The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) Brad Magnarella (ink book reader txt) 📖

he was on leave from the Mexican wrestling circuit for unnecessary roughness. Though they aimed their weapons floor-ward, their thick fingers remained tense on the triggers.

I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, Detective.

“We have a lead on someone,” she continued, “and it’s not any of Kahn’s people. If you’ll let us do our job, we’ll bring the perp to justice, and you and Kahn can carry on, business as usual.”

“Business as usual,” Stiles said, “is cops not invading my buildings.”

“Oh, you think this is an invasion?” Hoffman gave a hard laugh. “We’ll show you an invasion, buddy. Got a list of crimes a mile long we could nail you for.”

“Then why haven’t you?” Stiles asked.

Hoffman’s red cheeks balled up. “Smartass sonofa…”

Vega showed him a staying hand before training her gaze back on Stiles—a man whose illicit profits probably paid officials and Midtown lawyers to keep him in business. Vega was up against someone she couldn’t strong-arm, and I could see in her eyes she hated that.

“Look, we get that these are your towers.” She swallowed as though the words were leaving a bitter residue. “Just let us do our jobs here, and I’ll keep you current on the investigation. Tell you about any arrests. But you’re gonna do a couple of things for me.”

“Really,” he said evenly.

“First, you’re gonna put out the word that anyone who saw something can talk to us.”

His shades remained fixed on her face. “And…?”

She drew up her five-foot frame. “And you’re not gonna act on what you think happened downstairs.”

“I can’t promise that.”

Vega’s anger broke its dam. “Where do you think this is gonna lead, huh? You kill two of his, he kills four of yours, you turn around and kill eight, and pretty soon this place is ground zero.” She drew in a hard breath and pushed it out through her nose. “You’ve got three thousand people in your towers, more than half of them children. Same for Kahn and the west towers. Think, for God’s sake!”

So this is the war she’s trying to prevent, I thought. Two drug lords ruling opposite sides of the same project, and the police can’t lay a finger on either one. I remembered the silhouetted heads I’d seen peering down from the caged windows like frightened prisoners.

“Just…” Vega forced another breath. “Just give us time. A month, at least.”

Stiles’s toothpick journeyed back and forth for several more rounds. “A week.”

“Get real,” Vega said.

Stiles muttered something over his shoulder, prompting NFL to step forward and punch the button for the elevator. As the three moved past Vega, the Mexican wrestler dug into his pants pocket and handed her what looked like a business card. Vega begrudgingly gave him one of hers.

“Fine, a week,” she said as the three boarded the elevator. “But we have a deal, right? No retribution.”

The flaps of Stiles’s coat billowed as he turned, his henchmen flanking him, their assault rifles at opposite shoulders.

“We have an understanding,” Stiles said. “But only because it’s you.” Though I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt them looking over the rest of us in contempt. “Now take the bodies and get out of here. I don’t want to see another blue uniform or flashing light tonight.” Though he spoke evenly, his words carried the promise of real violence. He inclined his head forward. “And Ricki.” The barest smile lifted his lips. “Welcome home.”

The elevator door rattled closed.

I stood over the casting circle, aiming the opal end of my cane at the kerchief with the swabbed-up saliva. Though the confrontation upstairs had been heart-pounding, I wasn’t as concerned as Vega over the one-week deadline. Chances were good we’d find the bloodsucker tonight.

I spoke an incantation and white light swelled from the gem, absorbing essence from the steaming fabric. “That’s right, my homicidal friend,” I whispered. “You can run, but you can’t—”

Without warning, the light sputtered and went dim. The cane took on weight as the power rushed out of it.

What?

I looked from the opal to the kerchief before pushing more energy into the incantation. The kerchief smoked, then broke into flames.

“Crap,” I spat, stomping out the fire.

I retreated from the smoking casting circle and examined my cane, which remained heavy and dull. Something was blocking the spell. I circled the room, head bowed low, until I saw what. At the angle between the wall and floor, the thin trail went all the way around the room.

“Well that’s just flipping fantastic.”

“What’s going on?”

I turned to find Vega entering the room. “The killer covered his tracks. Made it so any part of himself he left behind—hair, skin cells, saliva—couldn’t be connected back to him. At least not energetically.”

“How?”

“Salt.” I scuffed my shoe over the barrier. Power left the room in a soft whoosh. “It’s often used as an energy container, less often as a disrupter, but it gets the job done. Magic that tries to push past it sort of craps out.” I shook my cane as one might a faulty electrical appliance.

Vega stooped over the salt. “The techs thought it was boric acid, for pests. Guess you can’t blame them for not thinking magically.” She straightened again. “Can’t you just do the spell in another room?”

I shook my head. “Once the connection’s broken, it’s broken. The killer knew what he was doing.”

“Pretty clear thinking for a mindless blood slave.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled, “that’s bothering me, too.”

Vega paced the room, swearing under her breath. Her anger wasn’t hard to translate. Unless she caught the killer, Ferguson Towers was going to erupt.

She stooped beside a grate in the floor, opened it on a rusty hinge, and shone her flashlight down. Apparently deciding the pipe was too narrow for someone to have climbed, she huffed and kicked the grate closed.

“If we can’t track it,” she said, “what does that leave?”

I swept a shoe over my casting circle. “Stiles is going to allow witnesses to talk to you, right? Maybe someone saw something. And then there’s forensics. If you can make this a