with a yellow-and-black coat of arms hung on the wall. demarco, it read.
There was one woman in the crowd of security people. In her early fifties, she had short, feathered red hair and she was dressed in a black suit with a skirt, low black heels, and the most foreboding “don’t screw with me” expression in the apartment thus far. She was on a radiophone and when she saw Cat and Tess, she walked into a room off the hall and shut the door as if for privacy. There were a few head nods in their direction as they walked the gauntlet of strangers, but for the most part they were pretty much ignored.
Then Gonzales opened a door on the right and Cat stepped through first. She found herself on a carved marble staircase that spiraled upward, and Gonzales indicated that she should go up.
Behind Cat, Tess murmured, “Oh, boy, more stairs,” and Gonzales smiled.
“We were running a pool on whether or not you two would actually climb sixty flights of stairs,” he said.
“Damn straight,” Tess replied, and his smile broke into a big grin.
“I had my money on you, Detective Vargas. You’re in shape.” His gaze strayed toward her butt.
“Can we cut the chatter?” Robertson snapped.
Tess flashed him a quick evil eye out of his range of vision and Cat stayed silent as they ascended the stairs. Their footsteps rang out.
“Would the kidnappers have used this route?” she asked.
“That’s something we don’t know,” Gonzales said. “I mean, you can hear how noisy this stairwell is. It was built that way on purpose. It’s one way Mr. DeMarco kept tabs on his son. Or tried to. Somehow, Angelo still snuck in and out.”
“He’s twenty, right? I mean, can’t he come and go as he pleases?” Tess asked, and Robertson’s mouth set into a rigid line.
“Mr. DeMarco is correct to be so protective of his son. Angelo has trouble accepting that the wealth and privilege he was born into makes him a target for exactly this situation. If he was more cautious, his father would be less… watchful.”
Poor little rich boy
, Cat thought. She was forming a profile of Angelo DeMarco: restricted and rebellious. A volatile combination. She could remember having spats with her mom over curfews and the company she kept.
But not when I was twenty. My mom was already dead.
“The security cameras must have backup batteries,” Cat said, combining two questions into one: that they
had
cameras, and that they’d been on.
“The cameras leading into Angelo’s quarters were disabled,” Gonzales reported. “That’s not unusual. Angelo hacked them himself on a regular basis. Said he didn’t want to be spied on.” He gave her a weary look as if to say,
You begin to see the problem.
The stairs ended on a landing decorated with a signed guitar in a glass case. The case stood in the direct pathway of a security camera. None of the status lights at the base of the camera was on.
“This guitar belonged to Stevie Ray Vaughn,” Gonzales said offhandedly. “The kid collects.”
Collects what?
Cat wondered, as he opened a door in front of her. Robertson was busy typing something into a cell phone.
They walked into a messy, shabby bedroom. Cat expected to see more milling security guards, but there was only one person: a tall, seriously athletic woman maybe as old as thirty-five, with curly blond hair cascading over her shoulders and a face completely free of lines and blemishes. She was wearing a black, floor-length raw silk nightgown that exposed plenty of cleavage, with a luxurious black robe—looked to be cashmere—over it. There was no puffiness from crying around her large blue eyes. Her makeup was perfectly applied, shiny lips pursed together in a scowl. She wasn’t worried. She was pissed off.
“Hey, Miguel, Jim,” she said as the FBI agents walked in. Her words were slurred and she was none too steady on her feet. She looked past the men, did an eye sweep of Cat, then raised her brows at Tess as if to say,
Who the
There was one woman in the crowd of security people. In her early fifties, she had short, feathered red hair and she was dressed in a black suit with a skirt, low black heels, and the most foreboding “don’t screw with me” expression in the apartment thus far. She was on a radiophone and when she saw Cat and Tess, she walked into a room off the hall and shut the door as if for privacy. There were a few head nods in their direction as they walked the gauntlet of strangers, but for the most part they were pretty much ignored.
Then Gonzales opened a door on the right and Cat stepped through first. She found herself on a carved marble staircase that spiraled upward, and Gonzales indicated that she should go up.
Behind Cat, Tess murmured, “Oh, boy, more stairs,” and Gonzales smiled.
“We were running a pool on whether or not you two would actually climb sixty flights of stairs,” he said.
“Damn straight,” Tess replied, and his smile broke into a big grin.
“I had my money on you, Detective Vargas. You’re in shape.” His gaze strayed toward her butt.
“Can we cut the chatter?” Robertson snapped.
Tess flashed him a quick evil eye out of his range of vision and Cat stayed silent as they ascended the stairs. Their footsteps rang out.
“Would the kidnappers have used this route?” she asked.
“That’s something we don’t know,” Gonzales said. “I mean, you can hear how noisy this stairwell is. It was built that way on purpose. It’s one way Mr. DeMarco kept tabs on his son. Or tried to. Somehow, Angelo still snuck in and out.”
“He’s twenty, right? I mean, can’t he come and go as he pleases?” Tess asked, and Robertson’s mouth set into a rigid line.
“Mr. DeMarco is correct to be so protective of his son. Angelo has trouble accepting that the wealth and privilege he was born into makes him a target for exactly this situation. If he was more cautious, his father would be less… watchful.”
Poor little rich boy
, Cat thought. She was forming a profile of Angelo DeMarco: restricted and rebellious. A volatile combination. She could remember having spats with her mom over curfews and the company she kept.
But not when I was twenty. My mom was already dead.
“The security cameras must have backup batteries,” Cat said, combining two questions into one: that they
had
cameras, and that they’d been on.
“The cameras leading into Angelo’s quarters were disabled,” Gonzales reported. “That’s not unusual. Angelo hacked them himself on a regular basis. Said he didn’t want to be spied on.” He gave her a weary look as if to say,
You begin to see the problem.
The stairs ended on a landing decorated with a signed guitar in a glass case. The case stood in the direct pathway of a security camera. None of the status lights at the base of the camera was on.
“This guitar belonged to Stevie Ray Vaughn,” Gonzales said offhandedly. “The kid collects.”
Collects what?
Cat wondered, as he opened a door in front of her. Robertson was busy typing something into a cell phone.
They walked into a messy, shabby bedroom. Cat expected to see more milling security guards, but there was only one person: a tall, seriously athletic woman maybe as old as thirty-five, with curly blond hair cascading over her shoulders and a face completely free of lines and blemishes. She was wearing a black, floor-length raw silk nightgown that exposed plenty of cleavage, with a luxurious black robe—looked to be cashmere—over it. There was no puffiness from crying around her large blue eyes. Her makeup was perfectly applied, shiny lips pursed together in a scowl. She wasn’t worried. She was pissed off.
“Hey, Miguel, Jim,” she said as the FBI agents walked in. Her words were slurred and she was none too steady on her feet. She looked past the men, did an eye sweep of Cat, then raised her brows at Tess as if to say,
Who the
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