He picked up, and there was a long pause. “How did you find me?
“You’re coming here?” he said. “Baby, wait a second. How do you have my room number?”
Charlie heard steps coming toward the bathroom and she went back into a crouch. Listened as he pissed in the toilet. He swore twice, kicked the wall, then walked out of the room. She heard the door close and the electric lock engage.
Legs stiff and shaking, Charlie climbed out of the bathtub, using the towel rack to help her. She hobbled to the door. She wanted to yank it open and run, but forced herself to count to fifty. Then she walked into the hall and headed for the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, she headed down. On the fifth floor, she had to stop and take a few deep breaths. Panic had made her breathe too shallowly and she was dizzy from it.
In the lobby, she kept her head high and her gaze on the exit. She reminded herself that even if Adam knew what Charlie looked like, she was in a wig. She could probably walk right past Doreen without being spotted.
As she hit the doors, fresh, cold autumn air broke over her. She inhaled and felt the pure hit of adrenaline that came when a job was almost over. And now, with Knight Singh’s book tucked under her bra, she had the promise of a new job ahead of her.
Ten minutes later she was parking too close to the curb on Meadow Road, in front of Murray’s Fine Jewelry. If she got Doreen’s ring, then she’d have something to turn over in exchange for fixing things at Posey’s school. And to make up for having boosted the book from Adam.
“Charlie Hall,” Murray said as the bell clanged behind her and she looked around at the familiar, dusty shelves. “What did you bring me?”
He was a small man, red-haired and wearing wire-framed glasses that magnified his eyes uncannily. She’d been selling him stolen goods since she was fifteen and Rand decided it was important for her to learn “the back end” of the business.
Charlie walked to the counter. She looked down at the rings. “Can I see that one?”
Murray’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he took out the tray.
She put her finger on Doreen’s ring. “This ring was stolen, you know.”
He raised both eyebrows. “That’s a real shame.”
She sighed, because while it was true that Doreen could call the cops, they didn’t usually get involved in domestic disputes about communal property. “I’ll trade you for a tip on a fixed horse race.”
He laughed. “You want me to play the ponies? And if I lose, what, come collect the ring from you? You know I like you, kid, but I deal in sure things.”
“It’s a box exacta on Vantablack and Mars something,” she said, turning the ring over in her fingers, admiring the flash of the stone and the richness of the gold. “Oh, come on, you can’t tell me that a pawnshop isn’t a little like gambling.”
“If you’re good at it, it’s not,” he grumbled. “That stone’s fake, you know.”
“Huh,” she said, bringing it closer to her face and giving it a more thorough inspection. The tines holding what she’d supposed to be a diamond were a different shade from the rest. A bright, yellow gold.
“Does Adam know?” Charlie asked.
Murray shook his head. “Him? He sold it to me years ago.”
“Then how come you paid him so much for what’s left?” Charlie asked, wondering whether, in the end, Doreen would consider the ring recovered if she found out her diamond was gone.
“So you know the price I gave him too?” Murray snorted. “For your information, I paid for the gold. Twenty-two carats. That’s why the band is so scratched. Too soft for regular wear not to damage it.”
Charlie gave Murray her best good-pupil smile. “Come on, this tip’s good. And it sounds like the ring is only so-so.”
Murray grunted. Then he opened his laptop and started typing something into it. Charlie slid the ring onto the knuckle of her middle finger. Looked around the store.
In one of the other cabinets, she noticed a display of onyx. Rings, earrings, pendants, a net of polished onyx beads, and handcuffs lined with strips of onyx rested in the case. Beside those were gloves like the ones that Odette had, but instead of shining nails, they were black stone. Then there were powders to add to nail polish or press into lipstick, a few fake teeth, and a large array of carved onyx knives. A big one hung behind the register. Murray’s other business. Selling protection from shadows.
“I see your race here. Wild Mars Rover. How sure are you about this?” Murray asked.
A good question. Adam had seemed certain, but Adam was an idiot. “Totally sure.” After all, equivocating wouldn’t make him blame her less if he lost the money.
“All right,” he said. “Take the ring back to your little friend. But if this doesn’t come through, you’re going to be getting me twice the value of what I lost—and you’re going to get it in something easy to move, like uncut gems. Or stolen shadows. Agreed?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, slipping the ring all the way onto her finger and then pointing down at the black knives. “You sell a lot of these?”
“More all the time. You can’t be too careful,” he said. “People say onyx can cut through the night.”
“How much?” she asked.
Murray smiled a kind, grandfatherly smile. “I’ll add it to your tab. Better get it from someone you trust. Too much shined-up resin out there, looking like stone.”
“Appreciated,” she told him.
He chose one of the knives from the case, wrapped it in a cloth, and slid it into a bag. “Hope the horses come through.”
“You and me both,” she said, and headed out the door. As she did, she noticed one of the bricks on the threshold was a polished black. No puppeteer was sending a shadow in there.
In the car, sitting behind the wheel, she opened the pouch and took out the knife. Pressed her finger against the side. It wasn’t particularly sharp—stones didn’t hold an edge like metal did.
Onyx can cut through the night.
She hadn’t carried an onyx knife with her since she stopped stealing from gloamists—and her old one had a big chunk broken off it. Despite not being sharp, an onyx knife was an excellent weapon against a shadow. The onyx forced it solid, so it could be hit, and weakened it.
She’d need the knife, now that Vince wasn’t around to break people’s necks.
With the job over, there was no way to prevent herself from thinking of him. No way to avoid the gut punch of him being gone. No way to avoid the sadness that was coming to smother her.
But at least he understood that Charlie Hall was no sucker. She wasn’t a mark.
Edmund Vincent Carver. She took out her phone to stare at the picture of his license again, to study it as though she could know him from that picture. Her gaze slid to the address, right there in Springfield.
Might as well swing by.
The apartment building was on the smaller side, with four high-ceilinged stories. Old brick covered the exterior. If she hadn’t been able to guess the age of the building from the patina, the nonstandard-sized windows would have given it away. Every air conditioner jutting out from one had to be braced at an odd angle to fit.
Charlie went up the steps. There were ten buttons on the buzzer. The first three didn’t get a response. The fourth and fifth had no idea who she was asking about. The sixth got a grumbled hello.
“I have a package here for Edmund Carver,” she said. “Needs a signature.”
“He doesn’t live here.” A guy, from the sound of the voice.
“Well, maybe you could forward it to him,” Charlie suggested. If he would open the door, she believed she could weasel her way inside and refuse to leave until he told her something. “I just need someone to sign.”
“I told you, he’s not here. He’s dead.”