The Omission Index, Ch 19: Face Value Pt. 1

Mr. DeLuca prided himself on two laws - the house always wins, high-rollers always pay. Then Victor Sterling vanished from his penthouse suite after a week of impossible wins, leaving behind cologne and a seven-million-dollar hole.

The scent, custom sandalwood and bergamot, was the only normal thing in the Poseidon Suite this Tuesday morning. Everything else screamed planned impossibility.

DeLuca stood in the living area. Grey Atlantic churned beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Weak sunlight filtered through, lighting dust motes that shouldn't exist. The suite was perfect. Ozone and lemon polish masked everything. Every surface gleamed - glass coffee table, silk lampshades, all dust-free. The king bed in the master bedroom could've passed military inspection. Egyptian cotton, thousand-thread-count, without a wrinkle.

Sterling's Brioni suits hung untouched in the walk-in closet. His alligator briefcase sat on the mahogany desk. Closed. Empty of the usual papers Sterling traveled with - DeLuca's trembling fingers had confirmed that minutes ago.

The security system showed nothing. No unauthorized access. No alarms. Sterling had simply stopped existing within these walls. Last confirmed sighting: 3:17 AM, Sterling himself, cheerful after another baccarat win. Two trusted security men had escorted him up, received generous tips, heard him wish them goodnight. The magnetic keycard log showed the door hadn't opened again until DeLuca used his master override at 9:05 AM, prompted by a frantic call from Sterling's assistant in Zurich.

Victor Sterling was gone. So was his money.

"Anything?" DeLuca barked into his walkie-talkie. Panic tightened his voice - he was losing the fight to hide it. Sal, his head of surveillance, sat two floors below in the security hub, a windowless bunker of monitors and blinking lights buried beneath the glittering casino floor.

Static crackled. "Nothing, Mr. D. I've re-run the hallway cams a dozen times. Sterling went in. Nobody else went in or out. Not a mouse. It's like he vaporized."

"People don't vaporize, Sal!" Though a small, superstitious part of him - thirty years in Atlantic City - wasn't sure. "Check the service elevators again. Maintenance shafts. Rooftop access."

But he knew. Cold certainty settled in his gut. They wouldn't find anything. This wasn't a high-roller running out on a debt. Though Sterling had been on an unprecedented streak - nearly seven million in winnings this past week alone, causing fits among the casino's owners.

This felt planned. Seven million in winnings. A week of charm and champagne. The money flowing into Sterling's accounts, a reservoir filling before the dam broke.

The call from Sterling's Zurich bank had arrived just before DeLuca came up to the suite. Over twelve hours, starting almost immediately after Sterling supposedly went to bed, a series of wire transfers had drained every liquid asset from Sterling's accounts. Millions. Tens of millions. Flawless precision, confirmed with codes and passphrases only Sterling should've known. The transfers bounced through shell companies in jurisdictions that made Swiss banks look like piggy banks. Untraceable. Irretrievable.

Surgical precision. All while Victor Sterling supposedly slept alone in a locked penthouse suite.

DeLuca walked to the window. Grey ocean. Indifferent. A scandal this size could ruin the Oceanus. Ruin him. He thought of Sterling's behavior this past week. Unusual. Sterling, usually reserved, almost quiet, had been uncharacteristically friendly. Charming. Nearly flamboyant. He'd held court at the high-limit tables, laughing loudly, buying champagne for entire sections, tipping dealers and cocktail waitresses with hundred-dollar bills. Happier. More alive. More Sterling than Sterling usually was.

DeLuca had assumed it was the winning streak. The thrill of beating the house so spectacularly. Now he wasn't sure. As if someone else had been wearing Victor Sterling's skin, playing his part with unnerving glee.

"Mr. D," Sal's voice crackled again, more agitated. "Flag from housekeeping. One of the maids who cleaned Sterling's suite yesterday afternoon found something. Tucked under a sofa cushion. She didn't think nothing of it, just put it in lost and found. Contact lens case. Small vial of what looks like saline solution."

DeLuca frowned. "Sterling wears contacts sometimes. So?"

"The thing is, Mr. D," Sal's voice dropped to a whisper, "Sterling's valet swears Sterling's never worn contacts. Had laser surgery back in '75. Perfect vision."

The hairs on DeLuca's arms rose. This wasn't robbery. This was a magic trick. He needed help. Someone who dealt in the impossible, who understood that probability could be bent, broken, or stolen outright.

***

Two thousand miles away, the SHEPARD mainframe hummed in Oregon. Quiet. Almost thinking. Reid, fueled by triple-shot espresso and lingering irritation over a suspected spontaneous combustion case in rural Idaho (faulty gas heater, flammable polyester tracksuit), scanned the flagged anomaly queue. The Victor Sterling file popped up, highlighted urgent red. Atlantic City. High-Roller Disappearance. Massive Financial Fraud. Unusual Biological Traces.

That last bit made him sit up.

He pulled the full data packet. The financial side was impressive. A clean theft of over thirty million in twelve hours, using codes and bouncing through offshore shells enough to make Interpol investigators cry. Whoever pulled this off left no digital footprints. Only a hollowed-out vault. That alone wasn't SHEPARD's concern. Unless there was a superhuman angle.

Then he reached the crime scene analysis from the Oceanus Casino, sent by a discreet SHEPARD contact in Atlantic City's gaming commission. The penthouse suite was pristine. Too clean. But the casino's forensic lab - surprisingly competent - mentioned "unidentified biological particles" on the carpet near the seating area and on Sterling's private telephone earpiece. The particles were breaking down rapidly, hard to analyze. Initial microscopic examination suggested complex, shape-changing cellular structures. They didn't match any known human or animal contaminants. "Inconsistent with established biological norms," the report stated with notable scientific confusion.

Reid grinned. Bingo. Now it got interesting. Now it became their problem.

He cross-referenced witness statements from casino staff. Victor Sterling, in the week before his disappearance, had been different. More charismatic, according to cocktail waitresses he'd tipped generously. More daring at the tables, according to stunned pit bosses he'd bested. More articulate in conversation, according to DeLuca, who'd spent an hour discussing global economics and come away impressed. Sterling had become an idealized, supercharged version of himself. Or someone else had been wearing a convincing Victor Sterling suit.

The contact lenses found in the suite - Sterling had perfect, surgically corrected vision - were another red flag. Sloppy. A rare mistake in an otherwise flawless operation, but potentially crucial.

He ran the biological traces through SHEPARD's Kine-Morph database. No direct matches, but the breakdown pattern, the shape-changing instability - strongly suggested sophisticated shapeshifting ability. Far beyond crude, partial transformations of lower-level shifters. This was someone who could copy appearance and maintain it for extended periods, perhaps even replicate biological markers enough to fool security systems.

His phone buzzed. Director Cromwell's private line. Reid grabbed it. "Reid."

"Atlantic City, Sterling case." Cromwell skipped greetings. "Assessment?"

"High-level financial fraud, extreme precision, sir. Primary anomaly is biological evidence from the suite - shape-changing, rapidly breaking down. Points to sophisticated shapeshifter. Witness reports of Sterling's behavior support imposter theory. Subject likely studied Sterling, incapacitated him, took his identity to make transfers and live the high life, then vanished with the funds. Left the original Sterling somewhere."

"Victim status?"

"Unknown, sir. Could be a body dump, could be alive and discredited, could be he was in on it. Though the psych profile and biologicals make that less likely. DeLuca reported Sterling was on an unprecedented winning streak before he vanished. Could be part of the con. Or our suspect has secondary luck-manipulation ability. Pure guesswork at this point."

"A shapeshifter with a taste for high finance and luxury." Cromwell paused. "Dangerous combination. Potential for widespread economic disruption, identity theft on massive scale. Needs containment. Quickly. Quietly. Full team deployment. Hale, Kwan, Knopff, yourself. Flight to Atlantic City in ninety. Main objective: identify and neutralize the Kine-Morph. Secondary: find the real Victor Sterling if he's alive. Tertiary: assess and reduce further financial or security breaches."

"Understood, Director."

"And Reid," Cromwell added, voice colder, "given the location, keep Knopff out of the actual casinos until the subject's contained. Last thing we need is an international incident involving him, a croupier, and a roulette wheel."

Reid allowed himself a grim smile. "No promises, sir. I'll do my best."

He hung up and contacted the team. Atlantic City. Glitter, grime, and a ghost who wore other men's faces and emptied their bank accounts. This was going to be messy.

He caught Hale just as his partner was leaving his office. Drawn face. Stressed. More than usual. Hale had been quiet during their last briefing, almost monosyllabic. His usual insights strangely absent. Reid knew about the divorce. Lawyers who charged by the syllable, specialized in psychological destruction. Another case built on lies. He hoped Hale could keep his demons separate from this one.

"Atlantic City," Reid said by way of greeting. "Shapeshifter. High-roller impersonations, cleans them out, vanishes. Sounds like your kind of fun."

Hale nodded. Eyes distant. That familiar mental hum was beginning, though today it felt frayed somehow. "Let's get it over with." Voice flat.

***

Neon flashed on wet pavement. Slot machines chimed. Hopeful chatter underneath it all. Hale felt the city's cloud of fake joy and pretend excitement, built on raw greed and gnawing desperation. A city of masks. Each forced smile felt like another small betrayal.

Mr. DeLuca met them in the hushed, marble-floored lobby. Controlled panic carved into his face. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Expensive suit, rumpled. Eyes darting nervously. He led them through the glittering casino floor - sensory overload of flashing lights, chiming machines, and the palpable thrum of desperate hope and crushing disappointment - toward private elevators to the penthouse levels. Knopff, silent and granite-faced, drew curious glances quickly turned away. Reid, already fiddling with a handheld sensor, looked like a kid in a candy store. Kwan projected calm, professional empathy. His gaze took in the human drama at every green-felt table.

Detective O'Malley was already in the Poseidon Suite. Harassed. Out of his league. Beefy, uniformed, experienced with boardwalk pickpockets, not multi-million dollar vanishing acts involving whatever the hell SHEPARD dealt with. He focused on the financial crime.

"Thirty-two million gone like smoke," O'Malley said, gesturing around the immaculate suite. "Transferred through a dozen shell companies before hitting a Cayman account. Slickest wire fraud I've seen. We think Sterling was in on it, planned to run, maybe got double-crossed."

Hale tuned out the detective's theories. He needed to feel the room, sift through mental residue. While Kwan engaged O'Malley and DeLuca, gently asking about Sterling's behavior, routines, unusual visitors, Hale moved through the suite. Gloved fingers brushed surfaces. Cool marble of the bar. Polished wood of the empty briefcase. Silk of the perfectly made bed.

The dominant mental signature was Victor Sterling's - complex, arrogant, driven, with carefully hidden insecurity. But overlaid on it, like a meticulously applied second skin, was something else. Foreign. Yet intimately, terrifyingly, familiar with Sterling's essence. He felt the suspect's presence, the shapeshifter, like a phantom limb still twitching with inhabitation. Meticulous copying. Almost obsessive attention to detail in replicating Sterling's mannerisms, vocal patterns, even fleeting thoughts and desires.

Beneath that flawless imitation, an undercurrent of pure parasite: cold, calculating intelligence. Deep, gut-level envy of Sterling's wealth, power, effortless access to luxury and privilege. And chilling, predatory focus. The intent of something carefully, patiently, preparing to drain its host.

The parallels hit him like a blow. The shapeshifter's perfect performance, meticulous lies, stolen identity - exactly what Sarah had accused him of during their last screaming match. "You're never really there, are you? Just wearing the shape of a husband when it suits you." Her words stung fresh as the mental residue of deception around him. How many times had he come home and pretended everything was fine, wearing the mask of normalcy while his mind buzzed with the day's psychic impressions? How many dinners had he sat through, nodding and smiling, while secretly analyzing emotional undercurrents of everyone around him?

He felt the faint signature of sophisticated, controlled shapeshift, the subtle warping of biological energy. Rapidly fading. Leaving behind only a faint, unsettling mental stain. This wasn't someone pretending to be Sterling. For a time, they had been Sterling. Or a disturbingly perfect, idealized version. Just like Hale pretending to be the perfect husband. Until the facade cracked.

Kwan was speaking with a young, nervous room service attendant who'd delivered Sterling's breakfast every morning that week. "He was different, you know?" The attendant twisted his apron corner. "Mr. Sterling's usually quiet. Gruff, even. But this past week? All smiles. Knew my name. Asked about my family. Tipped me a hundred bucks just for bringing orange juice. Said he was feeling like a new man, on top of the world." He frowned. "And his eyes seemed brighter somehow. More intense."

Hale registered the details. Uncharacteristic generosity. Heightened charisma. Subtle physical sign of "brighter" eyes - perhaps a side effect of the shapeshifting process or the intensity of the imposter's performance. It fit the pattern. A perfect performance somehow more than the original.

"The contact lens case Sal found," DeLuca interjected, voice still tight. "Sterling's valet is adamant. No contacts. Ever."

A small, sloppy mistake in an otherwise perfect deception. Or perhaps deliberate misdirection. A taunt. Hale moved toward the window, looking out at the glittering, indifferent boardwalk lights, the dark ocean beyond. The city felt like a vast stage set, its inhabitants all playing their parts, some more convincingly than others. Somewhere out there, their shapeshifter was likely already auditioning for their next starring role. Their next stolen life.

The stale perfume of lies in the Poseidon Suite was just the opening act.

***

The afterglow of being Victor Sterling was fading. It left behind the familiar ache of emptiness. Truman, as they currently thought of themselves in the quiet anonymity of their new hideout - a discreetly rented, upscale apartment overlooking a quieter stretch of Atlantic City coastline - savored the last traces of Sterling's power, arrogance, effortless command. It had been a magnificent performance. One of their best. The thrill of high-stakes tables, the respect of casino staff, the intoxicating power of Sterling's immense wealth - a potent, addictive drink.

But Sterling, for all his power and wealth, had been dull. Predictable in his desires. Ordinary in his tastes. Once the initial thrill of wearing his custom suits and commanding his obedient staff wore off, a certain boredom set in. The performance became a chore. It was always the way. The perfection they craved, the idealized person they so carefully constructed, could never be sustained by the flawed, mundane reality of the original.

Now, refreshed, financially restocked, and thrillingly, terrifyingly, formless again for a short time, Truman scanned the glittering human buffet of Atlantic City for their next target. They sat at a small, shaded table at an exclusive beach club, sipping expensive champagne. Their current appearance was deliberately unremarkable - pleasant but forgettable features, stylish but plain resort wear. A ghost in the sun. Observing. Assessing.

Their process was meticulous. Nearly ritual. It began with observation from afar. They looked for individuals radiating that particular aura of privilege, effortless grace, lives seemingly without struggle or doubt. They studied targets for days, sometimes weeks, absorbing mannerisms, vocal patterns, social circles, routines, tells. They learned histories, desires, vanities, subtle, often unacknowledged insecurities - the cracks through which their influence could seep.

They disliked the rude, the openly vulgar, no matter how wealthy. No art in copying a brute. No, they sought elegance. A life possessing glamour, sophistication, romantic potential. Then, when the time was right, when the target was isolated or vulnerable: swift, silent incapacitation. The thrilling, disorienting rush of the shift. The exhilarating moment of becoming.

Their gaze drifted across the sun-dappled terrace, past showy peacocks and chattering groups of rich vacationers. A woman caught their eye. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Tall, elegantly dressed in flowing white linen that contrasted beautifully with sun-kissed skin and cascading dark, glossy hair. She laughed - rich, musical - gesturing animatedly to her companion, a handsome if somewhat bland younger man who looked at her with open adoration. There was confidence about her, innate sophistication, a subtle, almost royal way of carrying herself that spoke of old money and commanding attention without demanding it. Her name, Truman had already discreetly learned from a casually overheard conversation with the maître d', was Isabella Rossi. Italian heiress. Recently arrived in Atlantic City, supposedly for a charity art auction.

Isabella Rossi. The name itself had appeal.

Truman watched the way she held her champagne flute, the easy grace in her posture. They noted the precise angle of her head when she listened, the subtle, almost unnoticeable lift of an eyebrow showing amusement or disdain. They observed her interactions, the way people gravitated toward her warmth.

Her companion was an accessory. Easily managed. Easily deceived. The real challenge, the real artistry, would be in becoming Isabella. In living that aura of continental sophistication, inherited grace. Using that quiet, unstated power.

The envy, sharp and familiar, pricked at Truman. To be Isabella Rossi. To move through the world with such unthinking, unearned elegance. To command such effortless adoration. A life so far removed from their own shapeless, grasping existence.

A slow, predatory smile touched Truman's lips - a smile no one at the sun-drenched beach club would've noticed. The decision was made. Isabella Rossi would be their next performance. Their next stolen summer. The meticulous study would begin immediately. The thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the becoming, was already a potent, intoxicating drug, momentarily pushing back the ever-present, gnawing emptiness.

Soon, they would be Isabella. And for a time, at least, they would be magnificent.

***