through the data. Duncan stepped out of their way.
“I’ve broken the main encryption, my lord,” Louis explained tersely as he continued to type. “But there are additional codes within some of these files.”
“That one’s a simple alpha designation,” one of the others commented quietly. “Try opening—”
“Fuck, there it is. Pictures and everything.”
“What?” Duncan demanded. The others slid out of his way as he moved to stand behind Louis once again.
“Women, my lord,” Louis explained, paging through a file.
“Young, beautiful, human women,” another added appreciatively.
“No names,” Louis put in. “Initials only, but with the pictures, it shouldn’t be too difficult . . . Did the woman the other night—”
“Emma Duquet,” Duncan provided.
“Right. Did she leave a picture of her missing friend?”
“No.”
“Okay, one minute.” Louis swiveled his chair around to the desk behind him and pulled his laptop closer. “I started digging into Duquet’s background like you asked,” he said as he typed. “Her full name’s Emmaline Marie Duquet, by the way, though she rarely uses it. She has a Facebook page she hasn’t updated regularly in years, but let me check . . . Yep. There it is. Her friend’s first name was Lacey, right?”
“Yes,” Duncan said. He was watching over Louis’s shoulder, seeing pictures of a younger, less sophisticated Emma Duquet flash by, pictures clearly taken either before or right after she arrived in Washington. Or maybe it was worry for her friend that had taken away the sparkle in her eyes, the grin that said she was going to take on the world and win.
“Lacey Cray,” Louis muttered, settling on a single picture of Emma with her arm around a lovely blonde about her own age. “Pretty name. Pretty girl, too. Too bad.”
Duncan wanted to dispute the finality of Louis’s last words with their assumption that Lacey was already dead, but he couldn’t. Despite his reassurances to Emma last night, and as much as he’d like to produce Lacey safe and sound for her, he knew that wasn’t the most likely outcome.
Louis turned back to Victor’s computer. “There are dates next to each woman’s picture, my lord. And different initials after each date. I’m thinking . . .” He stopped typing and looked up at Duncan, as if to judge his reaction. “Given what we’ve already seen of Victor’s personal porno collection, this is most likely a record of sexual encounters, my lord. The second set of initials are the men these women were paired off with, complete with dates.”
“He was a fucking pimp,” one of the vampires whispered in disgust. “Hell, maybe that’s where his money came from. So far we’ve got him living like a Rockefeller, but no income.”
Duncan glanced up. “Nothing?”
“He owned a lot of property, my lord,” the vamp said. “But too much of it is in rundown neighborhoods, stuff he bought decades ago and forgot to sell before the market tanked. As far as I can find, he didn’t even bother to collect rent on some of them.”
“What about better properties, places he might be using himself?”
“A few of those, sure. I can get you a list—”
“Do that now, and e-mail the information to Louis and Miguel. And keep looking. If he didn’t make money legitimately, where did it come from? It has to be there somewhere. Either that, or he didn’t keep those records on any of the computers we’ve found so far, in which case—”
He grimaced as someone upstairs began laying into a plaster wall with what sounded like a sledge hammer. He let out a long, noisy breath and said, “If the records are in this house, I’m sure we’ll find them very soon. But in the meantime, Louis . . .” He met his security chief’s pale gaze. “. . . did Victor maintain any blood houses?”
Louis shook his head. “Not in the city of D.C., my lord. He and his four were the only vamps he permitted to live here . . . well, other than
“I’ve broken the main encryption, my lord,” Louis explained tersely as he continued to type. “But there are additional codes within some of these files.”
“That one’s a simple alpha designation,” one of the others commented quietly. “Try opening—”
“Fuck, there it is. Pictures and everything.”
“What?” Duncan demanded. The others slid out of his way as he moved to stand behind Louis once again.
“Women, my lord,” Louis explained, paging through a file.
“Young, beautiful, human women,” another added appreciatively.
“No names,” Louis put in. “Initials only, but with the pictures, it shouldn’t be too difficult . . . Did the woman the other night—”
“Emma Duquet,” Duncan provided.
“Right. Did she leave a picture of her missing friend?”
“No.”
“Okay, one minute.” Louis swiveled his chair around to the desk behind him and pulled his laptop closer. “I started digging into Duquet’s background like you asked,” he said as he typed. “Her full name’s Emmaline Marie Duquet, by the way, though she rarely uses it. She has a Facebook page she hasn’t updated regularly in years, but let me check . . . Yep. There it is. Her friend’s first name was Lacey, right?”
“Yes,” Duncan said. He was watching over Louis’s shoulder, seeing pictures of a younger, less sophisticated Emma Duquet flash by, pictures clearly taken either before or right after she arrived in Washington. Or maybe it was worry for her friend that had taken away the sparkle in her eyes, the grin that said she was going to take on the world and win.
“Lacey Cray,” Louis muttered, settling on a single picture of Emma with her arm around a lovely blonde about her own age. “Pretty name. Pretty girl, too. Too bad.”
Duncan wanted to dispute the finality of Louis’s last words with their assumption that Lacey was already dead, but he couldn’t. Despite his reassurances to Emma last night, and as much as he’d like to produce Lacey safe and sound for her, he knew that wasn’t the most likely outcome.
Louis turned back to Victor’s computer. “There are dates next to each woman’s picture, my lord. And different initials after each date. I’m thinking . . .” He stopped typing and looked up at Duncan, as if to judge his reaction. “Given what we’ve already seen of Victor’s personal porno collection, this is most likely a record of sexual encounters, my lord. The second set of initials are the men these women were paired off with, complete with dates.”
“He was a fucking pimp,” one of the vampires whispered in disgust. “Hell, maybe that’s where his money came from. So far we’ve got him living like a Rockefeller, but no income.”
Duncan glanced up. “Nothing?”
“He owned a lot of property, my lord,” the vamp said. “But too much of it is in rundown neighborhoods, stuff he bought decades ago and forgot to sell before the market tanked. As far as I can find, he didn’t even bother to collect rent on some of them.”
“What about better properties, places he might be using himself?”
“A few of those, sure. I can get you a list—”
“Do that now, and e-mail the information to Louis and Miguel. And keep looking. If he didn’t make money legitimately, where did it come from? It has to be there somewhere. Either that, or he didn’t keep those records on any of the computers we’ve found so far, in which case—”
He grimaced as someone upstairs began laying into a plaster wall with what sounded like a sledge hammer. He let out a long, noisy breath and said, “If the records are in this house, I’m sure we’ll find them very soon. But in the meantime, Louis . . .” He met his security chief’s pale gaze. “. . . did Victor maintain any blood houses?”
Louis shook his head. “Not in the city of D.C., my lord. He and his four were the only vamps he permitted to live here . . . well, other than
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