As he re-formed around back by the garage, the Federal sprawl was a beaut, even from the rear. Darius, the brother who had built the Brotherhood mansion on the mountain, had constructed this abode as well, and it had been his primary residence—up until he’d been taken out by a car bomb.
After sitting vacant for a little while, the place was now used as a neutral ground for Wrath to meet his civilians to adjudicate disputes, bless matings and young, and generally keep his finger on the pulse of the species.
Opening the back door, V walked into a full-swing kitchen. Uniformed doggen were working to prepare a steady stream of fresh-baked goods for the waiting room and the initial wave of appointments. In a couple of hours, the menu would switch to tea sandwiches and cookies.
Lifting his hand to the staff, he turned them down for coffee, tea, soda, water, muffins, Danish, and homemade cake donuts. All in the space of twelve feet. Rhage, on the other hand, was going to get trapped in the calorie net, and come out the far side with a silver tray full of nosh.
At least the chefs would know their wares were appreciated.
Out in the hallway, V kept going and got a clear shot down to the front entrance. The double doors into the dining room were closed, which meant Wrath was in session, and he was not going to interrupt because the news flash he was here to deliver—hopefully without too much noticeable self-satisfaction—was not an emergency—
“Hey, roomie.”
V backtracked and leaned into the newly redecorated little sitting room. Butch was parked on the sofa facing the TV, the soft murmur of the newscaster oddly soothing even though it was just a human talking about human shit.
Then again maybe that was why it was soothing. Didn’t affect him.
“Check this out.” Butch palmed the remote and turned up the volume. “Isn’t that your target from downtown?”
Coming over and sitting next to the cop, V looked for an ashtray to put his cig out—
Oh, Fritz, you are a gentlemale and a sailor, he thought as he found one right by his elbow.
And then he wasn’t thinking about butlers who anticipated every need before you even knew you had ’em.
To the left of the newscaster’s head, there was a black-and-white photograph of a woman who—yup, looked exactly like the one V had been trailing in the alleys in search of more of that iron-cross-stamped poison. From the short dark hair to the intense eyes that seemed haunted, she was—
“Turn it up a little louder,” he said, even though he could hear shit just fine.
“—to the CPD undercover officer who had been shot, execution-style, and thrown into the Hudson River, there are rumors that another undercover officer has gone missing. Sources tell us that—”
Butch glanced over. “I mean, that’s her, right?”
“Yeah, for real.” Well, this was—surprise!—actually a news flash that he cared about. “Goddamn it, we’re going to have to start all over again if someone killed her for being a cop.”
“The leaks in the department to the press were always for shit. Don’t these reporters have any common decency?” Butch’s Boston accent thickened with all his pissed-off. “If that woman’s in the hands of any of the dealers she was going after, they’re going to see this and kill her. Assuming she’s not frickin’ dead anyway.”
The newscaster continued to drone on. “One of our reporters caught up with CPD Chief Stanley Carmichael, while he attended a gala event at the home of—”
“Pause it, wouldja?” V asked. “I want her picture.”
As Butch hit the remote, V took out his Samsung and snapped a close-up of the screen. The image of the missing officer was shitty, all pixelated, but he could sharpen it up later. Besides, he never forgot a face.
He never forgot anything.
“Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Butch hit the button again, and V zoned out as things cut to a female reporter in a red suit shoving a microphone into an older guy’s face. As a stream of tuxedos and gowns parted around the confrontation, the police chief lifted his palms and shook his head, all no-comment. And then there was a close-up of the reporter as she summed it up for viewers who had just seen exactly what had happened.
Back to the studio, and now there was another cut. To a news brief where—
Homicide Detective José de la Cruz—according to the scrawl at the bottom—was standing at a microphoned lectern making a statement about the male officer who’d been found in the Hudson River.
A reporter cut through the scrum of questions as he concluded his remarks. “What about the female officer who is missing?”