Personal Demon

LUCAS: 7

WE PICKED UP PAIGE on the way to Ortega’s house, so we could head out to dinner right after…and because her witch spells might come in handy. Troy’s partner, Griffin, had gone home, leaving Troy as my father’s bodyguard for the night, as usual. We also brought two security guards.

Paige and my father chatted on the ride-casual conversation, unrelated to the task. My father raised me to see witches as simply another supernatural race, one with which we have an unfortunate history. Yet, our Cabal, like the others, has only one token witch employee and when business partners mock witches, he’d never defend the race.

He will come to Paige’s defense, though. Whatever problem a business contact might have with a Cortez marrying a witch, he’d best not voice it within my father’s hearing. That’s more about defending Paige as the wife of his son, but I’m grateful for it.

His affection for her appears genuine. He certainly takes more interest in her than he does in Hector’s or William’s wife…a fact that also does not go unnoticed by my brothers.

WHEN WE GOT to Ortega’s house, my father sent the guards around to cover the back while Troy escorted us to the front door and rang the bell. After the third ring, Paige said, “We really should get a look inside. Lucas and I can come back after dark…”

Her words trailed off as my father took two small envelopes from his pocket, opened one and emptied a key ring into his palm.

“You have keys for all your employees’ homes?” Paige said.

“Management level and those with security clearance only.”

“I don’t want to know how you get them, do I?”

He smiled as he handed the keys to Troy. “Legally, as shocking as that might seem, though some would argue we’re taking advantage of our employees’ vulnerabilities to justify violating their civil rights.”

“I’ve never agreed it was legal either,” I murmured, then explained to Paige. “Included in Ortega’s contract is a stipulation that he allow his home to be refitted with locks and an alarm system. Most employees realize this means the Cabal will retain a set of their keys and alarm override codes, but that is not-” I looked at my father “-explicitly stated.”

“But as long as they know and don’t argue…”

“They don’t argue because they’re supernaturals, and they rely on the Cabal for more than mere employment, therefore they too readily permit you to violate-”

“Can you tell we’ve had this discussion before?” my father said to Paige. “And it’s not one we should be having on the front stoop. Troy?”

“The dead bolt’s sticking, sir. Just a-There it is.”

When Paige tried to follow Troy into the house, my father caught her arm.

“Troy will disarm the system and perform a cursory search.”

Troy’s voice floated back. “So if Ortega’s set a tripwire bomb, I’m the only one who’ll go ka-boom. This is why you have a Ferratus half-demon on staff, sir.”

“Griffin is with his children. You don’t have any.”

“In other words, no one will care if I go ka-boom.”

“I’d care. I hate training new bodyguards.”

My father’s eyes twinkled as Troy tossed a few choice words back. A Tempestras half-demon was an odd choice for a bodyguard-being able to affect the weather isn’t terribly useful as a defense mechanism-and more suitable guards regularly applied for Troy’s job, but my father would never consider replacing him. When a man is at your side almost every day, from waking to sleeping, there are more important qualifications than supernatural abilities.

After a few minutes, Troy returned with the “all clear,” and we went inside.

Ortega wasn’t there. His house was tidy, his luggage was missing and his closets contained less clothing than one would expect a man of his income and position to possess. Most damning of all-his safe had been emptied and left open. It looked as if he’d left quickly and of his own free will.

We searched the house, but Ortega wasn’t foolish enough to leave any clues. The computer hard drive had been removed. The filing cabinet was empty, as was his desk. There weren’t even papers on the refrigerator door.

As I fingered an empty kitchen hook, where a calendar had probably hung, I said to my father, “It would appear he’s made a clean-”

“Got something,” Paige called from the living room.

We found her kneeling before the fireplace.

“I never thought I’d see this outside a movie, but he’s burned some papers,” she said. “And he was in such a hurry there are still pieces left.”

Black ashes and gray bits of paper lay in an otherwise pristine fireplace. In Miami, fireplaces were the sort of thing builders added purely for the emotional impact-a potential buyer sees it, pictures romantic nights by the fire or a faithful dog dozing before the flames, and only later realizes the impracticality of such dreams when the temperature rarely drops below sixty.

I retrieved tweezers from the bathroom, removed the largest scorched pieces and laid them on a blank sheet of paper. The edges were charred, but I could make out a few words in the middle.

“That’s the club address, isn’t it?” Paige said.

I nodded. The partial address was visible, and below it “11 AM-invent-”

“It’s telling him when to expect Bianca to be there doing inventory,” Paige said. “It must be a scheduled time-maybe when stock arrives.”

The rest was mostly random phrases: “-must be complete-” “-absolutely no one-” “-message that we-”

I carefully gathered the fragile pieces and put them into a bag for lab analysis.

“We should speak to the neighbors,” Paige said. “Ortega lived alone, right?”

My father nodded. “He’s been divorced for about ten years, with no children.”

“And, as far as we can see, no long-term girlfriend, which means it would be easy for him to cut and run. But it also gives me an excuse for talking to the neighbors.”

She went to the neighbors and introduced herself as Ortega’s new girlfriend, concerned because she hadn’t heard from him in two days and he wasn’t answering his phones. The couples to the right and across the road couldn’t help. Though Ortega had lived here since his divorce, they knew nothing about him. That wasn’t uncommon-avoiding unnecessary contact with neighbors is another way for supernaturals to hide what we are.

But the neighbor to the left was a divorcée in her forties who’d probably been eyeing Ortega, and who took one look at Paige and couldn’t resist breaking the bad news-that Ortega had been home and probably avoiding her calls. She’d last seen him at nine-thirty that morning, which she recalled because it struck her as unusual for him to be leaving for work so late. Then, seeing him putting suitcases in his trunk, she’d presumed he was on vacation. He’d driven off, alone.