“Possible.” His voice held a trace of doubt, which I shared. The wheels of federal justice seldom rol
that quickly. Thorough, yes. God, yes. But
foreign royalty—the threat of a major diplomatic incident might have been just enough to light a fire
under them. But who, before me, might have told them about the prince? That’s the only reason I could
think the Feds would be involved, and if they’d heard about it from Alex, they would have known I was at
the station. I turned back to Dawna. “Are they stil here?”
“No, but you only missed them by a couple of minutes. They left a card. You’re supposed to cal .” She
arched an elegant eyebrow. “And Birchwoods left an urgent message. But if I were you I’d cal Kevin
first. He’s about to blow a gasket. Swear to God he’s cal ed at least ten times.”
I sighed. He’d said to cal and I’d flat forgotten. He was probably pissed beyond measure. I was sort
of surprised he wasn’t waiting in the next room. “Cal him back. Tel him I’m helping the cops with their
investigation and I’l get back with him as soon as I break free.”
“He’s not going to like that.”
Of course he wasn’t. But he’d have to live with it, because I needed to cooperate with the police to get
the police to cooperate with me.
“Do you want me to cal the agents, tel them you’re here?”
I glanced over at Gibson, who was shaking his head no. I didn’t blame him. A jurisdictional pissing
contest would do nothing but slow him down. I’d give them whatever information they wanted. But I liked
Gibson, so he’d get first dibs.
“Not yet. Let me finish with the detective first.”
“Al right. Is there anything I can get the two of you? I can start a fresh pot of coffee if you like.”
“No need to go to any trouble.” Gibson gave her a charming smile. “I don’t intend to stay that long.”
“Oh, it’s no bother.” She blushed. It looked good on her. Until that instant it hadn’t occurred to me that
she and Gibson had been eyeing each other. Leave it to Dawna. My world was going to hel , the office
was in shambles, and yet somehow she’d managed to find an eligible man. I swear she’s got radar. Or
maybe her grandmother did some ancient Vietnamese magic on her that drew them like flies to honey.
Whatever. As soon as Gibson was out of earshot I’d warn her off. He was dying. Getting involved with
him would be an invitation to heartbreak.
I started up the stairs. Gibson fol owed. The staircase isn’t wide and it’s steep, with narrow treads.
Most folks get breathless by the first-floor landing. By the time they reach my digs on the third floor,
they’re usual y gasping and irritable. If the building hadn’t been designated a historic landmark, we’d
probably have been forced to instal an elevator and make the whole thing handicapped accessible.
Instead, we have a ramp leading up to the back porch and a shared, accessible conference room on
the first floor.
The staircase ended in an open area on the third floor. It’s a sunny space, lit by large east- facing
windows. I usual y like it, but today I hurried down the hal , past the door to Freedom Bail Bonds, to
unlock the door to my office.
In some ways my office is very feminine. The wal s are painted a deep, warm peach. The trim is
painted off-white, as is the elegantly patterned tin ceiling. Heavy drapes printed with cabbage roses in
white, peach, and russet cover the various windows. Al of that femininity is nicely contrasted by the
dark wood office furniture, black metal filing cabinets, and big, glossy black gun safe bolted to the floor.
It’s large enough to hold an arsenal. We had to reinforce the floor so it didn’t crash down into the
second-floor bathroom, which didn’t make the landmark people very happy. I scrounged around old
houses for nearly a month to find enough hardwood rafters from the right time period so we’d qualify
for the brass plaque.
The safe is top-of-the-line, with not only heavy-duty locks but also level-eight magical wards
protecting it. Anybody who tries to mess with it wil wind up on their ass at least, and probably in the
hospital for an extended stay. I’d have made the protections lethal—but the police frown on that sort of
thing.
My mother whines to Gran about how I make so much money, where could I possibly spend it al ? I
was looking at a chunk of it. A lot goes into savings and investments, of course. No matter how good
you are, you’re going to get hurt in this job—if you don’t get kil ed. Insurance companies won’t give
bodyguards a disability policy. So you have to prepare for the worst on your own. I have a tidy little nest
egg, and anybody who signs my contract has to guarantee a lump sum payment of a quarter mil in
case of death or permanent disability. I charge a rate that is significant enough to al ow me to live quite
nicely. What’s left over gets either invested or spent on things like the safe and weapons.
And art. A couple of smal high-quality framed prints are hung on the outer wal s. The cherry frames
match the wood of the coffee table and the arms of the visitors’ chairs. The paintings were created by
a magician several centuries before. I swear there’s more to them than pretty seascapes. I just haven’t
figured out what yet.
The inside wal is al business—a large-scale, detailed map of the city and surrounding areas. It’s
been laminated and mounted on cork and takes up most of the wal . I use it to plan transport and
emergency evacuation routes, among other things. I’ve marked ongoing construction projects and
detours. Because if a map like that isn’t accurate it’s worthless.
Gibson wandered around the room, taking it al in. I stepped behind the desk and over to the safe. I
stated my name very clearly, and a panel slid out. I set my left hand on it, palm downward, holding stil
as a soft blue light scanned from left to right, then top to bottom. Two of the lights on the display panel
switched to green. The third, however, remained a sul en red.
“What the hel ?” I glared at the machine. The technology part of the security was working just fine: My
voice had passed, my palm and fingerprints accepted. But the magical wards, the ones keyed to my
DNA, didn’t accept my identity. I couldn’t open the safe.
“Is there a problem?”
“The safe doesn’t recognize me.” I kept my voice pleasant, but I was swearing inwardly. This was
bad. Real y bad.
“How long before the wards wind down?” He said it as though he figured it would be a matter of
hours. Little did he know.
“Probably a decade or so.”
He stared at me with wide eyes. It probably took a ful minute before he gathered his wits enough to
say, “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”
I turned, my eyes locking with his for a long moment. “There’s no point in having a safe if it doesn’t
keep things
He shook his head, obviously both annoyed and amused.
