The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

“What’d you say her name was?”

“I didn’t. Alexandra.”

“Don’t know any Alexandras,” Sonny said. “And I haven’t seen anyone that looks like her in the last month.”

“Sure she didn’t come looking for work?” Vega pressed.

“If someone had come to me looking like that, I would’ve hired her on the spot. My clients love the innocent schoolgirl type. Never goes out of style.” His narrow nose leaked a snivel.

Frowning severely, Vega pulled the picture away from him. “Do you keep records of your hires?” She must have seen the same flash of recognition on his face that I had a moment before.

“What if I do?”

“I want to see all of your hires since August.”

“Fine. Get a warrant.”

“The NYPD doesn’t exactly follow the letter of the law anymore,” Vega said, retraining her pistol on his forehead, this time with both hands. “In case you haven’t heard.”

“What? You gonna shoot me?”

“I’d be doing this city a favor,” Vega assured him.

“Oh, some pretty important people would beg to differ.” Though he said it with a grin, his left eyelid was beating furiously. “You’d be surprised at the names my girls entertain.”

I stepped forward. “Well, what if we circumvented your VIP list and called the Financial District?”

“Be my guest.”

I caught the faltering defiance in his voice and leaned closer. “Remember our visit earlier today? Guess who sent us?”

“Think I care?” Sonny picked up a pig’s leg by its pale hoof and sunk his teeth into the meatiest section. Pink blood dribbled down his chin as he sucked and slurped, the pig’s tangy odor making me queasy.

“Arnaud Thorne,” I said.

Sonny’s narrow eyes flicked up at me.

The Arnaud part was true, of course. What I was preparing to say, not so much.

“He thinks you’re mixed up in those messy murders at Ferguson Towers. And he’s—how should I put it?—deeply concerned. So if I were you, I’d be doing everything I could to prove I had nothing to do with Ferguson Towers. Starting by showing us your hires since August.”

“I already told you I don’t turn my girls,” Sonny said.

“Your hires,” I repeated.

“Christ,” he muttered, the shriveled pig leg splashing onto his plate as he stood and scrubbed his mouth with the bib.

Ten minutes later, Vega and I stood behind Sonny in his club office as he hunkered in front of a vertical filing cabinet.

“September,” he announced, holding up a file behind him. “Aaand October.” Another file appeared, and Vega took that one as well.

As Vega appropriated Sonny’s desk to examine the files, I wandered the motley collection of filing cabinets against the back wall. Yellowing placards on the drawers listed months and years. Vampires were known to be meticulous, but holy hell—his records went all the way back to the 1980s.

“Impressive,” I remarked.

“Hey, the city might be falling apart,” Sonny said, “but I still get audited, if you can believe that shit.”

“Cost of doing business, I guess.”

“No kidding.” He peeked over at Vega before sidling up to me and lowering his voice. He must have figured me for the good cop. “Hey, were you serious about Arnaud sending you and the detective down here?”

“Serious as anemia.”

“And he thinks I’m mixed up in those slashings?”

I shrugged, which seemed more threatening than a nod. Plus, it was more honest. I didn’t know what Arnaud thought. All I knew—or rather, suspected—was that Arnaud wanted us to discover something that, for whatever-odd reason, he couldn’t spell out himself.

“Christ,” Sonny muttered, dragging his hands through his hair.

“Do all the women apply under their real names?” Vega asked from the desk.

“I make them show ID,” Sonny said, turning toward her. “And I can always spot the fakes. I know you think I’m the scum of the earth, but no way am I gonna hire an underage girl.”

Sure, I thought, only because you know you’d get shut down.

Vega looked over the files again, then closed them with a sigh.

“See?” Sonny said. “Told you I didn’t know nothing about your school girl.”

“But you recognized her,” I said. “When you first saw the photo.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t screw with us,” I warned. “Because when you screw with us, you screw with Arnaud.”

Sonny held up his pale palms. “Look, I just thought she looked like someone who used to dance here.”

“Who?” Vega asked.

“You know how many girls have come through these doors in the last thirty years?” Sonny said with a snort. “A thousand, probably. I can’t remember all their names. I just thought your girl might’ve been one of them, until you told me it would’ve been in the last couple of months. The girl I was thinking of was here much longer ago. Fifteen, twenty years, at least.”

The admission sounded incidental, but my wizard’s intuition was tapping away, telling me we’d just found a shallow toehold.

Before I could press the vampire, Vega’s phone went off.

“Rancho,” she said, “what’s going on?”

It took me a moment to place the name. Stiles’s henchman, the bulky Mexican we’d met at the diner.

“When?” she asked coldly. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” She hung up and studied the phone’s screen for a long moment, her face seeming to turn the color and texture of slate.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Vega squeezed her eyes closed, then opened them. “Another murder at Ferguson Towers. Same M.O. as the last two. Stiles is convinced it’s Kahn, even though Rancho told him the drain in the boiler room was busted open. Stiles is mobilizing, but so is Kahn. The war’s going down tonight.”

25

I studied Vega’s set face as she sped south on Broadway. “You heard the terms,” I cautioned her. “‘Stay away from Ferguson Towers.’ I don’t remember hearing a clause.”

“Arnaud meant in relation to the murder investigation.” Vega squealed around Union Square and onto Fourth Avenue. “I’m not going there to investigate. I’m going to stop a war.”

“It’s still a risk,” I said. “Why don’t you call for backup?”

“Even if they responded, that’s just asking for a bigger blood bath.”

“Vega,