Page 40 of Angel

He shrugs. “People talk. It’s a small community in the shadows, sir. Rumor is usually based on intelligence and exaggerated. By the end of it, he will be a king from a far-off land who gets his kicks this way. Some say he’s a famous actor, others a politician.”

“So nobody knows.”

I shake my head.

“You have given me nothing.”

We reach the next block, and he says quickly, “Jack Vincent saw him that night. After he left the motel where the poor actor was murdered.”

“Who is Jack Vincent?”

“He works the early shift at the Pink Flamingo, a strip club opposite the motel. He cleans up after the night before, and by all accounts, he sees a lot.”

The hotel is in my sight, and I sigh, removing a bundle of notes from my pocket and pressing them into his hand.

“Thanks for your company; I’m not sure about the information though. I doubt any of it concerns me; perhaps you should try your luck with the feds.”

“They don’t have deep pockets, sir.”

I can’t argue with that and admire his honesty.

“Rumor and gossip don’t feature in my business.” I remind him, more to prove a point than anything else.

“I deal in facts. Cold, hard facts which can’t be denied. But thanks for your company. Enjoy your evening.”

He falls back as I approach the hotel. My walk here is not uncommon for me. Word around town is Jason Prince is very rewarding if you feed him information he can use in his business. They just have the wrong business. But they have no way of knowing it. At least I hope that’s the case, otherwise I have a huge problem.

Anonymity is the most important thing to my organization, which is why we protect it so fiercely. The guys have every right to be worried about my latest plan. If Sophie Clere learns who we are, it wouldn’t take long for the sweater to unravel, one woolen strand at a time.

I walk the red carpet without hanging around for the usual photographs the paps insist on.

They call my name, I ignore every one of them. I’m not here for self-promotion. I’m here for more important things.

The gala is underway; I am one of the last to arrive. Then again, I always am. I attend; I leave. A few chosen conversations, a new opportunity, a new contact beneficial to my business. To Gabriel’s business even.

Nobody knows who he is, only me, but I feed him the information he requires just like my search engine does for millions of people, and it’s up to him to interpret it and use it to his advantage.

I grab a glass of champagne from the nearest waitress and head into the room, and am immediately cornered by Harvey Davidson, who heads up a prominent hedge fund.

“Jason.”

His overfamiliarity always grates on my nerves because we enjoy no relationship at all. He wants me to invest; I would rather burn out my eyes than be associated with his sleazy operation. The only man who benefits from his fund is Harvey Davidson. His mansion, yacht and string of mistresses prove it, and I am not interested in feeding that particular machine.

“Good evening, Harvey. Mrs. Davidson.”

I smile at his long-suffering wife, who appears to get younger every time I see her. Mainly because she is sleeping with her plastic surgeon behind Harvey’s back. Then again, Joseph Kilroy gets most of his business that way and is an even bigger asshole than Harvey.

She smiles, but you wouldn’t know it because her mouth doesn’t move at all. Her skin is frozen in place, and her hair appears to be made of concrete.

Her hands are withered, revealing her real age, despite the fact her face is wrinkle-free. Her makeup is less than subtle, and she is wearing couture that really doesn’t suit her. In short, she’s a mess, and I point to a man in the distance and say abruptly, “If you’ll excuse me. There’s somebody I need to catch up with.”

Before they can object, I head off, my steps quick, and I don’t look back. One day I will expose the charlatan and bring him down. My fingers itch to slide a blade across his throat, but he will escape that. Only killers get that treatment. The world would cheer but Harvey’s crime is robbery, not murder. Losing everything and ending up in an orange jumpsuit, would be a far greater punishment than death in his case.

As I head toward the other side of the room, she comes out of nowhere and before I can regroup, the champagne I am carrying ends up dripping down my chest.

CHAPTER 15

SOPHIE