Society of the Nines (Society Series #1) Read online

  He closed the door, sliced his hands into the pockets of his Dockers, and swaggered toward the desk. “I guess you forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Mahayla rarely forgot appointments or meetings. She scanned her mind for a dinner date or something similar she might have overlooked. Nothing immediate jumped out at her.

  “It's our anniversary.” He said it with a devilish grin that once had the capability to make her heart flutter.

  “Our ex-anniversary,” she reminded him.

  “We could make it a new one. Again.” From his pocket, he took out a small, black velvet box and slid it onto the desk.

  It looked a lot like a ring box. She arched a brow and didn't reach for it.

  “Aren't you even a little bit curious?” he asked.

  “Of course I am. But you know I'm not going--”

  “I know what you are and are not going to do. Humor me.” He stood instead of sitting, forcing her to crane her neck to accommodate his considerable height advantage. His expression gave nothing away.

  She eyed the little box. Elliott's photo sat right next to it.

  Damian was still with the agency; she could easily ask him to run face recognition programs to give her a lead if all else failed. It was always a gesture of last resort for her though. Mahayla liked to use all the resources at her fingertips to solve her cases without asking her father or Damian for assistance. She'd made many connections of her own both inside the CIA, and outside, all willing to lend her assistance if or when she needed it.

  After another full minute of silent debate—which Damian waited through without interruption—she reached for the box. At one time in her life, she'd thought it would be her and Damian until the end. She'd engaged in the same dreams all women did when they met the man they expected to marry and grow old with.

  Letting go of the relationship hadn't been as difficult as she thought it would be. What did that say about everything? She'd examined it from every angle for four years.

  The lid creaked when she opened it. Coiled inside on a bed of black velvet was a stunning diamond bracelet. Delicate and thin, it reeked of elegance. She didn't take it out and put it on, only studied it like it might provide clues to what he meant by giving it to her. His gifts were always extravagant, but these were diamonds. In her mind it suggested things. She didn't want to lead him on. Friendship—dinner, movies, nights out dancing—she could do. Lovers? Not again.

  “It won't bite,” he finally said, sounding mildly disappointed.

  “This is a very expensive ex-anniversary gift, Damian,” she pointed out. She looked up from the box. For a moment, it looked like he might descend into a dark tirade of the same ilk he'd shown when they broke it off.

  When she broke it off.

  He snapped his jaw closed, fidgeted with coins in his pocket, then said, “There isn't another woman I'd buy it for. You going to work all night, or you want to grab dinner?”

  Just like that, the situation diffused. Mahayla took the bracelet out and stood up. She held her wrist out as well as the gift; surprise crossed his features. He took it from her and after two attempts with his big fingers, worked the clasp open. Draping it around her slender wrist, he reattached the lobster claw and leaned back.

  “Looks good. You want Chinese or Thai?” Damian swiveled away for the door.

  Mahayla closed the laptop after shutting it down, grabbed her purse and Elliott's photo, and followed in Damian's footsteps.

  “Neither. I want that little bistro down the street.”

  He held the door open; the devilish smile was back. “After you.”

  . . .

  “The Society of the Nines? Never heard of it. Are you sure you don't want me to look for your boy when I get back to the office tomorrow?” Damian asked.

  Mahayla walked along the brick path toward the door to her house. Damian, who missed little in the way of detail, had mentioned the photograph he'd seen on her desk after dinner and she'd had no choice but to explain about Emma. One question led to another until she found herself on her doorstep. The porch light enveloped them in a warm, yellow glow.

  She faced him, keys in her hand. “Not yet. If I can't find anything using my own resources, then maybe I'll give you a call. Thanks for offering. For dinner—for the bracelet.”

  “You're welcome. You should stop by the office anyway. There's a few people who'd like to see you, catch up on old times.” He studied her mouth instead of her eyes.

  After all this time, she still knew his cues and his intentions and turned to the door to open the screen. “One of these days. I want to get this case going first. Good night, Damian.”

  Silence.

  Mahayla could feel his displeasure as easily as she felt the cool metal of the knob under her fingers.

  “Not going to invite me in?”

  “We both know that's not a good idea,” she replied, without looking over her shoulder. The moment was too unpredictable and she wouldn't lead him on, diamonds or not.

  “Call me.”

  She heard the sounds of his retreat as the door swung open. Stepping inside, she closed the door and snapped the bolt over.

  Sometimes she thought it would be wiser to just tell Damian that the friendship was too complicated to maintain and that they should go their separate ways for good. But he was a thoughtful friend, always remembering her birthdays, holidays and any imagined event in between to get together. It could be as simple as a walk on the beach or a day trip to Big Bear. Even a rapid-fire text just to say hello.

  Ruminating, she toed off her heels and glanced through the foyer of the home she'd bought just last year. Located in Anaheim Hills, the two story boasted Italian tile, a Tuscan theme and a cook's kitchen. That had been one of the major selling points for Mahayla. The other was the view. Foothills loomed up right behind the perimeter wall to her property, offering a stunning vista that stretched off into the distance.

  None of which she could see when it was this dark outside.

  Paintings, originals and reproductions alike, decorated the walls. Art was one of her passions and where she spent a good majority of her money. She was as addicted to impressionist pieces as some women were addicted to shoes.

  On her way into the airy living room, she set down her purse on a side table and padded over to the double sliding glass doors leading to the covered patio and the back yard. Nothing but an inky void greeted her beyond the panes. Darkness had settled over the landscape hours ago. She checked the locks, a habitual maneuver, and set a course for the kitchen.

  Small nightlights allowed her to navigate the home without fear of crashing into furniture. Pulling a mug from a cabinet, she set it on the counter.

  Just as she reached for a small basket filled with coffee bags, the motion activated flood light over her patio turned on.

  Immediately, she snapped a look toward the patio doors. As part of her security system, she had motion sensor lights all around the house. Because there were random cats in the neighborhood, and raccoons that occasionally found her yard, the sensors wouldn't be triggered by anything smaller than a medium sized dog.

  Anything larger set them off. She watched for movement beyond the sliding doors. The six foot wall surrounding her back yard made it difficult for all but the most wily creatures to invade. A coyote could have dug under, she supposed, but her gut instinct told her otherwise.

  Stepping over, she doused the kitchen lights.

  Nothing moved on the patio. If there was something beyond in the darkness, she couldn't see it from here. Sliding a butcher knife out of its holder, she grasped it in her fist and made her way from the kitchen into the gloomy living room.

  Everything looked as it should. Remembering back to her and Damian's arrival, there didn't seem anything out of place there, either. The porch light had been on, the lock on the door secure and tight. Nothing to indicate someone might have tried to get in.

  Obscured by the draping curtain, she looked out onto the patio. Bathed in a soft whit
e glow from the motion sensor light, the flat, gray flagstones stretched away from the sliding glass doors. A round glass table, four chairs and two chaise loungers proved to have no one hiding around or behind them. Off to the left, the pool surface was smooth as glass and undisturbed.

  She wondered for a moment if the system had suffered a malfunction. Maybe the controls had been reset or something while she was at work. The company who installed it performed tests all the time though, and she thought there was some clause or another that if a glitch occurred, they would notify her.

  The light went out. Like it was supposed to if the sensors detected no continuing motion.

  Turning away from the sliding doors, deciding it was a glitch, she headed across the living room. Before she made it halfway, the light flashed on.

  Mahayla whipped a look back. She was just in time to see a faint flicker of shadow disappear, as if something, or someone, had run across the patio. Fist tight around the hilt of the knife, she jogged into the kitchen, using the furniture as she could for cover. Then she went for the phone.

  Now they'll be watching you, too. Emma's words floated through her mind as she punched in 911. Instead of a dial tone, all she got was a quiet hiss when she put the handset to her ear.

  Damnit. The lines were down.

  The likelihood of both malfunctioning at the same time was nil to impossible. If the entire block had been without power, she could better justify the oddity.

  Overhead, the security alarm went off. Loud and strident, it was meant to startle a would-be intruder into running away rather than continue to try and enter.

  While she crouched in front of her sink and opened the cupboard, she analyzed the situation: there had been no time for the flicker she'd glimpsed to make its way to the second story windows or balcony doors, which meant the breach had to be a downstairs window, the front or sliding doors, or the side door leading into the garage. She always secured the latches on her windows and used rods in the sills to prevent anyone from getting in. They had to break the window and so far, she hadn't heard shattering glass.

  Taped to the underside of the sink was a gun that she tore away as quietly as she could. Leaving the knife in the cupboard, she thumbed off the safety and crept to the end of the kitchen. Calm and collected, she listened for sounds of the intruder. He or she could be right around the corner, doing the same thing she was.

  All she had to do was buy herself about seven more minutes. The security agency, when she didn't answer the phone, would send patrol cars to check out the disturbance.

  Outside, across the street, several dogs started barking. A ferocious sound she barely heard over the alarm.

  Straight ahead through the living room, a shadowy shape stepped up to the sliding glass doors she'd just been peering out of a few minutes before. Hulking and dark, it loomed there, like it was staring in at her, too. All she could discern from the silhouette was that it appeared to be a man, had short hair, and wore some kind of heavy coat to the thigh.

  Even while she prepared to defend herself against intrusion, she set to memory those minor details. She didn't advance or get aggressive and she didn't open fire, although she would have liked to wing the person to make sure the police had time to arrive and make an arrest.

  The figure stepped out of sight, to the right of the doors, apparently in no great hurry. That was the impression she got. Like he had all the time in the world.

  Maybe he's a decoy, and another intruder is waiting right there around the corner. She'd seen much in her time at the CIA. It wouldn't surprise her to be lured into a trap like that. She stayed right where she was, half expecting someone to lurch around the corner into the kitchen any second.

  Sweat broke out on her brow, the alarm beepbeep—beepbeep—beepbeeing! through the house like the world was ending. She tried to figure how many minutes had passed. Five? Six?

  The police should be here any time. They would probably come in silent, without sirens, which meant she needed to be prepared for more shadows creeping past windows while the officers secured the property.

  In her purse on the little table, Norah Jones crooned a lilting melody, alerting her that someone was trying to call her cell phone. The alarm company, most likely, or the police.

  She crept forward and crouched, swinging the gun around the corner to cover herself. No one lurked against the wall, or in the foyer. With one hand she shuffled through the purse, scanning all rooms in broad sweeps.

  “Yes,” she answered, phone to her ear.

  “Miss Breland, this is Knox Security--”

  “I've got a breach. Tell the police there was someone in my backyard and that there's possibly more than one intruder. I'm armed.” It was prudent to inform the police that the homeowner was armed, so they didn't mistake her for an assailant and shoot her.

  “I'm transferring you through to dispatch.” The woman's voice cut off and a man took over. “Miss Breland? This is Detective Ramsey. I have your transcript here in front of me. Officers are on the scene.”

  “I don't see them yet. I'm in the living room by the couch and I'm armed.” She repeated herself to cover herself.

  “Do you think anyone's in the house?” he asked.

  “I don't know. Someone was definitely outside on my patio though. I saw them.”

  “Okay. Officers are coming along each side of your house now. Please lower your weapon.”

  Mahayla lowered the gun to her side, but did not set it down. Out the dining room window, she saw shadows creeping through the dark. Guns up, she knew it was the police.

  “I see them.”

  “They see you, too. If you still have the firearm, please set it down somewhere they can see it.”

  Mahayla set it on the table next to her purse. She watched the police swarm through the backyard, taking all necessary precautions.

  “I need you to go to your front door, Ma'am and let the officers in.”

  “Okay.” Mahayla passed through the foyer toward the front door. She snapped the bolt over and swung it open, admitting four uniforms. They only nodded curtly and passed right by, weapons up at the ready, prepared to search her house.

  She knew the routine.

  “They're inside now,” she informed the detective.

  “I'll turn you over to the officers on scene. Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Breland.”

  “Thank you.” She severed the call and pushed the cell phone into the pocket of her slacks. Two more men in plain clothes walked up the path to the door. One flashed a badge.

  “Hello, Miss Breland. We'll need to ask you a few questions.”

  . . .

  Three hours later, Mahayla cupped her dwindling glass of wine and stared at her computer screen. The predictable rounds of questions had come to a conclusion without her ever mentioning Emma or the cryptic message the woman had delivered earlier in the day. She was aware she'd left out something crucial and couldn't feel guilty about the omission. Her clients had a right to some kind of privacy, anyway, and until she knew more about what she was dealing with here, she preferred to keep that information close to the vest.

  Footprints in the dirt on the side of her house confirmed she wasn't imagining things or over reacting. Not that she doubted her own eyes, but it solidified things for the police and gave them something real to work with. She couldn't decide if it was a random encounter or something else. Not a lover of coincidence, she had to think back over Emma's cautionary revelation.

  That someone had been outside her home on the same day a stranger informed her some fringe cult would be watching her definitely meant she had to pay attention to it.

  On the other hand, burglaries were not uncommon in the area and she knew of at least two others within three blocks who had been robbed in the last two weeks.

  Finishing the wine, she set down the glass and picked up Elliott's photograph. She studied the features of his face and wondered if he suffered the same general unease his mother did. What was it like, growing up insi
de a cult? Were they as bad as Emma said they were?

  She put the photo in front of her keyboard and typed Society of the Nines into her browser.

  All that came up were 'close matches' to things that had nothing to do with a cult. A few movies with Nine in the title, parades scheduled for the following month and other, more obscure items she didn't bother to look at. Nothing popped up under a few social networking sites she tried, either.

  As far as the internet was concerned, the Society didn't exist.

  Tomorrow, right after her morning workout, she was going to hit up a friend who could get her access to databases currently out of reach. By dinner time, if she didn't have even a hint of a lead on any of it, she'd switch to another, more unusual approach.

  Whatever worked to get the answers she needed.

  . . .

  As self sufficient as she was, confident in her abilities, Mahayla didn't get enough sleep after the intruder incident. Tossing and turning until the wee hours, gun on her nightstand, she'd finally dozed until her alarm startled her from a dreamless sleep.

  The house felt a little foreign while she showered and changed into workout gear, as if the intruder had tarnished something pristine and cherished, as if he'd left behind an unwelcome stain on her sanctuary. She didn't care for the unease she felt doing the most mundane things.

  Before leaving, she made sure all the windows were locked and engaged the alarm.

  After a hard session on the mats at Pandora's—her favorite gym—and another shower, she made a stop at her office, hopped on the 91 heading west, then split north on the 57 toward Diamond Bar.

  The freeways were typically busy for a Tuesday. With the radio low in the background, she waited through the lingering effects of a traffic accident and finally got off to take back roads the rest of the way. For all the things she loved about Southern California, it was the congestion she hated most. Hours and hours could be spent trying to go twenty miles.

  Mount Baldy loomed in the backdrop behind Diamond Bar, half obliterated from view by thick, cloying smog. A tourist not familiar with the territory might not ever know a mountain resided there when, on the worst days, the entire thing simply disappeared, swallowed whole by a bank of brown goop. Other days, when the Santa Ana winds blew through, the range provided a majestic, beautiful background to the valley. Mahayla's favorite time was just after a heavy snow with fully one third of the mountain blanketed in white.