Dusk swelled above the rooftops as Kane and Fletcher slunk into the streets. They’d spent a good few hours discussing a course of action—Kane had always been good at improvisation, but he preferred preparation whenever possible. He knew what he wanted from Zaria Mendoza, and he knew how they were going to gain entry to the Exhibition. They all had a role to play, including Zaria, though she wasn’t yet aware of it. Kane suspected she wouldn’t be thrilled when she found out what that role was.
Now he needed to ensure the coppers didn’t get in their way.
He pulled his lips back in a grimace, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. The rain was cold and stinging, and it slipped down the back of his neck as he pushed damp hair out of his face. Unlike Fletcher, he hadn’t thought to bring a hat.
“Do we know for certain Price will be on duty?” Fletcher asked. He had to raise his voice slightly to be heard above thetap-a-tapof rain against the cobblestones.
“If I remember correctly.”
“You usually do.”
Richard Price was an inspector who worked out of the Westminster Division. He was a humorless sort of man and had been with the Metropolitan Police since they took to the streets twenty-two years prior. Despite having been dirty for at least half of that, he’d retained the job long past his physical prime and now oversaw handfuls of sergeants and constables. Richard was Ward’s preferred contact, but that was not the man to whom Kane was referring. No—he was much more familiar with Richard Price Junior, whose name gave him even more power than his sergeant status. It was him Kane would be looking for. A young chap in possession of more confidence than experience, he would be far easier to manipulate.
They walked to Westminster in the type of silence reserved for thieves or companions deeply familiar with each other. As it happened, Kane and Fletcher were both. Kane barely saw where his feet were taking him, but it wasn’t that he was familiar with the route—he rarely frequented this part of London—rather, his mind was too occupied. It was filled with plots, with plans, with the guardedly hopeful expression on Zaria’s face when she’d agreed to their deal. He couldn’t help wondering what she might think when he shared the plan with her. Whether she might catch a whiff of his intended betrayal. If there was one thing he knew about Zaria already, it was this: She looked at everything like she was dismantling it methodically, piece by fragile piece. Kane found he did not care for it at all.
Once, when he was younger and a markedly different version of himself, his mother had commented on how easy he was to read.When you’re sad, the house is sad with you, she would tell him, a croon in lyrical Italian.I can feel it grow colder.
Kane remembered very few things about his mother. Perhaps his mind had hidden them from him in unconscious self-preservation, or perhaps he had deviated so far from the boy who had known her, he no longer retained anything that was not Ward. Now, when Kane was sad, he held it inside himself like some explosive substance. Harmless when left alone, but dangerous if it came in contact with the wrong thing.
He very much hoped Zaria Mendoza was not that thing. He did not want to be seen, did not want to be known, and certainly did not want to be understood.
Despite the hour, the city surrounding Whitehall Place—the location of the police headquarters—was a bustle of bodies and sound. People in smart black coats hurried to and fro as a newsboy hollered some indecipherable fact about the most recent headline. This part of London boasted a considerable amount of recent construction, but Kane knew that not far from here terraced slum housing crowded the perimeter. He squinted through the rain, picking out the building occupied by the Metropolitan Police Force’s Westminster Division. It was a nondescript reddish brick, set back from the crowds either by conscious design or by virtue of the fact that it was currently occupied by law enforcement.
A middle-aged officer stood outside the Great Scotland Yard entrance, a clay pipe held between two of his fingers in a way that struck Kane as rather dainty. He raised his head as they approached, gaze slipping to Fletcher the way gazes tended to do.
“Price Junior in?” Kane said before the copper could address them.
The man cut them with a look that made it clear he thought themup to no good. Rainwater slipped down the bridge of his nose, which must have been broken at some point. He never took his attention off Fletcher; though, between Kane and Fletcher, the latter was less likely to do something rash and potentially violent. “What’s it to you?”
Kane hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. The smile he gave was not a nice one, but before he could speak, he heard his name hollered from the building’s entrance.
“Hunt! Get over here.”
Kane didn’t have to turn to know the speaker was Richard Price Junior, who was shrewd enough never to use his real surname. Broad faced and stern featured, Price crooked a finger at Kane and Fletcher, beckoning them closer. Though the action was one of confidence, there was something about the set of his mouth that betrayed his discomfort.
“We’ll talk in my office. Follow me.”
Price led them away from the other officer and up the steps leading into the police headquarters. His office was near the entrance, and the colleague waiting inside was sent away with a wave of his hand. Fletcher shut the door with an ominousclick. Kane motioned for Price to sit down at his desk.
“Please,” Price said stiffly, “feel free to take a seat as well.”
Kane and Fletcher did not sit.
Price sat. Perhaps it was due to the fact that no one save him had spoken thus far, but there was the beginning of a nervous sheen across his forehead. He hid his anxiety well, though, Kane had to admit. He always did.
“Junior,” Kane said, knowing it would annoy the man. “How are you?”
He deliberated two ways of approaching the situation. The firstwas to play nice with a dirty copper, offer him money, and hope he didn’t betray you. The problem with making a deal with men like this, however, was the possibility always existed that someone would offer them a better one. Hell, they might take your money,thenbetray you. This was how Ward dealt with Richard Price Senior, because he trusted the inspector as well as Ward ever trusted anybody. They were on the same page more often than not.
Which was precisely why Kane didnottrust Richard Price Senior. So he’d come to his son, who always responded better to a little threatening.
That was the second way.
“What do you want, Hunt?” Price said, sounding tired in a way Kane could nearly empathize with. “Did Ward send you?”
Kane’s grin was bitter. “Ward doesn’t dictate my every move, you know.” He might as well have, but Price didn’t need to know that.
“Don’t be coy with me. Get to the point—I was about to go on patrol.”
