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Luc sighed. "Fine. Let him cool off, if you think that's best. We'll deal with the murder and let the upstairs staff deal with the House. Upstairs staff," he said with a chuckle, then looked at me curiously. "Your parents have money, don't they, Sentinel? Did y'all have upstairs and downstairs staff growing up?"
My father owned Merit Properties, one of Chicago's largest real estate development companies. We had a miserable relationship, mostly because he always wished that I was a different kind of daughter.
And also because he'd bribed Ethan to make me a vampire.
Ethan had declined, but the tactic - typical of my father's dictatorial style - hadn't done our relationship any favors.
I wasn't generally thrilled when people brought up my parents, but something happened when Luc spoke those words. A thought flashed, and I stared at Luc for a moment.
Luc grimaced. "Oh, sorry, Sentinel. I know they aren't an easy subject."
I shook my head. "I'm not mad," I said, then looked at the whiteboard. "I'm just thinking about property."
We'd identified the spots where Oliver and Eve were last spotted - the registration office - and where they'd been found - the warehouse. But we hadn't dug much deeper.
"The property where Oliver and Eve were found," I said, circling it on the whiteboard. "The warehouse. Jeff wasn't able to figure out who owned it."
"So?"
I recapped the marker and tapped it against the board. "Oliver and Eve were found in a secret room. James, one of Noah's friends, only suspected the room existed because he scented the blood. But how would the killer know about the room? Maybe the killer has some connection to the property."
"It seems unlikely the owner would use his own property to dump a body when it could be traced back to him."
"True," I said. "But the killer doesn't have to be an investor. He could be a former warehouse employee turned vampire."
"Turned Navarre vampire," Luc said.
"Even better. The list of people associated with that warehouse who are also Navarre vamps can't be long."
"Okay," Luc said. "But Jeff said the property records were a dead end."
"He did, but the records have to exist somewhere, even if they're somewhere Jeff can't get to them. On the other hand, I would bet my father can get anything he wants. I could talk to him."
The room went quiet for a moment as the group considered the gravity of that offer.
Lindsey grimaced. "Are you sure you want to do that?"
"I am absolutely certain I don't want to do it, but I've got to do something. I don't want to just sit around wondering if we're going to lose the House tomorrow . . . or waiting for another murder."
"You know, Sentinel," Luc said, "you've turned out better than I thought you would."
Proving she was my friend, Lindsey gave him a punch in the arm that had him roaring in complaint.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PARENTAL PATRONAGE
My parents lived in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago known for its Frank Lloyd Wright architecture and beautiful homes. My parents' home wasn't one of those, at least in my opinion. It was a squat box of concrete slapped in the middle of prairie-style brick and honed wood. I completely understood why the neighborhood association had thrown a fit when my parents had shown them the plans.
Tonight, interrupting the usual peace and quiet of the neighborhood after dusk, men in J & Sons Moving T-shirts carried pieces of my parents' carefully curated furniture out of the house and into a waiting truck.
"You're moving?"
My mother's laugh tinkled. "Of course not. Just redecorating a bit."
Of course she was. My father had copious amounts of money, and my mother enjoyed spending it. "After dark?"
"They were two hours late, and I told their supervisor I wasn't releasing them until they were done."
And that, I thought, is life in the one percent. It was also a testament to how much furniture they'd amassed in their blocky concrete house.
"Why isn't Pennebaker out here?" Pennebaker was my father's skinny, fusty butler. He was probably my least favorite person in the house, which rather said a lot.
"Actually, he's at the opera this evening. It's his birthday." She glanced at me. "I presume you did not remember him with a card?"
"I did not."
Mom's upturned nose told me precisely what she thought of that breach of etiquette. She turned and walked into the house again, and I followed behind obediently.
"Why are you redecorating?"
"It's time. It's been fifteen years, and I wanted to breathe life into this house." She stopped and turned to look at me. "Did you hear that Robert is expecting again?"
Robert was my brother and the oldest of the Merit brood. "I didn't. Congratulations to them. When's the baby due?"
"June. It's very exciting. And this house isn't exactly grandchild-friendly, is it?" She put her hands on her hips and glanced around; she wasn't wrong - the house wasn't very grandchild-friendly. It was all concrete, monochromatic, and sharply angled. But it had been that way through the birth of my parents' other grandchildren, and they hadn't turned out any worse for it.
"If you say so," I said, not arguing the point. "Is Dad around? I need to talk to him."
"He is, and he'll be glad to hear from you. We won't be around forever, you know. You should consider giving him a chance."
I'd given him plenty of chances, although they were generally before he'd tried to bribe Ethan. But that was neither here nor there.
"I just need to talk to him," I said, willing to commit to nothing else.
We walked down the concrete-walled hallway and to my father's office. My mother's redesign had already found its way there.
The house had been a strict and sterile bastion of modernism; it had become the centerfold in an Italian design magazine. Pale carpet covered the concrete floor, and the office was lit by a chandelier of colored glass. Modern art canvases covered the walls. They were probably pieces my father had owned before my mother took charge of the room, but they looked completely different in this brighter, cheerier office.
My father, on the other hand, seemed unusually out of place.
Even at the late hour, he wore a black suit. He stood in the middle of the room, back bent over the undoubtedly expensive and custom putter in his hands. A few yards away, a crystal tumbler lay on the floor, poised to receive the ball.
He reviewed the lie and then, with a smooth motion, swung his outstretched arms in a perfect arc, sending the ball along the carpet to the hole at the end of his imaginary green. With a clink of glass, he sank the put.
