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.