then quickly covered it with a coughing fit. “Sorry, sir. It’s this bloody fog.”
Westcox glared at him, but the man stood with his eyes averted.
“You’re not here to help me with my investigation, Ms. Creed.” Westcox returned his attention to Annja. “If you interfere, or turn vigilante with a sword, I’m going to lock you up.”
“All right.”
That answer seemed to take Westcox by surprise. He stood there for a moment. “I don’t much care for your nose in my case. Your particular television show seems dedicated to prattling on to the feebleminded about ghosts and ghoulies.”
The accusation touched a nerve. Annja liked what she did for Chasing History’s Monsters and was tired of defending her work.
Before she could speak, Peters turned back to him.
“Chief Inspector.”
“What?”
“I’ve accessed the Twitter feed regarding the murder.” Peters pointed at Annja. “They also appear to be aware that Ms. Creed is with you.” He held out his cell phone for Westcox to see.
Annja saw it, as well. Someone had snapped a picture of her talking to the detective chief inspector.
“Whoever took this is assuming you called Ms. Creed in for a consultation regarding the Mr. Hyde murders.”
Westcox looked apoplectic. “No one has even said this is a Hyde killing.”
“Actually, someone has. Mr. Hyde himself has tweeted in and claimed credit.”
Annja responded immediately. “Trace the tweet.”
“Computer forensics is already on it.”
“This is a break,” Annja said to Westcox. “Hyde has never tweeted before.”
“And he may not have…have tweeted now. Someone else may have done that. We can’t jump to conclusions.” Westcox shoved his hands into his trench coat.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Inspector.” Despite her respect for the man’s job, Annja had had enough. She wasn’t the only person interested in the Mr. Hyde story. The number of people taking note of the murders was growing every day. He had no right to lean on her while she was simply trying to do her job. “Are we done here?”
Westcox hesitated. Finally he gave a brief nod. “We are. But watch your step, Ms. Creed.”
“I always do, Inspector.” Annja walked away as the haggard-looking coroner hunkered down beside the woman’s corpse. She headed into the crowd without looking back. She’d seen more than she’d wanted to.
“Annja! Annja!” A young female reporter with blond highlights held out a microphone while a camcorder operator trained his sights on Annja. She raised a hand to block the sudden bright light.
“Ms. Creed, what kind of help do you expect to give Detective Chief Inspector Westcox regarding the Mr. Hyde killings?” That came from another journalist, one with an Irish accent.
Annja ignored them and headed for the other end of the street. A few of them followed her, but gave up when she hit the cross street.
Her phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Doug Morrell. She didn’t want to take the call, but she knew if she didn’t Doug would just keep calling back.
Just as she started to answer, a dark Jaguar S-Type glided to a stop at the curb. Both passenger doors opened and two men holding pistols got out.
“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”
6
For a moment, Annja hesitated.
“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.” The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.
“You’ll shoot me with the police just up the street?” Annja asked calmly.
“And I’ll get away with it. They are compromised in this area. Before they can mobilize and get here, we’ll be gone.” He waved the pistol. “Now get in before I have you put in. We won’t be gentle.”
She’d escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them and work on the fly. A moving trap couldn’t stop and think, or reset itself. At least, not most of the time.
She folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat. He held a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two men who had gotten out got back in. She was sandwiched between them.
At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.
Annja sat quietly between the two men on either side of her. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. “It’s simple. We want the magic lantern Edmund Beswick purchased from the antiquities auction.”
The answer surprised Annja. “I don’t know where it is.”
The man’s expression remained flat and unreadable. “That’s too bad. My employer will not believe you. It would be better if you knew where the lantern was.”
“Why would anyone think I knew where it was?”
“Because Edmund Beswick has shown you the lantern.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Then he planned to. My employer knows this.”
“Planned to. Didn’t.” Despite her anger, Annja was worried about Edmund. Why hadn’t the men gone to his flat first?
“My employer will believe you’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“I only asked you so that we could stop and pick up the lantern before I take you to him.” He shrugged. “It’s too bad you don’t know. He is a very determined man. Many people fear him, and with good reason.” He turned back around and watched traffic, then gave directions to the driver in Chinese.
Annja couldn’t understand what was said, but she guessed it wasn’t good. She shifted in the backseat. “How did you find me?”
One of the men sitting beside Annja showed her his cell phone. The picture of her talking with Detective Chief Inspector Westcox. He grinned. “We have been watching you. We only just missed you in the hotel.”
The commander flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror and spoke harshly.
A scowl darkened the face of the man beside Annja. He put his cell phone away.
Even in the shadows of the car, Annja saw the tattoos ringing the guy’s neck. As with the Japanese
