“What is the type?”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh, burly, older, male?”
“We’re not those kinds of detectives.” I smiled back at her. “Strictly white-collar investigations here. We deal with insurance companies rather than distraught dames.”
Celia laughed. “A pity.”
“I’m here in a friend-of-the-family capacity. Runa is too upset to sort through her mother’s affairs and we’re trying to prep everything for her takeover.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Ms. Etterson kept meticulous records and they show a withdrawal of two-point-two million dollars from her Diatheke account. Can you confirm that a withdrawal took place, the status of the account, and the account to which the funds were deposited?”
Celia frowned. “I’m so sorry, but it is our policy to process such requests in writing. If you submit a written request, I should be able to get back to you in a couple of weeks. By Friday after next, at the latest.”
Two weeks.
We didn’t have two weeks. More importantly, she was lying.
Online resources and crime dramas stressed the importance of microexpressions or signs of nervousness when trying to judge when someone was telling the truth. Shifting eyes, looking up in the direction opposite of your dominant hand, sweating, pursed mouth, and so on. Accomplished liars exhibited none of those. However, I had grown up with a human lie detector of a sister, and Nevada had clued me in on an indicator that proved right most of the time.
Frequent liars maintained eye contact.
When I was little, my mother would sit me and Arabella down and ask who started the fight. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do it.” We both quickly figured out that as long as we looked her in the eye while we lied, she was much more likely to trust us. I had no idea why parents believed in the supernatural truth-serum power of their gaze, but most of them did. And they taught their children that shifty-eyed liars didn’t meet one’s stare under tough questioning.
Celia had maintained eye contact like a champ. So much so, it was slightly unsettling. Most people looked away when they were embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or when they tried to process things. Denying help to someone whose family had just died in a fire was about as uncomfortable as it could get, but Celia had stared straight at me, emitting trustworthiness.
I concentrated.
Nearly all mages had an active and a passive field. Active magical abilities required effort on the mage’s part, while passive powers were always present: automatic, involuntary, and continuous, like breathing. Cornelius always scanned his surroundings for animals. His subconscious did it on autopilot. However, if he wanted to make friends with a particular animal, he had to apply his magic. In my case, I spent most of my time actively suppressing my passive field around strangers. Relaxing control now felt like letting out a breath I had been holding.
“Such a long time,” I said, sinking some of my magic into my words. It stretched to Celia, winding around her. Her smile grew slightly, suffused with genuine warmth. I let her see a hint of my feathers, just a shimmer for half a second. “Runa has already been through so much. She lost her mother.”
Another strand of magic.
“She lost her sister.”
Another strand.
“She lost her house. And now she’s missing two million dollars. Are you sure nothing can be done?”
Celia sat very still for a moment, then waved her arms. “Okay, okay. Just this once. And you have to keep it between us. Sigourney came in and closed out her account. Cash, of course.”
Two million in cash?
“If you can’t find it, it’s probably in her pro account.” Celia leaned forward. “Between you and me, I was surprised by the whole thing. Sigourney was a professional, with a long tenure. She knew how the game was played . . .”
The office door opened and a tall Asian man in a slick silver suit stepped inside.
Celia clamped her mouth shut.
“Ms. Baylor,” the man said. “Mr. De Lacy requests the pleasure of your company. He asked me to invite you to his office.”
“You better go, dear,” Celia said. “Mr. De Lacy is our VP of operations. Very big deal.”
The man fixed Celia with a cold stare. “Thank you, Ms. Scott, that will be all.”
We walked to the elevator in silence, got in, and my escort swiped his card and pushed the button for the top floor. The elevator sped upward, coming to a smooth stop. The doors opened, and the man gestured me forward. “Please.”
I stepped out. The doors shut behind me, and a faint whisper announced the elevator carrying my guide down.
No good-bye hug. How disappointing.
I was standing in a small hallway, framed by mahogany walls on both ends, each offering a door. The door on the right bore a heavy metal sign reading “Randall Baker.” The door on my left said “Benedict De Lacy.”
Benedict had Celia watched and pulled the plug on my interview the second she went off script. Sigourney was important to him and I couldn’t wait to find out why.
I turned to the left. The door swung open under the pressure of my hand, opening with a soft chime. A huge office spread in front of me. You could fit a four-bedroom apartment in here and then some.
Persian rugs lined a floor of white Italian marble. A life-size bronze statue of a running horse guarded the entrance. To the left, a sitting area offered antique French furniture that would have wiped out our entire annual budget. I had seen some luxurious accommodations, but this space was opulent, even by House standards.
Nobody came out to greet me.
I walked deeper into the “office.” The next room offered an antique hand-knotted Turkish rug, delicate inlaid wooden tables, and a magnificent Syrian-style sofa, adorned with mother of pearl. Weapons decorated the walls between ornate shields: a Turkish yatagan, a shamshir, blades of Damascus steel, and French hand-and-a-half knight swords. Marble statuettes rested in wall niches vying for attention along with framed art. This wasn’t the collection of a poser trying to impress. Too eclectic. No, Mr. De Lacy was a connoisseur.
And he was nowhere to be found. This was simply annoying.
The room ended in a long hallway. To the left was a wall with a door. To the right, another interior wall sectioned off a generous portion of the floor space. I turned right and walked into a study. Shelves filled with books and small busts lined the walls, interrupted by tall windows. A heavy oak desk dominated the space. Carved knights in full armor jousted across its front and sides. Behind it, in a thoroughly modern ergonomic chair, a blond man sat in front of a computer, holding a phone to his ear.
He looked up and raised his index finger at me.
Fine. I would wait. I sat in a plush chair upholstered with a kilim rug.
De Lacy listened to his phone. He was in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a powerful frame shown off by a tailored vest he wore over a pale-blue shirt. A suit jacket hung over his chair. He looked like he’d been up for a while. His hair was tousled, and stubble sheathed his jaw.
His face was handsome in that traditional way of good breeding and money: square jaw, patrician nose, good cheekbones; all the features a child could inherit from generations of very rich men marrying very beautiful women. Sometimes the offspring of those families looked softened by the luxury they were born into. There was nothing soft about Benedict. His eyes were sharp and cold, two chunks of ice radiating intelligence and menace.
A trace of magic brushed against me, the hint of a glacial mind. My instincts screamed in alarm. I let it wash over me. I had become so good at suppressing my magic, I looked inert to others. The magic drenched me and withdrew. A Prime. Some sort of mental branch. Very strong.