Unquiet Dreams

Chapter 5

A high-pitched ringing jolted me out of sleep. I knew that sound and dreaded it every time I heard it. One of my protection wards had gone off. I slid out of bed into my jeans in one smooth motion. In less than two seconds, I was across the room and standing to the side of the door with a classic Louisville slugger in my hand. The bat had two functions: it was charged with a deflector spell that would activate if someone threw essence at me, and it hurt like hell if I whomped someone with it. In either case, the idea was to give me some breathing space to call for help if I needed it.

Several wards protect my apartment. Some of them are passive—they act like barriers against charged essence. Some are reactive—like those that test for an individual’s essence to determine whether that person is someone I trust. That’s how people like Murdock and Joe can come and go without freaking out the wards. And some are active, doing a regular scan for any unusual activity. None of them will completely protect me. That’s where the signal wards come in. They’re scattered around the building and keyed to my essence. I touch one, and an emergency signal shoots to the Guild. Only I know where they all are. They are my fail-safe, presuming I live long enough for help to arrive.

My apartment is on a dead-end hallway, so anyone making the turn at the top of the stairs has only my place to go to. The alarm that had gone off was a simple proximity alert at the end of the outside hall. It’s a silent alarm—only I can hear it in my head. I felt another alarm go off, the one within five feet of the door, followed immediately by a banging.

“UBS,” a voice called out.

I relaxed, but only a little. It wouldn’t be the first time someone pretended to be a delivery service before they turned all assassin on you.

“Got any ID?” I called back. I did not move to look through the peephole. That would be expected. Whoever was on the other side of the door would know where I was standing at that moment and could take it as an opportunity to, oh, blow a hole in my head.

“Hello?” the voice said with an edge of annoyance.

I gave a quick look through the peep. He looked like a brownie—tawny skin, curly hair, button nose. The essence trickling through the door verified it as well. And he had the standard brown UBS uniform with the yellow shield sewn into the pocket, though that could have been filched.

Brownies aren’t the most powerful of the fairies. They didn’t have enough essence to make much of a living charging wards or serving as useful bodyguards. They are good at helping with simple tasks that people hate doing, like house-cleaning. A lot of brownies actually did market themselves as housekeepers. The one drawback is their tendency to take insult over the slightest matters. At which point, they mutate into boggarts and become obsessed with vindication. Where they could be quite shy and pleasant as brownies, their boggart aspect is relentlessly annoying. Some bright guy turned that into an advantage by starting the United Brownie Service, one of the most reliable delivery services in the world. When UBS comes calling, you either answer or risk being stalked by an angry boggart.

“How’d you get in the building?” I asked.

“The door was open. Look, I’m double-parked. I’ve got a letter for Connor Grey. Are you him?”

“Just leave it,” I said.

“I need a signature.” Definitely annoyed now. I gave another look-see. His eyes were bulging a little. If I teased him out a bit more, he’d go boggie. I once knew a guy in a divorce case who lived on the run for three months with a screaming, maniacal boggart chasing him down with a subpoena. Not pretty.

I decided to risk it and open the door. You can’t live your life assuming every nutty fairy at your door wants to kill you. The brownie gave me a grudging, almost relieved, smile. I doubt they like going boggart any more than someone likes being on the receiving end of it. Going boggie is a mania and has got to be exhausting.

“Are you Connor Grey?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I need to see your ID.” I didn’t argue. It would just make him upset, so I pulled out my wallet.

He nodded and made a notation on his clipboard. “An emergency meeting of the Guild board of directors has been called for tomorrow.”

I leaned against the doorjamb. “And that concerns me because…?”

He looked down at his clipboard. “You are the druid Connor Grey, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“So I have you listed as Lady Briallen ab Gwyll’s alternate. She’s out of town.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

He gave me an annoyed look and held his clipboard up. There it was, an official notice from Guildmaster Manus ap Eagan for a board of directors’ meeting tomorrow. Sure enough, there I was, listed as Briallen’s alternate.

“Sign here,” the brownie said, pointing. I chuckled and signed. The brownie handed me an envelope and snatched the clipboard back. “Thanks.”

“Please shut the front door for me.”

“Sure!” He gave me a ridiculous smile. I could not fathom being that happy doing errands. They prefer their brownie aspect over the boggart. By their very nature, they can swing between the two in moments, so having the opportunity to be helpful to me probably took the edge off his initial annoyance with me.

Briallen was an old friend and mentor. She had been on the Boston Guildhouse board of directors since its founding. I knew she was traveling in the Far East over the summer on some obscure educational junket that I could never quite clarify no matter how often I asked. I remember a discussion with her years ago about listing me as a temporary alternate director. I couldn’t believe she had never changed it, especially after the events of the last two years. It wasn’t like her to overlook something like that. On the other hand, what would be like her, though, is to remember exactly that and purposely not change it. For all her professions of being a scholar, which she is, she’s not above a little politicking here and there.

Since the accident that left me ability-impaired, I had effectively been banned from the Guildhouse. The envelope contained a copy of the meeting notice and a Guildhouse building pass. Normally, I couldn’t get in the front door of the Guildhouse without an escort, and here I was being invited to a governing board meeting. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Keeva’s face.

I could guess what the meeting was about. Alvud Kruge had been a board member. While the Guildhouse board had become more and more ineffectual over the years, fractured as it was by partisanship, with any luck it should be able to muster a coherent statement of condolences.

Now that I had the keys to the palace, I thought I’d drop in and surprise a couple of people. It would give me a chance to fill Keeva in on what had happened with the running shoe evidence and see what leads she was following for Kruge. If she would tell me. I never knew with her.

I spent the rest of the morning doing what I could to research gangs off the Internet. Not much help, really. Mostly newspaper articles talking about gangs on the Web. I did find a couple of local sites on the Weird, but they just referenced the usual suspects in the neighborhood in an odd travel guide style.

By early afternoon, I stood in the wide foyer of Boston’s Ward Guildhouse. To the left, applicants snaked through a queue, a litany of the fey world’s woes etched on their faces. This is how the fey deals with the world: A bad thing happens; you can’t solve it yourself; you go to the Guildhouse and fill out an application for assistance; then you go home and never hear from them again unless you’re really wealthy, really powerful, or really, really in trouble. In other words, most people don’t get their fey problems resolved.

I didn’t have to go through the rigmarole since I had a bona fide building pass. Which meant I could go through the much shorter queue to the right. It didn’t mean all that much. I still didn’t get to use the private employee entrance without a live employee with me. I used to. And I used to feel so cool doing it. That’s the problem with being arrogant. Lame-ass things make you feel cool. But since I don’t have much of anything to be arrogant about anymore, it’s all about my lack of patience.

The elf at the desk checked my driver’s license against the pass. Not a flicker of recognition passed over her face. So much for past glories. She returned the license and pass with a little clip I’d seen people use to hang their passes on their jackets. I slipped it into my pocket and strolled through security to the elevator lobby, checking myself out in the mirrored hallway.

As much as I despise the Guild these days, the Guildhouse itself is still a fascinating place. As the local Boston headquarters for the fey world, all manner of folk work in the building. You get a heady mix of politics and scholarship and even some danger. No one leaves their animosities at the door. Old grievances play themselves out through misplaced memos or nuanced wordplay or meeting roulette. Despite its egalitarian philosophy, it’s still a Seelie Court animal, though. The Celts hold sway. Sure they let in the elves and dwarves, but most of them get relegated to minor diplomatic meetings or, if they are actually employed by the Guild, rarely progress beyond midlevel positions. It’s the same story on the other side of town at the Teutonic Consulate, only in reverse. One day the fairies and the elves will settle their disputes and immediately start arguing over whose building to use for a unified fey world.

The elevator descended so slowly it felt like it wasn’t moving at all. The numbers lit up, flashed past the lobby and down. The third subbasement light flashed on, and the doors opened to the sound of blaring heavy-metal guitar. I walked down the long, vaulted corridor, idly running my finger along the bricks. Halfway to an opened door, thick oak on iron hinges, the music cut off, and I could here the unmistakable laugh of Meryl Dian.

“Stop making that face. I’m telling you that’s Grieg’s 54-3,” she said.

“Then why not listen to the Grieg?” A deep, male voice replied. As Meryl laughed again, I froze in midstep. I hadn’t heard that voice in a long time.

“This is listening to Grieg, only fresher,” she said.

I started walking again and stopped at the open door.

“I like the stale version,” said the man in her guest chair. He cocked his head back to look at me, then stood with a fluid, casual movement that belied his age.

Nigel Martin stood a little shorter than me, thin, his mostly silvered, wavy brown hair thrust back from his hair-line to graze the top of his collar. He had that solid presence of someone sure of himself, gained from years of experience, which in his case was at least a century. His eyes were at once youthful and deep, and green like a sea storm. He wore regular street clothes—simple brown chinos, a white button-down with a hound’s-tooth jacket. He could usually be mistaken for a stuffy professor at an Ivy League school.

Meryl gave me a broad smile. “Hey! Who let you in?”

“Hello, Nigel,” I said, looking at him. I could feel how uncertain the smile was on my face as I extended my hand and almost breathed in relief when he clasped it.

“Connor. Meryl tells me you’ve been doing well.”

I looked at her quickly. She remained seated, leaning back in her chair behind her desk piled high with the usual assortment of papers. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Nigel and me, a curious, observant look on her face.

“Yes, thanks. I didn’t know you were back,” I said.

He smiled a careful, warm smile. “I’ve been busy.” He tilted his head toward Meryl. “Ms. Dian, it was a pleasure as always, but I must go.” He turned back to me. “Don’t be late tomorrow, Connor.” He stepped forward, and I backed awkwardly into the hallway to let him pass.

“I won’t,” I said.

“’Bye, Nigel,” Meryl called out, the enthusiasm trailing out of her voice.

I watched him walk the length of the corridor in his signature steady stride that showed of many foot journeys. He reached the elevator and hit the button. The doors opened, and he stepped inside. Not once did he glance back at me, even when he pressed the inside panel. The doors closed on his back.

I looked at Meryl. She wore one of her customary black outfits, a lace top with a formless V-neck sweater. She had decided to let her hair grow longer this year, almost shoulder-length. Today it was blond with magenta bangs. I thought it was cute, though I wouldn’t admit it and deny myself the chance to rib her about it.

She furrowed a brow. “That was strange. Was that strange?”

I dropped myself into the vacated guest chair. “That was strange.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” I said, frowning. It hit me immediately. Nigel was pissed because I had done nothing. Here I was, two years after my accident, and I had not made any effort to deal with it until recently. Nigel is, maybe “was” now, my mentor. I had been his prize pupil. Briallen verch Gwyll ab Gwyll had initiated me into the mysteries throughout most of my teen years. When I hit a strapping eighteen years old, she turned me over to Nigel.

Nigel wasn’t in the States when I had my accident. He didn’t come back either. I didn’t take it personally. He often disappeared for months at a time. It didn’t occur to me, though, that this had been the longest stretch of time between our meetings. “When did he come back?”

Meryl closed one eye as she thought. “July.”

“Three months! And you didn’t tell me?”

She looked annoyed. “I wasn’t aware I was your social secretary. Besides, I assumed you knew.”

“And yet you never mentioned him.”

She gave me a level stare. “Uh, excuse me, neither did he, and it’s not my job to keep you up-to-date on my social life.”

I playfully curled my lip at her. “Fine, fine. I’m just annoyed. I can’t believe he didn’t call.”

“If I remember correctly, a lot of people don’t call you,” she said sweetly.

“Ha-ha. Guess why I’m here.”

She rolled her eyes. “You need something.”

“Funny.” I smiled and held up the building pass. “I’m attending a Guildhouse board meeting tomorrow as Briallen’s alternate.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Priceless. The place really is going to hell.”

“Go ahead, keep that up, and I won’t invite you for coffee,” I said.

She leaned back in her chair. “I hear you got tossed from the Kruge investigation.”

I love the Guild. Like all organizations with secrets, it’s a huge rumor mill. “I didn’t get tossed because I was never on it. I just happened to get to the crime scene before Keeva, and she pulled rank.”

Meryl nodded. “I heard she wasn’t too happy about it. She’s been desperately trying to impress Manny. It’s driving him crazy.”

“Manny? Since when do you call Manus ap Eagan ‘Manny’?”

“We’re old friends. He wasn’t always Guildmaster, you know.”

That gave me pause. Manus ap Eagan had been Guildmaster almost my entire life. I searched Meryl’s face for some hint of her age, but she looked no older than late twenties, early thirties. I didn’t sense any glamour about her either. It was even possible she was over fifty. Druids and druidesses live extremely long lives, and our physical appearance changes very slowly compared to human normals. I was almost forty years old, but looked and felt like a human normal in my twenties. I could tell she knew what I was thinking by the smirk on her face. Questioning her would be useless.

I smirked. “My, my. Guildmaster Eagan. Nigel Martin. Pretty impressive company you’re keeping these days.”

Her eyes went wide. She leaned forward and grabbed her phone. “Shoot! That reminds me. I was supposed to call Maeve back.”

“What!”

She punched in a phone number. “She called during Buffy. I almost forgot.”

My jaw dropped. “The High Queen of Tara called, and you let the machine pick up because you were watching Buffy?!”

She held her hand over the receiver and pitched her voice low. “It was the ‘Dark Willow’ one. I don’t have it on DVD.”

We stared at each other. The corner of her mouth twitched, then she broke into a grin.

“You’re a jerk,” I said.

She laughed and hung up the phone. “Way too easy, Grey. So tell me about Kruge.”

I filled her in on what I knew, including Dennis Farnsworth. “…and I think this gangbanger might be related,” I finished.

She tilted her head in thought. “I guess it’s possible in a ‘golly gee I hope I can figure out how to get involved with the most important murder case in the world’ kind of way.”

“I can never thank you enough for your support,” I said.

“I think the dwarves are your best bet. They’re very territorial, especially down that end of the Weird.”

“Yeah, I agree. I was wondering if…”

“…I could do you a favor,” she said with an smug, matter-of-fact tone.

I glowered at her. “Yes. Any chance you can score me some gang files?”

She laughed. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“So, how long have you known Nigel Martin?” I asked.

She sighed. “I thought you let that go too quickly.”

I threw my hands in the air in feigned innocence. “What? I’m having a casual conversation about a mutual friend.”

She cocked her head again. “There’s really not much to tell. As far as I know, he showed up at the Guildhouse sometime in July—and no, don’t ask me, I am not going to check the ID scanner logs for the precise date. He came to my office one day to ask me about Scandinavian relics. He comes by every couple of weeks to see what I find. We shoot the shit. End of story.”

“What do you talk about?”

“I don’t know. At first it was just business. Lately it’s been music. He has the most archaic taste. I’ve been trying to convince him that the best thing to happen to Faerie music was Convergence.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You were in Faerie?”

She laughed. “Goat’s blood, Grey. I hope this isn’t an example of the investigative skills your reputation claims.”

“Where were you born?” is a game the fey like to play. The fey that came from Faerie were known as the Old Ones: Maeve, the High Queen at Tara; Donor Elfenkonig, the self-styled Elven King; Briallen, though she won’t discuss it; Gillen Yor, High Healer at Avalon Memorial. Certainly, Nigel Martin, but he’d never said anything about it, and no one seems to remember him from there. Lots of others.

Some people believe the Old Ones, the ones directly from Faerie, are more powerful and adept at manipulating essence than their offspring. True or not, most people believe it, so to impress people, more fey than possible claim to have been born in Faerie. While druids and druidesses hold their age extremely well, I doubted Meryl could be that old.

“What kind of relics?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Rune stakes, mostly.”

Rune stakes. Nigel certainly knew enough about Celtic rune stakes. He’d taught me everything I know about them. You get a stick, you scratch some ogham on it, you poke it somewhere. They were like stone wards, only much more precise since you can get pretty detailed with them. Scandinavian rune stakes used old Teutonic runes. So, that meant elf research most likely. Nigel is a political animal as well as a powerful druid. Know your enemy are the watchwords for both.

“Anything interesting?”

She toyed with a strand of her hair. “Sure. Tribal territory markers and a couple of evil eye type of things. I’m definitely going to try one of the evil eye things. I’m infested with Christian missionaries lately.”

“So, let’s go for coffee, and you can tell me all about it.”

She shook her head. “Can’t. I’ve got stuff I have to take care of.”

“Maybe I could come by your place later. You could make dinner. Food’s the fastest way to a man’s heart, you know.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Really? I thought it was the fourth intercostal space between the ribs.”

I shook my head, looking at the ceiling. I pulled myself up out of the chair. “Fine. I’ll just have to catch you when you don’t have ‘stuff.’”

She quirked an eyebrow up. “I’ve got lots of stuff.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m leaving!” I said.

“Give my regards to Manny,” she called as I walked out. I gave her the finger and smiled at the sound of her laugh all the way to the elevator.

The previous spring, I had stopped a madman from destroying reality and gotten my ass kicked. Between the strain of fighting powerful entities and the physical battering I took in the process, I’d almost died again. Meryl had stopped in often at the hospital to see me. Of course, she made a point of reminding me that she had healing abilities and always asked about my health, my treatment, and my essence. When I was discharged and went home, we developed an avid email correspondence. Which led to drinking together. Which led to the occasional lunch or dinner.

I didn’t know what was going on with her. I liked being around her. I liked getting to know her. I liked that she gave me shit at every opportunity. Normally, I don’t start getting those feelings until after I’ve slept with someone and, even then, not usually. This was different. I hadn’t even had a good fevered dream about her, never mind gotten her naked. And it gave me an odd pleasure that if she knew that, she would act all annoyed and dismissive.

I hit the UP button. Due to the odd nature of the Guildhouse, with its towers and arches and spires, the doors opened on the fifteenth or the eighteenth floor, depending on how you counted. In any case, it was the Community Liaison Department, my old haunt where Keeva macNeve now held sway.

Since my accident helped boot me out of the Guild, I had been back only a few times and even then, insultingly, under escort. As I stood in the hall, knowing that Keeva had her job only because I saved her ass on her last major assignment, it finally struck home that I was never going to be back at the Guild as an investigator. The only place to do that was where I was standing, and there was no way in hell I could stomach Keeva as my boss.

The floor was surprisingly quiet. As I looked in at empty office after office, the only person I saw I didn’t know. He didn’t look up as I passed. I was about to turn around, when I found myself outside my old office. I didn’t need a psychology course to get why I had ended up in front of the closed door. Seeing the empty nameplate next to it, I entertained the momentary thought that perhaps they were holding it for me even after all this time.

I pushed the door open and laughed. My desk was still there. My bookshelves. The floor lamp that I banged into every time I pushed my desk chair back. My desk chair was there, too. The credenza that I special ordered out of spite when accounting was giving me a hard time about my budget overruns. And every single flat surface was stacked with boxes. My office had become a storage room for old case files. So much for preserving the memory of me.

In another time, I would have nurtured a furious bitterness. Seeing that office, though, I really did have to laugh. What else could I do? The Wheel turns as It will, one of my favorite mentors likes to say. Who am I to rage against It?

I walked up to the window. At least the view had not changed and was still worth every penny. Boston Common at any time of year looks amazing. The oldest public park in the United States, and a fairy hill sits smack-dab in the middle of it. What’s not to love?

I glanced down. Tucked between a chimney pot and the bottom of a flying buttress, a small cyclopean gargoyle squatted, a horn coming out of his forehead and his oversize genitalia proudly displayed. He’s never told me his name, so I keep calling him Virgil. He shows up at unexpected times and places. Gargoyles have a knack for omen and given that he could only be seen from this angle, I was willing to bet he knew I would decide to visit my old office. I waited to see if he would say anything. He rarely does, and after a few minutes, he still hadn’t spoken. I knew I would spend the rest of the day, if not longer, wondering if his presence alone was supposed to indicate something.

“Are you lost?”

I turned at the sound of Keeva’s voice. The Guildhouse has dampening wards everywhere, so I didn’t sense her behind me. “No, just needed some paper clips.”

She leaned against the door, her de rigueur black jumpsuit fitting snugly over a body that was made for things to fit snugly over. Keeva is without a doubt attractive and knows it. At the same time, she has that look, slightly bitter, like she’s sure any moment she’s going to smell something bad. It knocks her down the hotness scale in my book. Today, though, she just looked stressed, even pale. “How did you get in?”

I perched myself on the corner of the desk. My desk. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I had a perfectly legitimate reason to be in the building, but she didn’t have to know that.

“Look, Connor. I’m busy. I am in no mood to talk about your visa.”

I nodded. My visa. In all the action of the last twenty-four hours, I had actually not thought about it, which is amazing considering how obsessed with it I’ve been. I’ve been trying to go to Germany to track down the elf who almost killed me two years ago and again indirectly this past spring. I’m hoping for a little payback. Somehow I’ve been mysteriously put on the German no-entry list and can only get past it with a diplomatic visa, which only the Guild can provide. I guess I didn’t have to put “want to kill someone in the Black Forest” on my application for them to figure out why I wanted to go.

“Come on, Keeva. Bergin Vize is running free. He obviously has some powerful connections there, or I wouldn’t need the visa. Someone has to bring him in, and I think I deserve to be the one to do it.”

She shook her head. “Connor, you ran around all summer telling anyone within earshot that you wanted to kill Bergin Vize. You know the Guild can’t endorse that. Do not think for one moment I am distracted enough by Kruge’s murder to sign off on a visa.”

I shrugged. She wasn’t willing to the first six times I asked. I didn’t think she would be this time either. “You don’t look so good.”

She nodded instead of taking offense. “I haven’t had much sleep in the last three days. Eorla Kruge has decided to bury her husband here, and I have two diplomatic delegations to coordinate in addition to the investigation.”

“How is the Kruge investigation?”

She pursed her lips, crossed her arms, and looked down at her toes. “It’s complicated. Troll essence everywhere, more than one, but the MO is all wrong. We’re thinking some kind of rogue. Maybe the cleaning woman Kruge employed. Her name’s Croda. She hasn’t been seen since the murder. She has known drug gang connections, and Kruge was doing everything he could to take down the gangs.”

“A troll cleaning lady? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

Keeva looked up, unamused. “Is there something you came up here for besides bothering me?”

“Actually, no. Do the names Dennis Farnsworth or Crystal Finch mean anything to you?”

She nodded. “Farnsworth is the kid that got killed the same night as Kruge. Murdock’s report got passed to me this morning.”

That surprised me. I keep forgetting how efficient Murdock can be. “You got the report? So the Guild’s taking the case?”

She shrugged. “No. I got the report because Murdock thinks the Guild should take it. In fact, I have an entire Murdock file. He thinks all his cases are fey-related. He’s worse than you are.”

“Keeva, the kid had Kruge’s blood on him. How can you ignore that?”

She gave me that long look again. “Correct me if I’m misquoting, but I believe the report says ‘due to concurrent circumstances, elf blood evidence on running shoe may be related to Kruge case.’ Also correct me if I’m misremembering, but I believe this blood evidence has also been destroyed. Is that what you’re claiming I’m ignoring? Even if the kid was there, he’s dead, so he’s no help. I’m not seeing anything on the police report to follow up on. Is there something you know that’s not in the report?”

“The kid was wearing gang gear. You have to look at that angle, too.”

She nodded. “Kruge was a gang mediator. Practically everyone related to his outreach office has some gang history. He wasn’t killed by some street kid, Connor. It was someone fey and someone powerful. If I start assuming every gang member is Kruge’s killer, I’d be hauling in a third of the population from your end of town. If the kid’s death becomes relevant, I might take the case. Right now, he’s just collateral damage. I’ll feed Murdock any info that might close what is, and remains, his case.”

Keeva’s focus on fey-only crimes was exactly what frustrated me about the Guild these days. She didn’t even want to entertain the notion that a dead human kid was something to be upset about. “But…”

Annoyance crossed her face. “But, nothing, Connor. Look, whoever killed Kruge would have no problem killing Farnsworth. Why would he bother going through the effort of flying him almost a mile away and dropping him? It doesn’t make sense. I think the kid saw what happened, ran, and got caught in his own little problems. I’ll tell you this if only to get you out of my hair: I have another report on my desk. A gang fight happened two days ago involving elves. Your kid was wearing the colors of one of the gangs. You want to find a motive for your case, it’s right there. Instead of trying to tell me how to do my job, why don’t you go tell Murdock to do his and talk to the Boston gang unit.”

I could tell by the self-satisfied smirk on Keeva’s face that I did a bad job of hiding my surprise. I couldn’t believe Murdock didn’t tell me about the gang fight. It didn’t change my gut feeling, but it certainly didn’t help me get Keeva interested in the case.

“Can I see the file?”

“Ask Murdock. You have to leave now.” Her voice was neutral. She wasn’t just being obstinate this time. I knew the drill. She probably had every power player in the city breathing down her neck. Instead of pushing her buttons some more, I decided to enjoy her discomfort vicariously for now.

“Okay. Let me know if I can help,” I said.

Nigel Martin appeared at the door. “Here you are,” he said to Keeva.

She smiled at him. “Sorry, Nigel. Look who I bumped into.”

He smiled thinly. “Connor.”

“Twice in one day, Nigel. Almost like old times.” I couldn’t resist injecting a little sarcasm into my voice.

“Much has happened since then,” he said.

“Maybe we can have dinner. Catch up,” I said.

He glanced at Keeva. “Other things are more pressing at the moment. Perhaps another time.”

I tried to appear unperturbed. “What brings you back to Boston?”

“Research,” he said.

I waited a beat for him to ask me what I was doing. Then another beat. And another. “I’m working cases for the Boston P.D.,” I finally said.

“Yes, I had heard that. I’m sorry, Connor, but we don’t have time to socialize right now. Keeva and I have work to do,” he said.

I tried to mask my embarrassment with a neutral face. I doubt I did it very well. Not in front of two people who knew me well enough to know the difference between my neutral face and my upset-but-hiding-it face. Nigel knew damn well how I would react to what he said. Sure enough, Keeva now had on her I’m-pretending-not-to-be-enjoying-this face.

“Sure, no problem. I just stopped by to say hello,” I said.

Keeva stepped back to let me pass by the two of them as I went into the hallway. I continued walking without saying anything. As I was about to turn the corner to the elevator, she called my name. I looked back. They continued walking away from me as she spoke over her shoulder.

“Just so you know, I’m not going to screw up the Kruge investigation to spite you. If anything pans out on Farnsworth, let me know.”

I smiled and nodded once. She turned and walked in the other direction. I knew she wouldn’t screw up the investigation to spite me. If I found any key evidence, she would take credit for solving the case to spite me.