The overhead lights were on inside the old warehouse, casting a bright glare on the tableaus. Sedona and Cyrus went through the heavily draped space, past Alien witches stirring their cauldrons and Alien vampires rising up from their coffins.
The small group of grim-faced people at the back of the warehouse was gathered around the scene of an Alien mad scientist working in his lab. Kirk Morgan’s body, clad in Guild khaki and leather, was stretched out on the lab table as though about to be autopsied.
The lab apparatus arrayed around the exhibit was hokey and theatrical, replete with mysteriously bubbling beakers and an old-fashioned amber-generator that spit out harmless sparks. Just a melodramatic scene from an old horror movie, Sedona thought. Nevertheless it brought back fragments of her nightmares. She swallowed hard.
“Okay, this can’t be a coincidence,” she said.
“No,” Cyrus agreed.
“I’d say the killer has a really warped sense of humor,” Slade said. “Which, when you get right down to it, is not typical of the average professional hit man.”
“It’s not a joke,” Sedona whispered. “It’s a warning. Someone was sending a message to me.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Why put you on guard like that? Sending a warning doesn’t sound like the work of a pro, either. They do a job and get out.”
“He’s got a point,” Harry said. “Wouldn’t a pro have taken more pains to conceal the body?”
“That’s easier said than done in a small town,” Slade said. “Still, at the very least, you’d think a pro would have dumped the body into the bay to wash off some of the evidence.”
Sedona glanced at him. “Did you find some? Evidence, I mean?”
Slade held up a small white card. “Nothing as helpful as a cell phone with Morgan’s list of contacts but this was in his wallet.”
Cyrus glanced at the card. “It’s Morgan’s. Just says he’s the CEO of the Gold Creek Guild. What’s useful about it?”
“There’s a phone number on the back,” Slade said. “I’ll give it a call and see who answers.”
Sedona was standing close enough to see the number written on the card. She stared at it in shock.
“Don’t bother,” she said. “It’s Brock’s private phone number. Only those closest to him have it.” She folded her arms around herself. “But this doesn’t make any sense. Whatever else he is, Brock is not a professional assassin.”
Slade looked at the body. “Don’t bank on that. Pros are very, very good at wearing masks.”