Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Tohr got to the second story and leaned over the railing. “Thank you.”
Except he didn’t need the direction. The blood was ripe up here, even with the candles and the flowers—which he now recognized were real.
He’d just assumed no one would pay for so much of such a transitory thing.
As he continued down, the broad corridor was painted a soft gray, and it had bright white doors on both sides. There were a lot of security cameras, tucked up high against the ceiling molding, guarding loud, garish modern paintings that broke up the monotony—
It was obvious when he needed to stop. For one, the scent of copper was so thick, he could taste it in the back of his throat. For another, the gold-leafed crest on the slightly open door was a dead giveaway—
Okay, bad choice of words.
Before he entered, Tohr offered up a prayer in the Old Language to Lassiter: “May the soul of the departed have found entrance unto the Fade, and be welcomed by those who have awaited his arrival.”
He pushed his way in with his elbow . . . and found himself greeted with a short stack hallway, like he was entering an expensive penthouse apartment. Everything was white. Walls, ceiling, carpet, molding, doors. And the layout opened up to a living-room-sized space that was furnished in all white decor.
“Color scheme by Clorox,” he muttered as he continued farther in.
The first of the red stains was visible through an archway, the droplets on the plush wall-to-wall. It was only a dot or two, but to his eye, they were an ocular scream.
Stepping with care, he proceeded to the entry into the sleeping quarters, scanning everything, looking for any out-of-places—some pocket litter, a tread print in the rug’s pile, a brush against the wall. Nothing registered, and with the decor being so monochromatic, he would have picked up on . . .
“Anything,” he whispered as he rounded a corner and was able to get a proper look into the bedroom.
The partially dressed body was lying cockeyed on top of the unmade bed, head on the pillows, bare feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. The throat had been cut wide open, and blood had soaked through the collar of a partially buttoned business shirt. No other wounds were apparent. Boxers were blue.
Getting his phone out, he took pictures of where the body was in the room, of the bed, of the pillow. Then he focused close in on the clean stripe across the front of the neck. The fatal slice was at a slight angle, and he imagined the killer had snuck up behind with the knife in their right hand.
A surprise job, he thought as he texted the photographs out. Done while the male was getting dressed.
Tohr eased back. Sure enough, there was a trail of blood leading into what he assumed was a dressing room—
His phone started to vibrate and he answered without checking to see who it was. “You got the images?”
There was a rushing sound, as if Vishous were exhaling after starting one of his hand-rolleds. “Pretty professional job.”
“Seems so.” He went over and looked into a room-sized walk-in closet. “We’re going to need you to come out here and go through the security system. There are contacts on every window and door. Cameras in all the corners.”
“I’m on my way. Anything else you want?”
Tohr glanced around at what was hanging on the rods. Suits. Business shirts. Polos and casual slacks that were pressed and starched. No jeans.
Nothing that a female wore.
He focused on some scuff marks on the carpet, and a pool of blood that had been absorbed by the wool fibers. This had to be where the job had been done, he thought.
Or at least he assumed that was the case.
“We also need Butch,” he said. “This is above my pay grade.”
“Roger that. He’s right beside me and getting his car keys as we speak.”
As Tohr hung up, he glanced back over his shoulder. Out on the bed, the body hadn’t moved, but in a reality-twister, he imagined the male sitting up—and being offended at the fact that his Egyptian cotton bedding was all stained and his monogrammed shirt ruined.
Returning to the bedroom, he went over to the windows that, yup, looked out into a formal garden that would have been illuminated by the exterior lighting if everything hadn’t been obscured by the swirling blizzard. He imagined the back acreage was like the rest of the place: A near-miss at the goal of old-school grandeur because the owner had more money than class.
This was the new glymera.
Bloodline used to be the only velvet rope. Now? Cold hard cash got you into the club. They’d had to lower their standards after so many of the Founding Families had been killed in the raids. After all, those rules and social slights they lived and died by required a critical mass of people who believed the bullshit.