Diana Racine 02 - Goddess of the Moon

sure of himself. So goddamn sure. Well, she didn’t like someone taking for granted who she was or wasn’t in a relationship with.
    “What do you think we have, Edward? The same kind of relationship you shared with Jeanine Highsmith? Are you looking for a donation?”
    Slater looked stricken. Diana wanted to take back her words, but words spoken can never be retracted. They hang in the air like an endless echo in an empty room.
    “I don’t need anything from you, Diana,” he said calmly. “You’re the one still searching.” He went to the door and opened it. “ You’d better leave. Please make an appointment with my new secretary if you need to see me again.” He avoided looking at her as she passed by.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “You didn’t deserve that.”
    “ You’re right. I didn’t. Good-bye, Diana.”
    Diana left feeling like a slithering bottom-feeder. What possessed her to insult him? It was as if she had no control over her words. Edward Slater never mentioned money to her. Was his manipulation more subtle by implying a relationship? Or did they have some special symbiosis she refused to acknowledge. Lucier said that intellectual relationships were just as strong as sexual ones. Maybe, but despite what she knew about Slater, he emitted vibrations that were far more than academic. Could it be her imagination? Every time she was in his company, he never let her touch him more than a passing brush of her hand. What was he afraid of? If he was holding something back he didn’t want her to see , he’d buried the secret deep in his soul. N ow she ’ d ne ver get the chance to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Four
    When Dreams Become Reality

    T hat morning, w hen Lucier arrived at the station , Beecher was waiting at the back entrance. “We’ve got a situation .”
    “What kind of situation?”
    “ T wo guys say they broke into Silas Compton’s house to steal his paintings and were attacked by a group of monsters.”
    “Are they high on meth, coke? Drunk?”
    “Nope, just scared shitless.”
    “How in hell did they get into that compound? It’s guarded like the White House.”
    “That’s the interesting part. They said one of Compton’s daughters, Maia , drove them in while they hid in the back of her car . She told them which paintings to steal. Said she had a buyer.”
    Lucier shook his head. “Impossible. I’ve met Compton’s daughters. Neither one would defy her father. In fact, I doubt anyone d oes.”
    Beecher tucked his persistently unruly shirt into his pants. “Just telling you what they said . ”
    Confused, Lucier headed toward his office. He made a mental inventory of the case file and added the two cryptic notes targeting Diana, who wa s sure everything tied together into one evil package because of a bad dream. He wanted to add Edward Slater and the Sunrise Mission into the mix, but he wasn’t sure the green-eyed monster didn’t have something to do with that.
    In crime fiction, the cynical hero cop always says he doesn’t believe in coincidences. Lucier did. Coincidences happen, but in this case they stretched credulity. Everything seemed to connect , only he didn’t know how.
    Yet.
    “So allegedly, Maia Compton drove them in ,” he said . “ Did she drive them out too ?”
    “ Here ’s where it gets a little fuzzy. The y vaulted the fence and sprinted to a car they’d parked somewhere on the street, put the metal to the pedal , and took off .”
    “Where was the guard?”
    “Apparently, he didn’t notice them until they were over the fence. He’s more concerned with people going in, not going out.”
    “So who brought them in?” Lucier asked.
    “ A p atrol car caught them tearing down Canal Street toward Convention Center Boulevard like they had a jet engine under the hood. When they started ranting about Compton, the officer brought ’ em here.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Interrogation. They’re so psyched both are going to need tranquilizers. I can’t understand what they’re trying to tell us, but their story sounds like they’ve seen aliens from outer space.”
    “Shit . I’ve had enough of Silas Compton, his wife, and Brother Osiris to last me till I’m on Depends.”
    Lucier peeked through the one-way glass of the interrogation room.
    “The older one’s Johnny Meade,” Beecher said. “He’s got a few marks, mostly mischief, a couple of drunk charges. Nothing serious. The jitterbugger is Antony Hall. He’s clean.”
    Meade