This stone had cost Moody and the others their lives... and she hadn’t been there for them...
She wept, quietly, her face in a hand, for several minutes; then the thoughts, the questions, began to crystallize.
Eyes Only, Seth, this necklace, the Brood, the art collector Jared Sterling, and maybe even Manticore and Lydecker himself were interwoven in the tragedy that had befallen the Clan.
But how?
She knew where to start. Not Eyes Only — his whereabouts, like his identity, were a mystery. Seth had given up no leads since the brawl with the boys in blue; and the necklace was a mute witness. The Brood was in LA, and Lydecker was at Manticore.
That left one option.
The ten-man security team would be ready for her next time, but she could see no other choice: Max would have to return to the scene of the crime.
Chapter nine
Eyes only
Even in the post-Pulse world, the ringing of a doorbell was, generally, an innocuous thing.
Right now, with midnight approaching, the doorbell in Logan Cale’s condominium was trilling the hello of an unannounced guest. The building was secure, and the lobby guard would normally call and check before sending anyone through.
But there had been no call — just the ringing of the bell.
And in the life of Logan Cale, answering a doorbell could mean his last act on earth.
First, there was the risk that someone with the government — or some “civic-minded” citizen looking for reward money — would enter and discover the not-terribly-secret home studio from which Logan broadcast the cyberbulletins of his very secret alter ego, Eyes Only.
Second, Logan was one of a long line of Americans born to wealth who developed a sense of shame — even guilt — for his life of privilege, a sentiment that had blossomed into genuine social concern. And, while his underground identity as Eyes Only seemed secure, his reputation as an aboveground left-leaning journalist was well known.
This of course did not prevent Logan from being perceived as just another fat-cat target. The Cale family had the kind of affluence that had easily weathered the Pulse and its various upheavals and problems... one of which was kidnapping the rich for ransom.
As in the Great Twentieth-Century Depression, this left-handed entrepreneurial pursuit had become the “racket of choice” of many criminals, from down-on-their-outers to sophisticated career criminals. And as in the Lindbergh era of “snatches,” the victims usually turned up dead, even after full payment had been made.
So... if this caller wasn’t who Logan thought it was, he just might never get to open the door again.
Logan could ignore the bell. His two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-cop bodyguard, Peter, had the night off, and — unless this was a full-scale raid, in which the door would be battered down, anyway — Logan could just continue with his research and wait for whoever-it-was to go away.
But if this caller was who Logan suspected it might be, he would prefer to take the meeting during Peter’s absence. If this was someone else, well, that was why Peter very seldom got a night off, and on the rare occasions when Logan did answer his own door, he did so in the company of a shotgun.
The bell rang again.
Paranoia runs deep, Logan thought with a wry little smile, quoting a very old song as he rose from his massive array of racked computer gear — including half a dozen monitors and a networked laptop — and strode from his work space with an easy grace suggesting an acceptance of whatever might befall him in his quixotic but so-necessary crusade.
A shade over six feet tall, dark blond and blue-eyed behind wire-frame glasses, Logan Cale had rowed crew at Yale, and continued to work out, maintaining a slender yet muscular physique worthy of a college athlete; his apparel — jeans, a pullover gray sweater, and sneakers — added to an eternal-college-boy air of which he was wholly unaware.
His surroundings — the sprawling, modern condo, decorated with quality and taste (or at least he liked to think so) — were the one indulgence of wealth Logan allowed himself. With hardwood floors in each room, and the occasional area rug, the place had a stark, masculine feel; translucent panels separated the rooms, track lighting bathing his world in pale orange, peach, and yellow.
In the living room, each wall bore a different color, earth tones or a combination thereof. Two walls came together to form the corner of the predominantly glass high-rise, allowing a great deal of light into the room by day. Though the furniture was expensive — hard woods, sleek lines, designer stuff — the overall statement was minimalism. A plush brown sofa dominated the center of the room with simple white and silver end tables and a matching coffee table in front. Chairs sat perpendicular to the couch, completing the feng shui of the room.
Shotgun in his hands, Logan approached the double doors that were the front entry to the apartment; a small video screen to the right served as an electronic peephole.
About Logan’s height, his visitor was a sullenly handsome young man of maybe twenty or twenty-one — short brown hair, green eyes, and a long, angular face — in a black leather jacket, dark blue T-shirt, and black jeans.
Logan opened the door.
“Take your goddamn time, why don’t you?” the young man said, his voice deeper and older than his years, his barely contained rage evident.
“Why hello, Seth,” Logan said. “Forgive me — from now on, I’ll just sit by the door, waiting for you to stop by, unannounced.”
Seth grunting a humorless laugh was his only reply.
Logan tried not to take Seth’s dark attitude personally; the boy had this kind of quiet contempt for just about everybody and everything.
Logan gestured for Seth to come in, which he did. While Logan shut the door, pausing for a moment to look at the video security monitor, just in case someone had followed Seth up, the young man crossed to the couch and fell onto it with the kind of casual familiarity of a family member.
“Make yourself at home,” Logan said, dryly, ambling in after his guest.
“I’d feel more at home with a drink,” Seth said, a condescending smile tickling the thin lips.
Logan took a deep breath and let it out slow, fighting irritation; this screwed-up kid had a way of looking both happy and miserable at the same time, like that old-time movie actor... what was his name? Then Logan remembered: James Dean.
Deciding not to slap the smirk off the young man’s face, Logan asked, “Scotch, I suppose?”
“I been off Bosco for a while.”
What a charmer, Logan thought, went to the kitchen and came back with a glass filled with ice and clear liquid. He handed Seth the glass.
“This is water,” the young man said, just looking at it.
“Can’t get anything by you.”
“What are you... my daddy now? I’d like a goddamn Scotch.”
“Maybe ‘daddy’ doesn’t feel you need your judgment impaired any worse than it already is.”
Seth obviously knew immediately what Logan meant, and sipped the water, putting the glass — thoughtfully — on a coaster on the nearby coffee table.
The relationship between the two had been strained from the beginning — neither liked the other’s style, or manner. But they needed each other (codependents, Logan thought), each offering abilities and knowledge the other didn’t have. It had made for a rocky ride thus far, Seth with his gift for alienating almost anybody who came into his life — particularly anyone who got at all close — and Logan, always focused on the struggle, with little patience for those who did not share his passion.
The pair had been introduced less than a month ago by Ben Daly, a mousy middle-aged med tech who was a mutual acquaintance. Among Logan’s Eyes Only efforts was a sort of Underground Railroad, and the cyber — freedom fighter had been working on securing safe passage to Canada for Daly, where the tech hoped with Cale’s help to disappear into a new identity.