After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

She had real food for lunch and saved the ice cream for later. Microwaved burrito in hand, she fired up her computer.

She approached the problem as if it had been presented to her as part of her job. How do you hide unique, expensive assets? If she were studying the books of someone selling such assets illegally, what would she look for? High-dollar money transfers without claiming assets or deducting depreciation. Someone spending money with nothing overt and legal to show for it.

The Destructor wasn’t spending anything; the DA had had all his assets frozen. All the ones they could find, at least. If Sito were smart—and he was, no question there—he wouldn’t touch his hidden assets just yet; he wouldn’t risk revealing their location. But if he did, would he be buying up unique and priceless cultural artifacts? Or paying someone to do steal them?

It wasn’t his MO. He was the Destructor for a reason. He liked blowing things up, taking them apart, and disintegrating them, not collecting them.

Cultural artifacts. That was the pattern. She got online to search the city’s events calendar. What else out there would interest a thief who’d already taken rare violins and prize koi?

There it was: The Commerce City History Museum was hosting a philately exhibition: rare stamps, one-of-a-kind printings, unique and priceless to the right collector. The exhibit opened Saturday.

She had to leave the apartment again to replace her cell phone—then hesitated, because she didn’t know who to call first. Her parents, came the first impulse. The Olympiad would want to know. They’d be able to stop the theft. They’d even be likely to listen to her. The cops, not so much. Even so, she ought to call them as well. Mark, maybe. The chance of Mark listening to her was microscopic right now. Same with Analise.

Hell, maybe she should call everybody. Then maybe at least one of them would believe her and do something about it.

She called Suzanne’s cell. The voice mail picked up.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me. This is going to sound weird, but I think I know what the Strad Brothers’ next target is. There’s a special philately exhibit at the history museum opening Saturday. Rare stamps—it fits their target profile. I suppose we have to assume they’ll attempt a kidnapping to go along with any robbery. Anyway, call me so we can talk about it.”

Mark and Analise weren’t answering their phones, either. With them, however, Celia’s paranoia kicked in. Either they were busy, or they saw her name on the caller ID and decided to ignore her. She left messages.

Somebody had to call her back.

She had to make one more call. She looked up the number to police headquarters. “Yes, I’d like to speak to Chief Appleton,” she told the receptionist, who asked who was calling.

Celia took a deep breath. “Celia West. And yes, it’s important.”

She spent time on hold. They didn’t even bother putting on bad music for her. Eventually, her name got her through to the chief.

Appleton didn’t bother with a greeting. “If you’re calling to yell at me about making your record public, I had nothing to do with it. I haven’t shown it to anyone. That information got out all on its own, just like I always said it would.”

“Hello to you, too,” she said. “That’s not what I’m calling about.”

“I only sealed the record in the first place as a favor to your parents.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about.”

“People deserve to know about you, you know.” It was as if he’d been keeping this secret for eight years, and he was damned well going to take advantage of the fact that he could now rant about her as much as he wanted.

“Chief, I think I know what the Strad Brothers’ next target is.”

The following pause was nerve-shattering. Finally, he said, “And how, may I ask, do you know this?”

“I don’t know it. It’s a guess. They’ve gone after unique cultural objects, right? The history museum is hosting an exhibit of rare stamps. It seems like this would be just the kind of target they’d go for.”

“You don’t know this because you’re still in the Destructor’s pocket?”

Goddamn him, Celia thought. “Sir, I don’t think Sito has anything to do with the Strad Brothers. The MOs are completely different, Sito can’t organize anything from the asylum—”

“If anyone could organize anything from the asylum, it would be Sito.”

Calling him had been a mistake. “I’m sorry to bother you, Chief. But I have this hunch, and in good conscience I had to tell someone about it. I thought you might listen to me.”

She hung up on him, because she wasn’t brave enough to hear what kind of response he’d give to that.

* * *

Suzanne listened to her. The Olympiad had always had the attitude that vigilance never hurt. It wouldn’t cost them anything to be on alert. It wasn’t too far from their usual routine, after all. Spark did insist that Celia spend the weekend at the West Plaza penthouse, to secure her against another kidnapping attempt.