a crooked smile.

"That's . . ." Phin thought about it. "Either encouraging or incredibly nerve-wracking."

"I'm good. Don't worry." She got up, flattening both hands on top of her head to stretch the kinks from her back. "But I think I need to get some food before I begin work at the dining floor. Do you need anything else? Can I bring you anything?"

"Just get some rest," he replied firmly. "You've done more than enough."

Cally grinned. "Does that mean a raise?"

"And maybe a pony," he replied in the same light tone. Her laughter eased some of the tension from his neck as she flashed him a thumbs-up.

Phin watched her exit his office, bracing his hands on the surface of the desk. After a moment's thought, his smile fading, he reached for the comm and keyed in the security office's frequency.

"Security, Mr. Clarke, how can I help you?" Eric Barker's voice sounded as tired as Cally's elfin features had looked.

Wincing in sympathy, Phin deliberately smoothed his tone. Crisp, professional. "I'm calling to check in on the results of the investigation."

"Yes, sir. All guests are accounted for. We've begun the process to verify the scheduled hours and whereabouts of Timeless staff, but-"

"You suspect an intruder," he cut in smoothly. "Yes, I heard."

Embarra.s.sed silence filled the feed. Then, "Yes, sir."

Phin sighed. "Who else have you told?"

"Just the team." Eric paused awkwardly. "I must have slipped a sweep. I'm sorry, Mr. Clarke, I'll be more careful about where I speak in the future."

"Thank you. In the meantime, I need you to do something for me."

"Say the word."

"Right now, I need you to contact Mark Vaughn's home line." Phin's fingers danced over the keyboard inset into the polished wood desk. He rattled off the number.

"Got it," the security officer replied. "What am I looking for?"

"His whereabouts. He didn't show up for his s.h.i.+ft today, and I'd like to make sure he's all right. And," Phin added as he studied the personnel photo of the gray-haired maintenance man, "find out why he isn't here."

"I'll be in touch soon."

"I'll be waiting." Phin disconnected the line and stared up at the stucco ceiling.

It wasn't that he mistrusted Eric. Or any of his staff. Until now, Phin would have said without a doubt that he trusted them all. Each had gone through a meticulous hiring process, a background study, interviews. Timeless promised discretion. He needed discreet staff, and that's what he had.

Except for the temporaries. But their access was limited. They worked at the spa with a.s.sumed ident.i.ties that Timeless provided, and then they were ferried out of the city to one of a handful of homesteads scattered throughout the country.

What would any of them have to gain by murdering a guest?

Except this guest was the bishop's own grandmother.

Phin sc.r.a.ped his hair back from his forehead. As the idea filtered through his tired brain, he closed his eyes. Groaned out loud.

A temporary had the means. The in. The safety.

And, d.a.m.n it all, the motive.

But which? Cally?

Impossible. Phin was a man who trusted his instinct, and everything in him told him Cally Simmons was exactly what she appeared to be: a witch desperately afraid for her safety. A good woman.

Marco Gonzalez? Greg Swenson? Both men had worked for him for two weeks. He didn't know if they were witches, but the interviews his staff had conducted a.s.sured him they weren't killers, rapists, or thieves. They each worked hard-one in pool maintenance and one in the kitchen-and he'd never heard so much as a whisper of unease about either.

They did what he suspected witches and accused witches did best: kept their heads down and stayed out of the line of fire.

Liz? One of the best temporary ma.s.seuses he'd ever had the pleasure to give safe haven to. Joel adored her. Mostly, Phin thought wryly, Joel adored that he could foist his more difficult clients onto her.

That left Hep. No last name given. An olive-skinned boy who had been so scared when he'd first arrived that he'd slept in the laundry room for fear of being found by the missionaries who had taken his family.

Phin squeezed his eyes shut. The kid was all of twelve. Maybe thirteen. If he'd tried to murder the bishop's grandmother, Phin was certain it wouldn't be through some elaborate sabotage scheme.

His instincts were rarely wrong. And yet. . .

And yet. A temporary had the strongest motive.

The comm buzzed in his hand. He jerked, scowled as his heart skipped a surprised beat, and stabbed the connect b.u.t.ton. "Talk to me."

"It's Barker, sir," came the clipped greeting. "Mark Vaughn isn't home, or at least isn't picking up the comm line. Shall I send someone?"

"Yes. I want him found." Phin disconnected after Barker's a.s.surances. A knot curled hard in his stomach, he dialed Lillian's number into the comm.

She answered almost immediately. "Yes?"

"Mother, I had a thought."

Though he made an effort to sound casual, Lillian's tone sharpened. "What's wrong, Phinneas? Are you all right?"

That was his mother. Wired in.

He pulled one hand over his face and stared blankly at the neat stack of storage boxes tucked against the wall. Read the precise, blocked labels on each. "I'm fine," he said. "Mark Vaughn didn't show up to work today, and either he's the one, or I think one of the temporaries could have been our saboteur."

A pause. "What makes you think so?"

"The only lead I have on Vaughn is that he's gone. Which is why I'm thinking it's more likely one of the temporaries." The words lumped in his throat, each one a knot of betrayal. Worry. He cleared it hard. "They have the motive, Mother." Phin sighed. "What better way to get back at the Church than murder the bishop's family?"

"That's a great deal of speculation, my love."

"But it's the only explanation that fits. They're all-" He caught himself, frowned. "They're all temporary. I can't shake it off."

"Well, we'll start investigating their whereabouts," Lillian a.s.sured him, her voice as crisp as if they were speaking about laundering the sheets. As if she hadn't warned him about this very thing. "I a.s.sume you have a plan to locate Mr. Vaughn?"

"Yes, Barker's sending someone to his place now."

"Lovely. Which do you think did it?"

"And that's the kicker. I can't see any of them pulling this off."

Lillian clucked her tongue thoughtfully. "Then," she said slowly, "what about the ones recently let go?"

The idea was so obvious, so crystal clear, that Phin sank back to his chair and let his forehead thunk against the desk. "Any of them could have done it," he groaned. "Any of them. They knew they were leaving. And then I helped them escape. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking?"

"Easy, my love," she said softly. "You don't know that any of this is true. While we investigate, Timeless will continue as it always has. In the meantime, I'd like you to do me a favor."

He straightened, wary. "What?"

"Don't," Lillian warned, a sudden dash of amus.e.m.e.nt clear on the line, "take that tone with me, son. I do remember where you sleep."

Phin snorted.

"I was going over the logs last night," Lillian continued. "Naomi Is.h.i.+kawa appears to be avoiding her schedule."

"Yes, I know." Phin glanced at his watch, saw it was just past noon. "I was going to ask you about that."

"Do you know why?"

"No," Phin admitted. "Not really. But I can tell you she enjoys the gym." And how. The memory of her body against his still branded his skin, his brain. A sweet, steady reminder of what he hadn't taken advantage of. Yet.

"So you've seen her today?"

"Not today." Phin frowned. "Why?"

Lillian hesitated. "Just . . . a suspicion."

"Mother-"

"Do me a favor," she cut in mildly, "and cross-reference her schedule with Abigail Montgomery's."

"She's here, then?" Phin winced. "When did Her Royal Highness arrive?"

"Don't call her that. She arrived last night, a full fourteen hours ahead of schedule. And in style," Lillian added dryly. "As always."

"Great. What are we calling her this time?"

"She's still married to James Montgomery, at least for the moment," Lillian replied with a sigh. "Mrs. Montgomery will do."

"Noted. What am I cross-referencing for?"

Her voice brightened. "Good morning, Mr. Rook. I'll explain later," she said into the comm. "For now, just check that they aren't scheduled in the same services, and let's try to limit their social interaction, shall we?"

"All right." He sat back at the computer, fingers tapping slowly into the keyboard. "I'll be in touch."

"Thank you, my love. Oh, and keep Miss Is.h.i.+kawa away from the dining areas." She disconnected before Phin could ask any of the questions that leaped to his tongue. Her voice cut off mid-greeting to another guest, another welcome. Another cheerful conversation.

Lillian enjoyed making herself available during mealtimes, talking with the guests, directing events subtly from within the group. A personal touch. She had an eye for people, which meant she had reasons for asking him to keep the two women separated.

He just wished he knew what the h.e.l.l was going on. Anywhere, for that matter.

"And," he murmured as he checked both women's schedules, "they're good." Not that it'd matter. Aside from a morning's worth of pampering, Naomi had avoided her services like the plague. Yoga, relaxation, ma.s.sage, she hadn't shown up for any of it.

What the h.e.l.l did she do all day?

Staring at the monitor, he tapped his fingers on the edge of the inset keyboard in absentminded echo of his mother's fidgeting habit.

Keep her away from the dining floor. Abigail loved her social time. Phin was absolutely convinced she came here because of the captive audience, so that meant she intended on reigning over them all again. Her Royal Highness, the much-divorced queen of the wealthy city scene.

Keep Naomi away from Abigail.

Why?

Collecting his jacket from the coat rack, Phin shut and locked the door behind him. He kept his thumb pressed to the small scanner until the distinctive sound of tumblers sliding into place a.s.sured him it was as secure as it was going to get.

He caught himself whistling as he headed for the elevator.

It had taken way too long to clean the suite bathroom, but it would pa.s.s muster if anyone came looking. Timeless didn't leave chemicals just hanging out where any of their elite clients could stumble over them.

Water and frothy shower gel could clean only so much.

Naomi had spent the night cursing the stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h who'd allowed her to slam his head against the s.h.i.+ning porcelain toilet. He'd bled out on the tile floor.

Nastier invectives rolled off her tongue when a search of his body revealed only a duplicate of her security card. No ID, nothing other than a Timeless uniform and that f.u.c.king card.

She'd wrestled him and the b.l.o.o.d.y towels into the armoire and cranked the internal temperature of the room to as cold as it would go, but the corpse wouldn't keep long. She'd have to find Carson before the dead witch started to smell.

Four hours later, what promised to be a foul temper had blossomed into a headache that no amount of Gemma's numbing cream could cure.

The place was a G.o.dforsaken maze. Scouring just two floors left Naomi frustrated, tired, and worse, empty-handed. The place was huge, larger than any single building had any right to be, with hallways that branched off in every direction and stairwells that her key card wouldn't grant her access to.

Using her comm, she mapped every hallway she could find and didn't have any excuses when a blue-eyed man in a dishwasher's ap.r.o.n escorted her back to the public corridors.

On the plus side, she'd seen signs of security where she'd figured there was none. Maybe that meant Phin had more sense than she gave him credit for. Now if she could just get her hands on that security feed.

In the elevator again, she touched the next floor b.u.t.ton, glancing up at the camera lens nestled into the corner as the lift glided into motion.

How could she ask?

Better yet, could she patch Jonas into the closed system? Maybe he could find something they didn't know how to look for. With a h.e.l.l of a lot less questions.