"How do we know the relic was in his vault?" Jake demanded.
"Because Lyra was there with a client who wanted her opinion on a special piece of amethyst," Cruz said. "They were escorted to a private room by Fairstead, and the vault was opened. She didn't get a chance to see the relic because I walked into the room at that moment, and Fairstead immediately closed and locked the vault. But she had time to sense it."
Jake eyed Lyra. "You're sure that relic was in Fairstead's vault?" he demanded.
"Yes," she said. She picked up her coffee cup. "I'm good with amethyst, remember? And I know those relics. I spent a lot of time with them before AI stole the ruin from me. They resonate on some very unusual and distinctive wavelengths."
Jake's eyes narrowed. "We did not steal that damn ruin."
"Moving right along," Cruz said smoothly. "Since nothing else was stolen out of the vault, it's clear that whoever killed Fairstead was after the relic. That means he knew it was there in the first place. I'm betting the list of suspects is a short one."
"With Lyra's client at the top?" Jake asked.
"It's a possibility," Cruz conceded. "But on the whole I'm inclined to doubt it."
"Who the hell is this client, anyway?" Jake demanded.
There was a short silence. Jeff concentrated on some toast. Cruz ate his omelet.
Lyra smiled, drank some coffee, and lowered the cup. "Wilson Revere."
Stunned outrage flashed across Jake's face. "What the hell? You're consulting for Revere?"
"Past tense, I'm afraid." She sighed. "Cruz made a scene. I was humiliated. I burst into tears and managed to create a spectacle of myself in front of a very large group of the most important amber collectors in Frequency. I think it's safe to say that I won't be getting any more high-end clients like Revere for a while."
"Revere is our biggest competitor," Jake roared. "He's a complete and total son of a bitch. You can't trust him any farther than you can walk without amber in the tunnels."
"Really?" She gave him a quizzical look. "I never had any problem with him."
Evidently sensing that he wasn't going to get far with her, Jake rounded on Cruz.
"Did you know she was working for Revere?" he demanded.
"Yes," Cruz said patiently. "That's why I went along. But as Lyra said, the situation became somewhat untenable, so we left. The bottom line is that we were able to determine that the relic was in Fairstead's vault. That's why I set up surveillance on the gallery."
Jeff leaned back in his chair. "We think the killer came and went via the catacombs, and that's where we are now."
Jake grunted, clearly unsatisfied. But he picked up his coffee. "You're going to take a look?"
"I've got the plane standing by," Cruz said. "Jeff and I will leave right after breakfast."
Lyra lowered her cup. "What about me?"
Cruz looked at her across the table. "You're staying here."
She pretended she had not heard the command.
"What, exactly, are you going to be looking at?" she asked instead.
It was Jeff who answered. "The Frequency PD won't let us into the crime scene. They're still working it, and they can be kind of territorial. But no one can stop us from going into the catacombs beneath the gallery. The boss and I are going down to see if we can pick up any traces of the killer."
"Right," Lyra said. She crumpled her napkin and got to her feet. "You'll be needing me, then."
Cruz gave her a hard look. "And why is that?"
"Even if you do manage to track the killer through the catacombs, that doesn't mean you'll be able to find the relic. But if it is anywhere in the vicinity, I'll be able to sense it."
"Huh," Jake said and looked at Cruz. "She's a Dore. She knows what she's doing when it comes to amber."
Chapter 28
CRUZ JACKED UP HIS SENSES AND STUDIED THE JAGGED tear in the glowing green quartz wall. At once the whispers of violence—hot, ravenous, haunting and, yes, darkly thrilling—lifted the hair on the nape of his neck and sent a shot of adrenaline through him. The dirty little secret of every man in the family was that it felt good, really, really good. Until he had met Lyra, the sensations of the hunt had always ranked as the most enthralling rush he had ever experienced. Now it was the second most enthralling rush.
Vincent, perched on his shoulder, made a low, rumbling sound. He was still fully fluffed, but he seemed to understand that they were engaged in some kind of hunting game. He was having a good time, too. What's more, he obviously did not feel the need to try to appear politically correct about it.
"The killer came this way, all right," Cruz said. "And he used the same route out."
He moved through the ripped quartz into the dense darkness of the underground cavern. Jeff followed. They both used their flashlights.
"Hot when he arrived," Jeff said. "He was planning the kill. Hotter when he left."
Jeff was doing his best to hide the effect the spoor of violence was having on him. His voice was so unnaturally level and uninflected he sounded as if he were making an observation on the weather.
They were both fully rezzed, fighting the same battle to maintain a facade of cool control, not only because control of one's talent was considered priority number one in the Sweetwater family, but also because of Lyra. She was strong and she was gutsy, but even strong, gutsy women had been known to run screaming in the opposite direction when they found themselves in the presence of men whose talents predisposed them to be stirred and deeply aroused by violence. Couldn't blame the ladies, Cruz thought dourly. Just the old survival instinct kicking in.
There was only one way a woman could come to trust such a man with absolute certainty, and that was if she experienced and accepted a psychic connection with him. That was the only way she could comprehend at the very core of her being that he would never be a threat to her, that he would die to protect her.
"The first question that comes to mind," Jeff said, "is how did the killer know about this entrance to Fairstead's gallery?"
"He wouldn't have discovered it by accident," Cruz said. "Fairstead must have shown it to him."
Lyra stepped through the torn quartz and rezzed her flashlight. "Maybe the killer had a long-standing business relationship with Fairstead, and this is how he came and went from the gallery on a regular basis."
Cruz and Jeff looked at her. She did not appear to notice. Her attention was on the cavern.
Jeff cleared his throat. "If he was a regular business associate of Fairstead's, why would he come and go underground?"
"He probably supplied Fairstead with artifacts that had what you might call somewhat murky provenances," she continued. "Fairstead had an image to uphold in the high-end antiquities trade. He would not have wanted his clients or his competition to see him buying antiquities or valuable specimens from a tunnel rat or a low-level independent like, say, me."
Jeff's cool demeanor slipped a little for the first time. He was torn between astonishment and laughter.
"No offense, but you seem to know a lot about the underground amber market, Miss Dore," he said.
"I do," she agreed. "Just ask the boss."
Jeff looked at Cruz.
Time to take charge, Cruz thought.
"We are not going there," he said. "And that's an executive decision. Back to our problem here. The killer may or may not have been a regular supplier of illegal amber to Fairstead, but it's a good bet either way that Fairstead knew him."
"The police have that much, already," Jeff said. "They're going with a falling-out among thieves scenario."
Cruz glanced at him. "Is that from your buddy in the Frequency PD?"
"Uh-huh."
Cruz nodded, impressed. "Nice work. Always good to have contacts like that inside regular law enforcement."