Page 17 of Redeemed
And then I change my mind and tell him.
He grins despite the smelly hotel room. “If he tries to get you to agree to something in return for his help, don’t. You’re done with the Elites.”
I cup his face and kiss him again. “It’s a deal.”
Poole wants to meet at Headquarters, on the ninth floor of a building in downtown LA near the Staples Center. Despite the late-night traffic, it doesn’t take me long enough to get there to decide how I want to approach things when I see him. I park in the garage underneath the building, and although the security guard stops me, it’s only long enough for him to check my ID.
As usual, the elevator is a kaleidoscope of color, the vestiges of every aura that has traveled through the space. The lights in the landing and down the hall are turned low since it’s a little after midnight, but fluorescent light streams out of every open door.
I find Poole in the conference room, sitting with his back to the door. He holds himself military straight, his flattop haircut measuring the regulation length. The window across from him shows his reflection, though, and he’s got his eyes shut. I hesitate, worried that he’s asleep.
“Come in,” he says, without opening his eyes.
I come around the table and sit facing him with my back to the window. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir.”
He waves away my thanks. “I figure you wouldn’t be here if things were going well.”
He’d done a lot to help us get through the debacle with Adam Smith, and while I hadn’t gone into any great detail at the time, I’d hinted there were still problems we needed to solve.
“Funny thing. My great-whatever grandmother stopped by this evening.”
He rolls his eyes. “She still after the Princess?”
“Guessed it in one. I know where the Princess is, too, more or less.”
“Which is it? More or less?”
I decide my best approach is to lay things out for him, then let him tell me where he can help. I tell him about seeing the Princess and about the command Betancourt laid on Trajan, and I sum it up simply. “I want to find Betancourt and send him to his final death.”
He looks at me steadily from over his steepled fingers. “I can’t spare a team, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“No, sir. I’m wondering, though, if I could log into the system here. You’ve got access to data that civilians don’t and I’m hoping I can find a way to track Betancourt.”
“That’s possible, yeah. I can reinstate your account for the next few weeks.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Like I said, I can’t spare a team, but if you need extra hands, Brodie’s in town. As far as I can tell he’s making trouble for himself, so it’ll do him good to have a project.”
I try not to let my ambivalence show. “Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you.”
“We could also…” He pauses, scratching at the late-day shadow on his chin. “Melinda Barwell’s in town, too. She’s a Sensitive, and what our computer can’t find she might be able to.”
I exhale, beyond pleased. Working with a Sensitive will almost make up for having to keep Brodie occupied. “Yes, sir. I didn’t want to ask, but I do think Melinda might be able to help.”
“Good. I’ll set things in motion and you should be good to go tomorrow.” He rises and I follow his cue. Reaching across the table, we shake hands.
“I hope you’ll remember this next time I’ve got a project I think you could help with,” he says.
I force my smile to stay in place. “Thank you, sir. I will.”
Behind my back, I cross my fingers.
Chapter Seven
David
RON’S BOOKS AND Trinkets on Ventura Boulevard stays open till eleven p.m. I’d only been there once before, riding shotgun for Connor. That time, we’d wanted information about a murderer.
