Chapter Thirty–Five

CHAPTER THIRTY–FIVE

A fter Whestmorel took off, Tohr stayed for the next three audiences, all of which were the kind of wholesome palate cleansers a male appreciated when the great Blind King had already used up all his restraint tokens: Two births, and a mating blessing. Perfect.

And now Tohr was out in the bracingly cold air.

As he walked away from the Audience House’s rear door, he followed the shoveled path to Vishous’s FT Headquarters. The converted barn was named after the brother’s old computer setup, back at the Pit. He’d called his towers and their monitors and keyboards his Four Toys, so when they’d decided his security think tank of IT uber geniuses had to go on the property, V had christened the outbuilding right from the planning stages.

The second Tohr approached the entrance, the doors unlocked for him, and as he stepped inside, he looked down the lineup of workstations to the glass box at the end. V’s private office had its frosted privacy panels disengaged so the brother, who’d left earlier, and the other male in there were fully visible—and as Vishous turned and looked out, all kinds of hurry-up got motioned.

Tohr made quick work of the center aisle, which was not hard to do considering that all of the males and females were totally into their work, monitoring the properties that the Brotherhood owned or rented out, doing identity verifications, researching whatever . . . needed researching.

It was quite the operation—

“Tell him,” V commanded as Tohr opened the glass door. “G’on, son.”

The younger male in the all-glass room seemed to retract into himself. But Allhan was like that. The kid was lightning brilliant, with the kind of smarts that made V seem like someone who could just do a little math in their head well. But the social anxiety was real.

Tohr sat down in the chair by the desk to make himself seem smaller. In a deliberately quiet voice, he said, “Tell me what?”

V handed over the pages that had been bugging Tohr ever since they’d been left behind in the frickin’ waiting room.

“Allhan?” Tohr held up the documents. “Did you figure out something about this? Because if you did, it might be important.”

The young, who was almost as tall as a mature male, but built like a soda straw, was nearing his transition—and V was telling everybody that it was because of this, and only because of this, that the kid lived with him and Doc Jane: It was just so they could help him through the change. Because Jane was a doctor. And because Al was an orphan.

Yeah, it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, intellectually, the kid was V’s mini-me, and V, for all his razor-sharp exterior and ice-cold moods, cared about the people in his circle.

His tiny, teeny circle.

Which now included this kid who was his son in everything but name.

“It’s the last page,” Allhan said. “I concur that the tables reflect recurring charges in some kind of currency, and note that there are sixteen different entries, which suggest once-a-month and then four quarterly payments. But the final page isn’t about money at all. It’s a message.”

Tohr turned to the last sheet. And as he looked at all the numbers, he thought . . . Christ, to him, it was just a fruit salad of sums and totals.

“It’s a code,” Allhan added.

Popping a brow, Tohr glanced at V. The pride on the brother’s face was so obvious, the guy and his goatee were positively beaming.

“What does it say?” Tohr couldn’t even fathom how anyone could tell—

“It’s a name.” The kid came around and pointed with a long, thin finger. “You see all this? It’s just filler, it doesn’t mean anything. Here, in the center. You see how these sums add up along this same line? Every fifth numeral is the sum of what preceded it, and corresponds to the alphabet numbered sequentially.”

“Yeah, sure.” Um . . . not at all. “But I’m not certain I see anything.”

“It’s a very basic alphanumeric code.”

“Oh, okay.” Still nothing. Nope. “Can you translate the message for me?”

“A name.” Allhan glanced back at his adoptive dad. “One name.”

“Tell him, son,” V prompted.

“Whestmorel.”

Going still, Tohr stared at the pair. Looked down at the alphanumerical whatever. Looked up again. “You’re certain?”

Allhan nodded. “It’s obvious.”

As Tohr let his brain run, Vishous lit up a hand-rolled and nodded at his son. “You did a great job, I’m super proud of you.”

“I can go?”

“Yup.” As the kid headed for the door, V said, “I want you to go have something to eat. You skipped First Meal, ’kay?”

“Yes, sir.”

After the glass panel eased shut, V glanced over. “He needs to put on some weight. That change is coming like a freight train. Not that he has a big appetite to begin with—anyway, surprise surprise, our little friend with the fucking ascot and the shiny shoes.”

Tohr flipped back through the pages. “You’re analyzing all the tables, of course. Or having Allhan do it.”

“Yeah, but without any routing or account numbers? We’re not going to get far when it comes to whose money it is or what it’s being used for. All we can be sure of is that payments have been sent and received. And clearly the message that was intended to be conveyed to us is that Whestmorel is in charge.”

“Broadius’s gun collection.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

So the two events were connected, after all.

“He really is organizing, then,” Tohr murmured, “not that I’d doubted it after his performance tonight.”

There was a period of silence, broken only by the soft, hypnotic sounds of V smoking.

“You want to know what I think?” Easing back in the chair, Tohr stared out the glass wall at all the brains. “I think those sixteen entries are people giving money to buy arms because they’re getting ready to try a violent overthrow. Broadius was the middleman, and he made the deal, but maybe he pocketed some of the funds, or he got ahead of himself and tried to do a double cross.”

“I agree.”

“As for Whestmorel, I think the sonofabitch was posturing to Wrath. He knows we didn’t have shit to do with Broadius, and he’s closing his ranks. It was a flex, plain and simple, to come here like that.” Tohr frowned. “The question is . . . how the hell can we prove it.”

Vishous tapped his hand-rolled over a glass ashtray. “We could always ride up to his house, throw a bag over his head, and work on him a little.” When Tohr shot a level stare across the desk, V shrugged. “That is an option.”

“But not the one we’re going to take.” Tohr looked at the pages and thought about the guy’s attitude. “More’s the pity, though. I do think a cordial visit to his abode . . . might not be out of place, however.”

V exhaled and popped his palm in the air, the stub of his hand-rolled letting out a little stream of smoke from its tip. “I volunteer.”

Tohr narrowed his stare. “No burlap bags. I find any burlap, anywhere, and you’re off the assignment. That also means no duct tape.”

“My way is faster.”

Getting to his feet, Tohr checked his watch. “We’re already inching up to a civil war. Let’s not rush that conflict, shall we?”