A reporter stood outside the opera house. Red lights flickered in the background. "A tragedy occurred last night at the Ashland Opera House, as a deranged woman attempted to kill one of the attendees. The target was believed to be Gordon Giles, a wealthy Ashland businessman and the chief financial officer of Halo Industries." The same headshot of Giles that was in Fletcher's file popped up on the screen. The reporter recounted the events of the evening, albeit with a great deal of spin. Now, instead of busting into the box seats, detective Donovan Caine had prevented me from entering, with an innocent bystander tragically losing his life in the process.
Media bullshit. I wondered how they would explain the bloodstains being inside the box instead of out in the hallway.
"Even though Giles was not harmed in the initial incident, he was involved in a traffic accident on his way home. A large SUV hit his limo. Police say the impact ignited the gas tank, and the vehicle exploded. Giles and his driver were pronounced dead at the scene."
The television cut to a shot of a limo engulfed by flames. Killing Giles, torturing Fletcher. Busy girl, our mysterious Air elemental.
"They killed Giles anyway," Finn murmured. "They really must have wanted him dead."
The reporter appeared on the screen again. "Giles was attacked by this woman, believed to be the businessman's disgruntled former lover and a possible prostitute.
She is also believed to have been behind the car accident that led to his death. Police are not releasing her name, but a detective on the scene provided officials with this sketch."
I snorted. They weren't releasing my name because they didn't know it. But a moment later, my face appeared on the monitor. Or at least, what might have passed for my face if you tilted your head just right and squinted real hard. It wasn't a completely inaccurate rendering. Donovan Caine had at least gotten my eyes and the hard set of my mouth right, even if the black toboggan had hidden my bleached blond hair. Still, I wasn't worried about someone recognizing me from the sketch. It was too rough for that. Besides, people never really looked at those things anyway or remembered them after the fact. Not in a city like Ashland where everyone could be a potential threat.
Speaking of Caine, his was the next face to flicker onto the screen. He stood behind one of the Ashland Police
Department's senior captains, who was speaking into a microphone. More cops flanked the two men.
"... and although she did not succeed in harming Mr. Giles initially, she is still wanted for his murder."
That was the captain speaking. Stephenson was his name, according to the ID on the screen. Wayne Stephenson. A giant with pale eyes and stubby, salt-and-pepper hair, whose once trim physique was going to fat. Perhaps it was the media spotlight, but Stephenson looked stressed. A greenish hue tinged his pasty skin, and he blotted a sheen of sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief.
A reporter waved her hand, shouting Donovan Caine's name and trying to get him to answer a question. The detective scowled and opened his mouth to respond, but the captain stepped in front of Caine, blocking him from view.
"Nice defensive maneuver," Finn said.
"Somebody doesn't want Caine talking about what really happened." Finn shook his head. "Honesty will get you killed in this city."
All the reporters started speaking at once, a flock of cawing crows shouting questions at Caine and the other officials. Captain Stephenson held out his arms for silence.
"We want to send a message to the woman who killed Mr. Giles. Whoever you are, wherever you are, if you're out there watching us, know this-we're going to do everything in our power to find you."
Finn elbowed me. "Looks like somebody's got the hots for you, Gin." The captain, Stephenson, kept talking. "Mr. Giles was a respected businessman and upstanding member of the community. Mr. Giles's employer, Halo Industries, has authorized me to announce a reward for information leading to the capture and arrest of his murderer."
The captain gestured to his right, and Alexis James stepped forward. Sometime during the night she'd traded her little black cocktail dress for a severe black pantsuit.
The pearls still wringed her throat and wrist. Why would she be at the press conference instead of her sister, Haley? Then I remembered. Alexis was the head of marketing and public relations. The company mouthpiece.
The sight of Alexis James added to the reporters' frenzy.
"Alexis! Alexis! How much are you offering?" one of them screamed over the din.
Alexis put her lips close to the microphone. "One million dollars." Finn and I sat there in stunned silence.
But Alexis James wasn't finished. She talked about what a great guy Gordon Giles was and how she hoped the reward money would help the police catch me, the evil bitch who'd killed him.
The press conference finally ended, but the reporters weren't ready to let their sources slip away. They tried to ask the police captain and Donovan Caine a few more questions. But Stephenson waved them off, and he and Caine left the podium and disappeared from sight, along with Alexis James.
"A million bucks? Fuck," Finn said. That summed up my feelings perfectly.
Chapter Eleven
Nothing more to do or say. Not tonight. Finn shuffled into the spare bedroom, while I took a shower to wash the matted blood out of my hair. The vampire hooker's ruined clothes went into the trash. I'd take them down to the incinerator in the basement and burn them later.
Thanks to Jo-Jo and her healing magic, my left shoulder and arm no longer throbbed where Brutus had shot and knifed me. But my chest still burned with cold rage from losing Fletcher. At what had been done to him. At the desecration of the Pork Pit. The sadistic glee the Air elemental had taken in accomplishing both. And for what? So I could be blamed for a murder I didn't even commit? Pointless. All of it.
I couldn't believe Fletcher was gone. Dead. That I hadn't gotten to him in time. That I hadn't been able to save him, like he'd saved me so long ago.
My troubled thoughts turned to the last conversation I'd had with Fletcher. Do this job, and you can retire. His gruff voice whispered the words in my mind. I'd scoffed at his suggestion, sneered, dismissed it, the way I had for six months now, ever since the old man had first brought up the subject of me quitting the business.
Maybe-just maybe-if I'd listened to him the first time he'd asked me to retire all those months ago, Fletcher would still be alive. Maybe if I'd quit killing people back then, the Gordon Giles hit would have never come his way at all. Maybe if I'd just given in to his wishes, to his hopes of a more normal life for me, the old man would be over at the Pork Pit right now, reading a book and drinking coffee, instead of staring up at the ceiling with dull, sightless eyes. Maybe if I'd retired when he'd first asked me to, Fletcher might still be alive.