Darkness Falls (Dark Angels 7)

“Well, yes.” He paused, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

“Because,” I said, thinking fast, “a friend is interested in purchasing a couple of rental houses, but an in-depth search on them revealed a few paperwork oddities. He saw your name on one of them and asked me to ask you about them.”

“If there were paperwork oddities, my dear,” he said, frown increasing, “I’m sure they would have been picked up by the appropriate authorities at the time.”

“Well, apparently they weren’t.”

“How odd.” Despite the frown, there was little in the way of confusion in the steely depths of his eyes. Nor was there any sign of wariness, guilt, or any other sort of emotion. And it was that very lack that made me uneasier than any actual emotion could have.

But was I reading things into his expressions—or lack thereof—and looking for a reason to believe his guilt because of what Kiandra had said? Maybe. I mean, a few tenuous links did not a villain make—but they couldn’t exactly be ignored, either.

He added, “What properties are we talking about?”

I hesitated, then said, “One was a little terrace in Argyle Place in Carlton, and the other was an apartment in Greeves Street, St. Kilda.”

“Good rental locations, both of them.” His expression was thoughtful. “But neither property immediately rings any bells. How long ago were these discrepancies?”

“He didn’t actually say.” I shrugged. “But a while ago, I think. He’s basically just dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s before he lays his money on the line.”

“And he hasn’t a solicitor? Surely that’s what they’re supposed to do?”

“Well, yeah, but he’s one of those thorough types who likes to double-check everything himself. Look, I’m sorry to have bothered you, but I said

I’d ask—”

“My dear Risa,” he said, voice grave, “you’re not bothering me. I told you once before, if you ever need anything, I’m here. I do not intend to go back on that, even for a request as odd as this.”

“Well, if you could just check your files and see what information you might have on either of those properties, that would be fabulous,” I said. “But don’t go to too much trouble if the information is difficult to get to. It’s not that important.”

“I have to keep all records for seven years for tax purposes,” Mike said, with a half shrug. “So if the information is within the files I hold here, then you may have it.”

There was nothing in his manner that spoke of suspicion. Nothing that spoke of guilt. It made me feel bad for suspecting him, but, at the same time, I couldn’t escape the notion that there was something going on. “Thanks again, Mike.”

“Anytime.” He hesitated. “You do remember we’re having dinner tonight, don’t you?”

I blinked. We’d agreed to meet for dinner, but I couldn’t actually remember anyone suggesting tonight. Sure, time was something I hadn’t had a great grip on lately, what with everything else that was going on, but my memory wasn’t that bad. Not yet, anyway.

“You’ve forgotten,” he added, when I didn’t immediately answer. “If you can’t make it, I understand—”

“No, it’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t. The very last thing I needed to be doing right now was wasting time going to dinner with my mom’s ex. At the same time, could I afford not to go? Especially if he was somehow involved with Lauren?

“If I can find the files,” Mike added, “I’ll bring them along. I can’t, of course, allow you to take them away, but I can bend client confidentiality rules enough to let you look through them.”

“That would be fabulous.” I hesitated again. “When and where shall we meet?”

“There’s a new restaurant that just opened on Smith Street that Beatrice recommends I try—Winter’s, I believe it’s called. I can get her to book us a table for seven, if you’d like.”

Beatrice was Mike’s secretary and had been with him from the very beginning. If Mike was holding any secrets, then surely she would be aware of them—and that meant maybe she was someone Azriel should use his skills on.

“That would be great. Thanks, Mike.”

“See you at seven,” he said, and hung up.

I blew out a breath and wondered if I’d done the right thing. Time really was tight—did I really need to be wasting it on the slight chance that Mike might just lead us to the sorceress?

But what other choice was there?

Every single time we’d found a clue that led us to one of the keys, the sorceress had gotten there before us, stealing the thing from under our noses. I couldn’t let her get this last one—not when all that stood between us and hell was that one remaining gate. And it was all well and good for the remnants to suggest that new ones could be built, but how long would that take?