The Glass Alibi: Vows of the Vulture

Chapter 2: The Vanishing Evidence

The door of the Maybach slammed, shutting out the damp Manhattan night and shutting in the smell of expensive leather and the low thrum of a precisely tuned engine. Silas didn't look at me. He touched a button on the armrest, and a soundproof glass partition smoothly slid upward between us and the driver.

My hands were still trembling. I gripped the Leica in my grip so tightly that my knuckles went white.

"The SD card," I stammered, my voice sounding small within the plush interior of the car. "I have to see if the footage looks good, if the curtain didn't blur it-"

"Never mind the footage, Elara." Silas's voice was like a razor. He leaned back, his long legs crossing at the ankles as if he hadn't just walked away from a fresh corpse. "In three minutes the NYPD will be swarming the Blackwood, in five, the security feeds will 'glitch' and every frame of you entering the library will be erased. By morning, you won't even exist in their records."

I paid him no mind; my heart was already thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I switched my camera on. The LCD screen glowed to life, casting a blue, ghostly light across my face.

No images found.

I froze. I pushed the play button again.

No SD Card inserted.

"No," I breathed, my fingers fumbling with the latch on the side of my camera, popping open the spring-loaded door. "No! No, no, no! It was there. I took shots! I saw the write-light blinking!"

I looked down at the floor of the car, my eyes darting frantically from shadow to shadow. Did it fall out in the alley? Did it snag on my sleeve as I ran?

"Looking for this?"

I snapped my head up. Silas held up a tiny piece of plastic between his thumb and forefinger. The gold contacts of the SD card winked in the streetlights.

"Give it back," I lunged for it, but Silas was too quick. He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them against the leather seat with his much larger hand. His grip wasn't painful, but it was iron-hard; the man was considerably stronger than he looked. His fingers were like metal bands.

"This is my insurance policy," he said, stepping toward me until I was pushed against the door again. "As long as I have this, you have a reason to stay, and while you are staying, the people who actually murdered Sterling won't put a bullet through your head to keep you from telling their secrets."

"You stole it," I hissed, glaring into his flinty eyes. "While you were 'pinning' me against the alley wall you reached into my camera."

"I'm a man with many skills, Elara, and while thievery isn't the most ethical of them, it is quite efficient." He slid the card into his charcoal blazer, right over his heart, then turned. "Sit back. We have company."

I glanced at the tinted rear window. A black SUV with heavily tinted windows, having emerged from the darkness three blocks back, was now holding a perfect distance behind us. It had no lights on.

"Is that police?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"Police don't drive armored Suburbans with illegal tints," Silas muttered. He pulled out the car phone. "Marcus, FDR Drive. Take the scenic route. Let's see how badly they want her."

The Maybach swerved, then roared forward as Silas accelerated onto the highway, G-force pinning me against the seat.

"Why me?" I asked, turning to him, my fear finally hardening into rage. "You're Silas Vane. You've got lawyers, you've got politicians in your pocket, you could buy an alibi off of a hundred supermodels."

Silas turned his head, his eyes raking over me from my dishevelled hair to my worn boots. "A supermodel doesn't have a forensic eye, Elara. A supermodel doesn't notice that Sterling was poisoned before he was strangled."

I gasped. "How did you-"

"I saw the look in your eyes when you peered through that curtain; you weren't just terrified; you were analyzing. You noticed the discoloration on his fingernails. You noticed the foam at the corner of his mouth." He leaned closer, his voice a dangerous growl. "I don't just want an alibi. I want a witness who can help me figure out which one of my 'associates' decided to murder half of Manhattan's upper crust on my dime."

Suddenly, the car jolted violently. The screech of metal on metal was deafening inside the cabin. The SUV had slammed into our rear quarter panel.

"Down!" Silas commanded.

He didn't wait for me to comply. He grabbed my shoulder, shoving me to the floor of the car, using his body to shield me from the shattering rear window. Glass flew around us like diamonds.

I screamed, burying my face in the thick carpet, the scent of Silas's sandalwood cologne burning in my nostrils. I could feel his body heat, the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart against my back. He wasn't panicking; he was focused.

He reached inside his jacket and produced a sleek, matte-black handgun. He held it ready, waiting, watching the jagged hole where the window had been with the predatory patience of a cat.

"Silas!" I choked out.

"Quiet," he snapped, his hand settling on the back of my neck, a reassuring weight that somehow made the situation worse. "I told you, Elara. You're the Glass Alibi. If that shatters, I'm done for."

The car lurched again, tires screaming as Marcus swung the wheel sharply to the right, taking a corner onto the bridge. Through the fractured window, I could see the SUV pulling up alongside us again, a figure in the passenger seat aiming a weapon at our tires.

Silas didn't flinch. He raised his gun with a steady hand.

"Welcome to the family, Elara," he whispered over the howl of the wind.

Then, he fired.