“Uh huh.” Tapping ensued, then stopped. Harry peered at the screen, pale yellow letters reversed and flashing across his lenses.
“That’s weird,” he said.
“What?”
He beckoned me over. A copy of the structure in question’s original bill of sale appeared onscreen, signed by one Albert Spiro. Harry scrolled down to show a will, recording the warehouse’s passage from Spiro—now dead—to one Giancarlo Stada.“
“Stada—”
“—witnessed the first deed, and collected on the second,” Harry agreed. “Now look at this.”
More tapping.
Stada, I thought. I’d heard it before, though in what context eluded me.
“Bingo,” Harry breathed.
Three articles, all set at Spiro Garments. Two were dated 1946. SHOOT-OUT IN CHURCH, FIVE DEAD. Ernst Vandecker had been arrested in the basement of St. Joseph of Arimathea’s after killing most of his gang and a pair of cops. AUSCHWEISS DIAMONDS STILL SOUGHT, read the second. Vandecker’s loot, for which he got a hundred and ten minimum with no parole, hadn’t been found yet. The last piece was an obituary-sized announcement from 1952. St. Joseph’s, bought by Stada, was going to be demolished to make way for a warehouse.
Stada.
Harry shook his head. “Dead end, Maia.”
But Ulrich would know who he was.
“Maybe not,” I said.
Then I heard footsteps.
Light, slow, and measured. Accompanied by a racing blur of heartbeats, a collective wheeze of imposed silence. Two, or more likely three. Probably armed. Definitely dangerous.
Outside the door.
“Get down,” I hissed, pushing Harry under the desk.
“What the—?”
The first shot popped over my head with a hiss-crunch of breaking glass, defacing the centrefold behind me. I palmed a smoke grenade and pulled the pin, lobbing it hard through what was left of the editor’s splintered name. The door bulged inward as it blew, and a boiling blue cloud filled the room. One gunman screamed as he caught some shrapnel in his leg and stumbled, snapping cartilage. Another shot erased the computer’s blinking screen.
“Window!” Harry gasped, teeth phosphorescent in the glare.
I nodded.
He threw the chair against the glass, then struggled to rip away the wire grating beyond. I stepped forward into the heart of the smoke and paused, listening.
Just two men after all. One was already down, holding his knee. The other whirled, aiming for where my head should be. I kicked him in the stomach. He staggered, then lunged—
—to catch my glove.
His nails snagged it, ripping it.
Oh, nonononono.
“I really wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” I said, reasonably enough. He just snarled. I sighed, and shrugged.
“Have it your way, then.”
And the rip grew wider, peeling back. Peeling open like the crack of an unlocked door. Still wider. Until, at last, the skin began to show.