Hard Magic

Ten

An emergency Translocation’s fast and nasty, and it’s not something you want to do on a regular basis, but I was never so damn glad to feel the molecules of my body being sucked through a current-straw in my entire life, and when we popped into place back in the office, I could have wept with gratitude.

“What happened? Did you get your evidence?”

Venec was damn near shouting, and everyone was crowding around us, and my gratitude got tempered, fast, with annoyance.

“Someone shot at us, and all you can ask is if we got the evidence?”

That stopped them, for about three seconds. Then the clamor started up again. I ignored them, turning to look at my partner, who was still sprawled on the floor next to me.

“You’re bleeding. Oh god, did you—”

“Nah,” he reassured me, lifting his bloody hand away from his shoulder. “Took the pavement too hard, is all. I think.”

Sharon shoved her way through everyone else, and for once I was actually glad for her abrasive take-chargeism, because it didn’t take long at all for her to send someone off for bandages and stuff, and to get Nick out of the jumpsuit and his T-shirt underneath so she could see the damage better.

He was right; it was just a nasty-looking pavement burn, tearing his skin open in places and oozing blood, but nothing that was going to need more than a few wipes and tape. The skin around it was pale and flushed-looking, but that was pretty much his normal skin tone. He did not, unfortunately, show to any better advantage undressed than dressed, and I made a mental note to get him started on some basic weights, try to bulk him up, before I worked on any more cases with him. He might be a fast thinker, but sometimes you needed a fast hitter, too.

“You got the evidence?” Venec let Sharon deal with the medical stuff, and knelt down, leaning forward into my personal space with that pit-bull intensity. Those impossible eyes bored right into me, and if you’d asked me on my life I couldn’t have told you what precise color they were, but I knew every wrinkle and sag around the edges, and the exact shade of soot-black his eyelashes were. Damn damn damn. “We got what Nick sent back, safe and secure,” he said, “but was there anything else in the car?”

“Yeah.” The weight of what I was carrying suddenly, now that I thought about it, felt like cold iron in my brain, and his gaze-hold on me was lessened enough so that I could look away. “I got it. I…” I hesitated, suddenly aware of a problem.

“What?” Stosser swooped in, eavesdropping, if listening to something you had the right to know could be considered eavesdropping. Could it? My head hurt, so I stopped thinking about that and focused back on the problem at hand.

“I don’t know how to get rid of it, though. I mean, we spent so much time learning how to gather, I guess…I don’t know how to dump it.” And I had to do it soon, I knew that, otherwise it would be tainted with my own signature, and nobody would ever believe it wasn’t tampered with.

“We thought of that.”

Of course they had. I wish to hell they’d thought to tell us all that before—although I suppose that was my lesson, to think of this stuff myself, and ask. Like the man said, if you’ve got questions…

Then again, he hadn’t actually answered Sharon’s question, had he?

With that gaze still on me, I was relieved that it was Stosser who offered me his hand, hauling me up off the floor with more power than his skinny frame suggested. Skinny, maybe, but not frail. I wouldn’t stack him up against Nifty, but he could probably take most of us in an unfair fight. I got the feeling those were the only kind boss-guy fought.

“The chat room,” he said to me, dropping my hand and turning to walk away. It was almost as though he was pissed off at me, or something. I tried to think about how I might have screwed up…by getting shot at? We didn’t know who, or why, or anything, so how could he assume it was my fault rather than Nick’s? Because Nick got hurt? That made no sense at all.

I tabled that question, too, and followed him out of the room. First things first; to get this stuff out of my brain, and into evidence.

Stosser let me change out of the jumpsuit and back into my own gear, then had me sit in the armchair while he perched on the desk, taking up his usual lecturer pose. He was wearing another of his crunchy-granola outfits today, and I was starting to wonder which was the real Stosser, the stylish image-conscious guy, or the one who didn’t seem to remember that his hair was Pippi Longstocking red?

“All right,” he said, either not aware or not caring that I was dissing his style-sense. “What we’re going to do is this. You open your core—”

“Whoa.” All thoughts of anything else went right out of my head. “I the hell will not.”

Stosser made a placating gesture that was obviously supposed to calm my objections. “It’s all right.”

I didn’t feel at all placated. “The hell it is.”

Your core was a private place. It was the seat of your personal current, the furnace that fed our abilities, the…well, it was private, was all, and here my boss was telling me blithely to open up and say ah?

“You’re doing all the work,” he said. “I’m not going to go in, you’re going to take it out. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. And you’ve done this how many times before?”

“Once.” I liked the fact that he didn’t hesitate in answering, or try to fudge the number. But reassuring did not translate to reassured.

“You experimented on Venec?”

“Ben did the experimenting, actually. As I said, I am merely the receiver. You will control the entire process.”

Oh, he was a cool one, not a worry in the world. J was right: Stosser was a schmoozer of the highest order, and his calm assurance and smooth delivery worked, even when you knew he was working you. Amazing. Also damned annoying, because I dislike being manipulated. But he was paying me for the privilege, so…

“You don’t seem at all curious about who was shooting at us,” I said, trying to make myself comfortable in the chair.

“I let Ben handle those details,” he said. “Especially since nobody was actually shot.”

Oh. There. Just on the edge, just a sliver, but it was there if you were watching for it. Ian Stosser wasn’t anywhere near as cool about that shooting as he wanted us to believe. He was pissed, or worried, or something seriously not-calm. I noted it, and let it go.

Stosser didn’t seem to notice that I’d caught him. “Now, when you’re relaxed, I want you to reach down inside and imagine your core like a Fabergé egg, hinged, and filled with fabulous treasures that are meant to be displayed….”

His voice droned on, soothing and scholarly, and I tuned it out the same way I used to tune out professors in gut courses back in college, because by the time they got to the second or third long-winded sentence, I already knew what they were talking about.

Same here. The image of the Fabergé egg worked, and I spared a moment to wonder if he’d have used the same image on Nifty, or Sharon, because J took me to see an exhibit once when I was a teenager, and although I thought at the time that they were horribly gaudy things, the idea of them stuck with me. It was amazingly easy to see my core, not as an egg, but in the same way: my own personal, private treasure that, if I wanted to, I could open up and display some part of it to someone else, so that they could see how fabulous the secret was….

*show me?* Stosser’s mental voice, not so much pinging as wafting by. But under the polite exterior there was something harder, something less pleasant, and I shied away from it. *show me*

He was the boss. Reluctantly, I touched that thread of current with one of my own, and brought forward the evidence I had collected; the shards of broken current, remnants of power-use, impressions of emotions and actions trapped by the endless webs of current that surround us, at all times. Delicate, tricky stuff, and every touch was done with mental breath held, for fear of cracking something and rendering it useless.

Stosser opened his current up wider and took those things from my touch, never—as he promised—actually going into my core, just looking at the one small section I opened to him and taking the things that were there.

Curious, my current followed, and he allowed it access…not to his own core, but to a wide-open space that made my eyes hurt from the reflected light; all gleaming white, sanitized, and empty.

*evidence locker* he told me.

It was…amazing. Impossible. A virtual space made of current, outside anything physically existent. We might be making this shit up as we went along with baling wire and chewing gum, but my god, this was some amazing wire and gum.

I could feel the entrances, now that I was inside, and knew that I’d be able to access it any time I wanted to, in the future.

*anyone on team can* Ian agreed, *once they have the key*

And a small portion of that endless space darkened, shadows appearing, as he carefully, gently, placed the trace I had collected into one corner, labeled it, and locked it down. I got a sense from him of a key, glimmering pale green neon, tucked into a pocket, and the sense, likewise, that there was one in my pocket, too.

Anyone on the team could get in here, but only the two of us could open that particular spot, unless we gave them the key.

He released his hold on my current-strand, and I slid slowly backward, feeling myself leave a place that didn’t exist, sliding easily, gently, back into the awareness of my body.

Stosser was still sitting there, leaning against the desk. I was still in the chair. My legs were tingling like they’d gone to sleep and were only now waking up, but otherwise…

I checked inside. Yeah, the heavy weight of the trace was gone.

“If I asked you how you made that, and you told me, would I be able to understand any of it?”

“Possibly,” Stosser, said, standing up, but he didn’t elaborate. All right. Every wizard gets to have his secrets. For now.

“We should rejoin the others now that the fuss will have died down, and determine who will be working on what.”

“And figure out who was shooting at us?” Just because I wasn’t going to let him know I knew he was hiding something didn’t mean I was going to let go of the topic. I was still unnerved by that, and figured Nick would be, too. We deserved to know, if there was something happening.

“I told you.” Stosser was, in direct contradiction to the myths about redheads, remarkably mellow, but every now and again some vinegar leaked into his voice. “Ben is dealing with it.”

And with that, at least for now, I had to be content.

We walked back into a madhouse. The fuss hadn’t quite died down, mainly because Venec had disappeared, Sharon tried to take control of the situation, and then she and Nifty got into a shouting match over who was actually in charge of the situation. Nick had sided with Sharon, and Pietr… Where the hell was Pietr, anyway?

“They’ve been like this since you left.” His voice appeared at my elbow. “Personally, I don’t think either of them’s fit to lead a cat to tuna, but nobody asked me.”

“Probably because they couldn’t find you, Fade, m’boy.”

He looked hurt, and I felt as if I’d kicked a puppy, which was exactly how he wanted me to feel. So I kicked him in the shin.

Stosser leaned with the door against his back, and watched them with what really only could be described as the sardonic eye of a jaded third-grade teacher. “You want to take odds on when they’ll start pulling hair?”

“You’d know about that more than we would,” Pietr said. Good point—his hair was close-cropped to his scalp, and mine was chin-length: hair pulling wasn’t something we had to really worry about.

Meanwhile, our two darlings were facing off, literally.

“You’re a know-everything busybody but that doesn’t mean you have a clue about how the real world works.”

“Oh, because spending four years knocking people down with big bad muscles makes you so smart? You’ve never even worked in—”

“Children!” That vinegar was back in Stosser’s voice, and it splashed over them, stopping them hard. I guess class was back in session. “You can fight out your alpha pack issues later. Right now, there’s work to be done. Lawrence, Mendelssohn. You two need to work together, not against each other. Go over the physical trace Shune sent back. A 3-D sketch before you touch anything, and then lift any prints you can find. Odds are they’re useless, but we have to document everything, so anything we find is validated. Shune, are you up for work, or do you want to watch this one?”

Nick flexed his arm carefully around the makeshift sling Sharon had rigged for him, and managed a one-armed shrug. “I’m better as a pair of eyes at this point, boss.”

“Fine. Torres, you do the same. Try to learn something useful. Cholis, come with me. I have a job for your particular skills.”

Pietr’s expression verged somewhere between pleased and really worried. I didn’t blame him, but was more worried about having to get between Sharon and Nifty without making things worse. They exited, and the four of us were left standing, silently, in a really awkward face-off, two glaring and two trying to look anywhere but at each other.

“All right.” Sharon was the one who capitulated first, surprising all of us—including, I think—Sharon. Her body language was still tense, but her shoulders relaxed a little under that linen blouse, and I didn’t feel the same electric vibe off her. “It’s been a really long day that we weren’t expecting, and this is stupid. Nick, you’re the one who handled the stuff. You direct us.”

Nick looked started as hell, but rallied. “All right. Who’s got a decent handle on the 3-D sketching?”

“That would be me,” Nifty said. His voice—and vibe—still had a bit of challenge in it, but not anything that demanded a takedown. Anyway, it was true; I was an abysmal failure on that level, and I’m not sure the others were much better.

“All right, then you get started with that, and Sharon, you’ve got the best recovery skills. When he’s done with the sketch, see if you can lift anything useful off anything. Bonnie, we need to get it all cataloged, before we forget what was found where.”

He dispatched us with evident satisfaction, and a little arrogance, but probably he hadn’t been deferred to a lot in his life—if you’re skinny, geeky, and not a tech-god, you don’t get a lot of respect, no matter how smart you are—and damn, Sharon had managed us Council-worthy. If she’d chosen me, Nifty might have felt it was a girl thing, and if she had pushed herself forward we all would have been annoyed, but this way Nifty was appeased, and Nick felt gratitude toward her, and me…. I didn’t care one way or the other, I realized. I was still worried about who the hell had shot at us, and part of my mind was still chewing over how easily Nick had pushed that supervisor into letting us go, and there was another part of my mind still working on the concept of the white virtual storeroom, and wondering where the hell Venec was and what he was doing, and there just wasn’t any room left in my head for dealing with intragroup politics.

I’m crap at group politics, anyway.

We broke for the second workroom, where Nick had sent the materials.

“So what happened to the trace you picked up?” Nick asked me, quietly enough that the others might not hear. Information was power. I guess he was playing, too.

I thought about how I’d not let Stosser know I knew he was upset, and figured we all were playing, one way or the other.

“It’s dumped and safe,” I said to him. “But we’re supposed to focus on the physical first.” Physical was easier to work through, Venec had lectured us. Current left a trace on the physical that was harder to blend into the original form, and could be broken down more easily for investigation.

That was the theory we were working under, anyway. Reality didn’t always scan with theory.

The gleaming white worktable looked more barren than I’d expected: from the expression on Nick’s face, he’d thought he’d brought back more, too. I ran over the checklist in my mind, and it seemed to match the items laid out and casting dark shadows on the table surface. I guess it just seemed like more, in the stress of the situation. Interesting.

“Bonnie?” Nick had gotten out the evidence logbook—a fancy name for a plain three-ring binder we’d never used before–and settled himself at the empty edge of the table. He was looking at me, his little ferret nose practically twitching.

Right. Recall time.

“Three crumpled wrappers, wedged deep into the backseat; a wad of dried gum from the floor mat; ash from the bottom of the otherwise-emptied ashtray; a couple of hairs taken off the upholstery, passenger-seat headrest, and one from the backseat behind the driver’s seat; a scoop of mud from the front half of the undercarriage; a scratch of dried crud from the rear left fender; and what I thought was a nail clipping that got caught under the door handle of the driver’s side.”

“You thought?” Nick paused midscribble. “We’re not supposed to think, Bonnie, just report.”

“Fine. A fragment of something that looked like a fragment of nail, caught under the door handle. Better?”

“Don’t snarl at me, I’m just trying to do this right.”

“You want to see a snarl, ferret-boy? I’ll show you a snarl.”

“Ferret?” His voice rose and the tip of his nose twitched, only enhancing the resemblance

“Children,” Sharon murmured, taking one of the stools at the table across from Nifty, down at the evidence-laden end. “You need a score card to tell who’s squabbling with whom around here.”

I laughed because it was true.

Maybe it was just me and that connection-thing we had going on, but I knew without looking the instant when Venec came into the room. He was almost as quiet as Pietr, but there was some difference in the air when he entered that distracted me from my study of the sketch of the nail clipping—and I was right, it was a nail—and made me look up to see him walking through the workroom door.

Unlike Stosser, he didn’t change his clothing like a runway model; jeans and a dark blue knit sweater that made his eyes look even darker, leather shoes and a single silver strand around his wrist that I hadn’t noticed before. Interesting. Silver wasn’t the magical element the fairy tales claimed, but it did have certain useful properties I wondered if he knew about….

“You’re back,” I said, to alert the others. “Did you find out who shot at us? And why?”

He shot me a glare that could have wilted a redwood. “Yeah, you’re number one on the Chicago cops most-wanted list. Relax, Torres. It was just an overeager security guard with rubber bullets, alerted by the fact that neither of you bothered to wave your passes over the exit bar when you walked out. It’s been taken care of.”

Oops. In our defense we were a little distracted, but the look on Venec’s face suggested that he didn’t want to hear even justifiable excuses.

“What do you have? Show me.”

I slid away from the table, hearing everyone else do the same, so the boss could have a better look at the 3-Ds. They floated above the table and turned slowly to display all sides, black lines and white spaces tinted with just faint bits of color, like pencil and watercolors. Most of them were actual size, but Nifty had enlarged the nail at my request, so that I could determine if it was a fingernail or a toenail or something else entirely.

“And have we gotten anything out of this motley assemblage of crap?”

Fucker. We’d been busting our current for three hours on that “assemblage of crap,” and he walks in and dismisses it out of hand? All the hot in the world, and I was still ready to throw something heavy and pointed at him.

His hands came down on the table next to me, and the table creaked as he leaned on it, looking at my sketch. The edge of the object was ragged and thick, and there were striations along the surface that looked weirdly familiar.

“Toenail?”

“Looks like. Except it’s damned unlikely.”

He looked at me, and I remembered again I wasn’t supposed to have an opinion, not yet, just evaluations. I backtracked a little, and made a full report. “The clipping is in the shape of a half-moon, with a jagged edge that suggests either being bitten or torn off. A nail. It was found under the driver’s-side door handle. Unless we’re dealing with someone who is extremely prehensile, it seems unlikely a toenail would have gotten caught there.”

“All right. A reasonable assumption within the context of the findings. But don’t rule anything out just yet. Is the nail necessarily human?”

I stared at him, my mouth falling open. Bastard. I hadn’t even thought of that.

“Lawrence.” He moved on, leaving me scrambling furiously, trying to think of some way to compare the sketch against all the known clawed fatae breeds. We hadn’t learned how to run DNA tests using current yet. I had a feeling they’d be in our near future, though.

“There are distinct tooth marks in the gum, but I don’t think we’d be able to tell anything except that whoever chewed it had molars.” Nifty stared at his sketch, and then looked into the air at nobody in particular. “I don’t suppose anyone’s got some brilliant ideas on how to get a sample of saliva off old dried-up gum?”

Nobody did.

“That’s your assignment, then,” Venec said. “Find a way.”

Nifty’s jaw dropped; I had a feeling a lot like the way mine had, and then he shut it with a snap. He put his game face on, and nodded tightly. “Yessir.” He might squabble for captainship of the team, but Nifty knew who the Coach was.

I guessed that made Stosser the owner of the team?

Nick had been working on the ashes. “I compared them to some fresh cigarette ash….” He saw Venec’s expression, and hurried to add, “No, I didn’t bring them in. I went outside and found some, okay? Not a total idiot to compromise evidence.”

That earned him a grudging nod of approval. “Go on.”

Nick shrugged. “It’s cigarette ash. According to the police report, both victims smoked. So, hardly a surprise. It was high-quality tobacco, though, from the looks of it. Goes with the victims’ backgrounds—they weren’t the kind to be smoking cut-rate cheapies.”

“Verify that.”

Nick nodded.

Sharon was next. She shrugged. “There were hairs. I couldn’t tell anything from just a sketch.”

Venec’s glare returned. “You couldn’t tell how long they were, if they were straight or curly, bleached, dyed, or naturally colored? Graying? Blond or brunette? Split ends or recently trimmed?”

Oh man. I suddenly felt as though I’d gotten off easy. His words were like bullets, hitting Sharon hard, right in the chest.

“Hey.” Nick slammed his hand on the table. From his wince, I guess he hadn’t meant to hit that hard. “Give us a break, okay? We’re making this shit up as we go along, in case you’ve forgotten, and you and Ian both disappeared on us.”

Venec looked around then as though just realizing that his partner wasn’t in the room. “Where did Ian and Cholis go?”

We all shrugged. “Stosser said he had a different job for ghost-boy, and away they went,” Nifty told him, his face still closed and tight. He could pick on Sharon, but Boss-Guys couldn’t? I tossed that around and decided that it felt right.

“Damn it, I warned him…” Venec muttered, then seemed to recall that we were all looking at him avidly, waiting to see what he said next. Apparently, the Guys weren’t entirely in accord. That was so not reassuring.

“All right, no matter. You have your observations recorded?”

We all did.

“Then it’s time to take a break, get some fresh air. Unlike what you see on TV or read in books, you can’t work days straight and expect to get anything other than punch-stupid. Go, get a drink, use the bathroom, walk around the block, and get yourself some lunch. Shune, have that bandage checked. It looks like you’re bleeding again.” Directions given, he turned and walked out before we could recover enough to ask him anything more.

We all looked at each other, and I got the distinct feeling that nobody was going to take more than a bathroom break before we returned to the table.

I got up, feeling my lower back complain. Damn but it had been a long day already, even without the time-shift from here to Chicago and then back again. What time was it, anyway? “Right. There’s a decent pizza place on the corner. I should bring back a pie or two?”

“Make it three,” Nifty said, to nobody’s surprise. Current burned calories, yeah, but his metabolism still thought he was in training or something.

“And a Diet Coke.”

“And a regular Coke. Not a Pepsi. And an iced coffee.”

Good lord. Offer to do a favor, and that’s what you get. “Give me cash then, people. I’m not the damn pizza fairy.”

On my way out through the lobby, a wad of cash stuffed into my front pocket, I saw a guy walking in, and did a full turn-and-walk-backward to watch his progress, because damn, he was worth the obviousness. Oh-my-god tall, and the kind of golden-blond that makes me feel washed out. Total surfer-boy tan and build, and dressed in a kind of uptown casual that said money but also that he worked for it.

He caught me watching—not that I was hiding anything—and smiled at me. Not an ah-hah smile either, but a really nice, warm, hi-there-yourself kind of smile.

He wasn’t a local boy, that was for sure.

And then I was out the door and he was in, and I tucked the memory into the folder titled Fine Men and focused on remembering the lunch order.

I came back twenty minutes later to shouting.

“You’re taking advantage of her grief and her hopes, and I call that fraud, at best!”

The voices were coming from the chat room. Not loud, as shouting went, but audible from where I stood. I looked down the hallway at the other end of our space, where the workroom was, and hesitated.

Oh hell. I’d never make much of an investigator if I didn’t investigate, right? I put the pizzas and bag with the drinks down in the hallway where anyone with a nose could find them—hoping they’d have enough sense not to eat in the workroom—and moved as quietly along the hall as I could manage. Needed to get Pietr to teach me that ghosting thing, if he could.

The chat room’s door was open just a chink, as if it was inviting me to snoop.

“Your mother has engaged us—” Venec, and I could tell that his temper was about to snap. Uh-oh.

“My mother is deluded.”

The snap was audible even out here in the hallway. “Your mother is in full possession of all her faculties, and possibly a few you seem to have abandoned. Or do you really believe that your grandparents sat in a car that didn’t belong to them and willed themselves to die, when they were both in excellent health, excellent finances, and with excellent prospects?”

“There was no sign of it being anything else. The police and the local Council both investigated….”

“The police were handicapped by not knowing that your grandparents were Talent. And the Council…” Venec’s voice didn’t get any softer, but it went from lecturing to conversational, in the space of one word. “The Council has its own reasons for wanting the case closed. Your grandparents had both friends and enemies in high places, and none of them are interested in close examination.”

“You really believe that they were murdered?”

“We are not willing to let any assumption stand without looking at every possible angle and scrap of evidence. What that evidence tells us…we don’t know yet. That’s what the ‘unaffiliated’ in our name means. We don’t answer to any authority except the evidence.”

“I don’t like this. You said it yourself. There are reasons not to dig into this.”

“No, I said that there were people who would rather we didn’t dig. I never said they were reasons I accept.”

Steel would have bent before Benjamin Venec would, and in that instant, I admit it, I was almost embarrassingly proud to work for him.

“Now, Ms. Torres, if you would join us?”

Bastard, I thought for the third time that afternoon, and pushed the door all the way open to see Venec and the surfer-god from the lobby both looking at me.

“Hi.” No excuses: he caught me, fair and square, and I already knew excuses didn’t fly with the Guys. “I’m Bonita Torres. I’m one of the investigators working on your mother’s case.”

“Yes, we…met, if you can call it that.”

For a moment I thought he meant in the lobby, but then I remembered the four-way telecurrent conversation I’d been on the edges of, and blinked. “You look better when you’re less staticky,” I said, without thinking, and then felt my skin flush bright red from knees to ears. So much for my suave professional veneer.

He grinned, Venec looked even more stone-faced disgusted, and I tried to extract my foot from my mouth without choking.

“We were just about to get back to work,” I said to Venec, trying very hard not to look him in the eye. All I needed was to get tangled up over that, too. I swear, I hadn’t been this awkward since I was a hormone-riddled thirteen-year-old. Damn it, neither of them were that much all that.

“Didn’t I tell you to take a break?”

“Pizza and caffeine for everyone. But we all felt like we were on a roll, so…”

I hoped to hell I was saying the right things. How much did you say to the boss, in front of the disgruntled son of a client, without actually letting them know that we weren’t so much on a roll as freaking out about our jobs going down in flames if we didn’t produce something?

“Excellent,” Venec said. “Now, if you will excuse us?”

“Jack,” the surfer god said. His tone seemed to have totally mellowed, without a trace of the earlier anger. “I seem to have made an ass out of myself, and I can only assure you it’s merely because I am protective of my mother, especially after what she went through with the police and insurance companies after her parents’ death, and…” He shrugged. On him, it looked good. “I still don’t believe that you’re going to find anything new, and my mother is wasting her time and money, but it’s her time and money to waste.” His expression got tough again. “Just don’t promise her anything you can’t deliver.”

“Are you making a threat…Jack?”

Oh, Venec’s voice was so smooth, his face so calm, it took Jack and me both a minute to realize he was dead serious.

“A warning.”

You could practically feel the thunderheads gathering between the two of them again, current simmering just under the surface, not unleashed, not yet, but posturing, getting ready to show itself. I wanted to be the hell anywhere but there, but was afraid to move toward the door for risk of setting anything off. Alpha goddamn males.

“Hey, Ben, did you—”

Oh, thank god. Stosser appeared in the doorway as though he’d been summoned.

“Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something?” His narrow face was as guileless as ever, and he seemed genuinely taken aback at seeing someone he didn’t know in the office. I believed that about as much as I believed in the Easter bunny.

“No. This gentleman was just leaving. Jack, this is my partner, Ian Stosser.”

“A pleasure,” Ian said, stepping forward and offering his hand. Jack took it so smoothly, you’d never know he’d been an inch away from anger a second ago. “You’re the son, yes? My condolences on the loss of your grandparents. They were wonderful people.”

“You knew my grandparents?”

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised by that, Jack or Venec.

“Only by reputation. My father was one of their earliest investors, back…oh, two decades ago. He had the good fortune to be involved in the downtown retrofit they did, managed to pay for my college education with what he earned. But he spoke well of them personally, too.”

Smooth like syrup. Council schmoozing takes the day.

“Not that your mother knows that, I am sure,” Stosser went on. “We were just one of many people your grandparents worked with over the years. But I do have a fondness for the family, as I’m sure you can imagine, and finding out who murdered them will be a high priority for our firm, I assure you. You were just on your way out? Let me walk you to the door, please, and we can let Bonita and Benjamin get back to their work. Rest assured, they’re among the best we have, and they’re working nonstop—well, I see that they’ve paused long enough to cram some pizza down their throats. Bonita, you might want to go join them before they eat everything, including the cardboard.”

I’ve never been onstage, but even I know an exit cue when I hear one.