ran myself ragged and made a critical error because I was too tired to think straight.
Mister, my bobtailed grey tomcat, came flying out of the darkened apartment as I opened the door. He slammed his shoulder into my legs, startled me half to death, and nearly put me on my ass. He’s the next best thing to thirty pounds of cat, and when he hits me with his shoulder block of greeting I know it.
I leaned down to grab him and prevent him from leaving, and wearily let myself into the house. It felt a lot quieter and emptier without Mouse in it. Don’t get me wrong: me and Mister were roommates for years before the pooch came along. But it had taken considerable adjustments for both of us to get used to sharing our tiny place with a monstrous, friendly dust mop, and the sudden lack of his presence was noticeable and uncomfortable.
But Mister idly sauntered over to Mouse’s bowl, ate a piece of kibble, and then calmly turned the entire bowl over so that kibble rolled all over the floor of the kitchen alcove. Then he went to Mouse’s usual spot on the floor and lay down, sprawling luxuriously. So maybe it was just me.
I sat down on the couch, made a call, left a message, and then found myself lacking sufficient ambition to walk all the way into my bedroom, strip the sheets Morgan had bloodied, and put fresh ones on before I slept.
So instead I just stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. Sleep was instantaneous.
I didn’t so much as stir until the front door opened, and Murphy came in, holding the amulet that let her in past my wards. It was morning, and cheerful summer sunlight was shining through my well windows.
“Harry,” she said. “I got your message.”
Or at least, that’s what I think she said. It took me a couple of tries to get my eyes open and sit up. “Hang on,” I said. “Hang on.” I shambled into the bathroom and sorted things out, then splashed some cold water on my face and came back into the living room. “Right. I think I can sort of understand English now.”
She gave me a lopsided smile. “You look like crap in the morning.”
“I always look like this before I put on my makeup,” I muttered.
“Why didn’t you call my cell? I’d have shown up right away.”
“Needed sleep,” I said. “Morning was good enough.”
“I figured.” Murphy drew a paper bag from behind her back. She put it down on the table.
I opened it. Coffee and donuts.
“Cop chicks are so hot,” I mumbled. I pushed Peabody’s file across the table to her and started stuffing my face and guzzling.
Murphy went through it, frowning, and a few minutes later asked, “What’s this?”
“Warden case file,” I said. “Which you are not looking at.”
“The worm has turned,” she said bemusedly. “Why am I not looking at it?”
“Because it’s everything the Council has about LaFortier’s death,” I said. “I’m hoping something in here will point me toward the real bad guy. Two heads are better than one.”
“Got it,” she said. She took a pen and a notepad from her hip pocket and set them down within easy reach. “What should I be looking for?”
“Anything that stands out.”
She held up a page. “Here’s something,” she said in a dry tone. “The vic was two hundred and seventy-nine years old when he died.”
I sighed. “Just look for inconsistencies.”
“Ah,” she said wisely.
Then we both fell quiet and started reading the documents in the file.
Morgan had given it to me straight. A few days before, a Warden on duty in Edinburgh heard a commotion in LaFortier’s chambers. She summoned backup, and when they broke in, they found Morgan standing over LaFortier’s still-warm corpse holding the murder weapon. He professed confusion and claimed he did not know what had happened. The weapon had been matched to LaFortier’s wounds, and the blood had matched as well. Morgan was imprisoned and a rigorous investigation had turned up a hidden bank account that had just received a cash deposit of a hell of a lot of money. Once confronted with that fact, Morgan managed to escape, badly wounding three Wardens in the process.
“Can I ask you something?” Murphy said.
“Sure.”
“One of the things that make folks leery of pulling the trigger on a wizard is his death curse, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “If you’re willing to kill yourself to do it, you can lay out some serious harm on your killer.”
She nodded. “Is it an instantaneous kind of thing?”
I pursed my lips. “Not really.”
“Then how long does it take? Minutes? Seconds?”
“About as long as it takes to pull a gun and plug somebody,” I said. “Some would be quicker than others.”
“A second or three, then.”
“Yeah.”
“Did Morgan get blasted by LaFortier’s death curse then?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. It’s sort of hard to say. It isn’t always an immediate effect.”
“Best guess?”
I sipped at the last of the coffee. “LaFortier was a member of the Senior Council. You don’t get there without some serious chops. A violent death curse from someone like that could turn a city block to glass. So if I had to guess, I’d say no. LaFortier didn’t throw it.”
“Why not?”
I frowned some more.
“He had time enough,” Murphy said. “There was obviously a struggle. The vic has defensive wounds all over his arms-and he bled to death. That doesn’t take long, but it’s plenty of time to do the curse thing.”
“For that matter,” I mused, “why didn’t either of them use magic? This was a strictly physical struggle.”
“Could their powers have canceled each other out?”
“Technically, I guess,” I said. “But that sort of thing needs serious synchronization. It doesn’t often happen by accident.”
“Well. That’s something, then,” she said. “Both men either chose not to use magic or else were unable to use magic. Ditto the curse. Either LaFortier chose not to use it, or he was incapable of using it. The question is, why?”
I nodded. “Sound logic. So how does that help us get closer to the killer?”
She shrugged, unfazed. “No clue.”
That’s how investigation works, most of the time. Cops, detectives, and quixotic wizards hardly ever know which information is pertinent until we’ve actually got a pretty good handle on what’s happening. All you can do is accumulate whatever data you can, and hope that it falls into a recognizable pattern.
“Good thought, but it doesn’t help yet,” I said. “What else have we got?”
Murphy shook her head. “Nothing that I can see yet. But do you want a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
She held up the page with the details on the incriminating bank account. “Follow the money.”
“The money?”
“Witnesses can be mistaken-or bought. Theories and deductions can throw you completely off target.” She tossed the page back onto the coffee table. “But the money always tells you something. Assuming you can find it.”
I picked up the page and scanned it again. “A foreign bank. Amsterdam. Can you get them to show you where the payment came from?”
“You’re kidding,” Murphy said. “It would take me days, weeks, maybe months to go through channels and get that kind of information from an American bank, if I could get it at all. From a foreign bank specializing in confidentiality? I’ve got a better chance of winning a slam-dunk contest against Michael Jordan.”
I grunted. I got the disposable camera out of my duster pocket and passed it over to Murphy. “I snapped some shots of the scene-a lot more of them than are in the Wardens’ file. I’d like to get your take on them.”
She took the camera and nodded. “Okay. I can take them by a photo center and-”
My old rotary telephone rang, interrupting her. I held up a hand to her and answered it.
“Harry,” Thomas said, his voice tight. “We need you here. Now.”
