Wildfire

Funny how he mentioned that.

“If you are interested in a particular bloodline, we can process your request with greater expediency. If we don’t have a profile for a House, we will work with whatever agency has sequenced it, which may add a few days to the processing of the request. We will take care of your House, Ms. Baylor. We pride ourselves on our discretion.”

“What if another House wants access to records for reasons other than making a match?” I asked.

“We will forward you their request for approval.”

“What if it’s a very powerful House?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fullerton said. “All Houses have the same rights, all of them have the same contracts, and all of them pay the same fees. If you are a wounded House with only one Prime or a flourishing House with ten Primes, in our eyes you’re equal.”

“How much is the fee?” I asked.

“A fifty-thousand-dollar establishing fee for the first year and then twenty thousand annually. After the first year, each additional DNA profile carries a twenty-thousand-dollar fee as well.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” Catalina made a choking sound.

Fullerton didn’t say anything.

Fifty thousand dollars. I couldn’t remember if I had ever written a check that big. It was one-sixth of our annual operation budget and our rainy day reserve combined. I glanced at Cornelius.

“You’re paying a little extra for the security and the convenience of the largest archive,” Cornelius said. “But fees from other archives are comparable.”

“Bern?”

“I vote we get it over with,” he said.

“Catalina?”

“If we have to do it, this is fine.”

I rose, went into my office, and got out the firm’s checkbook.

Chapter 5

I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and inspected myself. I wore a pale green dress that clung to me and a pair of light black sandals with tiny sparkles. The sandals gave me about three extra inches of height. Rogan would still tower over me, but now I would be three inches closer.

My hair and Houston’s humidity never got along too well, so I straightened it, and it fell in a smooth, shiny curtain, framing my face. My makeup was perfect: mascara, blush, powder¸ lipstick; everything was just the way I wanted it. I always hated wearing foundation, and even my face cooperated today. No breakouts.

The dress was a little plain. I needed something sparkly to offset the low neckline. I didn’t have anything on hand, so it would have to do as is.

I checked my phone. Almost seven.

Last touch-up on the hair. A tiny squeeze of the perfume bottle and . . . done.

I grabbed my purse and clicked my way down the stairs from my loft apartment to the media room. Leon and Arabella were playing WWF on TV.

“Yeah!” my sister roared. “Take it, take it, take it.”

On the screen, her female fighter was smashing the chair over Leon’s beefy fighter’s head. Grandma Frida sat in the corner of the love seat, sipping tea.

I cleared my throat.

Everyone paused the game and looked at me.

“Eleven out of ten!” Arabella declared.

Leon held up two thumbs.

“Now this is a proper ‘you can’t have my man’ dress,” Grandma Frida said.

“Who is going to take her man?” Arabella asked.

Grandma Frida squinted her eyes. “Rynda Sherwood.”

“Grandma!” I growled.

“What?” Arabella whipped around. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“She isn’t trying to take my man. Her husband is missing. Besides, Rogan doesn’t want her, he—”

My phone chimed. Rogan. Yes!

I flicked my finger across the surface.

Something came up. Give me an extra hour.

“Oh no,” Grandma Frida said. “Oh no, no, no. That was something bad. Did he cancel?”

“He didn’t cancel. He got held up.”

“You look worried,” Grandma Frida said.

“Mhm.” Nothing short of a true emergency would’ve kept Rogan. I didn’t have a good feeling about this.

“Did he say where?” Grandma Frida asked.

“No.” For all I knew, he texted me between throwing a bus at someone and bringing down an office building.

“I bet he’s with Rynda.” Grandma Frida set her cup on the table so hard it clinked. “You should call that woman and tell her to back off.”

“Yeah, you should call that bitch out,” Arabella said.

“First, she isn’t a bitch. She’s a client with a missing husband. Second, butt out of my love life.”

“Call her out,” Arabella said.

“Tell her Rogan is yours!” Grandma Frida pumped her fist.

“Don’t let her take your man!” Leon declared.

We all looked at him.

“I was feeling left out,” he said.

“Butt. Out. I mean it.”

I clicked my way out of the media room and headed toward my office. That was the only place they wouldn’t follow.

There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he got held up. And when he showed up, I would ask him about it. If he got a lead and didn’t tell me . . . He would regret it. Cooperation went both ways.

Cornelius was still in his office, reading something on his laptop and drinking coffee, bathed in the soft yellow light of the lamp in the corner. His door was open. I knocked on the glass. “You’re still here.”

He looked up from his laptop and smiled. “Matilda is spending the night with Diana.”

Progress. A few weeks ago Cornelius’ sister barely acknowledged the fact that her niece existed. “Is it their first time?”

Cornelius nodded. “My sister is nervous.” He raised his phone. “I have six texts so far. I had to remind her that she’s a Prime and the Head of our House.”

Prime or no Prime, five-year-old girls were scary. I babysat my sisters when they were that age. It still gave me nightmares. “Are you nervous?”

“No. I have faith. They will work it out. But meanwhile, I thought I would read more on the case. I would like to be good at this. I like doing this, even if I have none of the qualifications to do it. At least not yet.”

“When I started out, I thought I had no qualifications.” I leaned against the wall. “I thought it would be like the movies or that TV show Justice and Code. I would be busting through doors wearing an armored vest and chasing people down. In reality, even cops rarely do these things. You know how most murders get solved? Someone reviews a hundred hours of CCTV camera footage, spends a week talking to people in the neighborhood, gets a few tips, and then quietly arrests his guy.”

“Patience.” Cornelius mulled it over.

“A lot of patience. Being thorough and meticulous. Sometimes you end up following someone for weeks, just for a twenty-second shot of him working bench press, taken through a gym window, to prove that he is cheating on his workers comp.” I shrugged. “Most people would find it boring.”

“Is that why there are always books in your car?”

I nodded. “I still love it, even if it’s boring.”

“I think I might too,” he said.

I smiled, went to my office, and sat at my desk. The clock mocked me: 7:16. No new messages from Rogan.

Not good.

This whole mess with Rynda’s husband disappearing smelled bad. When I thought about it, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, like I was standing somewhere high and peering over the edge. It was just too coincidental that her husband got kidnapped after her mother died.

In theory, it made sense. Once Olivia was out of the picture, her connections and influence vanished. Former friends now actively tried to distance themselves. House Sherwood was disoriented and trying to get its bearings in the new social climate. If Brian had enemies, it was the perfect time to strike.

That was precisely the problem. Brian had no enemies. His company was swaying back and forth, like a giant on sand legs. Even his direct competitor wasn’t interested in pushing it over.

Kidnapping for ransom was a rare crime in countries with robust law enforcement. In the US, it was extremely rare. The problem was retrieving the ransom. It put the kidnapper or their accomplice in direct contact with the family and law enforcement lying in wait. With all the different means for the Houses to track people, starting from hiring experts to using their own private security, kidnapping was too high-risk. Besides, the Houses would do everything in their power to avoid paying the ransom. It wasn’t about the monetary cost. It was the loss of power and influence.