Living with the Dead

ADELE



Adele hadn’t meant to kill the cop. She just hadn’t seen any way to avoid it.

It was Robyn’s fault. Apparently she decided being a fugitive made her a movie action heroine. Running through alleys, hiding in the shadows, giving Adele the slip, then kicking and punching her before tearing off again.

Adele rubbed her knee. That was going to bruise. The joint complained with every step, setting her teeth on edge. Robyn was just lucky she hadn’t hit Adele in the stomach. If she’d hurt the baby . . .

Adele wasn’t sure how to finish the threat. She already had to kill Robyn. She put her face together with her name.

Not that the name would get her far. Adele Morrissey was a business, not a person. It was a corporation owned by another corporation, ultimately held by the kumpania, but behind so many layers that no layperson would connect them. Adele couldn’t even remember her real name.

Still, the cops might make the connection, if they tried hard enough, and they would, now that two of their own were dead.

If things spiraled further out of control, Irving Nast would come to Adele’s rescue. She and her baby were too valuable to lose over a few dead bodies. If it came to that, though, she’d be indebted to them. Better to handle it herself.

She checked her watch. She’d missed dinner. Niko would not be happy. The communal Saturday dinner was a must—a chance to discuss the busy night to come and reallocate resources if needed. Damn Robyn Peltier. Adele needed to wrap this up before she got into serious trouble.

She reached into her pocket and touched the silk shirt. A few days more and the link would be so strong she wouldn’t need the prop—she could just visualize Robyn and see her, as she’d been able to do with Portia. It would never get that far, though. Robyn would die tonight, then Adele would call Irving Nast and continue negotiations.

She closed her eyes.

Oh, look, there she was, coming out of yet another store. What did you buy this time, Robyn? She’d already picked up a clean shirt and bandages and water to clean her wound. When Robyn retreated to a bathroom stall to fix herself up, Adele would have had her best shot to kill her . . . if Neala hadn’t picked that exact moment to return the message Adele had left for Colm. Neala had phoned back to say Colm could not help her practice tracking Jasmine Wills. He had a lesson with Niko and, really, if Adele was going to learn to track Jasmine, didn’t she need to be doing it by herself?

Bitch.

Adele could have really used Colm. After she finally got off the phone and fixed on Robyn, she’d seen her in a bathroom stall, dressing her wound. Which would have been perfect, had there been any way to identify the bathroom. The last time Adele saw Robyn, she’d been on a street filled with eateries, any one of which could have housed the stall she saw Robyn using.

Robyn’s wound hadn’t seemed too debilitating. Still, Adele had hoped it was slow-acting, that the bullet would work its way toward some vital artery and, any moment now, Robyn would keel over dead.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Robyn Peltier might be older than Adele, but she was light-years behind in world experience. A sheltered upper-middle-class girl, recently moved to L.A., didn’t know the city, probably never set foot in an alley for fear of stepping in something icky. Now she gets shot in the shoulder and what does she do? Fights back and runs. Field dresses the wound in a bathroom.

Stores were closing now. Restaurants would follow. All that running would start taking its toll and Robyn would begin to grow tired, to wear down, and then . . .

Adele smiled.