Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,111
hire Adele. Sean confirmed that Cabal lower executives did that all the time, trying to get ahead by finding and cultivating new employees, which Hope knew, having been the subject of just such an independent project once herself.
But it didn’t really matter what Irving had been doing with Adele. The problem was that photo, linking him to a cop killer. To squelch that threat, Sean would do what he could to help Hope find Adele.
As for Detective Findlay, Hope had been wrong about his being on the Nast payroll. Nor would he be a Cabal executive’s “independent project”—if so, he’d never dare show up at the head office, flashing his badge.
Sean explained how he found Detective Findlay at the office and, on hearing him mention Hope’s name in a phone call, he’d excused himself to phone Lucas.
“I planned to call Irving in and play it straight while I figured out what was going on. But when I came back, he was checking out a picture of Savannah. He asked about her, and I started wondering if dropping your name hadn’t been an accident. I decided to brush him off and look into it some more.”
“So he seemed to recognize Savannah?”
“I probably overreacted and he was making conversation. It just rubbed me wrong.” He sipped his latte. “You told Lucas this detective is a necromancer?”
She explained. Sean hadn’t known Expiscos could detect other supernaturals. Hearing that, most Cabal executives’ eyes would glitter as they pondered the applications. Even Lucas, when he found out, hadn’t been able to suppress a pensive moment of consideration. But Sean reacted with mild curiosity, as if it was an interesting but esoteric fact, like discovering sloths slept with their eyes open.
“Findlay could be working for someone else. A gang or a counter Cabal group . . .” He trailed off, gaze sliding up, as if making mental notes. “I’ll check that out. In the meantime, I pulled up our records on clairvoyants in L.A.”
“And . . .”
“Current records? None. At least, none who aren’t already on the payroll.”
“You have two clairvoyants on staff, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Granddad brags about that, but it’s not as impressive as it sounds. One has severely limited powers and the other is approaching retirement.”
She noticed he didn’t say “approaching retirement age.” Cabal clairvoyants rarely survived long enough to collect Social Security checks. “The Cabal must be looking for a replacement, then.”
“Even if they had a powerful one at every satellite office they’d still be looking for more. It’s an incredibly valuable power. The problem is finding them. With rare half-demons, like an Expisco or Ferratus, sometimes we get lucky and you guys come to us for work. Other times, we stumble on you and the negotiating begins. We’ll take no for an answer because we know somewhere out there is another one willing to say yes. We want to entice you into employment. Voluntary employment. It’s just good business. That never happens with clairvoyants. They’re well compensated—come to us and you’ll live like a millionaire—but it’s selling your soul.”
“Or, in this case, your sanity.”
He nodded. “Clairvoyants have underground networks for hiding and protecting their members. Even if a family hasn’t had a bona fide clairvoyant for generations, they’re part of the network, ready to disappear if they ever do. They also have the lowest birth rate of all the races. Intentionally, it’s presumed.”
“Genetic Russian roulette.”
“Most choose not to play.”
She’d gotten all this from Lucas, but talking obviously relaxed Sean, and a second opinion never hurt.
He continued. “This girl is young and she seems to be voluntarily talking to Irving. As for why, my guess would be simple youthful ignorance. She figures she can make a lot of money and get out. It happens now and then—the misconception, not the getting-out part. My guess is that her family isn’t part of the underground network and hasn’t properly warned her. She’s moved here recently, on her own, hoping to make her fortune.”
She studied his face for any sign he was misleading her. But it was open, relaxed, his hands flat on the table. In his element now, not discussing his family or his firm, just having a casual speculative conversation with a fellow supernatural.
“I don’t think she’s new to L.A., and I don’t think she’s alone,” Hope said.
“With other supernaturals?”
“Other clairvoyants.”
That made him blink in genuine surprise, but even after he’d digested it, there was no gleam of discovery. It was like a diver finding a treasure chest and thinking only of the