Penumbra (Spook Squad 3)

As he moved on to interview the other witnesses, she opened the door and climbed into the car. “We can go now.”

“About time,” Wetherton muttered, glancing at the driver. “Henry, take me home.”

She didn’t comment on his tone or the implication that she’d delayed him on purpose, but simply leaned back in the seat and watched the lights flash by. Exhaustion washed over her, and it was all she could do to suppress a yawn. Thankfully, King Street wasn’t that far from his Collins Street apartment. Once the driver had stopped in the secure underground garage, she climbed out and checked to make sure there was no one about, then signaled the driver to pop the trunk. She retrieved her overnight bag and com-unit, then opened Wetherton’s door. He grabbed his briefcase, climbed out and headed for the elevator.

It turned out that the minister’s apartment was on the top floor, with good views of the bay. The apartment’s living area wasn’t huge, but the floor-to-ceiling wall of glass made it seem otherwise. The city stretched before them, an unending sea of twinkling lights that merged gradually into the dark waters of the bay.

She dumped her bags on one of the black leather sofas, then caught Wetherton’s arm as he walked past her.

“Minister, I should check all rooms first.”

“This apartment building is fully secure,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “No one could get in here.”

“There’s no such thing as a fully secure building. All security can be breached, even that of the SIU.”

He grunted, but waved her on irritably. She walked to the nearest room, which turned out to be the bathroom. There was nothing out of the ordinary, despite the marble tiling and the gold-plated taps. The same could be said for the bedroom—though the silk-clad bed had to be the biggest she’d ever seen. It dominated the room, leaving little space for anything else. She walked past it into the walk-in closet and dressing area, noting with a frown that the minister’s suits were all top of the line. And there were enough of them that he could wear a different one every day for a month. Surely politicians didn’t make that much money. Between the apartment, the suits, the family home and the family itself, Wetherton had to be draining himself dry.

Unless, of course, he had a secondary source of income no one knew about.

As she turned to leave, her gaze fell on a grate covering what looked like a large vent. The paintwork around one edge had been scratched, as if the vent had been opened recently, or often. Frown deepening, she knelt and ran her fingers around the covering’s edge. It was loose. She pried it open and looked carefully into the hole.

Darkness and air rushed up at her and she shuddered, quickly drawing back. Small places had never been on her list of favorites things—especially when they were small places that seemed to drop down into unending darkness.

But why was this here? It didn’t appear to be part of the air-conditioning system, as it seemed to go straight down. And if it was a laundry chute, why was it here rather than in the bathroom? And why wasn’t there a proper cover?

“What the hell are you doing?” Wetherton appeared in the doorway, his expression darker than usual.

She sat back on her heels and indicated the vent. “What is that used for?”

“It’s a vent.”

“One whose cover has been removed many times.”

He shrugged. “They’re in the process of placing a laundry chute in the building. Workmen have been in and out all week, fiddling with the damn thing and generally being a nuisance.”

Some of those scratches were more than a week old, but still, the explanation was reasonable enough.

So why did she sense that he was lying?

“It’s a dangerous thing to have such an easy access point in your apartment, Minister.”

Wetherton snorted. “No man could fit in that vent, let alone climb it.”

“No man could, but a shifter is a different m

atter.”

“A bird wouldn’t have the strength to shift the grate with its wings or its claws, Agent Ryan. Now, will you just get out of my bedroom so I can go to sleep?”

“Only doing my job, Minister.” She shoved the cover back into place, taking careful note of the existing scratches, then rose. “The agent assigned to the day shift will be here at seven. Do you wish me to wake you at that time if you’re not already up?”

“Yes. Now get out.”

She did, but she stayed near the closed door, listening. She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to hear, but there was something about Wetherton that scratched at her instincts. He was up to no good, she was sure of that. And it was something he didn’t want her to know about.

But the soft sounds coming from the bedroom suggested he was doing nothing more than getting ready for bed. She gave up after a few minutes and walked over to the sofa where she’d left her com-unit. After sitting down, she pressed her thumb into the lock.

“Voice identification required,” the unit stated.