My first order of business was to call Murdock to see where we were with our decoy. He hadn't checked into the station house yet. It was still early. Rather than call his beeper or his house, I left a message for him. Thinking about the decoy reminded me that I wanted Tansy to observe the stakeout if she were willing. Pulling a glow bee out of me fridge, I held it tightly in my hand, feeling it come to life. It surprised me how quickly it responded. I sent it off to Joe with a message to find Tansy and meet me later in the day.
Before it got any later, I decided to place my calls to Europe. Working internationally usually meant east, which meant I had to make contact before noon. Otherwise, everyone would be going home for the day. I didn't expect the bad guys to accommodate my schedule.
The Avalon database had listed Cheryl Atworth, a human who had given birth to a boy named William, last reported in England. The father was a fairy. She would have been in the States in 1960, making her around sixty-five years old today. The Ward Guildhouse in London was a little sloppy with its paperwork, but since the fey were welcomed and admired in the British Isles, Atworth wasn't likely to hide her association with a former lover. That made my first call to Rory Dean, an old drinking buddy of mine from poorly remembered bacchanals in the early nineties. He definitely owed me a few favors, if not a few beers. After an interminable time wandering through the voice mail system, I finally got Rory's cheery voice informing me that he had gone to lunch. I left a message with what details I had, a plea to rush it, and a promise to visit.
Germany was another matter. The only people I knew there showed bare disdain for Americans, which is at least nicer than what they thought of the Brits and Irish. In the early part of the century, the dwarves and elves had formed the Teutonic Consortium and caused havoc. At the end of World War II, they cut a deal with Russia not to impede the final push into Berlin in exchange for northeastern Germany. When the Berlin Wall came down, a demilitarized fey zone went up next to the city where it abuts Consortium territory. Even now, one of the big issues of the Fey Summit was the constant skirmishing between the Teutonic Consortium and Maeve's fairy defender warriors. The elves routinely threatened to push the border back to France. Humans might have resolved a lot of their differences with the fall of the Soviets, but the fey still stared at each other, spears at the ready, always in danger of resuming their part of the war.
I really didn't have any contacts, but I had no doubt the Guildhouse would be able to find the two people I sought. Berlin kept careful track of fey folk. The fey folk were allowed a Guildhouse only on the condition of strict government oversight. Before the War, the fey had ignored the edict, but once atomic energy had been harnessed, the playing field had leveled, so they acceded to the more stringent demands.
The only details I had were names and dates. Gerda was in the States in and around 1948 and had a son named Gethin. Britt was here in 1972 and had given birth to a daughter she named Welfrey. Their surnames were given as Alfheim, which was just a general elf clan affiliation. The Berlin Guildhouse used a customer-service center that was derisively referred to as the informant center. Nondescript agents, many of them human and suspicious of everyone, took notes, gave no information, and occasionally actually called back. I knew the officious agent I snagged would complain that clan affiliations were scant detail at best, and he did. Still, as politely as possible, I gave him the names and dates, diplomatically asked for urgency, and supplied him with the case number and Murdock's name and my cell number to assure them it was an official investigation.
Frustrated, I wandered out to the Avenue and gazed at the shops, the pubs, and the stores. They were all familiar but, really, they changed every day. A little more wear or a fresh coat of paint. People frequented them, or never came again, or arrived for the first time. Yet I felt as though they were always the same, especially in the morning when everything was devoid of activity. The long street felt like a stage waiting for a play.
A large old woman sat on the curb wearing a ragged sweatshirt, her gray hair sprouting out from beneath a black woolen cap. She jiggled a worn paper coffee cup, making a meager jingling sound. She eyed me impassively as I came near. "Change for a truth! Change for a truth!" she said in rhythm with her shaking.
I paused, digging in my pocket. I wasn't so much looking for a truth as I was just willing to give her money. Normally, I ignored the pleas of street people. The Weird had too many of them, and if you frequented the neighborhood at all, they remembered and pestered you if you'd even once given them a dime. But it was early and I was feeling helpless over other things, so I dropped a couple of quarters in her cup. She glanced at them for a moment, then looked up at me with a huge gap-toothed smile. "Change," she said. "Yes," I said.
She shifted her bulk so she could lean against a newspaper box. "Change. There's your truth." She chuckled, then closed her eyes as though asleep.
I chuckled myself and continued on. Vaguely, I wondered if she were a failed druidess, one of those with no more talent than for one small thing, say, articulating simple truths, or if she were merely a beggar with a gimmick. Regardless, I knew from experience that change is not always good. Knowing how to make the best of it was what really mattered.
As I moved along, I came to the main stretch of the Avenue that was preparing for the Midsummer parade. Glittery cellophane suns topped old lampposts, which were bound one to the other with banners of frilly green plastic that was supposed to symbolize the new grass of summer. Any bare surface of building wall was layered with advertisements for parties and sales and the latest import bands that would be playing locally.
My cell phone vibrated gently against my hip, and I was amused at how similar it felt to a glow bee. It was Murdock.
"Have you found someone to use as bait?" I asked.
"Not yet. Don't you know any real fairies we could use?"
The answer to that question was both embarrassing and depressing. You never realize friendships are predicated on things like money and power until you lose them. "I have an idea. Can you meet me on the corner of Pittsburgh and the Avenue?"
"Fifteen minutes," he said, and hung up.
I was close to the corner, so I had to wait a long fifteen minutes before Murdock pulled up and I got in.
"What's your gut instinct — are you going to find someone?"
He frowned. "No."
"How about Robin?"
He shook his head. "No way. He's a civilian."
"He's perfect."
"He's a suspect," Murdock insisted.
"He's a minor suspect at best."
"Connor, I've told you before, minor turns into major."
We sat staring out the windshield. A full minute ticked by. "He's perfect," I repeated.
Murdock half turned in his seat to face me. "And what if he's the killer? What if we end up jeopardizing the case against him?"
"We won't. Perpetrators agree to help all the time. Besides, I don't think it's Robin. Shay's sketch was verified by Tansy."
"… who's an associate of a victim that Shay and Robin knew," Murdock said.
"Now you're being paranoid. Murdock, think about it. We have nothing else. We're stuck. If it is Robin, what better way to stop a murder than by having him wired and watched? It might even lead him to make a mistake by thinking he's not a suspect. And if he's not the killer, we may very well catch the person who is."
"Ruiz won't approve this."
"He doesn't have to know. You've already got the equipment. If nothing happens, just don't make a report. If something does, you're a hero."