“You don’t.”
“No.” He shot her a grin as he slowed. She couldn’t see anything to slow down for, but she trusted that he had a reason. “I prefer warriors.”
A warrior? Was that how he thought of her? Lily decided she liked that. “Give me your take on Robert Friar.”
“Lupe was right. He hates. But he hates with patience and intelligence. He’s gregarious, but on his own terms—likes to entertain, but always with a goal in mind. He likes to stay in control, both of himself and others. And he likes to win.”
“You’ve met him?”
“We’ve been at a few parties. Political bashes—state, not national.”
“Has Cullen met him?”
“Not precisely met, no. If you want to know if Friar has a Gift, Cullen couldn’t read him.”
“What?” Her head jerked to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“Apparently Friar has some sort of natural shield. Cullen says that may indicate a blocked Gift of the psychic sort—telepathy, empathy, that sort of thing. There was something unusual about Friar’s shield, something that puzzled Cullen. He wasn’t able to explain what that was.”
She frowned, considering. “I need to shake the man’s hand. According to his file, his wife died eight years ago. He’s never remarried. He likes women?”
“He likes them compliant and well-endowed, from what I’ve seen. I believe sex is his weakness.”
“What do you mean? Shit. Hold on a minute.”
Her phone was chiming. It was the ringtone she’d assigned to Martin Croft, who was running the Unit with Ruben gone. She tapped the screen to accept the call. “Yu here.”
“Yes, I am. And you’ve got to stop answering your phone that way. It brings out the worst in me.” Croft’s voice was smooth, but the humor seemed strained. “Have you listened to the news this afternoon?”
“No. Kind of busy here.” Ah, there it was—a small gravel road, well graded, snaking off to the left. Opposite it was a small house with the porch light on. Lupe Valdez’s place, Lily thought, from what the woman had said at the end of that interview. Rule turned onto the gravel road. In the beam of his headlights, she could see that there was a gate across the road, but it had been left open.
Croft wanted an update on her investigation. She complied, wondering about the connection between the news and Hilliard’s death. When she’d finished, Croft said, “So there is reason to suspect magic was involved, even if gado wasn’t. That the tattoo was some kind of spell.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I’m waiting to hear from Arjenie in research, see if the design is on record as being spell-based.”
“We’ll need that, since your personal ability doesn’t give us admissible evidence. Be cautious in interviewing Friar. He’d like to take a bite out of us.”
Then he told her why he’d called. It wasn’t good news.
Rule spoke as soon as she’d disconnected. “Two days isn’t much time.”
“No.” She drummed her fingers on her phone’s case, unsurprised that he’d heard both sides of the conversation. He usually did.
Croft had told her that another Unit agent, a precog, had played a hunch that hadn’t worked out. That happened; precognition was probably the least consistent Gift. Unfortunately, she’d climbed out on a limb backing her hunch, using her authority to override the local cops in a ham-handed way. As a result, the real culprit had fled the country; the man she’d arrested had had a heart attack in jail; and the press was after blood. Croft was preparing for some congressional critters to use the incident to try to cut back the Unit’s authority.
So he’d given her two days for her investigation. Two days to find concrete evidence that magic was involved in Hilliard’s death, making this a federal crime. With luck, Arjenie’s research would provide that evidence.
But luck was a fickle bitch. Lily didn’t like to count on it.
Rule eased the car to a stop. They hadn’t quite reached their destination, but it lay directly ahead. Looked like Friar went for what Lily called millionaire rustic: two stories of wood and glass; an enormous, staggered veranda; three gables; and steeply pitched roof sections to slough off the snow that so seldom arrived. The exterior was professionally lit and landscaped. The gravel road made a wide curve in front of the house before heading to the back, where presumably there was a garage.
An elderly, mud-spattered Bronco was parked directly out front. It didn’t look like a rich man’s car, not even as an off-the-road toy. “Help usually parks out of sight. You think Friar has company?”
“Friar has a live-in housekeeper who parks in the five-bay garage out back. That isn’t her car, or one of his. You still want me to come in? My presence in the investigation may give him ammunition.”
She glanced at him. Sounded like he was keeping pretty careful track of Robert Friar. Maybe she should ask to see his file on the man.
But for now…did she play it safe, keep Rule in the car? Or give Friar something to bitch about, knowing he might bitch to the press? “Ammunition be damned.” She slid her phone back in her pocket, clipping it so it wouldn’t fall out. “You say he likes control. I want to rattle his cage, and since I’m short on ammo of my own, you’ll have to do. Pull on up to the door and let’s go have a chat with him.”
The live-in housekeeper answered the door. She was fiftyish, stocky, with dark skin and a lovely Jamaican accent. She led them to an enormous open living area, the sort people usually called a great room.
There were two men in the room. One was tall and thin, midthirties, with even features and sun-bleached hair trimmed close to his skull. His Wranglers and J. Crew shirt seemed to go with the Bronco out front. He looked vaguely familiar.
The other man was shorter, maybe five-ten. He looked husky but fit, Lily thought, especially for a fifty-five-year-old. His jeans were damned sure not Wranglers. His shirt was loose, white, probably a linen blend. No shoes. His hair was black and shaggy with white streaks, and his skin was so deeply tanned he looked Mexican. According to the file, he wasn’t. Both his parents were deceased, but there was one brother, Shawn, who’d been in rehab a couple times. Shawn lived in San Francisco and worked for an IT firm.
Also according to that file, Friar had made his fortune in the dot-com bubble of the nineties and had sold his firm for nineteen million before the bubble burst. He’d kept busy since by playing in the commodities markets, raising horses, and getting involved in right-wing causes, especially those dealing with immigration. When the Supreme Court’s ruling made lupi citizens, he’d dropped his other to-do’s to devote himself to Humans First.
Friar stood near the flagstone-faced fireplace, a snifter in one hand, and dominated the huge room. He turned to face her, his eyes cutting quickly to Rule, then away. “Miss Yu. I was beginning to think you meant to neglect me.”
“Special Agent Yu,” she corrected him, moving forward. “Am I supposed to be surprised that Chief Daly called you?”
His eyebrows climbed. “My, you do jump to conclusions. Turner,” he said, looking directly at Rule. “I’d offer you a drink, but I’d have to throw out the glass afterward, and I abhor waste.”
“Speaking of jumping to conclusions,” Rule said as he kept pace beside her. “I could only contaminate a glass if I were moved to accept your hospitality. I’m not.”
Friar smiled. His eyes were dead cold. He lifted his snifter slightly in a salute.
Lily stopped a few feet from the two men. Before she could speak, Rule brushed her wrist lightly. “Ray,” he said to the tall man in Wranglers, “I’m surprised to see you so far from Sacramento. Lily, I don’t know if you’ve met. This is Ray Evans of the Sacramento Star. Ray, Special Agent Lily Yu.”