The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 38

Ziggy liked the music — a smoky jazz threaded with longing and despair. The perfect venue to find the next woman, but he turned away from a potential blonde crying into her gin and tonic and settled at an empty table. This wasn’t a good time.

The day had been so boring. He’d awoken with a headache, heavy with disappointment from the night before. The pain lingered all day. He’d brought Emilia all the way and then lost her at the last minute. He wasn’t even sure that she counted as part of a pair.

Maybe he should find another woman to usher in the Finale. He glanced back to the bar. Orange light fell on blond hair, revealing sad eyes, narrow shoulders, and a black velvet dress.

He stayed put. If he took her, it might fill out the set, and he wouldn’t be able to start the Finale until next October. His reluctance must mean that Emilia had counted after all.

Ice cracked in his glass, the sound coming during a pause in the song. He took a long sip of bourbon. He wasn’t hunting tonight. He was building up his energy.

He needed it. He’d watched Lucid’s office all day. A lot of people came into his office on Sunday. The blonde secretary had gone out for coffee once with the dog, and a huge black guy who looked like a well-dressed tank had arrived. A spindly red-haired man had hurried in, then an Asian guy carrying a suitcase. The redhead and the Asian had left together. They’d looked worried.

Eventually, the tank had come out, pushing Tesla in a wheelchair. The man was obviously high, slumped in the chair with huge, glassy eyes and a leg cast protruding from the front of the wheelchair like a battering ram. The dog had walked next to them. Nobody batted an eye at a stoned man being wheeled around. It was as if the wheelchair gave him an invisibility shield.

A few hours later, the blonde came out and locked up. She was good-looking enough to consider, but she moved with a brusque efficiency that said she had her demons well under control. Besides, he wasn’t looking.

That’s why he was alone at the jazz club.

He needed patience. The man wouldn’t have bodyguards forever. As soon as he sobered up, he’d probably send them away. He was a proud man, and he wouldn’t put up with babysitting for long.

Once he gave in to his pride, he’d be unprotected in his home in the tunnels and in his offices. He often worked late, so he’d be alone at both places. Except for the dog.

The dog would have to be walked, and the man couldn’t walk him from a wheelchair. He’d have to hire a dog walker to take the dog out. Then Tesla would be alone and vulnerable, confined to a wheelchair. A wheelchair that allowed for invisible transport.

That man had so many demons: troubles with his father, his childhood, guilt about his previous company. Ziggy had heard all about those troubles. He should have walked Tesla into the tunnels a long time ago, let him make his choice with the train. But Ziggy hadn’t.

The Hispanic woman had gotten in the way and dragged the man away to safety. At the time, it had angered Ziggy, but now he wanted to thank her. Saving Tesla for the Finale was the way it had been fated to happen.

Ziggy looked toward the bar again. The woman called out with the defeated slump of her slender shoulders, the tears that fell into her drink, and the trembling hands wrapped around her glass. It would be like taking candy from a baby, but he wasn’t looking for candy tonight.

He made himself sit in his chair for the duration of the next song without glancing at the bar. After the song was over, he let himself look. She was still there, radiating despair and hopelessness. She needed him. He picked up his drink and headed over to the bar. Nothing wrong with a little window shopping.