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

the creamy light moved briefly around the edges of my thoughts, I had retained enough power to prevent him from breaking through. And expended just enough to keep my ass out of the clink.

I rose shakily, collected my singed keys, and swept the bottom of a shoe over the smoking circle. Some night. Two dead conjurers, two escaped shriekers. And I had a bad feeling that no matter what those two buffoons reported to Detective Vega, that image of me fleeing was going to remain stuck in her head. I wasn’t sure what the implications would be. Certainly nothing good. If I’d had poorer outings as a wizard, none came to mind.

I returned to the street in a sulk, too slow to hail the on-duty cab motoring past. A moment later, the light over the metro entrance turned off. Sighing, I aimed myself south and started for home.

17

“I am so sorry,” I said as I slipped into the seat opposite Caroline Reid at the small deli table.

She was sitting arrow straight, which was her peeved posture. I seemed to make her do that a lot. In my defense, I trudged sixty blocks last night before finally snagging a cab. Back home, I had to calm Tabitha, who had been deep into scheming Dempsey’s and Dipinski’s murders, update the Order on the shrieker situation, and then shower and treat my injuries.

By the time I crawled into bed, it was almost four a.m.

“I don’t get it, Everson,” Caroline said. “You arranged this meeting.”

“I know, I know, but—”

“You needed my help.”

“Right, and I—”

“And yet where would you be if I hadn’t called?”

The correct answer was still in bed. It wasn’t my alarm, but the brassy ring of the telephone that had awakened me, Caroline wanting to know where in God’s name I was. That had been an hour ago.

“Look …” I took a breath. “I know this is no excuse, but I had a rough night.”

“You seem to have a lot of those. And while you were out doing … whatever it is you do, I was home working on this.” She hefted up a thick manila folder and gave it a shake. “For you.”

“And I appreciate that. I really do.”

Lips compressed, she dropped the folder in front of me and stood.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I have office hours in fifteen minutes.” She fixed her purse strap over a shoulder. “Some of us take our responsibilities seriously.”

“And I don’t?”

“No, in fact. And you lied to me.”

“Lied?” I was honestly at a loss. “About what?”

“Your meeting with Snodgrass. I know about the hearing.”

Oh. Which meant she also knew about my probationary status.

When I didn’t say anything, she shook her head and turned to leave.

“Wait.” I caught her slender wrist. It was a bold move given the hole I was already in, but she stopped. When she faced me, the hardness in her blue-green eyes told me I had roughly ten seconds to make my appeal.

“Okay. I was arrested last summer,” I said, releasing her carefully. “Wrong place, wrong time. Throw in a stressed public safety system, and I got two years probation on no evidence. I kept it from the college, probably the wrong move, but Snodgrass found out. As things stand, I’m in a tough spot, true. But,” I tapped the folder, “if I can point the NYPD in the direction of the cathedral murderer, my remaining probation gets halved. And with that, I can at least make a case to the board. I think they’d look favorably on a professor using the tools of his profession to help solve a crime. Good recruiting pitch, too.”

Carolina snorted dryly. But in her softening stance, I could see that if she didn’t believe me, she really wanted to. That was a start. She let me guide her back to the table and scoot her chair under her.

“What are we going to do with you?” she asked tiredly.

“Well, this will definitely help.” I indicated the folder as I sat.

“Not that.” She reached forward and brushed my sleeve. “Your coat’s inside out.”

I looked down. Damn.

“And what’s with the bandages?”

A waiter came over, sparing me from having to explain my injuries. I fixed my coat and ordered a coffee. Caroline asked for a refill of hers.

“Shall we?” she asked, clearing her throat and opening the folder of what she’d compiled. “I have about five minutes before I’ll be late.” When she scooted nearer, her clean scent washed around me. “I came up with two names. First, Arnaud Thorne, CEO of Chillington.”

The groan in my thoughts must have seeped out because Caroline looked up. “Know him?”

“By reputation,” I replied, which was mostly true. Arnaud Thorne epitomized the worst of investment banking. Cold, soulless, rapacious—the standard tags. His was one of a cabal of firms that had secured a nice pre-Crash profit betting against New York municipal bonds, undermining the city’s ability to pay its mounting debts. In the Crash’s smoking aftermath, the same firms swooped down on City Hall. Headed by Arnaud, they offered to manage the very debt they’d rendered worthless—but at crippling interest rates. They now had their teeth fixed firmly in New York’s jugular, ensuring themselves a steady stream of tax dollars for the next fifty years. New York, in turn, had become their mindless slave.

All very fitting considering the same investment bankers were vampires.

“Why Arnaud?” I asked.

“Because St. Martin’s Cathedral sits on prime real estate,” Caroline replied, turning some pages over. “Here are the lawsuits Chillington Capital filed to have the cathedral’s downtown block converted to commercial. The church and a collective of preservation groups fought back. When the lawsuits failed, Arnaud shifted his sights to the rector. I have it on reliable authority the two met last month. Arnaud offered Father Richard a small fortune to convince the diocese to abandon the downtown location. Richard said no.”

“And yesterday morning he’s found beaten to death,” I finished.

Holding a knuckle to my lips, I leafed through the evidence. Vampires valued material assets but mostly as