“Yesterday didn’t turn out the way any of us had planned.”
“No, it did not.”
Marion glanced back and rose, walking toward us with the other vampires in her wake.
“Developments?” she asked.
“I haven’t yet spoken to my father this evening. I wanted to speak with you first. We’re anticipating the Ombudsman’s office is going to be difficult to deal with,” I said, and explained what we’d heard last night from Dearborn, and how prickly we expected him to be.
“Riley wouldn’t have killed Tomas,” I said, giving the words as much confidence as I could, and meeting their gazes as I said it.
Marion tilted her head. “He was found with the murder weapon.”
I had a feeling I was going to be having this same conversation a lot in the near future.
“He was,” I agreed. “And he’d had a public altercation with Tomas at the party, which was after Tomas insulted shifters at the talks. But Riley wouldn’t have cared about any of that, and even if he’d been irritated, he wouldn’t have killed over it. Yes, his past is checkered. But I know him, and I’ve known him for a very long time. This isn’t his way.”
“If you believe Riley is innocent, who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
I wasn’t sure how much to tell them, but decided my loyalties to Maison Dumas were at least as strong as those to Riley, if not stronger. So I told them about the missing video footage, the killer’s escape route, and the possibility magic had been used to skew Riley’s memory.
“You think he was influenced?” Marion asked, gaze clear.
“I think there was magic in the area of Tomas’s death,” I said carefully. “I think someone killed Tomas, and Riley made the perfect fall guy.”
“Why kill Tomas?” she asked.
“I don’t know that, either. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are no talks today, that the session was canceled.”
“You believe someone wanted to disrupt the entire peace process,” Marion said.
“That’s the only link we know of at the moment.”
“The fae interrupted the session yesterday,” Marion said. “Were they were involved in the murder?”
“There’s no evidence of that so far,” I said. “There were fairies at the party, but they didn’t cause any trouble that I know of.”
“I had the same thought,” Marion said, nodding as Odette handed her a cup of tea. “Thank you, ma chère.” Marion took a heartening sip, then set the cup down in its matching saucer. “And how can we assist in helping your friend?”
The question nearly brought tears to my eyes, and reminded me once again why I’d felt such a connection to Dumas.
“You could give me time,” I said. “I realize I’m here on behalf of Maison Dumas, but I’d like your permission to look into this, to try to find out what happened. Not just for Riley, but because the killer is still out there—and willing to kill—in order to get what they want. That makes them dangerous to all of us, including your house.”
Marion sipped again, considered. “You have my permission to make inquiries,” she said, then grinned. “And how, pray tell, do you plan to get around Cadogan’s arrangement with the city?”
I smiled back. “I’m still working on that one.”
* * *
• • •
The Ombudsman’s office was located in the abandoned brick factory that also housed Cook County’s supernatural prisoners. The factory’s offices had been renovated, and a second building had been converted into a space for supernatural mediations and educational events. That had been my great-grandfather’s doing: adding a learning component to the office’s mission. The city’s politicians had, for once, done some long-term thinking and agreed with him.
The property was fenced, but the gate was open, the entrance edged with shrubs and a sign bearing the office’s logo. That was also part of the deal my great-grandfather had made for rehabbing the factory. He’d agree to move his HQ from the South Side neighborhood he’d worked in before, but the gate had to stay open, the offices had to be inviting, because he’d wanted humans and supernaturals to feel comfortable visiting here. Now it looked more like a campus than an industrial relic.
I walked to the admin building, waved at the guard who sat near the entrance. Clarence Pettiway had guarded the office since I’d been old enough to visit, and always had a book in hand.
This time he looked up from a faded paperback and lifted a hand in a wave. His dark skin was liberally wrinkled, but his eyes were still sharp.
“Well, if it isn’t little Elisa Sullivan. Although not so little now.”
“Mr. Pettiway, it’s good to see you.” I gestured to the book. “What’s in the queue today?”
He turned it over, revealing the creased cover of Homer’s The Odyssey. “Hope to get in a little classical reading this week. Working on one of those Top 100 Reads lists. What brings you by?”
“I’d like to speak with one of your prisoners. Riley Sixkiller.”
The smile disappeared, and his face went hard. Mr. Pettiway was retired from the CPD, but he was still a cop at heart. “He’s in lockup. And Mr. Dearborn didn’t authorize you through.”
That was a tricky one.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” I confessed. “But Riley’s been a friend for a really long time, and I think someone set him up. I’d just like a few minutes to hear his side of the story. I know I’m asking you for a lot. But I promise I’d only need a few minutes.”
It took nearly a minute for him to relent, to rise and put down his book, then walk me down the hallway to the dismal concrete corridor that led to the holding facility.
Mr. Pettiway pressed a hand to the security plate, and the door popped open with a loud, mechanical click. He held it before it could close, looked back at me again.
“I’m allowing this because of your great-grandfather, and because I figure you’re a pretty good judge of character. But you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
And I could handle myself better than Mr. Pettiway imagined.
* * *
• • •
The room was enormous, big as a football field with walls twenty feet high. And it was empty except for the glass-and-concrete cubes arranged in a tidy grid. No steel, no bars. But cages all the same.
The first cube in the first row was empty, as were most of the others. Riley’s cube was second from the end.
I found him pacing behind the glass wall. He wore pale gray scrubs and white socks, and the thin fabric somehow made him seem smaller. Behind him, the cube was empty but for a slab bed built into the wall, a sink, and a toilet. The ceiling was glass, but the other three walls were concrete, to provide a little privacy. And like most prisons, I guessed, it was depressing.
I waited until he lifted his gaze—and then saw hope flare and fade again. I was instantly sorry I’d put it there.
“Elisa. You come to stare at the animal in the cage?”
There were dark circles under his eyes and a bruise on his jaw, probably from fighting back against his arrest.
“I came to check on you. And ask you some questions.”
“I’ve already talked to the cops. The Pack.” His voice was dismissive, his words short. I couldn’t exactly blame him for being angry.
“I know. And I know you didn’t hurt him, Riley. I know you didn’t kill Tomas.”
His eyes widened, softened.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
“I don’t know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his temple. “And trying to remember makes my head scream.”
“Okay,” I said, filing that away. “Then tell me what you do remember.”
“Brisket.”
Not what I’d expected him to say. “Brisket?”
“The Pack supplied the meat for the party, including brisket we’d smoked at Little Red in the new kitchen—there’s a mesquite pit, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I got to the party same time as the van, helped unload the trays.” He held out his arms in a rough rectangle. “You know those big aluminum pans?”
“Sure. The catering pans. I saw you carrying them.”
He nodded. “I brought them in, got them situated.”
“And then what?”