Before the Dawn

Chapter ten Scene of the crime

Turning to Kendra and her closet for help, Max dolled herself up in one of those skimpy sexy frocks that she had so scrupulously avoided until now. At least it wasn’t frilly or trashy — the simple black strapless minidress, set off by a rhinestone belt, displayed much of her sleekly muscular legs, plentiful cleavage, and just about all of her unblemished, bronze shoulders. Sitting on the bench in front of her roommate’s makeup mirror, Max put on some black you-know-what-me pumps that rivaled any torture Manticore had come up with.

“You look good, girl,” Kendra said with an appreciative, almost envious grin. “Foxy and fine.”

Original Cindy, who had come over to help with the makeover, widened those big beautiful brown eyes and, with a head shake, said, “You look any better, Boo, Original Cindy’d set out to recruit you for her team.”

That took the edge off, making Max laugh, and the other young women joined in, in a round of giggles.

Then, studying her reflection, Max rose and turned in a slow circle. “Damn, you two are really good at this — you oughta do makeovers on the tube... I can’t find the butt-kicking tomboy no matter how hard I look.”

“Oh, she’s in there,” Original Cindy said. “She’ll come out, anybody screw around witchoo.”

“But these shoes...” Max winced, working to maintain her balance. “They’re tighter than Normal’s ass.”

O. C. laughed at that, and Kendra shrugged. “Those are the best I can do — not my fault, my feet are just a little smaller than yours... Cin, you got anything in your collection?”

“Hell,” Original Cindy said, “my dogs are bigger than either of you... But don’t you the get the wrong idea: Original Cindy is still damn delicate!”

More shared laughter.

“The pumps’re fine,” Max lied, lightly. What was she going to do, pick her best pair of running shoes?

Hands on hips, Original Cindy asked, “What’s your secret, Boo? How’d you get yourself an invite to some Fat Daddy Greenback’s booty shake?”

Grinning, almost embarrassed, Max said, “Ain’t no booty shake... just a cocktail party.”

Original Cindy raised an eyebrow. “They gonna be tunes?”

Max felt the argument slipping away from her. “Well, yeah, I suppose.”

Original Cindy raised the other eyebrow. “Gonna be all kindsa young, firm hotties with their talent hangin’ out?”

Max smiled and sighed. “You know there will be.”

Original Cindy turned to Kendra and in unison, they bumped hips and said, “Booty shake!”

“Would I doubt my elders?” Max asked innocently.

That got the expected feigned indignation, and after some more giggling, Kendra went to her bedside table, opened the drawer, selected something, and returned to hand it to Max: a two-inch-square foil package.

“When you accessorize,” Max said, and now she was the one arching an eyebrow, “you don’t kid around.”

Original Cindy whooped in delight. “Aw-iiight,” she said, slapping five with Kendra. “Sister girl lookin’ out for ya, Boo! You gotta love it.”

Max was amused and, well, touched. “I doubt I’ll need this,” she said, “but because you’re the one givin’ me the makeover, I’ll take it with me — you never know what might come up.”

They all laughed again. In truth, that sprinkle of feline DNA in Max’s makeup had reared its furry little head again not so long ago, and Max had again found herself doing battle with her hormones. For a human being to devolve into a cat in heat, from time to time, was one of the more humiliating aspects of her test-tube development. But she was on the downside of it now.

Earlier, Kendra and Original Cindy had penciled Max’s brows, taught her about eyeliner, mascara, eye shadow, blush, and lipstick... techniques of war Manticore had skipped, criminal methods Moody had passed over...

Fifteen minutes in, her patience wearing thin, Max had asked, “Is this porn-star trip really necessary?”

Kendra looked hurt. “You want to make a good impression, don’t you?”

Max smirked. “What, you mean in the guys’ pants?”

“Boo,” O. C. said, “you have to put your trust in the hands of those with more experience in these matters. Original Cindy and sister Kendra know the ins and outs of dressin’ to kill.”

The latter phrase was more to the point, but Max had of course omitted her real purpose for attending the party. All she had told her friends was that she was going to a cocktail party — which was true. And that a very rich man had invited her — which was a lie.

O. C. waggled a finger. “You catch yourself a rich fish tonight, Boo — you just remember it was your home girls help provide the bait.”

Admiring herself in the mirror, a hand to her hair, surprised by how much she liked looking this beautiful, Max said, “But I provided the lure.”

Original Cindy, rather wistfully, said, “No argument, girlfriend... no argument.”

Kendra put her hands on either side of Max’s head. “Hold still or we’re never going to turn this pumpkin into Cinderella.”

Original Cindy seemed to be thinking over that remark — something didn’t seem right about it.

After that, Max sat painfully still throughout a forty-five-minute ordeal, rather amazed by the elaborateness of the makeup application when the end result made it look like she wasn’t wearing any. It was at this point that she’d stepped into the little black dress and now, finally — after taking one last twirl in the mirror, delighted by the shimmer of her dark curls, and the way the dress clung to her, like an attentive lover — she was ready... dressed to go to work.

After her last visit to the Sterling estate — as a cat burglar in the middle of the night — Max had decided on a new strategy to gain entry into the mansion and get information from the king of the castle. She’d found out a lot more about Jared Sterling in the meantime.

For one thing, Sterling was not the upstanding, model citizen the mainstream media liked to present to the public; however hard he tried to pass himself off as the post-Pulse poster child of responsible wealth, he was no philanthropic patron of the arts.

Otherwise, Max’s little home invasion would have made the news — bigtime. Her escapade would have been on SNN and front pages and all over the Net, and every other place in the so-called free world.

But there had been no mention of it anywhere.

The paper’s police beat hadn’t even run the usual one liner about “Officers responded to an alarm at...” No matter how private a person Sterling might be, the break-in should have made some kind of noise — certainly those alarms had. Police had no doubt responded, and either had been sent away by the great man, or any investigation of the break-in was kept confidential from the media.

Why?

Because Jared Sterling was up to what was commonly called no good.

Exactly what, Max couldn’t yet say; but Sterling was clearly dirty — as indicated in spades by his possession of the Heart of the Ocean.

And if Sterling had ordered the slaughter of the Chinese Clan, in pursuit of the stone, she would kill his ass.

But she would have to be convinced of his guilt, first; if he was nothing more than a collector who bought hot property from a fence, that meant Sterling was just a link to the real villain. And with Manticore involvement suspected in the Chinese Theatre slaughter, that villain might well be Colonel Donald Lydecker himself.

On a more mundane... but helpful... level, Max had also learned that the art collector was famously single. He collected pretty women as well as paintings, and was hosting a party to show off the new Grant Wood — at his home... this evening.

Manticore had instilled in Max the need to take advantage of any opportunity, and this seemed like a prime chance to finally meet Jared Sterling... again. Her back had been to him, in their first, brief encounter, and to her knowledge her image hadn’t been captured on any security-cam tapes.

Normally Max would have made her way to the ferry landing by the most economical — and most exhilarating — method: her Ninja. Her outfit made that impractical, though, and she wound up investing ten or twelve times as much to take a taxi. The ferry ride to Vashon Island wasn’t free, either, and another taxi took her from the landing to the front gate of the Sterling estate.

Adding up the costs, Max rolled her eyes and understood why only the rich lived way out here — who the hell else could afford the commute?

The taxi driver — an older, skinny guy who looked like he hadn’t touched solid food since the Pulse — pulled the cab up to the front gate, where a security guard in black suit with tie — dark-haired, Mediterranean-looking, not one of her playmates from the other night — approached with clipboard in hand. The cabbie waved the guard around to the back passenger’s seat where Max was sitting.

Max rolled down the window.

“You have an invitation, miss?” he asked, his tone pleasant, but his dark face serious, his brown eyes on her like lasers.

“Oh damn,” she said, pretending to dig through her tiny purse, “I have it some place...” Finally, she gave up, looked up at the guard with wide and (she hoped) lovely eyes, smiling full wattage. “Guess not... Such a long ride out here, too.”

He leaned a hand on the rolled-down window. “Perhaps if you gave me your name, I could check the guest list.”

She had selected, from the various pictures of Sterling with pretty young women (and there had been dozens over the last year or so), a petite brunette, who bore a faint resemblance to Max.

“I’ve been here before,” she said. “A few months ago? Marisa Barton.”

A tiny smile played at the corner of the security man’s mouth. “Ms. Barton is already inside.”

Max’s smile curdled. “Look... I’ll be straight with you. I’m a journalist, and this is my big chance.” She withdrew a precious twenty-dollar bill from her purse.

But the guard, not at all mean, almost amused, just shook his head.

Max said, with a frozen smile, “You’re not going to let me in, are you?”

“Worse luck for you, ‘Ms. Barton’ — I’m gay. You don’t even have that going for you... Tell your driver to turn it around, and we don’t have to take this another step... You wouldn’t like that step, anyway.”

“Bet not.” She’d already put her twenty bucks away.

Max told the driver to turn the hack around, but before the cabbie could shift gears, the guard leaned down, like an adult talking to a child, and said, “By the way, just so you know next time — Ms. Barton’s a blonde, now... For a journalist, you’re not so hot on details.”

She smirked. “I’m savin’ up for a research assistant.”

The driver turned around and drove back toward the ferry. When they were out of sight of the gate, Max told him to stop and, after waiting till no cars were coming in either direction, climbed out of the cab. The street was dark and Sterling’s mansion was two blocks back.

“If you’re plannin’ to go over the fence in that dress,” the skinny cabbie said, when she came to his rolled-down window to pay him, “I wouldn’t mind hangin’ around to watch.”

She got the twenty back out. “Here.”

“Hey! Thanks, sweetie... that’s generous.”

“No — it’s payment for you getting amnesia. You alert that guardhouse about me, I’ll want my Andy Jackson back.”

“Sure...” He took the bill from her, and she clamped onto his stick of a wrist. Hard.

She looked at him hard, too, and his eyes were wide and amazed and somewhat frightened.

“If you’re thinking of playing both ends against the middle,” she said, “you might be surprised what a girl in a dress like this can do.”

He nodded, said no problem, no sweat, and pulled away.

On her walk back, Max avoided the road to the front of the castle, and the other cars she knew would be using it. She passed the place where she’d docked the boat the other night, and kept moving. Even in the short dress, the wall wasn’t any more of an obstacle than it had been the first time, though that cabbie would have received quite an eyeful.

She glided around the house to the front, staying in the shadows, waiting until a larger group of six or seven people poured out of a stretch limo — their slightly drunken laughter like off-key wind chimes in the night — and breezed up the wide stairs toward the massive green dollar-bill door. As they moved up past the lions, Max just blended in with the crowd and, for the second time, entered the Sterling mansion.

A string quartet sat to one side of the foyer, their soft melodies providing unobtrusive musical wallpaper for the many conversations going on. Thanks to Moody, Max recognized the piece as Bach, though the name eluded her — it wasn’t something you could steal, after all.

The last time Max had stood in this foyer, she’d broken and entered — and had felt much more at ease than in the midst of this crowd of tony people... chatting in little groups, sipping flutes of champagne, nibbling at canapés, courtesy of silver-tray-bearing waiters in tuxedo pants and white shirts with black bow ties, winding through the throng like moonlighting Chippendale’s dancers. The male guests tended to be in their late thirties to midforties, wearing tailored suits and an air of success. The female guests often were ten years younger than their dates, and wore clingy cocktail dresses, and airs of excess.

Max fought a spike of panic — she had rarely felt more out of place in her young life, perhaps not since those early months after the Manticore escape.

Some rich people had not weathered the Pulse at all well, even spiraling into failure and poverty. For those born to wealth — or those capitalists (like, say, Jared Sterling) who saw in disaster potential for their own prosperity — it was as if there had been no Pulse. To such people, affluence was as natural as breathing; and those who’d been born to it, should they lose their fortunes, would wither and die.

This way of life was completely foreign to Max, who’d scratched for every cent she’d ever earned... or anyway, stolen. Oh, she’d seen her share of fancy parties and posh events in Los Angeles, of course; but she’d always been on the outside looking in, hoping to snag a bauble or snatch a purse when the wealthy left whatever function she and the other members of the Chinese Clan were staking out.

Despite the care Kendra and Original Cindy had taken to help her blend in here, that was impossible for Max; in a way, her home girls had done too good a job on her. Her dark exotic beauty, so fetchingly displayed in the low-cut frock, had attracted male eyes from the moment she walked in. The women took only a few seconds longer to catch onto her unique presence... and suddenly it seemed that Max wasn’t the only female with cat genes in the room: the debutante girlfriends and trophy wives threw her looks of undisguised contempt.

A waiter paused for Max to select a champagne flute from his tray, and she exchanged smiles with him — two human beings trapped here in the Decadence Museum. Then he was gone, and she sipped, hoping the bubbly would relax her, but instructing herself to hold it to one glass: she was, after all, working...

As she eased off toward the gallery, Max nodded at several of the appreciatively gazing men, thinking, Even if I were still in heat, you toms wouldn’t stand a chance...

The vast room where, not so long ago, she and a security guard had interacted now held fifty-some people, mostly milling about enjoying the artwork, murmuring appreciatively at Sterling’s collection, about every third one trying to impress with his or her knowledge. Music from the foyer filtered in, but muffled, as if this were Muzak piped in.

Glancing around the room, Max saw that Sterling’s people had cleaned up the mess after her visit, neatly, efficiently. The holes from the security leader’s pistol shots had been patched; the Jackson Pollock ruined by Maurer’s MP7A had been taken down (and replaced by a different Pollock painting!); and — much to Max’s surprise — she caught glimpses of a new Plexiglas display case in the corner, where she’d found the Heart of the Ocean. But she would have to get closer, to see what new object had been put on display in the necklace’s place...

Not wanting to arouse suspicion — and now starting to look for Sterling in earnest — Max went down the left side of the room (the side opposite the display case), gliding behind guests lined up staring at paintings. A stunning blonde in blue velvet who must have been straight out of art school was explaining a Georgia O’Keeffe flower to her much older male companion, specifically the “powerful symbol of life and female becoming.”

As Max slipped by the couple, she noticed the blonde’s hand was brushing the thigh of her date, who was about as weathered as one of O’Keeffe’s cow skulls. He was studying her, not the painting — though Max had a hunch the guy understood the blossom symbolism just fine.

Shaking her head a little, Max spotted, on the far wall, one of Andrew Wyeth’s Helga pictures, which she wished she’d grabbed on her first visit. She smiled privately, moving on even as she considered the possibility of a third visit to the mansion, some night soon...

Still no sign of Sterling — or, for that matter, any of his security staff. She slipped in and out of the clusters of pompous people until she stood in front of another Grant Wood, which had taken the wall space that had belonged to Death on the Ridge Road. Spring Turning — another oil on Masonite, done in 1936 — featured large green fields going on seemingly forever, rolling hills beneath a blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. In the bottom foreground, a tiny man used a horse-drawn plow. At eighteen by forty, Spring was also a bulky painting; if she did return, she’d leave this one behind.

Again, Max slowly scanned the room for Sterling, and didn’t see him. But before she’d move on to another room to continue her search, she just had to know how Sterling had filled that Plexiglas case. She waited until two couples blocking her way moved on, then stepped up and looked down at the black velvet pad...

... and its contents made her breath catch.

The Heart of the Ocean!

What the hell?... How could Sterling have gotten it back? There was no way — the necklace was hidden in her crib, and even Kendra didn’t know it was there.

The necklace on display was breathtaking, and appeared to be the genuine article... but this was crazy. Her heart pounding, her palms sweaty, Max stepped closer, leaning in, trying to get a better look. A gold plate labeled the exhibit: “The Heart of the Ocean — one of two prop necklaces from the famous film Titanic; the other resides in the Hollywood Heritage Museum.”

Just as she was forming an opinion on its authenticity, Max felt a presence — someone stepping up behind her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Recognizing the warm masculine voice, Max turned to see Jared Sterling — a tall, blond man in his late twenties with intense blue eyes, a neatly trimmed, slightly darker beard; he wore a black suit with a crisp black collarless shirt, buttoned to the neck, and no tie — casual, in a formal way.

“Beautiful,” she said, adding, “for a fake.”

Sterling favored her with a small twitch of a smile. “Yes, a beautiful fake... like you, my dear.”

A shiver shot through her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is the music too loud? Can you not hear me?” He was standing right next to her now, and leaned sideways to her and, with a tone that managed to be both pleasant and rather vicious, said, “The necklace is like you — beautiful, but not what it appears.”

She bestowed a smile of her own. “And what do I appear to be?”

“One of numerous beautiful young women, who were invited to my party... but you’re not, are you?”

“Not beautiful?”

“Not invited,” Sterling said with a chuckle. “What they used to call, in the old days, a party crasher.”

She swiveled so they faced; they stood close together, as if contemplating a kiss, the Plexiglas dome a foot from her left hand and his right. She could smell his lightly applied cologne, something citrus and deeply inviting. The air between them seemed charged and their eyes locked.

She asked, “How do you know I don’t have an invitation? Or maybe I’m here in the company of one your guests?”

“My dear,” he said, with sublime condescension, “I threw this little party myself... and I personally okayed every invitation. No one brings a guest to my parties without clearing it first... unless one doesn’t mind never getting invited again.”

“And here I thought you were such a warm host.”

“Oh I am.” He nodded toward the people appreciating his paintings. “I’m friends with all these people, in fact I know everyone here... everyone, that is, but you. Although there is something... familiar about you. Have we met, my dear?”

She felt another shiver, asked, “In your dreams, perhaps?”

Another smile twitched within the well-tended beard. “If only I had that vivid an imagination... Would you like a drink? More champagne, perhaps?”

She held up her empty glass. “Why not?”

“Before we do,” he said, “tell me, please, why you think my famous film prop is a fake.”

“Oh, it may actually be a film prop — I’m sure they had a backup for the real necklace, when they made that movie.”

“Real necklace?” he said innocently.

“Very few people realize that the necklace in the Hollywood Heritage Museum — which was stolen, by the way — was truly valuable, with forty-eight tiny zircons that formed the heart around the blue stone.”

“That’s simply absurd,” he said, without conviction.

“And,” she continued, with a casual, almost contemptuous nod toward the display case, “this paste job has fifty.”

He looked from her to the necklace and back. “Well!.. You’re a very bright young woman. Now, do you want that champagne?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Entwining her arm in Sterling’s, Max allowed him to lead her toward the foyer.

“In a way — the necklace on display is a film prop... you don’t think I would show off the original in front of guests? The more valuable of the two prop necklaces, used only for close-ups? Particularly when its... provenance is so... controversial.”

“You mean, because it’s stolen property... So, then, the real necklace is somewhere safe — bank vault, that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t know where it is.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be coquettish, my dear — you stole it. Remember?”

Their eyes met and Max’s stomach did a back flip, but she said nothing; she did not think he would make a scene here — not and risk it coming out that his collection included hot property.

They got fresh glasses of bubbly from a butler and walked down one of the stairways toward the rear of the house. The crowd was thinner back here.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Sitting room. I have something I want to show you.”

She smiled. “If it’s a gun, I’m not interested... If it’s something else, thanks anyway — I’ve seen those before, too.”

“You’re such a droll child,” Sterling said, with a chuckle. “Very engaging, but that’s not what I meant. I want you to see another piece of art.”

With a shrug, she said, “All right.”

Sterling unlocked a door and they entered a large sitting room with a plush violet velvet sofa.

“For our privacy,” Sterling said, “I need to lock the door again... are you comfortable with that?”

She was not afraid of him in the least. “Go ahead.”

He locked the door and they soon sat side by side on the velvet sofa; the Mission style again predominated. A walnut coffee table separated them from two wing chairs and one wall was taken up by bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. On the opposite wall hung heavy velvet curtains that matched the sofa and presumably covered a large window that overlooked the rear of the estate.

On the wall behind the couch was what Max suspected to be the original Night Watch by Rembrandt. Near the locked door was a Remington painting that Max recognized as The Snow Trail.

“Are these the pieces you wanted me to see?”

“No.” The collector sipped his champagne, then smiled again, a toothy smile that was a little too white, a little too wide. “Did you really tell the guard outside you were Marisa Barton?”

Sterling didn’t seem to miss much, around here. Suddenly that locked door was starting to bother her. She decided to play him.

“Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do,” she said, “to meet the man she wants to meet.”

“And you wanted to meet me?”

Max touched his leg. “Handsome, wealthy... you do have some points in your favor, Mr. Sterling.”

He placed a hand over hers. “Thank you for putting ‘handsome’ on the list before ‘wealthy.’ ” Now he was the one who glanced toward the closed door. “But what do you think we should do about Marisa?”

Max moved closer. “Forget about her.”

“That’s an option,” he said; again they were close enough to kiss. “Or... we could invite her to join us.”

Again the air between them seemed charged, but this time in a different way, and Max forced herself not to recoil. “I don’t like to share good things,” she managed.

This part of the big house was very quiet. Were she and Sterling the only ones not out front, at the party?

“Before we decide what to do about Marisa,” he said, and eased away from her, just a bit, “perhaps we should decide what to do about you.”

He withdrew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and dropped it on the coffee table before them — a surveillance photo, culled from video footage, courtesy of a security cam...

... a picture of Max standing in the gallery of the Sterling mansion with the real Heart of the Ocean in her hand.

“This,” he said, and he was not smiling now, “is the piece of art I wanted you to see.”

So much for disabling the video system.

He was saying, “I take it you came here tonight to... what is your name, dear?”

She said nothing.

Sterling pressed on: “I take it you’re here to make arrangements to return the necklace, and the Grant Wood painting... correct?”

Her face blank, she said simply, “No.”

“Please don’t play innocent — why else would you come to my home tonight, risking a prison sentence, going through all the trouble of jumping the wall and skulking around like a common thief?”

“Actually, I’m a very uncommon thief, Mr. Sterling.”

His smile returned — fewer teeth, though. “That’s true, my dear — that’s certainly true.”

She folded her arms, Indian-style. “We could, I suppose, arrange a price for the return of those two items. You might be surprised by how reasonable that price might be.”

His eyes tightened; he was clearly intrigued. “Try me.”

She curtailed the intensity, the urgency in her voice. “Just tell me where you got it.”

“Got what, my dear?”

“The Heart of the Ocean. Tell me, and you can have it back... The Grant Wood might require some cash outlay, but...”

“My dear,” Sterling said. “Surely you understand that a man who deals in the netherworld of art collecting, as I do, must protect not only himself, but his sources. Anyway, why is it any of your concern, where I got that necklace?”

“I need to know,” she said, and this time the intensity bled through.

He considered what she’d said; then he said, “I may strike a bargain with you — but I must protect myself. Again, I must ask — why do you want to know?”

She could think of nothing else to tell him but the truth — so she did: “I’m the one who stole the necklace in the first place, from that museum in LA.”

“... I am impressed.”

“I left the necklace with friends, when I skipped town. Those friends turned up dead, in the meantime — and now the necklace winds up with you. I need to know how that happened.”

He seemed amused. “To avenge your friends,” he said, as if this were a quaint notion.

“Of course to avenge my friends.”

“And this is more important than money?”

“It is to me. Mr. Sterling... Jared — can we do business? Do you want your necklace back?”

“Well, of course I do... gentlemen!”

The door unlocked and Morales and Maurer stepped into the sitting room. In black suits with ties, the guards wore remembrances of their first meeting with Max: Maurer had two black eyes and a bandage over his broken nose, and Morales sported assorted bruises. They glowered at her.

Sterling’s voice turned cold. “Here’s my offer: give me back what belongs to me and I won’t have you killed.”

“Very generous — but why should I think you’d hold up your end of the bargain?”

He smiled at her, no teeth this time; then said, “Because you have unique abilities, my dear... and I could use someone of your talents on my payroll... Isn’t that right, boys?”

But neither Maurer nor Morales expressed an opinion.

“I fly solo,” she said. “As for the rest of your offer... thanks, but no thanks.”

“If you don’t return my property, I’ll see to it that your death is a prolonged, unpleasant one. If you do return my property, I’ll allow you to live. Who knows? You may even change your mind about my employment proposition.”

“I’ll pass.”

“My dear, it’s the best deal you’re going to negotiate. You really should take advantage of my generosity.”

She almost laughed. “You really think you can make all of this fly? I mean, I have kicked the ass of both these guys and more, already.”

With a shrug and an openhanded gesture, Sterling said, “That is true... but we have allies in town now; we’ve taken on certain... reinforcements... Morales! Fetch our friend, will you?”

Morales nodded and stepped out of the room.

“You should have dealt with me, Max,” Sterling said.

Max...

“How the hell do you know my name?” she demanded.

Morales came back in and took up his position to one side of the door, Maurer on the other. Moments later a third man strode in, rather tall, thin, rock-star handsome, wearing a brown leather, knee-length coat over a light blue silk shirt and black leather pants.

Kafelnikov!

Sterling said, “I believe you know my friend Mikhail.”

The Russian’s smile was as reptilian as his snakeskin boots. “Enjoying the party, Max?”

She flew to her feet... and felt the weight of a pistol barrel against her ribs.

“Now, now,” Sterling said, on his feet behind her, whispering into her ear, like a lover. “Let’s not be rash...”

Kafelnikov and the two guards were drawing their handguns, as well. She shook her head a little. “I think I already have been... rash.”

“So it would seem.”

Even as the nose of his automatic dug into her ribs, he kissed her neck, and she felt a chill — not a good chill. “Now, my dear,” he said, “I want several things from you... the Heart of the Ocean... the Grant Wood... and one more item...”

“That’s everything,” she said coldly. Her eyes were on the Russian, who was smiling at her, seemingly amused by the hatred she was glaring his way.

“Not everything,” Kafelnikov said, and he stepped forward, a few feet from Max. “Tell us about the other one.”

Max frowned. “What?...”

Sterling whispered lovingly: “Tell us about your partner... the one who broke into my place of business.”

Max felt the blood drain from her face. “Partner?”

Sterling came around alongside her, the nose of the gun making the trip, too. “Don’t be coy, dear — it really doesn’t suit you... Who is he?”

Biting off the words, she said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Morales!” Sterling barked. “Show her.”

The guard stepped forward and handed her another security-cam picture.

This one showed a young man standing in the middle of fallen security guards. And once again she found herself studying a grainy picture of a young man who might be her brother — Seth? Hope leapt within her, despite her situation.

With his free hand, Sterling snatched the photo from her. “Now, dear — tell us where he is, and what the two of you have done with my property.”

“Don’t know the guy,” Max said, with a shrug. “Sorry.”

Kafelnikov laughed harshly. “I’ve seen you in action, Max... and I’ve seen the tape of this man, tossing cops around like dolls. If you two are not brother and sister, you at least shared the same teacher.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think we’re brother and sister?”

The Russian shrugged. “You move the same, you fight the same — you move your hands, your feet, your heads the same. Either you’re family or you trained under one master, most likely at the same time. Either way, you know this man. Who is he, and where is he?”

“You want to know this,” Max said to the Russian, “because your business partner here got robbed... or is there a reward for this rebel? Maybe one for me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kafelnikov said, the lie surprisingly apparent.

Max glanced sideways at her host. “Ask him about his friend Lydecker — ask your Russian pal here what kind of art Manticore’s collecting.”

Sterling glanced at Kafelnikov. “What’s she babbling about?”

“Nothing — that’s all it is... babble!”

Max was smiling, and Sterling, the two bodyguards, and even the Russian were clearly disconcerted by the absence of fear in her demeanor.

“This was a great party,” she said. “Mr. Sterling, I owe you a big debt of thanks. You, too, Mikhail. I got exactly what I came for, and so much more.”

“What the hell’s she talking about?” Sterling demanded. “Who is this Lydecker?”

Sterling’s attention was on the Russian, and that was where the security guards were looking, too; only the Russian’s eyes were on Max, but his gun hung loosely at his side. When she hadn’t struck immediately, the men’s guard had flagged, got relaxed, sloppy, making this as good a time as any...

She just wished she wasn’t wearing these damn tight pumps.

Her hand moved so quickly, no one reacted; she twisted Sterling’s pistol away from her ribs and he reflexively pulled the trigger, the slug going wild, sending the Russian and the two guards ducking for cover. She broke Sterling’s ring finger, and got the gun out of his hand as he screamed in pain and surprise.

Then she took out the clip and, in one fluid move, brought the pistol up and pitched it like a ball at Maurer, just as he took aim at her. The pistol broke the guard’s nose (again), turning his face into a wet crimson mask as he sagged to the floor.

She elbowed the collector in the face, stopping his screaming by knocking him cold. She moved away from the couch, the curtained window to her back, as Morales came at her with a stun rod; but she dodged, wrenching it from his grip as he swept by her, and — with a helpful push from Max that lost his balance for him — Morales tore down the curtain and crashed through the window.

Spinning, she saw Kafelnikov bring up his pistol, but as he fired, she dived. The bullet zinged through the window into the night as Max jammed the stun rod into Kafelnikov’s ribs. The pistol dropped limply from his hand and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Max stared down at him...

Zack or Seth would have killed him right there, Max knew; but she was unsure whether there was any benefit in taking revenge on an already beaten opponent. She hadn’t quite made her decision when gunfire ripped the room, as other members of the security force descended.

Max vaulted through the broken window, more bullets chewing the wall around her, wood and plaster fragments flying. She dropped to the ground next to the fallen Maurer, jumped up, on the run. The night was alive with the yells and screams of Sterling’s guests, alarmed by the gunfire.

But by the time the guards were able to add any more gunfire to the merriment, snouts of weapons blossoming out the window, Max was long since out of range.

She couldn’t risk the ferry, and didn’t have a boat, so she kicked off those damn shoes and dived into the cold water. As she swam, she wondered why she’d hesitated when she’d had the chance to kill Kafelnikov.

It wasn’t like her, and it certainly wasn’t like her training — though the decision had some strategic merit, since the Russian was the link to Lydecker’s role in the Mann’s massacre...

She thought about Kendra, Original Cindy, and the other “normal” people who’d come into her life... Normal included; maybe hanging with all these real folks all the time was making her more human.

And then she wondered whether or not being more human, more normal, was a good thing.

When she got back to her squatter’s pad, dripping wet, Kendra’s frock ruined, Max was thinking of the boy who must be Seth. Now she not only needed to find him for herself, but for him, too.

Seth was in danger, and she didn’t know how to warn him; but she’d have to find a way.