Illya managed to get a few hours sleep once they had gotten to Napoleon’s penthouse. He had expected to be dropped off at his condo, but Napoleon had overridden his objections and had taken him home. If he was honest with himself he was grateful for the company. He was certain that the dreams would come fast and furious on this night of all nights. He really didn’t want to be alone with the memories. They were hard to handle at the best of times and now with the possibility of some resolution, he knew they would be vicious. Napoleon was now sitting across from him, reclining in his seat as they taxied down the runway. He had arranged for the jet once more, not wanting to deal with the hassles of commercial flights. Illya had the sneaking suspicion that he made these arrangements more as a concession to his disability, something he was actually silently grateful for. Traveling on a commercial airline was sheer torture and he had had enough of that in his lifetime as it was. It was the look in his partner’s eyes that bothered him. He could read the unanswered questions there, the same questions that he had put off the evening before. He didn’t know how he wanted to handle this; actually he did, he wanted to storm into the house where his wife was and demand that she come back to New York with him. He hadn’t searched this long and hard to allow there to be any other resolution. She was his wife, dammit and he intended to remind her of that. But that was the emotional part of his psyche, the rational part, the part he knew had to be in control, that part of him would scope out the situation. If she were healthy and happy, then he would go quietly on his way, never intruding on the life he was certain she had built for herself. He wouldn’t, couldn’t bring that kind of pain to her. If this was indeed the case, then it would be best if he stayed out of her life. He stifled a sigh, playing martyr wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time. But he could do it. And would if the role was necessary.
Napoleon, pulling the latest in intelligence from his brief case, handed it across. He had already read through it on the way from the penthouse to the airport. “The house is a beach front property owned by current New York Times bestselling author I. N. Curry. Not much is known about Curry, her books started hitting the shelves about five almost six years ago with the best seller The Edge of Night. She writes mainly sci-fi/ fantasy. Deals with the mystical, witches warlocks, demons… that type of thing. She eschews all forms of publicity going so far as to refuse lucrative offers from all the major talk shows. She publishes one book a year, all in a series, each one hits the best seller list within days of release. Her agent is Terry Farrell, based in NY of all places. Other than that, there is very little information on Curry. Her bio reads like a press release, no known family, lives with her parrot that type of thing. Standard stuff.” He indicated the short blurb on top of the stack. “No picture has ever been printed. She sued the National Enquirer a year or so back when one of the photographers managed to get a seriously bad photo from the bay looking through her patio door. You can’t see anything other than a shape, but it upset her enough to sue. She has managed to keep others from trying but we aren’t certain how. Going price for a good picture is somewhere around 20 grand. She carries no credit card debt, if she charges anything it’s immediately paid off. Her credit history is almost nil, she drives a mid priced older model Nissan. Doesn’t seem to have any bad habits, contributes to various charities, does volunteer work at the local shelters. Votes in every election.”
“Almost sounds too good to be true.” Illya mused, listening to Napoleon’s discourse with half an ear. He was looking at the grainy out of focus image that had sparked the lawsuit. There really wasn’t too much in the picture, The railing of the deck bisected the picture, flowers in pots, some furniture all blocked the bank of windows. He could see a shape framed in what could only be the patio door but it was only an outline of a person. From what he could see of the house, it was an older construction. He couldn’t see how large it was, but from what he could see it looked to be rather large. The patio bisected the front of the house, running the width. There was a shadowy outline recessed under the patio, giving rise to the idea that there was beach access from the lower floor. A wrought iron staircase led from the patio, down to the lower level giving access from there as well. There was another bank of windows above the second floor that could possibly be a third story or could just be the upper level to cathedral ceilings. The beach itself was level and looked to be rocky, it ran almost up to the house but there was a verge of grass where a picnic table and chairs sat. A flagpole rose from the center of a bank of bright flowers with a flag, black in color, hanging from the pole. On either side of the house he could see the edges of two other homes but nothing more. He laid the photo aside. “Nice place it looks like.”
Napoleon nodded. “Yeah, from the property tax records its valued in the six figures. Out of curiosity, I had her tax records pulled for the past ten years. The last five she has claimed income in the high five figure range from the book sales, evidently she negotiated quite well when she signed with the publisher. She also has income from some investments, Microsoft, Nintendo those types of things. She had some interesting deductions, she keeps a home office, the phone line is strictly business, verified in an audit last year. She travels quite a bit, claims its research for the books also verified during the audit. She only claims the 10% charity deduction although she contributes a lot more than that. No dependants listed but she does file as married but separated, which puts her in a higher tax bracket. Prior to the publishing contract, she lists her employment as a personal assistant to a well known actor. That employment lasted for about three years then came the contract. Before that, she filed as a student.” Napoleon raised his glass and took a sip. “According to records, she was born May 23, 1954 to Robert and Alice Townsend at St. Mary’s Hospital, Jefferson City Missouri. She attended Central Missouri State University at Columbia, English major and drama minor. She was an average student, acted in a few plays, worked her way through school by working at the Texas Renaissance Festival and a few others. I asked Karen to look for any photos that the collegiate database might have, but there weren’t any. They hadn’t switched to computers for student files until after she had left the university.” He let his train of thought taper off. Illya closed the file and stared out the window for a moment.
“There really is no way of knowing if its her or not.” He whispered. “We both know how easy it is to change records, despite computers.”
“I know tovarisch. If it isn’t Paige, then maybe this Mrs. Curry can tell us where she found the communicator. At least then we might have a direction to look in. If not,” he shrugged, “we really aren’t any worse off than we were before.”
“No, we aren’t.” They both fell silent, each lost in thoughts best left alone for the remainder of the flight.
Federal Way.
Keeper frowned at the work men as they carried supplies up to the attic. He wasn’t overly impressed with the fact that they had come over an hour late and didn’t seem to be too concerned about that fact. They hadn’t offered any explanation or apology, instead the work boss seemed rather amused when confronted by the issue. He made a mental note to NOT hire this firm again. He had sent Gem upstairs with them, since access to the attic was through Shado’s room. He hadn’t really thought about it when deciding to do the remodel, it was something that Faln mentioned on her way out the door. Already feeling a bit guilty for snooping, they had agreed that someone would keep an eye on the rest of her things while the workmen were around. Now, he could hear their footsteps over the kitchen and back part of the house, and with the acoustics their voices echoed eerily in the bedrooms there. It wasn’t too difficult to keep track of them so he and Gem were sitting at the kitchen table, playing rummy until the girls got home from classes.
By tacit agreement they weren’t discussing the mysterious husband and history they were trying to fill in. That would also wait until the girls got home. Keeper hadn’t heard from his PD contact yet any way, so there really wasn’t anything to discuss. None of the other internet searches had yielded anything. So in effect, they were stymied until inspiration hit, that or until Brit or Faln managed to get a “hit” in the psychometric department. Shado hadn’t checked in, but they really weren’t expecting her too. Her itinerary had her locked into some sort of seminar for most of the day, both Keeper and Gem could almost hear her bitching from New York. Her irritation was clear enough through the connection that bound them all together. Privately he was grateful that she was so irritated, it would keep her from picking up on their guilt and curiosity, two things that were guaranteed to have her on the first plane back. During the morning meditations, an exercise they continued even when apart, they each had heard her quite clearly complaining about the rotten coffee and breakfast buffet provided by the hotel. Keeper felt mildly concerned about her safety in the Big Apple, it would be easy for her to be targeted by the Dark while apart from the Circle. He was confident that she could handle the normal crap that usually cropped up, but what about the abnormal stuff? He frowned at the card Gem discarded and then drew from the stack.
“You’re worried about her.” Gem stated. He selected his next card, laid down three of a kind and discarded, only to frown when Keeper picked up the discard pile.
“Yes and no. Yes I’m worried that something will happen. Face it, it always does. No matter which of us is alone. And no, because I think she can take care of herself. I just wish she wouldn’t play Captain Kirk so much. If something does target her, you know she won’t call for help, no matter how big and bad it is.” He laid down a four card straight, shuffling the cards in his hand with a frown. “She’s too much of a mother hen and you know it.”
“She is, I agree.” He drew and then with a grin laid down another trio and discarded his last card. “Rummy.”
“Prick.” Keeper muttered as he began to tally and deduct point for the cards he was caught with. “I know she can, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it. I wish she would quit sheltering us.”
“Um, Keeper, she only does it when its stuff we can’t handle ourselves.” Gem reminded his card partner grimly. “Otherwise, we are on our own.”
“I just don’t get it. We all got zapped at the same time, how come her control is so much better? I haven’t been able to figure that one out.”
“You ever talk to her about that? You know, go to the source instead of just bitching about it?” Gem finished his tally. “115 points.”
Keeper growled and wrote it down. “-65 for a total of 45, Yeah, all she did was stare into space for a moment and mutter something about years of practice. Then she went all mystical with that Grasshopper stuff.”
“Grasshopper stuff?”
“You know. Snatch the pebble from my hand, Grasshopper… Karate Kid quotes.”
“Ah, don’t ya just hate those?” Gem dealt another hand. They played in silence a bit longer. He started to say something when the peal of the doorbell interrupted them. He looked at Keeper, question in his eyes. “You expecting anyone else?”
“No. You?”
“Nope.”