“Maybe he’s a pod person,” he suggested as he poured more coffee into his cup. “Anyway, I’ll be downstairs for a while if you need me. We’re working on the safe house and the Farouche info, then have a meeting at nine.”
I nodded. “I’m going to listen to Idris’s call a few more times. He may have used that emphasis technique somewhere else. Right now it’s our only source of clues.”
“I’ll let you know if we come up with anything else,” he said and then departed down the basement stairs.
I grabbed the recorder and a set of headphones then settled on the sofa, this time listening for nuances in emphasis and timing. On the third time through, I stopped it at the end, ran it back about ten seconds. Listened to it again. And again.
Tell Mzatal I still have his ring, and I haven’t forgotten gheztak ru eehn. So leave me be. You don’t want to start a fire you can’t put out.
Start a fire.
Except he hesitated for the barest instant before and after “start,” mumbled the “a” and hesitated again after “fire.”
There were two options. Either my imagination was working overtime, or Idris had told me who had him: StarFire.
Ryan dashed up from the basement, laptop in hand, when I hollered. “You have something new?”
“I think so.” I played the end of the recording, but to my disappointment he simply responded with a puzzled look. “Listen to it,” I urged and played it again. “Start a fire. StarFire.” I scowled at his dubious expression. “I know it’s a little crazy but I hear it now. I can’t not hear it.”
To his credit, Ryan didn’t shoot me down in flames. “Play it one more time.” I did so, and this time he rewarded me with a slow nod. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “If that’s for real, Idris is one clever guy. That’s a hard thing to pull off.”
“He’s super smart,” I said. “And that’s why I believe it’s a real clue.”
“StarFire, huh?” He opened his laptop on the kitchen table and sat. “I was actually on my way to show you what I came up with on Farouche. Basically, he’s a fucking saint. Gives tons to charity, bought new computers for every public school in St. Long Parish, even arranged for bulletproof vests for the Sheriff’s department K-9 units.”
“He got vests for the dogs?” I blinked in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he said as he scrolled to another page. “Married twice. Two kids, boy and a girl, with the first wife. They divorced seventeen years ago,” he winced, “two years after their five-year-old daughter was abducted in broad daylight from in front of her school. Never found.”
“Shit,” I breathed. “I remember that. It was a couple of years after my dad died, and all the schools and parents were freaking out about security.” I gave a wry grimace. “A few days later I missed the bus home because I was out behind the gym trying pot for the first time. Tessa thought I’d been kidnapped too, and ripped me up one side and down the other. Grounded me for a month.”
Ryan snorted. “Once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker.”
I punched him lightly on his shoulder. “I’ve upgraded to a higher class of troublemaking. What else do you have on Farouche?”
He continued to skim the page. “He remarried about a year later, had two more kids.” He blew out a breath. “And the second wife, Claire, passed away from ovarian cancer about three years back.”
I fought down a shiver. My mother had died of that same cancer when I was eight. But to lose a child and a wife? This guy had been through hell twice.
“The feds have sniffed around a time or two with regards to some vaguely questionable dealings,” Ryan continued, “but it’s never reached the level of a full-blown investigation. And nothing’s ever turned up that was unusual for a businessman with multiple holdings. His employees love him. He’s generous with benefits, pays fairly. No one has ever filed a complaint against him.” He clicked on another screen. “Big supporter of the arts, too. Paid for a new roof for Beaulac Little Theater, and even invested in some zombie movie over in St. Edwards Parish.”
I peered at the image on the screen: A sharply dressed man with steely grey hair, a hard and steady gaze, and an air of confidence that remained palpable even in a still photo. “Mzatal insisted that this guy fucked with Paul’s head,” I said. “What’s the deal?”
Ryan lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “No idea,” he confessed. “StarFire’s the company he’s most known for, but he’s CEO of a number of corporations. I checked them alclass="underline" The Child Find League, Farouche Technologies, RiseHigh, Esoteric Enhancement Enterprises, Sapphire Star Resorts, and several others. By all accounts, clean as a whistle, with a polished halo as well.”
“Wait.” I held up my hand while I forced my brain into overdrive. “RiseHigh LLC.” My pulse quickened. “That’s who bought the Garden Street industrial park.”
He gave me a long look, then swung his attention back to his laptop, started clicking and typing away. “Huh. That’s damn interesting.”
“Spill it, fed-boy,” I ordered.
“Looks like RiseHigh LLC began inquiries about the purchase of the complex about a week after you were first summoned to the demon realm. The sale was finalized about three weeks later.”
“It’s all connected,” I murmured. “I’m betting he bought the whole place to keep that warehouse—and that node—safe and secure.”
Ryan’s brow creased as his eyes skimmed the info on his screen. “I agree it’s one hell of a coincidence, but it looks like he really does intend to build the Claire Farouche Cancer Center there once the permits and paperwork and plans are in order.”
“It’s a big place,” I said, considering. “Wouldn’t be hard at all to have a cancer center there and still keep the node protected.” I felt an almost physical jolt as a puzzle piece snapped into place. “Cancer. Claire,” I breathed. “Fucking shitballs. Not only is Thatcher’s name in one of Tracy’s journals, but there’s also a page in there with all sorts of sketches of tree-things and random stuff written in the margins—and ‘Claire’s cancer’ is one of them.”
Ryan pushed back from the table, peered at me. “You think Tracy was working with Farouche in some way?” he asked. “Or maybe stalking him? Farouche is a big enough public figure to attract a whack-job, and Tracy was definitely that.”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, trying to see the whole picture. “On the one hand I have every indication that Farouche is a saint who’s been through some horrible shit.” Ryan nodded agreement, and I went on, “Then on the other hand I have Mzatal and Paul who tell me that Farouche is an evil dude who kidnaps people and uses fear to gain their compliance. And on another hand, I have whack-job Tracy with some sort of interest in him, and on yet another hand I have the intriguing fact that Farouche bought an industrial park that happens to contain a valve node.”
“You do know that’s four hands,” Ryan pointed out.
“Yeah, well, we can pretend I’m a faas for now.”
His mouth twitched. “Will you wear a furry blue suit?”
I smacked him lightly on the back of the head, though I couldn’t help but laugh. “Focus!”
He grinned and made a show of rubbing where I’d hit him. “Okay, okay. I doubt the industrial park—or any of it, for that matter—is a coincidence.” He sobered and shook his head. “Too many links. However, I can do some more digging to see if there were any dealings between Farouche’s holdings and the companies Tracy owned with Roman Hatch.”