CHAPTER 7
The good doctor’s report confirmed what I’d already known: the four shapeshifters, including Nick’s wife, had died of snake poison. I had noted four different bite sizes on the bodies and Doolittle had found one more, which meant five sets of fangs and probably five assailants, unless our killer was a hydra. Or a gorgon. Not that anyone had ever seen a gorgon, but you never knew what fun atrocities magic would commit next.
The snakes were some sort of vipers, and based on Doolittle’s learned opinion, the largest bite belonged to something with a head the size of a coconut and its poison was lethal to humans in tiny doses and shapeshifters in slightly larger ones. Besides the official report, the envelope contained a small scrap of paper that said, “If you find it, call me immediately. Do not attempt to confront the snake.”
I wouldn’t confront it. I would shoot it. Repeatedly.
Jim had run the fingerprints I took off the vault’s door through the database. Out of eight sets, seven belonged to Raphael’s crew. The eighth was a mystery. None of the databases had any hits.
The trace analysis wasn’t much better. No smoking guns.
I sifted through the files. Raphael’s crew was a tight-knit bunch, all Clan Bouda and their relatives. Family men and women, they stuck together. They visited the same places, they went to the same barbecues, and they babysat each other’s children. Raphael was very selective in his hiring habits and he hadn’t hired anyone new for eleven months, long before the Heron Building ever came on sale.
Of the fourteen people currently on the crew, six were mated, with both husband and wife working for Medrano Reclamations; three others were mated to someone else; two were children of other members of the crew; and the three remaining shapeshifters had worked with Raphael for years. They led quiet lives—they worked, they came home, they spent time with their kids.
Jim’s background check had found zip. This type of environment didn’t exactly provide fertile ground for secret sins. Nobody was a degenerate gambler. Nobody borrowed money from unsavory sources. Nobody seemed to have room in their lives for blackmail, murder, and torrid affairs. And if an affair had occurred, their biggest worry would’ve been their bouda spouses. Boudas were wild until they mated, but once the mating occurred, they went right into possessive, fiercely jealous territory. And their scandals were notoriously public. We loved drama.
I called around to the local MSDU to a buddy of mine. During my time with the Order, Ted had loaned me to the military a couple of times, and I had earned enough respect there to cash in a favor or two. Lena, my MSDU contact, ran a quick check on Anapa’s criminal history for me. He had none. Either both he and his corporation were disgustingly law-abiding or he knew how to cover his tracks.
Finally I looked up and nodded at Ascanio. “Get your gear.”
He grabbed his knife. “Where are we going?”
“To the library.”
His enthusiasm visibly deflated and he emitted a tragic sigh. “But ‘library’ and ‘kick-ass’ are two concepts that don’t usually go together.”
“That’s the nature of the business. Five percent of the time you are killing monsters. The rest of the time, we’re digging through the dirt for a tiny piece of the perpetrator’s pubic hair.”
“Ugh.”
I was fighting on two fronts. One, he was a fifteen-year-old boy equipped with the body of a monster and flooded with hormones. He was desperate for an opportunity to let some steam out. Two, he was a bouda. We were an easily bored species. In nature hyenas relied on sight more than scent in their hunting. We didn’t do dogged wolflike pursuit, we didn’t travel single file, and we didn’t typically track. Following the trail of breadcrumbs went against Ascanio’s natural instinct. But as I’ve pointed out to him before, the human part of him was doing the driving. I would prevail.
“You can always stay here and practice broom drills.”
“No, thank you,” he said and produced a dazzling smile. The kid was something else. “May I drive?”
“Yes, you may.” I had to give him something as a consolation prize.
We locked the office and went on our way.
“So why are we going to the library?” Ascanio asked.
I leaned back against my seat. “Don’t take Magnolia. Take Redberry instead.”
“Why?”
“Redberry has some sort of weird yellow vines growing on the buildings. I want to check it out. To answer your question, we are going to the library because it’s the only place accessible to the public where we can tap into the Library of Alexandria project.”
“What’s that?”
“Years ago—before you were born—people had access to a network of data called the Internet. If you needed an address, for example, you could type it into your computer and it would pop right up, with directions of how to get there. If you needed to look up something like the boiling point of hydrochloric acid, you could do that. Instant knowledge at your fingertips.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Well, when it became obvious that magic was going to wreck the computer networks, people tried to preserve portions of the Internet. They took snapshots of their servers and sent the data to a central database at the Library of Congress. The project became known as the Library of Alexandria, because in ancient times Alexandria’s library was said to contain all human knowledge, before some jackass burned it to the ground. Since the tech is up, we’re going to dig through that database.”
“What are we digging for?”
“Facts. Let’s look at what we have. First, Raphael buys a highly contested building, leaving all other bidders in the dust. Then Raphael’s crew finds a secret vault that wasn’t in any of the documents they had. Someone went to Raphael’s site, attacked the shapeshifters guarding it, and opened the vault. Then they left the site, leaving most of the vault’s contents untouched. What does that tell you?”
Ascanio frowned. “It wasn’t random.”
“Right. There are easier places to rob and a guarded tunnel isn’t like a bank. It doesn’t automatically look like something valuable is hidden in it. Also a random robber would’ve emptied the vault.”
Ascanio looked at me. “So the thief had to know about the vault and what was in it.”
There was hope for him yet. “Exactly. We have two avenues of investigation: one, find out who knew about the vault and could’ve accessed it, and two?”
“Find out what they were after,” Ascanio said.
I smiled at him. “Good. We know that the building was owned by Jamar Groves. If the Blue Heron had a secret vault, Jamar had to know about it, because he was the one who had put it there. We know that Jamar Groves collected art and antiques. It’s logical to suppose that the secret vault contained Jamar’s personal stash. We also have the catalog of the vault’s contents, which I made at the scene. We’re going to search the archives for any mention of Jamar and his collection and compare it against the list of items in the vault.”
Ascanio arranged his pretty face into a martyred expression.
“The Central Library sits on the edge of Centennial Park,” I told him. Over the years the park had exploded in size, swallowing additional city blocks, and the library was one of its victims.
“So?” Ascanio asked.
“Centennial Park is owned by the witch covens. They provide security for the library, because it is a depository of knowledge.”
Ascanio came alive. “Female witches?”
“Most of them, yes. If you work hard, I’ll let you flirt.”
The teenage bouda grinned.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I told him. “The witch girls are pretty pragmatic.”