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

“What’s going on out there?” Meredith asked, hands back over her ears.

“Building put in a new alarm system,” I shouted. “It’s having some problems.”

I set the phone on the lid of the toilet tank and dialed Vega’s number. A light dome around my head would have helped, but I didn’t want to cast in front of Meredith. Instead, I cupped the mouthpiece and clamped the receiver to my ear with my good shoulder. I could just make out a faint ring.

“Vega’s office,” a man answered.

“Is she in?”

“Who’s this?” he asked.

I recognized the out-of-breath voice from earlier that day. “Is this Hoffman?” I asked in a tone I hoped sounded high ranking.

“Yeah, but—”

“There’s no time for stupid questions,” I shouted. “We’ve got a situation. Where is she?”

“Home,” Hoffman said after a moment. “Kid’s sick.”

I remembered the little boy in the photo, and my heart rate kicked up again. I had to think fast, act fast.

“All right, listen,” I shouted above the shrieking. “This is”—I gave a garbled name. “I’m working homicide in the Bronx. Got a case that’s looking like some of yours down there. Gonna need to run a car by Vega’s place to ask her some questions. She’s over in Queens, right?” It was a shot in the dark, but I needed to get to her before another pair of shriekers did.

“Wrong borough,” Hoffman said smugly. “And I’m not giving you an address. You gotta call personnel for that.”

“Listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me,” he shouted back. “I don’t give a ratshit if you’re the pope and the four horsemen are charging down Broadway. There’s a protocol for getting info on our detectives. How do I know you’re not some scumbag wanting to settle a score?”

As a breed, New York cops were hard to cow. Despite my initial read on the man, Hoffman was no exception. “Can I get her cell at least?” I asked, the authority deflating from my voice.

“Personnel,” Hoffman repeated, and hung up.

Shit. I eyed Vega’s business card. I could cast a spell to locate her, but that was going to take too much time—not only in the casting, but the tracking. No, I needed an address.

I had one more card to play. Literally.

I swapped Vega’s card for the one Bashi had flicked onto my lap before having me hauled off. I peeked over at Meredith, who was sitting on the side of the tub, hands still over her ears, and dialed the number.

“Yes,” a voice answered evenly.

“This is Everson Croft.” I shouted to be heard. “I need to speak to Mr. Gang.”

“Then speak.”

“Is this him?”

“Speak,” he said shrilly.

That I’d been given a direct line to the boss himself told me how badly Bashi wanted to nail whomever had arranged for a shrieker to be conjured in his neighborhood. I needed to use that to my advantage.

“I know where the spell came from,” I said.

“Tell me.”

I checked my reasoning before answering. “St. Martin’s Cathedral.”

Bashi repeated the name, his voice dripping with venom. Telling him the truth was a risk, but a conservative one, I concluded. The officials were missing and the church itself was crawling with NYPD. There was no one there for him to exact revenge on. Not tonight, anyway.

“Here’s the thing,” I said quickly. “We’re dealing with a supernatural being. A powerful one. Bullets won’t do anything. A job like this is going to require serious magic.”

The use of we and job was intentional. I needed to get him thinking collaboratively.

“You said you were a wizard,” he screamed.

“I am, but my magic’s not cheap.”

“Maybe I’ll just have you killed. How about that?”

“Wow.” I’d been expecting a money offer, but either way… “Or how about payment in information,” I countered. “An address and phone number, that’s all, but I need them up front.”

“Whose?”

“Detective Vega in Homicide.”

Any of the major crime syndicates in New York would have that kind of information—for levying bribes, threats, or to eliminate a troublesome investigator—but I only had access to Bashi. Who had gone silent.

Outside, I could hear the shriekers continuing their assault on my threshold. I only hoped the reverend had perceived me as the greater threat and cast my spell before Vega’s.

“Fine,” Bashi said at last. “But the job gets done tonight.”

Like I had a choice. Demon moon … hello?

“You have my word,” I assured him.

“Or I have your head.”

Fair enough, I guessed.

I was put on hold. Two minutes later, another voice came on and gave me Vega’s number and address. I jotted them down in my notepad. The address was in Brooklyn, not far over the East River. Good, because from there I would need to hightail it to St. Martin’s before the moon neared its zenith—which would mean getting past the Wall again.

But first I had a bigger challenge, I thought as I eyed Vega’s cell number. Convincing the good detective she was in mortal danger.

40

“Croft?” Vega said, not nicely.

“Detective,” I called into the cupped mouthpiece, “I need you to listen—”

“Where in the hell did you get my number? Were you the one who just called my office?”

Crap. The second that jerk Hoffman had hung up on me he must have called and alerted Vega. Fortunately, she was too irate to let me answer.

“And what’s that racket?” she went on. “Are you at home?”

“Yes, but listen—”

“No, you listen,” she shouted. “The analysis came back on the pencil. The marks are yours, Croft. I gave you a chance to come clean. Remember that. Dempsey and Dipinski are on the way. Try to run, and I’ll up your case to felony fugitive so fast it’ll make your ass hurt.”

“You’re in danger,” I yelled into the brief space she allowed me. “You need to get your son someplace safe and then—”

“Are you threatening my family, you piece of…” The rest was lost to the noise outside.

“I’m trying to help you,” I shouted.

Detective Vega fell silent. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said at last, coldly. “In your cell.”

The line clicked off.

I hung up