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Siroun opened the file. Page one offered a portrait of a lean man in a business suit, bending forward, looking into the dense torrent of traffic of cars, carts, and riders. A somber man, confident, almost severe. Slick lines, square jaw, elongated shape of the face inviting comparison with a Doberman pinscher, light skin, light blond hair cut very short. Early to mid forties.
“John Sobanto, an attorney with Dorowitz & Sobanto, and your target. Mr. Sobanto made a fortune representing powerful clients, but he’s most famous and most hated for representing New Found Hope.”
Siroun bared her teeth. Now there was a name everyone in Philly loved to despise.
New Found Hope, a new church born after the Shift, had pushed hard for pure human, no-magic-tolerated membership. So hard, that on Christmas day, sixteen of its parishioners walked into the icy water of the Delaware River and drowned nine of their own children, who had been born with magic. The guilty and the church leaders were charged with first-degree murder. The couples took the fall, but the founder of the church escaped without even a slap on the wrist. John Sobanto was the man who made it happen.
“Mr. Sobanto is worth $4.2 million, not counting his investments in Left Arm Securities, which are projected at 2 million plus,” Chang said. “The corporation was unable to obtain a more precise estimate. Please turn to page two.”
Siroun flipped the page. Another photograph, this one of a woman standing on the bank of a lead-colored Delaware River. In the distance, the remains of the Delaware Memorial Bridge jutted sadly from the water. He knew the exact spot this was taken—Penn Treaty Park.
Unlike the man, the woman was aware of being photographed and looked straight into the camera. Pretty in an unremarkable way that came from good breeding and careful attention to one’s appearance. Shoulder-length hair, blond, worn loose, standard for an upper-class spouse. Her eyes stared out of the photograph, surprisingly hard. Determined.
“Linda Sobanto,” Chang said. “The holder of POM policy number 492776-M. She spent the last three years funneling an obscene portion of Mr. Sobanto’s earnings into POM bank accounts to pay for it.”
A severe, confident man on one page, an equally severe, determined woman on the other. An ominous combination, Siroun decided.
Adam stirred. “So what did Mr. Sobanto do to warrant our attention?”
“It appears he murdered his wife,” Chang said.
Of course.
“Mrs. Sobanto’s insurance policy had a retribution clause,” the coordinator continued. “In the event of her homicide, we’re required to terminate the guilty party.”
“How was she killed?” Siroun asked.
“She was strangled.”
Personal. Very, very personal.
“Mr. Sobanto’s thumbprint was lifted from her throat. He had defensive wounds on his face and neck, and his DNA was found under her fingernails. His lawyers have arranged a voluntary surrender. He is scheduled to come in Thursday morning, less than a day from now.”
“Is he expecting us?” Adam asked.
Chang nodded in a slow, measured way. “Most definitely. Please turn to page three.”
On page three, an aerial shot showed a monstrously large ranch-style house hugging the top of the hill like a bear. Three rectangular structures sat a short distance from the house, each marked by a red X.
“Guards stationed in a pyramid formation, four shifts. The gun towers are marked on your photograph. The house is trapped and extensively warded. At least two arcane disciplines were utilized in creation of the wards. For all practical purposes, it’s a fortress. Page four, please.”
Siroun turned the page. A blueprint, showing a large central room with smaller rooms radiating from it in a wheel-and-spokes design.
“We believe Mr. Sobanto has locked himself in this central chamber. He is guarded by spells, traps, and armed men.”
Siroun shifted in her chair. “The guards?”
“Red Guard,” Chang answered.
Sobanto hired the best.
“Expensive to hire,” Adam murmured, plaiting the fingers of his hands together.
“And very expensive to kill,” Chang said. “Red Guard lawyers are truly excellent, particularly when negotiating a wrongful death compensation. We don’t want additional expenses, so please don’t kill more than three. A higher death count would negatively impact the corporation’s profit margin. Please turn to page five.”
Page five presented another image of John Sobanto, surrounded by men and women in business suits, a thin-stemmed glass in his hand. A cowled figure stood in the shadow of the column, watching over him.
Siroun leaned forward. No, the image is too murky.
