“What is it, my precious?” a man teased in a poor Lord of the Rings impression.
“Gary, I need you to not be weird for once. Just tell me: When someone logs into Black House . . . do we keep a record of where they’re logging in from?”
80
“You’re the one who hired the Reds,” Nola said, her gun aimed at his face.
Mr. Vess rolled his eyes, which were brown and threaded with hints of orange. He was pear-shaped, with copper skin and a slicked-back expensive haircut that came to a perfect widow’s peak. New money or old money? Nola eyed the intricate gold chain around his neck, made up of tiny male and female figures intertwined in a sexual 69 position. New money.
“You do realize you can lower the gun,” Vess said without looking back as Nola followed him into his office.
He didn’t seem upset. Emotional sweat—from stress, fear, or pain—is most evident on the palms, forehead, and some sweat patterns on the scalp. Mr. Vess had none of it. If anything, he seemed polished. Fancy tan loafers. Matching belt. And a fashionably untucked white shirt that was clearly altered to hide his girth. But no amount of money could hide the odd slant of his knuckles on his pinkie and ring fingers. Boxer’s break, they called it. From fighting bare-handed. Nola made a note. Plus the fact he led with his right.
“Water? Seltzer?” Vess offered, pronouncing each word slowly, carefully, with true precision. Former stutterer? Or just trying to impress wi—
Nola never finished the thought. As she entered his office, she caught sight of his . . . look at all the art.
There was a canvas on each wall, plus a triptych behind his antique partners desk. She lowered her gun without even realizing. Most corporate artwork is picked to match the color of the walls—or worse, modern trash that’s expensive only because it came from an overpriced gallery. But these . . .
“You like the paintings,” Mr. Vess said.
Nola did, though she’d never say it.
Each was an oil painting, though none of them felt stuffy or old. On the left wall was a woman in profile, her sundress bathed in light as she cupped and admired a pink rose, reminding Nola of a classic Waterhouse. Another—a steep cliffside with a tangerine sky in a thunderstorm—reminded her of a Delacroix. This was a curated collection.
For a moment, she told herself this was what she never wanted—art captured and locked away—but God, did she love being so close to something this good.
“Don’t look so shocked that I’ve got taste,” Vess said.
He also had Frogger, Nola noticed, eyeing the video game in the corner.
“You a fan? Want to play?” he asked, following her gaze to the machine.
He was sharp—more observant than she expected—and unafraid to use it to his advantage. He didn’t get here just by those crooked knuckles.
“Your loss. I got first game,” Vess said, heading for Frogger.
Nola raised her gun again. She had a commander who used to do this—act like he didn’t have a care. But men in charge? They always have a care.
“Ask whatever you came to ask,” Vess said, hitting the 2-UP button as the Frogger theme started to play.
“I know about Zion Lopez,” Nola said, lowering her gun, though not by much. “I was at his house.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
That was a lie. She knew it before he even touched his gold chain, running his fingertips along the length of the naked figures.
“Zion called you a few hours before he died,” she explained. “He’s a petty drug dealer. My theory is, you’re his supplier. Maybe you brought him in for some odd jobs.”