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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 all: 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.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“I bet Thatcher can shed some light on all this,” Ryan said, then winced. “If he survives, that is.”
“He’ll be fine,” I said with confidence. “Mzatal knows healing.” I had far too much experience on that end. “Speaking of, did y’all ever run info on Thatcher? I know it’s been crazy busy, but maybe we can get a hint of why Tracy had his name.”
Ryan stood and moved to the counter to pour more coffee for himself. “Sure did. The guy has a spotless record. Security expert, licensed to carry for the past fifteen years, all of which have been with StarFire.” He returned to the table, fiddled with the laptop’s touchpad. “Only one hitch in his past turned up,” he continued. “It’s a doozy, though. Shot and killed this guy about a year before he got his concealed-carry permit.” He took a sip of coffee, gestured to the pic on the screen with his other hand. “Pete Nelson. His friend and housemate, a graduate student. Thatcher was never charged, and the case was closed, ruled an accidental shooting.”
And, with no felony conviction on his record, he could still get the gun permit, I mused as I peered at the photo of a smiling man in his early twenties. He was kneeling in a grass lawn, one arm draped over the neck of a rottweiler with a head bigger than his. “You come up with anything that makes you think it wasn’t accidental?”
“No, but afterward things got odd,” he said. “The deceased’s family made a scene, and it looks like Thatcher was going to be charged with manslaughter or at least negligent homicide, but less than a month after the shooting the entire investigation was dropped.”
“It’s possible they didn’t find any evidence to suggest it was anything other than a tragic fuckup,” I said. “Still, it’s a data point. How long was this before Thatcher signed on with StarFire?”
“Gimme a sec.” He scrolled through a few pages. “About a week after the potential charges evaporated, he was on the StarFire payroll.”
“One more data point in the no-way-is-this-a-coincidence file,” I mused. “If Farouche really did have Paul kidnapped, I doubt he’d bat an eye at finagling the charges so he could take on Thatcher. Did Thatcher have any skills of note that might have interested Farouche?”
“Not unless he’s an animal lover,” Ryan replied. He pulled up a photo of a much younger Thatcher, grinning beside a baby elephant that had its trunk wrapped playfully around him. “Thatcher was in his third year of veterinary medicine at LSU, and though he owned a gun he wasn’t an enthusiast. He didn’t have any sort of martial arts training, and no combat or police experience either.”
“Let me make sure I have this right,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “He shot and killed his buddy, then went from vet school to security in the span of a few weeks? You’d think he’d want to stay the hell away from anything to do with possibly shooting people.”
“You’d think,” he agreed.
“This whole thing stinks,” I said. “Why would Farouche recruit him?” I frowned, picked up my mug to take a sip then made a face as I realized it was Ryan’s. “Yech. What the hell’s in this?”
