Digital Edition – 2025

This version copyright © 2025 by Dan Willis.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

Edited by Stephanie Osborn

Clean-up Edits by Barbara Davis

Cover by Mihaela Voicu

Published by

Runeblade Entertainment

Spanish Fork, Utah.

1

PAYBACK

The elevator chimed and Alex stepped off once the automatic door rumbled open. He hadn’t been back to the offices of the New York Times in at least a year, but he knew the way as well as if he’d walked it yesterday. Eventually, he arrived in front of an office with a glass front and a back wall covered with photographs of triumphant events in sports history along with famous people standing next to a lean man with immaculate, slicked-back hair.

From behind the cluttered desk in the middle of the room, an older version of the man in the pictures got to his feet. His hair was still slicked back and his smile reminded Alex of the salesmen employed by most department stores.

“Alex,” he said, extending his hand into a firm handshake. “I was starting to think you’d lost your touch.”

“Jared,” Alex acknowledged the handshake. When it was finished, he reached into the outside pocket of his suit coat and withdrew something that bore a passing resemblance to a frog made of metal. It was broad and flat, like a dish, with bulbous eyes sticking up on one edge with an open mouth in the center. Four grotesque legs extended from the side, stabilizing the otherwise concave bit of metal. The entire surface of the creature was crisscrossed by silver lines that laid out art-deco patterns, with the spaces in between filled by dark, gleaming enamel.

“Ah,” Jared Watson said, a smile crossing his face as Alex set the bizarre object down on his desk. “That’s the old boy.”

He reached out and picked it up, turning it this way and that to get a better look at it.

“Black Froggy.”

Alex just shook his head as his client took delight in the repulsive object.

“You’re lucky I owed you one,” he said as Jared returned the frog to his desk. “I had to go all the way out to Parsippany to find that thing.”

Jared’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t think my little froggy could have jumped that far,” he said with a chuckle. “I guess we’re even for all that help I’ve given you with your cases over the years.”

Alex opened his cigarette case and made a show of selecting one.

“Not quite yet,” he said, flipping open his gold lighter. “I want to know why I spent a week tracking down that ugly thing. What’s it to you?”

Jared laughed, sitting down in the chair behind his desk.

“That, my friend, is a knick-knack, a tchotchke, a dust catcher,” Jared said as he picked up an open cigarette pack from his desk.

“I can see that,” Alex said as the sports reporter removed a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a paper match. “Why do you want it?”

Jared chuckled as he blew out a plume of smoke.

“It belonged to my recently departed Aunt Althea,” he said. “When she died, her family went through her possessions and gave anything they didn’t want to charity.”

“And you wanted that back?” Alex asked, still incredulous.

“Personally?” he said, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette into the bowl-like body of the frog. “No. That said, Aunt Althea loved that thing. She was always threatening to leave it to one of us in her will.”

Alex followed all of that, but it still didn’t make any sense that Jared called in a favor that sent Alex to find the world’s most repulsive ashtray.

“My wife hates it,” Jared said at last. “I’m sure she was the one that made sure it ended up in a pawn shop instead of just donating it.”

“And you want to bring it home to enhance your wedded bliss?” Alex pressed.

“Of course not,” Jared laughed. “Betsy keeps wanting to come in and have lunch with me. I don’t mind, but most days I end up working through lunch. If Betsy comes in, then I have to stay late, and that most assuredly does not enhance my wedded bliss.”

“Couldn’t you just explain that to your wife?”

“You’d think so,” Jared admitted, “but she figures that since there are only a few games during any given week, I don’t really work all that hard.”

“She thinks you’re staying late to spite her?” Alex guessed.

“No, she thinks I’m staying late so I can play slap and tickle with one of the girls in the typing pool.”

Alex nodded, understanding at last.

“So you get the ugly frog, Betsy doesn’t come around for lunch as much, and you get home on time,” he said.

“Exactly,” Jared said, tapping another bit of ash into the frog. “Wedded bliss.”

Alex shook his head. There had to be a dozen easier ways for Jared to solve his problem, but he seemed eminently satisfied with the one he’d chosen.

“Whatever works,” Alex conceded. “Now, if you’re satisfied with my work, what did you learn from your friend the American History professor?”

Jared clamped his cigarette between his lips and began patting down his pockets. After a moment, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“Bob said that America’s most prolific founder could be one of a dozen or more people, but it’s probably someone in the second Continental Congress. He said to start with the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence: John Adams, Roger Sherman, Benjamin Franklin, Robert Livingston, and Thomas Jefferson.”

Alex resisted the urge to curse as Jared handed the paper over to him. He had hoped that a professor of American History would actually know the identity of the most prolific founder.

“Hope that helps,” Jared said as Alex tucked the paper into his trouser pocket.

“It’ll do,” Alex admitted, “it’s a place to start at least.”

“What’s this bit of historical trivia for?” Jared asked, his eyes going shifty.

“Iggy and I are trying to solve a puzzle. Needless to say, it’s complicated.”

Jared’s interest faded and he shrugged.

“Well, good luck. I’ll be here the next time you need to know something about sports.”

Alex thanked him and retraced his steps to the elevator. He still had a bit of a limp from his poorly healed foot, but he’d gotten used to it and it hardly ever bothered him any more.

As the elevator carried him back down to the street level, Alex went over everything in his mind. The packet of information about the vision stone had turned out to be a series of puzzles, each one revealing a bit of information that, presumably, would lead to the stone itself once they were all decoded. Alex and Iggy had taken to calling the bundle of clues, the Envelope. It contained an introductory letter, a bundle of random papers, a wooden board with Egyptian hieroglyphics on it, and a non-working compass in a leather box.

So far, all Alex and Iggy had been able to figure out was that by reading down the right edge of the introductory letter, it spelled out a clue: To start your journey, seek America’s most prolific founder.

That had led Alex to dig around in the New York Public Library, but as far as he could tell, there was no consensus among writers and historians about who might be the most prolific of the founding fathers. Iggy had argued that it must refer to Benjamin Franklin, since he’d written more than the next three founders combined. That seemed sensible, but nothing else in the Envelope had any link to Franklin. There was a page from an almanac, but it wasn’t from Poor Richard’s Almanac, the one Franklin had created, so there didn’t seem to be any connection there.

In the absence of any real solid clues, Alex determined to keep pursuing the one they had. So far, however, he was having no luck.

Out on the sidewalk, Alex headed for a cab that was parked against the curb. As he approached, the cabbie put down the newspaper he’d been reading and started the car.

“What were you two talking about?” Dr. Ignatius Bell demanded as Alex slid in next to him. “If I’d known you were going to be so long, I’d have brought a book to read.”

Alex dug out the paper Jared had given him and passed it over.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as Iggy read.

“Second and forty-seventh,” Alex said.

“That’s in Turtle Bay,” Iggy interjected. “Why are we going there?”

“Following a lead,” Alex said.

“I’m surprised you have one after this disaster,” Iggy said, holding up the paper. “Look for someone in the Second Continental Congress,” he scoffed. “As if we didn’t figure that out by ourselves.”

“There were fifty-two men in that congress,” Alex muttered. “We’ve been studying them for three months and haven’t found anything.”

“So where is this lead we’re going to?” Iggy asked with a sigh.

“Theo Bell’s place,” Alex said.

“Oh, come on lad,” Iggy scolded. “The world is full of real magic; why do you waste time with that purveyor of fictitious magic, ouija boards, and fairy stories?”

Alex repressed a smile. Iggy was broad-minded on most things, but when it came to the occult, he had no patience. Still, Theo Bell had proved himself useful on more than one occasion, so Alex wasn’t ready to dismiss him so freely.

“You forgot one other thing Theo deals in,” Alex countered, “historical conspiracies. Mostly ones about the government.”

“And you think he might have heard something about the vision stone through outside means?”

“It’s a long shot, I know, but Theo also knows dozens of rare book dealers. Maybe one of them might know who the most prolific founder is.”

Iggy gave Alex a flat look that suggested he wasn’t buying any of that, but a moment later he sighed and rolled his eyes.

“All right. We might as well give Mr. Bell a try.”

“We’re here,” the cabbie interrupted from the front. “What are you looking for?”

“Bell’s Book and Candle,” Alex supplied. “It’s the one with the wooden sign sticking out from the building.”

The cabbie drifted over to the curb, bringing his vehicle to a stop right in front of the shop.

“Two bucks, fifty,” he said.

Alex peeled three dollars off his roll of pocket money, and passed it over, then he opened the door and got out.

“Why do all these places look the same?” Iggy asked as Alex shut the door and the cab pulled away.

“Like what?” Alex asked.

“Like they’re about to be condemned.”

Alex shrugged.

“Probably adds to all that occult mystique,” he suggested with a smile.

Iggy harrumphed and followed Alex to the door.

To Alex’s surprise, the bell over the door had been fixed since his last visit and it struck a musical note as the door opened. The aroma of incense and old books washed over Alex as he held the door for his mentor. In some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, it reminded him of the home of his childhood.

“Alex!” the voice of Theo Bell greeted him from off to his left.

Alex turned to find the bespectacled proprietor waving at him from behind a table loaded with candles and boxes of incense.

“Hello, Theo,” Alex greeted him, crossing the intervening space. “Good to see you. This is my mentor, Dr. Ignatius Bell.”

Alex stepped aside so Iggy could step up next to him.

“Another Bell,” Theo said excitedly, extending his hand to Iggy. “Are you related to any of the St. Louis Bells?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Iggy said, accepting the offered handshake with no trace of reluctance. “I’m from a bit further east.”

“Ah, yes,” Theo said, catching the accent. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“I need to tap into your knowledge of books,” Alex said. “Do you have anything obscure about the American founders, especially the men who served in the Second Continental Congress?”

Theo looked surprised for a moment, then he chuckled.

“You’ll have to narrow it down a bit more than that,” he said. “You’d be surprised how much lore there is around the founding of this nation, especially about the founders. Did you know that there are rumors that Benjamin Franklin possessed a powerful book of ancient magic that helped us win the Revolutionary War?”

“You don’t say,” Alex said, exchanging a sideways glance with Iggy. “That sounds interesting, but we’re looking for information on a founder known as the most prolific founder.”

Theo put his hand against his chin and thought for a moment.

“Most prolific how?” he asked.

“No idea,” Alex confessed. “All we know is that he’s called that.”

“The most prolific founder,” Theo said again. “Well, the obvious answer is Franklin, but I’ve never heard him called that.”

“We looked into Franklin, but didn’t find anything,” Alex said.

“What’s this for?” Theo asked.

“It’s a sort of puzzle,” Iggy said. “It relates to one of Alex’s cases, so we really can’t say much more about it.”

Theo looked like he wanted to object, but then thought better of it.

“Well, without knowing what, specifically, you’re looking for, it’s hard to pick a direction.”

“Maybe one of your book friends can help,” Alex suggested.

Theo snapped his fingers and a sly grin played across his pudgy face.

“I have just the one,” he said. “He’s very knowledgeable about the Revolutionary War, so even if he doesn’t know which founder you’re looking for, he might be able to point you in the right direction.”

Theo told them to have a look around, then disappeared into the back room of his store. As he went, Alex gave his mentor a penetrating look.

“I’ll admit,” Iggy said, “he seems fairly intelligent.”

“I told you, he’s been useful before.”

“I suppose utility is where you find it,” Iggy said, picking up a gaudy box containing a Ouija Board.

“Bring it with us,” Alex said, trying to sound serious. “At the rate we’re going, we might as well try communing with the spirits.”

Iggy gave Alex an unamused look, then put the box down.

“That’s balderdash and you know it,” he said.

Alex moved around the table to the counter where a standing display held packets of flash paper and basic runewrighting pencils. He took down two packs of the paper and laid them on the counter.

“What’s that for?” Iggy asked.

“Mike is running a bit low, so I figured I’d get some, since it’s right here.”

“And help keep your friend’s shop in business?” Iggy prodded.

“If the difference between solvency and going under is the price of two packs of flash paper, then Theo’s doomed.”

Alex hadn’t really thought about it, but every time he’d been in the store, they didn’t seem busy, but Theo never complained about business being bad. He made a mental note to ask about it some other time.

“Roger Sherman,” Theo said, coming through the beaded curtain that separated the back from the store proper. “The founder you’re looking for is Roger Sherman.”

Alex remembered seeing Sherman’s name on the list Jared Watson had given him.

“Why are you so certain?” Iggy asked before Alex could.

“Because Sherman is the most prolific founder if you count his signatures,” Theo said. “Sherman signed all four of America’s founding documents. He signed the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, the Constitution, and the Continental Association.”

“Was he the only person to do that?” Alex asked.

“He was,” Theo said, “but there’s more. Sherman also signed the petition sent to King George, and the Treaty of Paris that officially ended the Revolutionary War.”

Alex whistled.

“I think he’s on to something, lad,” Iggy said. “That certainly qualifies as prolific.”

“I can make a few more calls, just to be sure,” Theo said, “but for my money, Sherman’s your man.”

Alex thanked Theo and gave him a ten spot to cover the flash paper and any long distance calls he might make.

“You don’t have to do that,” Theo protested.

“Yes, I do,” Alex said, slapping the smaller man on the back. “Your help is worth the price, and I want to keep you happy.”

Theo thanked him, then Alex and Iggy said goodbye and headed out onto the sidewalk.

“I take it all back,” Iggy said after the door to the shop closed. “This Theo Bell character seems uncannily useful.”

“You should trust me,” Alex said, nudging his mentor in the ribs. “So now that we have a name, what’s our first step?”

“Something in that stack of unrelated papers in the Envelope must be tied to Sherman,” Iggy said.

“How do we find that?”

“We dig into Sherman’s life,” Iggy replied as Alex hailed a cab. “We need to know what he did before the revolution and after. The more we know about the man, the more obvious the clue will be.”

“You hope,” Alex said, holding the cab door open for Iggy.

“It’s the most logical course of action,” he said. “I’ll go to the library and check out any books on Sherman.”

“I’ll check in at my office, then meet you at the brownstone,” Alex said.

“The game’s afoot,” Iggy said, a genuine smile causing his mustache to bristle.

“Empire Tower,” Alex told the cabbie. As the cab pulled away from the curb, he felt better than he had in weeks.

2

FUNNY MONEY

Alex was whistling a jaunty tune when he opened the outer door of his office. Inside, Sherry looked up at him, a crooked smile blooming on her face. Her desk was an exercise in controlled chaos, with a stack of case folders on one side and a half-dozen notepads scattered across the rest. All of this was flanked by the only permanent fixtures; the typewriter, the bakelite box that housed the intercom, the telephone, and the heavy, brass touch-tip lighter.

“I take it your super-secret investigation is going well,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

Alex had felt bad, keeping Sherry out of his quest to find the vision stone, but the fewer people who knew about that particular bit of magic, the better. As he entered the room, it revealed a man sitting on one of the couches who had been hidden by the open door. As Alex took off his hat, the man rose.

He was older, perhaps in his fifties with gray hair and a gray mustache, bushy like Iggy’s. Alex could tell that he’d been some kind of athlete in his youth and had kept up with his training. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow and his arms had a muscular thickness to them that spoke of continuing exercise. The man wore a well-tailored gray suit with a white shirt and a red silk tie, and his shoes shone with polish.

A professional man, Alex thought, and well situated in that profession.

“This is Agent Stan Westlake,” Sherry said before the man could speak. “He didn’t say what agency he’s with, but he’s been waiting for over half an hour.”

“Secret Service,” Agent Westlake said as Alex shook his hand.

“Never met a Secret Service agent,” Alex admitted. “I thought you boys protected the President. What brings you here?”

Westlake chuckled at that.

“We do handle Presidential security,” he admitted, “but we were originally founded to root out counterfeiters. We still do that too.”

“Counterfeiters?” Alex said. “I have to admit, I haven’t dealt with any of them before. How, exactly, can I help you, Agent Westlake?”

Westlake suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable.

“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” he asked.

“Of course,” Alex said, not bothered a bit by the question. Most of his clients wanted privacy when they revealed the details of their problems. “Right this way.”

Alex led the Secret Service man through the inner office door, then down the little hallway past Mike Fitzgerald’s office and the map room to his own office.

Rounding his desk, Alex gestured for Westlake to sit before dropping into his own chair. Pulling open the middle drawer, he removed a fresh notepad, then scooted forward, placing it on the desk.

“Now,” he said, picking up a fairly sharp pencil, “what is it you need from me?”

Westlake reached for his inside coat pocket, but hesitated for a moment before continuing. Alex waited while the Secret Service man wrestled with some inner conflict. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind and pulled out a small manila envelope, passing it across the desk to Alex.

“Tell me what you make of that,” he said.

Alex accepted the envelope. It wasn’t sealed, so he pulled open the back flap to reveal a crisp, one-dollar bill. Sliding it out of the envelope, Alex held the bill up to his desk lamp. Since the Secret Service dealt with counterfeiting, it was safe to assume the bill was a forgery. That said, it was the best forgery Alex had ever seen. He wasn’t an expert on currency, of course, but counterfeit bills were usually sloppy, with bad printing, even misspelled words. From what he could see, however, this bill appeared genuine.

“If this is a forgery,” he said, looking back to Westlake, “I can’t tell.”

“Your instincts serve you well,” Westlake said with a grin. “That bill is genuine.”

“Then why ask me about it?” Alex asked, genuinely confused.

“That bill was deposited with a branch of the First National Bank,” Westlake said, “but when the bank received it, it wasn’t a one-dollar bill, it was a twenty.”

Alex nodded, catching on to the con.

“So, someone transformed this bill into a twenty, took it to the bank, and changed it for smaller bills,” he said.

“A ten, a five, and five ones,” Westlake confirmed. “I need to know how they did it.”

Now it made sense why the treasury man had come to the runewright detective. Alex opened the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. Inside was one of his three identical crime scene kits. Reaching inside, he grabbed the bag then hoisted it up onto his desk. Undoing the latch, Alex allowed the two halves that made up the bag’s top to fall open. Under each curved half were straps that held his equipment in place. On one side the straps held his oculus and a small gas mask. The other side held a wooden frame with slots containing the various oil burners used in his multi-lamp, along with a few of his more used powders and compounds.

“What’s all that?” Westlake asked, as Alex stood to access the bottom of the kit.

“If your counterfeiter is using magic,” Alex said, pulling out the multi-lamp and setting it next to the bag, “this will show us what he’s been up to.”

Alex pulled out the ghostlight burner from the kit and clipped it into the steel frame at the bottom of the lamp. Once he’d finished, he lit the burner with his gold lighter, then dipped back into the kit bag for a leather spectacle case. Opening the case, he withdrew a pair of yellow pince-nez spectacles, then passed them to Agent Westlake.

“Put these on,” he said, then removed his second-generation oculus from under the bag’s lid. Unlike the old one, which looked like Alex had strapped a telescope to his face, the second-generation looked like a stack of silver dollars welded together into one fat coin. The body was about an inch deep and it rested over Alex’s right eye. Around the edge of the body were several short metal levers that ended in round balls, and in the center of the oculus, there was a collapsable shutter that blocked out all light.

As soon as Alex strapped on the oculus, his thumb sought out the ball on the bottom of the device, moving it clockwise to open the shutter. A second lever changed his field of vision from normal to the same yellow that made up the pince-nez spectacles. As soon as he did that, the dollar bill on the desk began to glow with sharp, green lines.

“Wha- what’s that,” Agent Westlake stammered.

Alex didn’t answer, leaning close to the bill. The lines hovered over it, mapping out a phantom twenty, complete with Andrew Jackson’s picture.

“Well, there’s your magic,” Alex said, leaning back so Westlake could get a good look.

“It’s immaculate,” the Secret Service man said at last. “How did he do it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Alex said. “If I had to guess, I’d say that this,” he indicated the glowing magical bill floating above the real one, “was done with an illusion rune. More often called a disguise rune.”

“Disguise?” Westlake asked.

“It’s pretty simple, really,” Alex said. “It’s a runic construct that makes one thing look like something else. You can use it on people, money, even big things like cars.”

Alex knew this, of course, because Iggy had done exactly that to him when he had to go meet with Jeremy Brewer, also known as the Broker.

“Are you telling me that there are people going about with false faces all the time?” Westlake demanded.

“Not really,” Alex said, pressing a button on his intercom. “Mike, would you come to my office for a moment.”

“Sure, boss,” the reply came after a moment.

“And bring your oculus,” Alex added, then turned back to Westlake. “How much do you know about runewrights?” he asked.

“Not a lot,” the agent admitted.

Alex pulled out his red-backed rune book and opened it to a moderately complex rune.

“To a layman, this looks like gibberish,” he said, putting the book on the desk so Westlake could see. “But I want you to think of runes as a language, like French or German. These,” he said, indicating the individual runes in the construct, “are words, each with their own meaning. They’re connected inside this geometric shape.” Alex traced the line work of the rune with his fingers. “The lines determine how the words are connected, the sentence structure, if you will.”

“So?” Westlake said, clearly not seeing where Alex was going with his explanation.

“Most runewrights only know a few dozen words and even fewer ways to connect them,” Alex explained. “A disguise rune is a very complex construct, and there are probably only a handful of runewrights in the entire city who could manage one.”

“Could you do it?” Westlake asked.

Alex grinned at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“I know how to do it, but I’ve never actually made one.”

Westlake didn’t look like he believed that.

“Why not?” he pressed.

Before Alex could answer, the door opened and Mike Fitzgerald came in. Mike had been Alex’s protégé and partner for several years now. He was a little shorter than average height with bushy blonde hair and a bushy mustache to match that hung under his pointed nose. Mike’s parents were Irish, but he’d been born in the States and the only vestige of the old country was his slight accent.

“You wanted to see me, boss?” Mike asked.

“I did,” Alex said, “take a look at this.”

Mike strapped on his oculus, which was an exact copy of Alex’s, then opened the shutter and leaned down over the dollar bill.

“Wow,” he said. “Is this hiding a twenty as a one, or was it pretending to be a twenty?”

“The latter,” Westlake offered.

“Mike, this is Agent Westlake of the Secret Service,” Alex said. “This is my partner, Mike Fitzgerald.”

“Pleasure,” Westlake said, reaching out to shake Mike’s hand.

“Apparently someone has been passing these around at banks,” Alex said.

“That’s a slick scam,” Mike said. “Pass a one for a twenty and get nineteen dollars back.”

“Your partner thinks it’s a disguise rune,” Westlake said.

Mike thought about that for a minute, then shrugged.

“That’s a long way to go just to steal money,” he said.

“Why?” Westlake asked.

“Because a runewright who’s skilled enough to write a disguise rune should be able to make more money with things like restoration runes, or major cleaning runes, or purity runes. There are just a lot easier ways to make money.”

Agent Westlake sat, considering what Mike had said.

“On top of that,” Alex took up the conversation, “disguise runes are expensive to write in the first place.”

“How expensive?” Westlake asked.

Alex looked at Mike.

“Oh, uh,” he stroked his mustache for a moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say at least ten bucks. I mean, disguise runes use runewright blue.”

“It’s a colored ink made by alchemists,” Alex explained before Westlake could ask. “Twenty bucks an ounce. It’s one of the most expensive ingredients in the trade, and a disguise rune uses about half an ounce of it.”

“If you’re right, that means for every bill our counterfeiter makes, he can only get nine dollars back after the rune and the one-dollar bill,” Westlake said. “That’s not a terrible return.”

“Until you figure that he’s got to turn around and do it again,” Alex pointed out. “Each time he does it, it costs him eleven dollars to make twenty, and disguise runes aren’t easy to write; it would probably take him half a day to write one.”

Agent Westlake sighed, taking out a cigarette case and offering one to Mike and Alex before selecting one himself.

“That’s even more of a problem,” he said, lighting his cigarette with a silver lighter he took from his jacket pocket.

“How so?” Alex asked.

“Because I became aware of this case when the counterfeiter passed ten of these to First National and walked away with two hundred dollars.”

Mike whistled and gave Alex a questioning look.

“I figured he was passing fake big bills for smaller real ones,” Mike said.

“He’s thinking bigger,” Alex said. “Using smaller bills to trade for larger ones, then counterfeiting the larger ones and moving up.”

“Well that changes the calculation,” Mike said. “Bigger bills would make it worthwhile.” He turned from Alex and looked at Westlake. “It would also make him easier to catch. I don’t imaging banks have a big supply of high value bills on hand.”

Westlake sighed and nodded.

“As soon as I got here, I had other banks in town inventory their cash,” he said. “At least two other banks have been hit, bringing the total the counterfeiter got away with to five hundred dollars.”

“So he’s smart,” Alex said. “He can make copies of hundreds or even thousand dollar bills⁠—”

“If he can get his hands or a real one,” Mike interjected.

Alex gave him a nod and continued.

“But, our counterfeiter sticks to twenties and doesn’t pull out large amounts.”

Westlake nodded, emphatically.

“Those losses would be found out almost immediately,” he said.

“True, but he’s not worried about being found out,” Alex said, stroking his chin in thought. “He’s passed enough of his fake bills around that you got called in. He has to know it’s reckless, but he’s doing it anyway.”

“Why?” Mike asked.

“If we knew that, it would be easy to catch him,” Alex admitted. “I think he’s sticking to lower bills because he has access to them.”

“Makes sense,” Westlake said. “I don’t know how he’s making the illusion, but he’d have to have something to copy from, right?”

Alex nodded.

“Normal disguise runes take the form of whatever the runewright imagines while he’s making them,” Mike pointed out. “Is it possible to make a convincing bill?”

Alex didn’t know the answer to that question, and he said so. Iggy had made some, of course, but Alex never had a reason to.

“You still haven’t explained why the counterfeiter made tens to start with,” Westlake said.

“He needed the tens to get a genuine twenty to use as master for his illusions,” Alex said. “I bet if you keep having the banks audit their funds, you’ll find out that some fives are missing, too.”

“I get it,” Mike said, snapping his fingers. “He saved up his money and got a five, then used that bill to make more fives so he could buy a ten, then a twenty.”

“And now he has hundred-dollar bills,” Westlake said. “This could get bad very quickly. Is there anything you can do to help me stop this man?”

Alex thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

“Have the banks start using magic detectors every time someone wants to change a large bill for a bunch of smaller ones,” he said.

“You mean like the ones the Port Authority uses to scan incoming goods?” Westlake asked.

“Exactly,” Alex said. “One of the other reasons the disguise runes aren’t used very often is that they’re easy to disrupt. Riding on a crawler could do it, or even getting too close to a magelight. The detectors are powerful enough that a disguise rune would break if you scanned them.”

Westlake was nodding along at this point.

“And, if the bills revert to their original form when the banks scan them, then we’ll have our man.”

“Make sure the bank guards are close by,” Alex said, “and it should be just that easy.”

Westlake tapped the ashes off his cigarette, then stood, holding out his hand for Alex to return the magic-laced bill.

“I appreciate your help,” he said, tucking the bill back in its envelope and returning it to his pocket. “What do I owe you?”

“My usual consulting fee is fifteen dollars,” Alex said.

Agent Westlake pulled out a fancy leather wallet, then deposited a ten and a five on Alex’s desk.

“I don’t need to check these, do I?” Alex asked with a chuckle in his voice.

“No,” Westlake replied with a straight face. “I brought those bills with me from Washington.”

Westlake excused himself, then turned and headed back into the hall and off to the front office.

“I still don’t get it,” Mike said when he was sure the Secret Service man was gone, “how is this runewright making all those constructs? It would take a week, maybe two just to make the twenties he used.”

“Not to mention all the runewright blue he’d be going through,” Alex added.

He reached up and put his hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“Do me a favor,” he said, “call over to Brandywine Alchemical and find out if anyone’s been buying runewright blue in high volumes.”

“And if they have?” he asked.

“Get a name. If they haven’t, call around to the smaller suppliers. Whoever this guy is, he can’t make runes without supplies.”

“This isn’t our case,” Mike pointed out. “How far do you want me to go?”

“Just check on the blue,” Alex said. “Call it professional curiosity.”

“Right,” Mike said, heading for the door. “I’ll buzz you as soon as I know something.”

“I’ll be at the brownstone for the rest of the afternoon,” Alex said. “Call me there.”

“Will do, boss,” Mike said, and headed out the door.

3

BRACE

Alex lit a cigarette, then picked up his phone, giving the operator the exchange for the brownstone.

“Your party doesn’t answer,” the operator said after almost a minute.

He thanked her and hung up. Getting no answer was a relief; he’d been worried that Iggy would already be home after his conversation with Westlake. As it stood, his mentor wasn’t back yet, so he hadn’t missed anything.

Leaning over, Alex pressed the key for Sherry’s intercom.

“I’m going to be out for the rest of the day,” he said. “You can reach me at the brownstone if anything comes up.”

“Something’s come up,” she replied before Alex could release the key. “I have a Rex Halliday here who needs your help.”

Alex resisted the urge to sigh.

“Send him back,” he said.

A few moments later, a somewhat disheveled man came through his door with a decent sized wooden box under his arm. The man had sallow skin and watery eyes that looked too big for his face. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them, and there was a grease stain on his tie.

“I’m Alex Lockerby,” Alex said, indicating one of the chairs in front of his enormous desk. “Have a seat.”

The man set the box down on the desk and Alex got a better look at it. It was wooden and intricately carved to reveal delicate arches and geometric shapes. It reminded him of his early rune work, though none of the shapes on the box were the least bit magical. The corners of the box had rounded brass elements that had seen some wear, but were still in better condition than the man’s clothes.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Halliday?” Alex asked, recalling the name Sherry had mentioned.

“I need you to find something for me, Mr. Lockerby,” he said in a quivering voice. “You see, my old man passed recently and he left me this.”

With that, Halliday pushed the box forward, pulling the lid open.

The inside was lined with crushed velvet of such a dark blue that in places it appeared black. It had been shaped to support its contents, a flintlock pistol that was so glossy with wax and polish that it looked new. Alex could tell that it wasn’t, for there were dark patches beneath the screws that spoke of age and tarnish, and there were scratches on the brass. Above the pistol was a steel ramrod in a pocket of its own, and below there was a round container for powder and a box for lead balls. Everything in the case was in excellent condition except for one noticeable absence. There was an empty well beside the pistol where, Alex assumed, another pistol would go.

“This has been in my family for a long time,” Halliday said. “If you believe the legend, my great- great- grandfather saved the life of a Civil War general named Clay. The general gave him this brace of dueling pistols as a reward. Clay said that they were once owned by Ethan Allan, taken from a British officer at Fort Ticonderoga.”

Alex stroked his chin as he looked over the dueling pistol and its various parts.

“Quite the storied history,” he said, not sure if he believed it. “I notice one pistol is missing.”

“That’s the problem,” Halliday said. “Two days ago, someone broke into my apartment. They made enough noise to wake me, and I found him trying to get through my window with this.” He indicated the box.

“What happened then?” Alex prodded.

“Well, I went after him and knocked the box out of his hands,” Halliday explained. “All the pieces went everywhere and the thief grabbed one of the pistols and fled down the fire escape. I tried to go after him, but I tripped over the box. By the time I got up, the thief was gone.”

“So you want me to find your missing pistol,” Alex surmised. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the remaining firearm.

“Of course,” Halliday said. “You must find it, Mr. Lockerby,” he went on as Alex picked up the weapon from the case. “My family has fallen on hard times, and it was my intention to sell the pistols, but unfortunately…”

“No one wants a dueling set, no matter how historical, if it’s not complete,” Alex finished.

“That’s it exactly, Mr. Lockerby.”

Alex had to admit that whatever he thought of the pistol’s supposed history, it was an excellent example of a flintlock. The barrel was straight and the fittings were tight. He cocked the hammer back and it clicked into place easily. Even without its history, it would be worth a pretty penny to the right collector.

That meant it had sentimental value as well, more than enough for a finding rune.

Alex’s smile dropped from his face. In former days, he’d be able to feel the potential coming off the pistol. His magic would tell him if it would do or not. But these weren’t those days, and Alex found himself clutching the pistol tighter than was necessary.

Still, he thought as he forced himself to loosen his grip on the weapon, I do have a few new tricks up my sleeve.

“Can you help me?” Halliday asked.

“Was this set kept together all the time your family had it?” Alex asked, putting the pistol on his desk.

“As far as I know, they’ve never left this case,” Halliday replied.

“Then,” Alex said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket for his rune book, “I think it’s probably an excellent candidate for a finding rune,” he opened the red-backed book and paged to a new rune, “but let’s make sure.”

The rune was circular with four nodes inside the circle and one outside, like a triangular hanger with the top cut off. Most of it had been written in standard rune black, but there were some accents of liquid gold and runewright blue.

“What’s that?” Halliday asked as Alex folded the rune in half and dropped it on the pistol.

“It’s a potentiality rune,” Alex explained.

“I’ve never heard of that,” Halliday admitted, “what is it?”

“I’d be surprised if you’d ever heard of it,” Alex said. “It’s actually a variant of something very old. Back in the day, runewrights would go out into the wilderness to use a version of this rune and use it to find natural ingredients for their rune craft.”

“Sounds useful,” Halliday said, “why don’t people use it anymore?”

Alex shrugged as he pulled out his lighter and flicked it to life.

“Most runewrights buy their ingredients at the store,” he said, then touched the flame to the flash paper. The paper vanished in a puff of fire that left behind the glowing rune, hovering in the air over the pistol. The rune pulsed with a purplish light and suddenly objects all over the room began to glow. There were books on Alex’s bookshelf that lit up along with several potions he kept hidden among the bottles in his liquor cabinet.

What Alex focused on, however, was the pistol. He’d modified the potentiality rune to focus on things that could work with a finding rune, and the pistol was glowing brightly.

“Is that good?” Rex Halliday asked, noting Alex’s focus.

“Very,” Alex said, waving his hand through the still-floating rune to dispel it. “It means that we can use this pistol to find its brother.”

“Wasn’t that what you were doing?”

“Not yet,” Alex said, standing and picking up the pistol. “We need a few additional bits and pieces. Grab the box and follow me.”

Alex rounded his desk and led the way down the hall to the map room. Holding the door open for Halliday, he ushered the disheveled man inside.

In the center of the room stood an enormous table that had originally been intended to be a conference table. Alex had rolled out a dozen printed maps all over it, laying out Manhattan, Brooklyn, Jersey City, and Staten Island. The scale was a bit smaller than Alex liked, but with the ability to link his finding runes through Andrew Barton’s repeater towers, he needed to represent more ground on the map.

“Can you really search all this area with a finding rune?” Halliday asked, glancing around the map.

“If your pistol is inside this area,” Alex said, taking an old shoebox off the sideboard by the wall, “it’s possible to find it.”

Opening the box, Alex removed a tin compass and placed it on the map. Moving carefully, he balanced the pistol on top, then dipped back into the box again. Since the damnation rune stifled his rune writing ability, Mike wrote the finding runes and kept the box well stocked. Taking out one of Mike’s runes, Alex added it to the top of the pistol.

“Don’t touch the table,” he told Halliday as he flipped open his lighter and flicked it to life. He waited until the other man raised his hands and stepped back, then ignited the paper. The orange rune erupted and hovered over the pistol and compass.

Alex held his breath as he watched the rune begin to turn in lazy circles. Normally the rune would spin quickly, entangling with the compass until the latter became attracted to the missing objects.

“What’s it doing?” Halliday asked, staring at the glowing rune.

“It’s trying to find the other pistol,” Alex said, keeping his voice low. He leaned down, trying to see if the compass had a direction. It was hard to see with the pistol in the way, but the needle definitely wasn’t pointing north.

As he watched, the rune drifted to a stop, then trembled and popped, raining orange sparkles down on the map. Ignoring the glowing embers, Alex removed the pistol. The compass needle was trembling, but it held a direction to the southwest. Alex took it gently, but as soon as he began to slide it across the map, the needle jerked and swung around to point north again.

Alex swore.

“It didn’t work?” Halliday guessed.

“It did,” Alex corrected, moving around the table, “but the spell broke almost immediately.”

“How does that help me?”

Alex followed the line the compass had indicated before the spell broke. It couldn’t be close, so he went right out to the edge.

“Staten Island,” he said, tapping the surface of the table. “Your missing pistol is in Staten Island.”

“If the spell broke,” Halliday pointed out, “how can you be sure?”

“Strictly speaking, I can’t,” Alex admitted, “but before the spell broke, the compass needle was pointing that way. What I need to do is go out to Staten Island and use the rune again.”

“That sounds expensive,” Halliday said. “How can you be sure that your rune will do any better a second time?”

“There are three things that will keep a finding rune from making a connection to a missing object,” Alex explained. “First is having a weak connection with the object, but these guns have been a set for well over a century. The second thing is if the sought object is underground, and the third thing is if it’s across a significant body of water.” He tapped the map again. “Staten Island is completely surrounded by water and cut off from Manhattan by the Hudson River, so it’s not surprising that my rune couldn’t connect to your missing pistol.”

“But it still might not connect,” Halliday said, “even if you try the rune on the island, right?”

“Tell you what,” Alex said. “If the second rune doesn’t connect to your pistol, I’ll only charge you for the first. How’s that?”

Halliday’s face broke out into a relieved grin.

“All right,” he said. “If we need to go to Staten Island, then let’s go.”

Alex pulled out his pocket watch and checked it.

“It’s four-forty,” he said, snapping the watch closed. “By the time we catch the ferry and get over to the island, the pawn shops will be closed.”

“Pawn shops stay open late,” Halliday protested.

“Not on Friday, they don’t,” Alex said. “The only things that will be open after five-thirty will be the bars and the nightclubs.”

“But can’t we track it down even if the stores are closed?”

“We could,” Alex admitted, “but it will probably be in a locked-up shop or in someone’s apartment. Either way, the best chance we’ll have to get your pistol back is to have access to wherever it is.” He walked back around the table and put his hand on Halliday’ shoulder. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ll go out to Staten Island first thing in the morning and use the finding rune. I should have it wrapped up by noon.”

“No,” Halliday said, putting the pistol box on the table. “I’m not letting this pistol out of my sight.” He scooped up the pistol from the middle of the table and secured it in the box.

“I can’t use the rune without the pistol,” Alex pointed out.

“Well then, you’re going to have to take me with you,” the disheveled man said.

Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Meet me at the ferry at nine tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t,” Halliday admitted. “I have to attend my father’s funeral in the morning. I can meet you after the luncheon, is two o’clock okay?”

Alex always hated starting a job in the afternoon. If you started in the morning, you had time to make adjustments if any problems came up. Still, two o’clock was early enough to find a missing pistol with a strong connecting object.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be waiting at the dock, you get there as soon as you can.”

Halliday promised that he would, then tucked the box under his arm and walked out.

“Nervous little guy,” Alex said to himself.

Checking his watch again, Alex sighed. Iggy had to be home by now, probably solving the next riddle without him.

Stepping out of the map room, Alex went to the front office, opening the door wide enough to lean around it.

“I’ve got to go to Staten Island tomorrow after lunch,” he said to Sherry. “I’ll probably be gone all afternoon.”

Sherry made a note on one of her pads.

“Unless there’s anything else, I’m heading to the brownstone for the rest of the day.”

Sherry checked several of her notepads, then shook her head.

“There’s a few things for next week,” she said, “but nothing that can’t keep. Are you still working on that secret project?”

Alex gave her a wink, and withdrew before she could ask any questions. He felt bad about freezing her out; after all, the vision stone was probably something specifically for her precognitive magic. That said, if there was one person that might be overwhelmed by such a powerful object, it was Sherry. He and Iggy decided that for her own safety, Sherry couldn’t know about the treasure hunt they’d received from the Masons.

Unless her magic informs her about it anyway, Alex thought, although if that happened, he’d consider it something that was meant to happen in whatever cosmic way Sherry’s magic worked.

Not needing anything further, Alex used his golden key to unlock the cover door to his vault. Stepping inside, he felt the perpetually cool air envelop him as he moved down the short hallway to his great room. Since his magic had been blocked, he hadn’t been able to make any alterations to the room, but he was satisfied with it as it was. The only real change he’d made was the box, but he hadn’t needed magic for that. It looked just like the rollaway cabinet that stood beside his drafting table. The cabinet had five drawers in the front and Alex kept various papers and pens and other things in them. On top of the cabinet was the candlestick telephone that connected to both his office and the brownstone, and an ashtray.

The box stood on the other side of the drafting table, backed out of the way of the tall swivel chair where Alex sat to work. It had no obvious drawers or doors on its exterior, just a brass handle on the top.

Alex smiled when he saw the box, not the confident grin he’d perfected in his years of detective work, but the sharp, predatory smile of someone with a clever secret. He thought back to the potentiality rune he’d used in his office. He’d dreamed up the rune while doing research in the Archimedean Monograph, but the contents of the box were what enabled him to write the construct himself, in spite of the damnation rune.

He hesitated in his path across the room to the brownstone, his fingers itching for the chance to write again. A burning passion built within him, a desire to lift the cover from the box and revel in the mechanism within.

Shaking his head, he put those thoughts away. The box and its contents were a secret, one even Iggy didn’t know about, and Alex was going to keep it that way—at least for now.

His mind made up, Alex turned away from his workspace and crossed to the hallway on the opposite side of the room from where he entered. This hallway was longer than the one that led to his office and led to a working kitchen on the left and a comfortable bedroom to the right. At the end of the little corridor was another cover door, the one that led to his room in the brownstone. Using his key, he passed through and shut the door behind him.

Tossing his hat on his bed, Alex left the room and descended the stairs to the brownstone’s main level. Normally at this hour, there would be the aroma of cooking and the fire in the library grate would have been lit. Knowing that Iggy had only been home for an hour at most, Alex wasn’t surprised to find these usual tasks undone.

“About time you got here,” Iggy groused from the kitchen.

“That bad?” Alex asked as he turned left from the landing and followed the sound of Iggy’s voice.

“Worse,” his mentor said. He was standing on the far side of the massive oak dining table that occupied most of the kitchen. On top of the table were a handful of books, laid out in a semi-circle with the contents of the Envelope in the center.

“I’ve been through the papers from the Envelope and not a one of them mentions Roger Sherman or anything about his life.”

“You couldn’t have read all these books that quickly,” Alex pointed out. “We don’t really know what things occupied Roger Sherman’s life.”

Iggy sighed and sat down in one of the heavy chairs.

“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “It’s just…this has turned into a daunting task, and it’s barely begun.”

“I guess the people who hid the Vision Stone didn’t want it to be easily found.”

Iggy chuckled at that.

“I think you’re right.” He picked up one of the books on the table and stood. “We’d better get started then. I’ll make up the fire and dig into this, you go down to the Lunch Box and get us some food to go out.”

“Will do,” Alex said. “I’ll get a selection,” he added. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

4

A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

Alex’s eyelids were heavy as he stood in front of the mirror in his room’s small bathroom. He’d been up till well after two in the morning reading a biography of Roger Sherman and his brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. Even as that thought crossed his sleep-deprived mind, he realized that he’d been holding his toothbrush in his mouth for half a minute without moving it.

Stirring himself to action, he finished his morning ablutions and got dressed. He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but that’s where the evil biography was, so he decided to skip it and headed for his vault. A quick trip inside and he entered his least used door, the one that led to the apartment Andrew Barton maintained for him in Empire Tower. Lately Alex only used the apartment as a way to explain his presence in the building; if he went down to the terminal from his office every morning, people might start thinking he was sleeping there and that would be bad for business.

Exiting the apartment, he took the resident’s elevator down to the terminal, then straight on to the source of his power, Marnie’s coffee kiosk.

Several minutes later, and more appropriately caffeinated, Alex moved on to the platform’s diner where he ordered a plate of poached eggs on buttered toast. Usually, when he grabbed breakfast in the terminal, he was upstairs at work within twenty minutes. Today, however, he lingered over his breakfast, replacing his coffee at least twice before he felt ready to face the day.

“You look like hell,” Sherry offered when Alex finally arrived at work.

“Thanks,” he droned, hanging his hat on the rack behind the door.

“What happened?” she asked, propping her chin with her hand. “Did you go out on a last-minute stake out?”

“Something like that,” Alex chuckled. “I was up late reading a biography of Richard Sherman.”

“Who?” Sherry asked.

“One of the founding fathers,” Alex supplied.

Sherry gave him a penetrating look.

“This has something to do with that case you won’t tell me about,” she said with a sly smile. “Doesn’t it?”

Alex returned a blank look before shutting the door behind him.

“Is there anything on the docket this morning?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.

“There are a few cases for you to look over,” Sherry said, “I need your signature on a few surveillance reports. And, of course, I could work you up a file on Roger Sherman.”

Alex wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but something in what she said gave him pause. He’d spent hours crawling through that biography last night and learning next to nothing. Maybe what he needed were fresh eyes on the problem, someone not tied up with the puzzle behind it. Still, since Sherry didn’t know what she was looking for, there was very little chance of her finding anything relevant.

Do you know what you’re looking for? his brain chided him.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ve got to go out to Staten Island this afternoon, but I’ll watch the store so you can go to the library. Put together a dossier on Sherman, everything you can find on his life and business.”

“Am I looking for anything specific?”

Alex shook his head.

“Stick to the generals,” he said. “Anything you can dig up will be fine.”

“All right,” Sherry said, stacking up her various notepads and sliding them to the side of the desk. “I’ll make sure I’m back by one.”

Alex thanked her, then went down to his office to retrieve the cases Sherry wanted him to look over. In a moment he was back and took the seat behind Sherry’s desk.

He hadn’t sat there for more than a quarter hour before the back door opened and Iggy emerged. He was dressed in a dark suit with a red waistcoat and he carried a notebook under his left arm and his hat in his right hand.

“Well, I was going to ask Sherry where you were,” he said, dropping his hat on the desk.

“Why were you looking for me?”

Iggy stuck his finger in Alex’s face.

“You, sir, did not come down to breakfast this morning,” he declared. “I waited for quite some time.”

“Sorry,” Alex said with a chuckle. “I was up late and didn’t want to spend any more time downstairs for a while.”

“Hmmm,” Iggy growled, sitting down on the couch. “I suppose that makes sense. Nevertheless, I wanted to spend a few minutes debriefing our time last night.”

Even though Iggy wasn’t actually a recently retired doctor in the British Navy, he had served earlier in his life. As a result he regularly used military terms like ‘debriefing’ in his discourse and Alex had gotten used to it.

“Not much to tell,” Alex sighed, leaning back in the chair. “My notebook is back in the vault, but I don’t need to get it. I’m not even halfway through that biography and it’s mostly a commentary about why Sherman was the way he was.”

Iggy rolled his eyes at that. After reading several biographies of himself, Iggy’s opinion of biographers was only slightly higher than his opinion of spiritualists and the people who ran carnival games.

“Assuming the author actually knew anything about Sherman,” Iggy scoffed. “Regardless, we’ll need to learn all we can about the man. Whoever left the Envelope with the Masons, they aren’t going to make the clues easy.”

“That’s why I’m filling in for Sherry,” Alex said. “She’s over at the library putting together a file on Sherman.”

Iggy looked like he wanted to comment on that, but after a moment he just nodded.

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Fresh eyes can add valuable perspective to an investigation. You didn’t tell her why you wanted to know about Sherman, did you?”

“No,” Alex admitted, “but she’s not an idiot. She knows I don’t have any cases involving Sherman.”

“Well, keep her in the dark as long as possible. I have a feeling that uniting the vision stone with Sherry’s gift might be extraordinarily dangerous.”

Alex wasn’t sure he believed that, but he certainly couldn’t refute it. Until he got better information, Iggy was right — caution was the order of the day.

“I don’t expect her back for a couple of hours,” he said.

Iggy seemed to think about that for a moment, then he reached into his suit coat for his pocket humidor.

“In that case,” he said, tipping out a cigar, “I suggest we reconvene this afternoon to go over her findings.”

“That will have to wait,” Alex interjected as Iggy trimmed the cigar. “I’ve got to go over to Staten Island to find a stolen dueling pistol. The client came in yesterday and the finding rune made a weak connection.”

“I thought you could use the Lightning Lord’s power towers to extend your runes,” Iggy said, puffing on the cigar to light it.

“I can, but the Staten Island tower isn’t fully operational yet,” Alex said. “Right now there’s just too much water between the island and here. With the connection I got yesterday, there shouldn't be any problem once I’m on the island itself.”

“Still,” Iggy said, leaning into the couch cushions. “It’ll take you an hour to get out there and you have to recover the missing weapon; that could involve the authorities, which will add several hours at least.”

Alex hadn’t really thought about it, but as usual, Iggy’s grasp of the situation was exact.

“That being the case,” Alex said, “let’s pick this up tonight at dinner. That should give me all the time I need to close the case.”

Iggy made a sour face, then puffed his cigar again.

“All right,” he said, standing and picking up his hat. “As much as I hate to admit it, that means I have more reading to do.” He leaned over the ashtray on the desk and tapped the ashes off his cigar. “I shall see you at dinner.”

With that, his mentor wished him well and headed into the back hallway, closing the door behind him. Alex just sat watching the door for a long moment. Iggy hadn’t said it, but it might be weeks or even months before they made any headway with this clue. It was maddening to have the clues right in front of him but have no idea what they meant.

Evidence without context is meaningless, Iggy’s voice spoke in his memory.

“So close, yet so far away,” he said. Lighting a cigarette, he sat up in his chair and picked up the first of the folders Sherry wanted him to review.

Alex turned the last page of his newspaper, shifting uncomfortably on the Port Authority bench. He’d arrived right on time at two o’clock but his client was nowhere to be seen. With nothing to do but wait, Alex had purchased a paper, a mediocre cup of coffee, and a bag of hot peanuts from a street vendor, then found a bench by the ticket booth.

Since then, he’d smoked three cigarettes, finished the paper twice, and eaten all the peanuts. Ironically the only thing he hadn’t finished was the coffee, it having lost its magic after only a few minutes.

Folding the paper, Alex glanced around at the crowd waiting for the next ferry. There were plenty of people, despite the early hour, but no sign of Rex Halliday.

Alex checked his watch and found it was almost three.

“Enough of this,” he said, setting his paper aside and standing. He’d go back to his office and wait to hear from Halliday.

“Alex,” the man himself called.

Turning, Alex found the rumpled man hurrying up to him, sweat beading on his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped as he came to a stop, grabbing Alex on the shoulder for support. “Things ran long.”

“That’s okay,” Alex said, pushing Halliday back to arm’s length. “We’re not in a hurry, not as long as I’m on the clock.”

Halliday cleared his throat and loosened his tie.

“You brought the pistol?” Alex asked.

The bespectacled man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a brown paper bag. Holding it open for Alex, he revealed the ornate dueling pistol at the bottom.

“All right then,” Alex said as the ferry rumbled up to the dock, “let’s get going.”

Alex set up his map and compass behind a little newsstand next to the ferry dock on Staten Island. Since the stolen pistol could be anywhere on the island, there was no sense going anywhere special before using the finding rune.

“You sure it will work this time?” Halliday asked as Alex held out his hand for the pistol.

“Easily,” Alex said, placing the pistol on top of the map. He added the compass and a folded finding rune, then lit the whole thing. This time the rune began spinning immediately, then slowed down, pointing southwest.

“It’s that way?” Halliday asked.

Alex nodded, picking up the compass, holding it flat in the palm of his hand.

“All we have to do now,” he said, “is catch a cab and follow this.”

Halliday reached for the pistol, but hesitated, looking at Alex.

“Take it,” Alex said, then folded up the map and stuffed it back into his kit bag.

Two minutes later, Alex was directing a cabby toward the south end of the island. The needle kept steady as they went, finally directing them to a building that looked like it hadn’t been maintained well for several years. Bricks were missing from the eaves and some still sat on the sidewalk where they’d fallen. Several winos were gathered at the mouth of an alley between the building and its neighbor, and the surrounding area reeked of cheap beer and vomit.

Alex wasn’t too worried; he’d found stolen items in places like this before. Rex Halliday, on the other hand, was a different matter. The man was sweating profusely, and had taken to mopping his face with an orange handkerchief he’d produced from the pocket of his suit coat.

“It’s really in there?” he asked, his voice coming out in a squeak.

Alex nodded, patting his left shoulder, feeling the weight of his 1911. Recovery of stolen goods sometimes required the stick rather than the carrot and he liked to be prepared.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” he said, turning to Halliday, “take this cab back to the ferry station and wait for me there. I’ll be along in a few minutes, just wait for me there, understand?”

“Y-yes,” his client stammered.

Alex gave the cabby a couple of bucks, then got out.

“Good luck, Alex,” Halliday called out the window as the car drove away.

Alex waited until the cab was out of sight, then turned to the building. Checking the compass again, he found the needle pointing directly at it. There was no doubt that the missing dueling pistol was inside, but that fact bothered Alex. According to what Rex Halliday had told him, the thief had broken into his apartment specifically to steal the pistols. That meant that the thief knew about the pistols and wanted them, specifically. It was not the random act of a run-of-the-mill burglar.

“So why is it here?” Alex asked himself as he crossed the road to the building’s entrance.

It was possible, of course, that the real thief had hired out the burglary to someone else, someone who decided to cut his losses when he came away with only one pistol. Still, if that were the case, then why wasn’t the pistol already in a pawn shop?

“It doesn’t make sense,” he thought, pushing the street door open.

Once inside the building, Alex reached under his coat and pulled out his 1911, holding it down and to the side. Checking the compass again, he turned it on its side and the needle pointed to one of the upper floors. When he reached the third floor, it leveled out and Alex let it fall flat on his palm again.

This time the needle led him to the grimy door of room three-oh-eight. He stood outside the door, listening for a long moment, but no sound came from inside. Finally, he reached for the knob to see if the door was unlocked.

Before his hand made contact, however, a loud explosion erupted from inside the room and Alex could hear something heavy hit the floor.

Stepping back, Alex raised his foot and smashed the door open, revealing a surprisingly well-appointed room inside. A comfortable couch was against the side wall, flanked by end tables and lit lamps. A desk stood against the back wall, with papers strewn across its top and spilling down onto the floor. On the wall opposite the couch was a glass fronted liquor cabinet that stood open with several bottles resting on the secretary shelf.

As Alex swept the room, the only thing that was out of place was the body lying in the middle of the floor. A dark bloodstain was spreading out on the carpet beneath him and Alex rushed to his side.

“Hang on,” he told the man as he rolled him onto his back. Whoever he was, his clothes were expensive and well-tailored. When Alex got him on his back, he understood the clothes.

“Tony,” he gasped, recognizing the face of his business partner and ex-gangster, Lucky Tony Casetti. He was unconscious and bleeding from a large hole in his upper chest. Alex wasn’t as good as Iggy when it came to identifying bullet wounds, but it looked like someone had tried to shoot him in the heart and only slightly missed.

“Stay with me,” Alex said, stuffing his handkerchief into the wound.

There wasn’t a phone in the little room, Alex was sure of that, but he knew how to get one quickly. He stood, reaching for his rune book, when his foot hit something hard. Looking down, he saw the still-smoking dueling pistol on the carpet and from somewhere he could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

5

THE OTHER SIDE

Lieutenant James Detweiler climbed out of the Staten Island Police cruiser that had picked him up from the Port Authority. This wasn’t his beat and he would have fought the directive to come out here had it not come from Captain Callahan himself. Still, the Captain had told him, in no uncertain terms, to get out here to a slum in Staten Island and take charge.

As the cruiser pulled away, he surveyed the street. It was clear where he needed to go as there was a gaggle of reporters and photographers crowded around the entrance to a run-down apartment building. Half a dozen uniformed officers were keeping them back from the dirty front door and a coroner's van was parked just down the curb.

With no one obviously in charge, Detweiler buttoned up his suit coat and crossed the street. Before he was even halfway across, one of the reporters caught sight of him and started yelling questions.

“Can you tell us what’s going on here?” he called.

“Do you have a suspect in custody?” another yelled.

Detweiler ignored them, flashing his badge at the uniform in front of the door. The man was a brick, tall and broad shouldered with a granite jaw and a look of violence in his eyes.

“I’m Lieutenant Detweiler from the Manhattan PD,” he said, flashing his gold shield. “My captain sent me down here. Who’s in charge?”

The officer scrutinized the shield for a moment before he spoke.

“I don’t know him,” he admitted. “I heard it’s another one of your boys, Detective Arnold? Little guy, asks lots of questions?”

Detweiler resisted the urge to sigh. Arnold was a good man with good instincts but a little of him went a long way.

“I know him,” he admitted. “Where can I find him?”

“Inside,” the officer said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “third floor.”

Detweiler thanked the man, more out of habit rather than any desire to acknowledge his ‘help,’ then stepped around him and entered the building.

If the exterior of the building was a ruin, the interior matched it. The wallpaper was peeling, showing the lathes behind, and naked electrical wires ran along the ceiling. A dusty dryness hung in the air with particles dancing in the motes of light that made it into the foyer from the dirty glass door. The only thing that was clean was the center of the stairs, where dozens of policemen had recently moved up, presumably to the third floor.

“Lieutenant,” Detective Arnold’s voice came from above as Detweiler started to climb.

Looking up, Detweiler saw him leaning over an upper railing and waving him up.

“I’m glad you’re here, sir,” Arnold continued. “I could use your advice on this one.”

“Wait till I get up there,” Detweiler said, climbing steadily. Recently he’d put on a couple pounds and he felt them as he went. Detective Arnold waited patiently at the top of the stairs, draped in his rumpled overcoat. The weather had turned warm, but the little man wore the coat as if it were his own personal uniform.

“Okay,” Detweiler said as he reached the third-floor landing. “What’s so important that the captain sent you and, more importantly, me all the way out here?”

“Well,” Arnold began, “on the surface this looks like an open and shut case. Now there aren’t very many people that live in this building, but around a quarter after three, the local switchboard lit up with calls. Several reports came in, saying they had heard a gunshot in the building.”

“Just one shot?”

“Yes, sir,” Arnold confirmed. “Naturally the locals sent some uniforms out here and they found our suspect standing over a body, murder weapon on the floor.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Detweiler said. “What do you need me for?”

“I think I’d better show you, sir,” Arnold said, then turned down the near hallway.

Detweiler followed along until they reached an open door with an officer standing beside it. Stepping inside, he was taken aback. The room was modestly furnished, but the furniture was far too pricey for a room in this building. The only negative thing was the large bloodstain in the middle of what appeared to be a Persian rug.

A man he assumed to be the coroner was examining the hand of a man covered by a sheet, and what looked like an antique flint-lock pistol sat on a coffee table in front of a sofa.

“The murder weapon?” he asked, nodding at the pistol.

“Yes, sir,” Arnold acknowledged. “The boys found fingerprints on it that are consistent with our suspect.”

Detweiler squatted down to look at the barrel. Like most old guns, it fired an enormous lead ball.

“Again,” he said, standing back up, “why am I even here?”

This time Detective Arnold didn’t answer, he just moved over to the covered body and pulled the sheet down off its head.

“Christ,” Detweiler swore. He hadn’t been part of the vice squad in over a decade but he knew the face instantly. “I guess Lucky Tony’s luck ran out.” He turned back to Arnold. “You said you have a suspect?”

“This way, sir,” Arnold said, heading for a door that presumably led to a bedroom.

Pushing the door open, Arnold stepped in, then moved aside. In the little bedroom were two uniformed officers who were just standing up from the appropriated kitchen chairs they’d been occupying. A third man sat on the bed with one arm cuffed to a brass headboard. The officers stood at attention, not knowing what to expect from the out-of-town lieutenant, but the man on the bed just sat, smoking a cigarette with his legs extended and crossed casually at the ankle.

“Lieutenant Detweiler,” he said, a smile brightening his face. “Fancy meeting you in a place like this.”

“Lockerby,” Detweiler sighed, recognizing Alex instantly. He looked very much the way he always did, though the cuffs of his white shirt and his waistcoat were stained with dried blood. He put his hand on Detective Arnold’s shoulder and guided him back out into the main room. “Shut the door,” he said under his breath.

“I’d offer you a cocktail,” Lockerby called after them, “but I’m a little tied up right now.”

“What’s his story?” Detweiler asked, once the door was shut again.

“According to Alex, he was hired to find that dueling pistol,” Arnold nodded at the murder weapon. “He says he tracked it down here, came upstairs, and as soon as he was about to knock on the door, he heard the gunshot. He busted in, found Mr. Casetti bleeding out on the floor.”

“Did Lucky Tony say anything before he died?”

“Not according to Alex.”

“You saw the blood on his clothes and hands?”

“Yes, sir,” Arnold said. “It corroborates his story a bit, I mean the only way to get that much blood on yourself is trying to help someone who’s bleeding a lot.”

“Or fighting with them,” Detweiler countered.

“If they were fighting, I’d expect to see blood on Alex’s face,” Arnold pointed out.

“It doesn’t clear him,” Detweiler agreed, “but it’s a point in his favor.” He glanced around the room again before turning back to Detective Arnold. “Is that all, or is there more?”

“There’s more,” the detective said, motioning for Detweiler to follow him out into the hall.

Down at the far end, another uniformed officer stood outside a door. This time when Arnold opened the door, he found another pair of uniforms along with two men in suits. These men wore the latest styles, looking very dapper, but there was an air of crudity about them that no silk vest could camouflage.

“Meet Antonio Rosono and Constantine Firenze,” Arnold introduced the men. “These are Mr. Casetti’s bodyguards.”

“Some job you boys did,” Detweiler said. “You want to explain how your boss is dead in the other room?”

The taller man, who Arnold had introduced as Constantine, cleared his throat.

“This is supposed to be a safe house,” he said. “The boss knows the feds are watching his house and the brewery, so he meets people here when he wants to lay low.”

“That doesn’t explain how he ended up dead,” Detweiler pressed.

“He always sends us down here,” Constantine said. “As soon as we heard the shot, though, we came running.”

“What did you see?” Detweiler asked.

“When we got there, we found that private dick kneeling over the boss,” Antonio growled. “Like he was searching for something.”

“Shut it,” Constantine growled right back at his partner. “That ain’t the way it was and you know it. Alex was trying to help the boss.”

“So, you know Mr. Lockerby?” Arnold asked, making notes in his book.

“Sure,” Constantine said. “Alex works with the boss at the brewery. There’s no way he’d do anything to hurt him.”

“Did your boss carry a gun?” Detweiler asked.

“No,” Constantine admitted. “Ever since he retired, he ain’t needed to.”

“Someone would beg to differ,” Detweiler muttered.

“Can we go now?” Constantine asked.

Detweiler eyed the big man for a long moment. Based on the way he talked, he sounded like just another mob meat-head, but he’d told a solid story, without embellishment. Now he wanted to report his boss’ death to the family before word got out.

“You need these two for anything else?” he asked Detective Arnold.

“No, sir,” Arnold said, closing his notebook. “That’ll be all.”

“All right,” Detweiler said. “You two can go, but I shouldn’t have to tell you to keep your mouths shut about this. If the tabloids hear about it, they’ll drag your boss’ name through the mud before the morning edition.”

The men exchanged glances, then Constantine nodded in response.

“What do you think?” Detweiler asked once the mob boys had gone.

“Well, sir,” the rumpled man said, rubbing his chin. “I have to be honest with you, Lieutenant, this case bothers me.”

“How so?”

“Well Alex…Mr. Lockerby, he’s worked with our office for over a decade, he knows our procedures, how we investigate crimes, things like that.”

“And…” Detweiler prodded.

“And I just don’t see him committing a crime this sloppy, sir.”

Detweiler had been thinking the same thing. This wasn’t just an open and shut case, it was practically gift wrapped. The only thing that contradicted the evidence at hand was the big mob enforcer, Constantine. He insisted that Lockerby didn’t shoot Lucky Tony.

“Sir,” Arnold went on when Detweiler didn’t speak up, “the way I see it, if Alex Lockerby wanted to kill Lucky Tony, he’d have done it so that at the time Tony died, he’d be across town being photographed at a nightclub with his celebrity girlfriend.”

Detweiler sighed.

“That’s how I figure it,” he agreed. “Lockerby may be an arrogant pain in my ass, but he’s not an idiot. There’s no way he’d commit a murder this obvious.”

“He’s being framed,” Arnold concluded.

“It still might be a coincidence,” Detweiler offered. “A crime of passion. He and Tony got into an argument and things got out of hand.”

“And Alex shot Lucky Tony with an antique pistol?” Arnold said. “Instead of the 1911 he had in his shoulder holster.”

Detweiler shrugged.

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, “but there’s nothing we can do about our opinion. We follow the evidence.”

“There is one more thing, sir,” Detective Arnold said as they made their way back to the crime scene. “Those reporters out front.”

“What about them?”

“At least half of them were here before the local police arrived.”

“Someone tipped them off,” Detweiler said, shaking his head. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

“What do you want me to do?” Arnold asked.

“Arrest Lockerby,” he said. “Take him back to Manhattan and book him at the Central Office. Make sure they do a paraffin test; if Lockerby was anywhere near that pistol when it went off, he’s going to be covered in gunpowder. As soon as the boys are finished, make sure he gets an immediate bail hearing.”

“I’ll get it done,” Arnold said. “What are you going to do?”

Detweiler rubbed the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on.

“I’ve got to go report this to the captain, then I’ve got to tell the Ice Queen that her boyfriend’s been arrested, and, after that, I have to tell the Lightning Lord that his star employee is behind bars.”

Detective Arnold looked at him for a long moment, then he put his hand on Detweiler’s shoulder.

“You know, my wife keeps telling me that I have to work harder and make Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s times like this that I’m glad I don’t listen to her.”

Detective Arnold was always full of folksy aphorisms about his wife or his kids. Detweiler usually didn’t like it when he wandered off into such territory. This time, however, he agreed completely.

Alex waited on the bed in Tony Casetti’s safe house for another half hour after he’d seen Lieutenant Detweiler for the briefest of moments. When Detective Arnold came back without him, Alex almost felt a bit slighted.

Almost.

He had to admit this entire afternoon was a disaster. It hadn’t taken him very long to figure out that he’d been set up, but by the time he realized it, it was too late to pull his head out of the noose. Rex Halliday, which was certainly an alias, had handed him a dueling pistol yesterday, then undoubtedly swapped it for the missing one, leaving the one in the next room covered in his fingerprints.

The one that shot Lucky Tony, he reminded himself.

He knew any explanation would sound like the ravings of a desperate man, so Alex resolved to keep his mouth shut and wait for his lawyer, or rather, Andrew Barton’s lawyer. Alex had no doubt that as soon as the Lightning Lord heard of his predicament, one of his high-priced attorneys would be over at the Central Office to bail him out. That would give him time to figure out who had set him up and, more importantly, why? His mind spun through a dozen possibilities, each more farfetched than the last.

Eventually, Detective Arnold escorted him out of the building, past the waiting gang of ravenous reporters. As their flash bulbs ignited in the semi-darkness of evening, Alex hoped none of them recognized him. If they did, the story would be all over the evening editions. If it took them time to identify him, he had a chance to explain everything to Iggy and Sorsha before the morning papers came out.

It had been a long time since Alex had been arrested. The last time he was only a kid and the charge had been vagrancy. This time was almost nostalgic; they fingerprinted him, took mug shots, and then left him alone in an interrogation room. Alex knew from experience that the cops usually left suspects in the box for a while, just to make them nervous and more susceptible to questioning.

Alex took off his suit jacket and folded it up to use as a pillow, but before he could put his head down, the door opened and a familiar detective entered with a uniformed officer carrying a bag that reminded Alex of his kit.

“On your feet, Lockerby,” the detective said.

“Nicholson,” Alex said, as he stood up. “I haven’t seen you in a while, you still on Detweiler’s crew?”

“That’s Lieutenant Detweiler to you,” Nicholson said.

Alex had worked with Nicholson a few times, always under Detweiler’s direction. The big man wasn’t really much of a detective, though he had a dogged determination that Alex admired.

“So, what’s all this?” Alex pressed as the uniform set up a burner on the far side of the table. Once he had it lit, he added a ceramic pot of sludgy liquid above it.

“Paraffin test,” Nicholson said, “hold out your hands.”

Alex sighed and did as he was told. It only took a minute for the sludgy liquid to soften and the officer removed it from the heat source. Reaching into his bag, he produced a small brush, then carefully coated Alex’s hands with the liquid wax. It wasn’t hot enough to seriously burn him, but it stung nonetheless.

“Now don’t move until I say,” the officer told him as he began to put his gear away.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Nicholson said as the wax hardened on Alex’s hands, “killing a mobster.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Alex said, keeping his voice calm and his emotions in check. Nicholson obviously had an axe to grind, but Alex wasn’t going to take the bait.

“Of course not,” Nicholson said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You just happened to visit Staten Island and walk in on your business partner’s murder. I’m sure a jury will buy that explanation.”

Before Alex could answer, the officer laid down a newspaper on the table.

“Flex your fingers,” he said.

Moving slowly, Alex cracked the wax, allowing bits of it to fall away, on to the paper below. The officer came after with a blunt scraper, prying the remaining bits from Alex’s hands.

“How long will that thing take?” Nicholson asked the officer, who was carefully folding up the newspaper.

“Not long,” he said, “maybe an hour.”

“Let me know as soon as you have anything,” the detective said.

“I need his tie,” the officer said.

“Why?” Alex asked.

“To test it,” he responded.

“You want him to take your shirt?” Nicholson growled.

Alex didn’t, so he removed his tie and handed it over.

“Now,” Nicholson said once the officer was gone. “Roll up your sleeves.” He took out a flip notebook and opened it. “I’ve been told to make sure you don’t have any runes drawn on your arms.”

Alex sighed and removed the cufflinks from his sleeves. As he put them on the table, Detective Nicholson picked them up and scrutinized them.

“They’re just cufflinks,” Alex said, rolling up his left sleeve. It was true, of course, but Alex was already imagining the possibilities of etching a rune into the back of them.

Nicholson put the cufflink down, then walked around Alex, examining his arms. There was a time when Alex had an escape rune tattooed on his left arm, but he’d used that years ago when a madman tried to destroy Manhattan. Now there weren’t any runes on his arms.

“All right,” Nicholson said once he’d examined Alex. “You can sit and we’ll discuss what happened on Staten Island.”

Alex reached for his cufflink but Nicholson grabbed his arm.

“What is that?” he asked, nodding at the front of Alex’s shirt.

Alex was confused, but when he looked down he could see that one of his shirt buttons had popped open, probably when he was trying to save Tony, and the glow of the damnation rune was showing through.

“Open your shirt front,” Nicholson said, reaching into his coat to grab the butt of his police revolver.

“Easy,” Alex said, holding up his hands.

“Do it,” Nicholson growled.

“All right,” Alex said, keeping his left hand up and unbuttoning his shirt with his right. Moving slowly, he pulled the shirt open so Nicholson could see the glowing, colorful rune.

“What, exactly, is that?” he asked again.

“I was poisoned,” Alex said, trying to keep the story simple enough that the detective could understand it, “My mentor, Dr. Bell, put this on me to leech the poison from my body.”

“How do I know that any of that is true?” Nicholson said, still holding the handle of his pistol.

“Call Dr. Bell and ask him,” Alex said with a shrug.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll cover for you,” Nicholson said. “I think I’d better have someone else look at that. Come to think of it, I’ll have the photographer take some pictures of it.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” a new voice interjected.

The door opened and a slim, athletic man in an expensive suit entered. He had a briefcase that had been polished until it shone almost as much as his shoes.

“Who—” Nicholson started, but the man simply held up a business card so the detective could read it.

“My name is Milton Ackerman,” he said. “I’m Alex’s lawyer and he’s done talking to you.” Turning to Alex, Ackerman said, “Get dressed, you’ve got a bail hearing in twenty minutes and the judge will want you wearing a shirt.”

6

BAILING

Sorsha sat on the hard bench in the back of the little courtroom that occupied the second floor of the Central Office of Police. It wasn’t the first courtroom she’d been in and with her elongated lifespan it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was certainly the most absurd. She’d been in her workshop, enchanting the steel rods that formed the backbone of her business, when her maid had interrupted her. Alex had been arrested for murder.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered to herself.

Alexander Lockerby was far too clever to murder someone and then get caught. She held no illusions, Alex was the kind of man who would kill if the occasion called for it, but to get caught with the murder weapon at his feet, covered in his fingerprints? It was an absurdity not worth dignifying.

She’d thought that very thing when Captain Callahan explained the arrest to her in his office, and she could tell he didn’t believe it either. Unfortunately, believing or not believing wasn’t up to Callahan; now that Alex had been arrested, it was up to the legal system — hence her presence in the courtroom.

The door at the back of the room opened and she turned to see who was arriving. There were already members of the press in the room, none of whom had the guts to approach her. As she watched, a lean man in an expensive suit stepped through the door. He looked to be in his late thirties with dark hair prematurely greying at the temples and a look of unshakable confidence on his face. She’d never met Andrew Barton’s lawyer, but this could only be him.

Next through the door was Alex, with his hands cuffed in front of him. He didn’t look any the worse for being arrested, though he was missing his tie for some reason and there was dried blood on his sleeve cuffs. As the lawyer escorted him to one of the tables in the front of the room, Alex looked around, quickly catching Sorsha’s eye. He flashed her a grin and a wink that made her clench her hands in anger, though she should have expected it. Alex had a bad habit of not taking things seriously, especially things that were serious.

Releasing her flash of anger, Sorsha reached into nothingness and withdrew her cigarette holder. Another pull drew an ivory cigarette case, and she flipped open the top to select one before vanishing the case again.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” a uniformed bailiff said, leaning down to speak quietly, “there’s no smoking in the courtroom.”

Sorsha blushed a little as she apologized and sent her now-loaded cigarette holder back into her extra-dimensional storage.

As she turned her attention back to the front, another bailiff emerged from a side door.

“All rise,” he called in a loud voice. “This court in and for the county of New York is now in session, the Honorable Judge Gene Harper presiding.”

Sorsha rose along with everyone else in the room.

As the bailiff made his announcement, a man in his mid-fifties emerged through the door and ascended to the judge’s bench. He had strong features in an affable face, with thick, well-manicured hair that had gone gray.

“Be seated,” Judge Harper said as he settled into his chair.

Once everyone sat down again, he turned to the district attorney who sat opposite Alex and Barton’s lawyer.

“In the case of Alexander Lockerby, your Honor,” the DA began, “he is accused of murder in the first degree.”

“Councilor,” the judge asked, turning to Barton’s attorney, “how does your client plead?”

“Not guilty, your Honor,” he said in a voice that didn’t seem loud, but managed to carry to the entire courtroom.

“Noted,” the judge said, then turned back to the DA. “What is the state’s stance on bail?”

The DA rose but didn’t immediately speak, letting the silence draw out.

“We request that Mr. Lockerby be remanded to state custody until his trial,” he said.

“This is a serious matter,” Judge Harper said, “but it sounds like there’s more going on here. Care to explain?”

“Your Honor,” the DA went on, “the accused was found standing over the body of the murdered man, Tony Casetti. In addition to being Mr. Lockerby’s business partner, Mr. Casetti was also the former head of the Rosono crime family. Also found at the scene was the murder weapon, covered in Mr. Lockerby’s fingerprints, I might add.”

“Ridiculous,” Sorsha mumbled, being sure to keep her voice low.

The judge turned back to Barton’s lawyer.

“Councilor, these charges sound extremely serious. I’m inclined to agree with the District Attorney.”

“We acknowledge the seriousness of the charges, your Honor,” the lawyer said, his voice smooth and conciliatory. “But we maintain our client’s innocence. He’s is an unfortunate victim of circumstance.”

“Something which you’ll no doubt establish at trial,” Judge Harper said, “but not relevant here.”

“My apologies, your Honor,” the lawyer said. “I believe what is relevant here is that Mr. Lockerby is an upstanding citizen in our community, one who has been awarded citations from the city and from private organizations for his work as a private investigator. Also, he is a frequent consultant to the police, especially when cases involve the use of magic. According to Captain Francis Callahan of this very district, Mr. Lockerby has been instrumental in helping the police close half-a-dozen cases in the last twelve months.”

Sorsha was impressed. She had her own lawyers, of course, mostly to keep track of the legalese that came with her business. They were excellent men, but she had to admit, Barton’s lawyer was in a whole different class; the man exuded confidence and persuasion.

“About that,” the DA interjected. “Mr. Lockerby is a runewright of some considerable skill, one who has been documented to have used an escape rune in the past. He is also quite wealthy, maintaining an office and an apartment in Empire Tower. With his resources and skills, it is our belief that he represents a considerable flight risk.”

Sorsha crossed her arms and made a mental note to donate to the DA’s opponent during the next election.

“Mr. Ackerman?” the judge said, turning to Barton’s attorney.

“What my colleague failed to mention in his list of my client’s resources, is the source of those resources. Mr. Lockerby’s assets in Empire Tower are a direct result of his partnership with Andrew Barton, who considers Mr. Lockerby essential to the expansion of Barton Electric’s power towers. Add to that, the fact that it is public knowledge that my client is currently dating Miss Sorsha Kincaid, who is with us in the courtroom.”

Ackerman turned and indicated her, and Sorsha smiled and nodded. She wasn’t sure why the lawyer was dragging her into this, but she had an image to maintain.

“Your Honor,” the DA said, “Mr. Lockerby is already accused of shooting one of his business partners and who he dates is hardly a character reference.”

“I beg to differ, your Honor,” Ackerman said. “If the Lighting Lord views my client as an important part of his business, I doubt very much that he will allow him to go on the lam.”

Judge Harper sat back in his chair, considering what had been said. After a long moment, he took a sip from the glass of water on his podium, then pointed right at Sorsha.

“Miss Kincaid,” he said in a kindly voice, “would you approach the bench.”

Not knowing why the judge would want to talk directly to her, Sorsha stood and made her way up the aisle to the dais that supported the judge’s bench.

“I’m sorry to single you out, Miss Kincaid,” he said, keeping his voice low, “but I want your opinion on this matter.”

“The charges are ridiculous, your honor,” she said, working hard to not sound peevish. “Alex didn’t kill Tony Casetti.”

“While I appreciate your candor,” Harper said with an apologetic note in his voice, “what I need to know is whether or not you think Mr. Lockerby is a flight risk?”

What he was asking was whether or not Sorsha would consider helping Alex escape. She supposed that if he were actually convicted, she’d have to do something, but that was a long way off.

“No, your honor,” Sorsha said at last. “Alex has too many people who depend on him here in the city. If you grant him bail, he’s not going anywhere.”

“Will you guarantee that?” Harper asked. “Personally, I mean.”

Sorsha smirked and nodded. The judge was in a tight spot, with the DA obviously wanting Alex in jail, and Alex having personal connections to two of the New York Six. It was unlikely a sorcerer would intervene against the court, but it was a risk Judge Harper didn’t want to take, so he’d enlisted Sorsha to ensure his position.

“Thank you, Miss Kincaid,” he said with a grateful nod, “you may resume your seat.”

As Sorsha made her way back down the aisle to her seat, she caught Alex’s eye and he winked at her again. She felt better for that wink, even though she knew that of the people in the courtroom, the one with the least effect on the outcome of the hearing was her beau.

Judge Harper rapped his gavel smartly on the podium and silence fell in the room.

“Based on the testimony provided,” he said in a sure, clear voice, “it is the opinion of this court, that bail for Mr. Lockerby be set at one-thousand dollars. Court is adjourned.” He banged the gavel again, and the bailiff called for everyone to rise as the judge withdrew.

Sorsha made her way to the front where the lawyer, Ackerman, was talking with Alex.

“Don’t worry about the bail,” he was saying, “Mr. Barton instructed me to cover it.”

“I can cover my own bail,” Alex said, sounding a bit exasperated.

“Hush,” Sorsha said, putting a hand on his arm. “Let Andrew have his fun.”

Alex put his hand on Sorsha’s and let out a pent-up breath.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“You should be,” Ackerman said. “The only reason that judge gave you bail is that Sorsha agreed to keep you here.”

“How do you know that?” Sorsha asked.

Barton’s lawyer gave her a knowing smile, then waggled his eyebrows like a cartoon lecher.

“What choice did he have?” he explained. “Murder is a serious charge, but Alex here is very well connected. That’s a delicate wire to walk. Thanks for agreeing, by the way.”

Alex looked at Sorsha with mock outrage.

“You agreed to be my babysitter?” he demanded.

“Lord knows you need one,” Sorsha countered. “The events of today being the best example.”

“I hate to break up this delightful lover’s quarrel,” Ackerman said, “but I need to get Alex over to the bail office and get that settled. You can wait for him in the lobby.”

Normally, Sorsha wouldn’t want to be seen in a place open to the general public; too many people would want to talk to her, despite the reputations of sorcerers. This time, however, she had to. The court was packed with reporters and there were bound to be more in the lobby. She needed to be there, to be seen playing the dutiful girlfriend.

“All right,” she said, then turned away and left the courtroom.

“So,” Sorsha began as the cab pulled away from the curb in front of the Central Office. “Please explain to me how you managed to become the prime suspect in the murder of your business parter?”

While she’d been in the Central Office Lobby, she’d been joined by Dr. Bell, who hadn’t gotten the word that Alex had been arrested until late. Once Alex joined them, they made their way through the assembled reporters to the street where they caught a cab.

Alex took a deep breath and explained about his client Rex Halliday and the subsequent events.

“Hmm,” Iggy intoned when Alex finished his explanation. “It’s not the best frame-up I’ve ever heard of, but it’ll serve.”

Sorsha was forced to agree.

“It would have been a lot more believable if Connie and Little Tony hadn’t come bursting in right after I did,” Alex pointed out. “I’m pretty sure Detweiler and Arnold aren’t buying it either, but without some actual evidence that I’m innocent, there isn’t much they can do.”

“What do you need them to do?” Sorsha asked.

“As long as they do their jobs, I’ll be fine,” Alex said. “I am innocent, after all.”

“True,” Iggy agreed, “and the longer the police drag out the investigation, the more time we have to find out who Rex Halliday really is, and who’s behind all this.”

“We need to figure out why,” Alex declared. “Someone went out of their way to pull this stunt, but I don’t get what they hope to accomplish. What’s their game?”

Sorsha wanted very much to know the same thing. Now that she knew the details, it was an obvious frame-up, at least to her. She looked out the window as the cab waited for a traffic signal.

“Driver,” Sorsha said, reaching up to touch the man’s shoulder as the cab began to accelerate again. “Pull over, please.”

The driver did as instructed and Sorsha got out, heading for the newsstand she’d seen. Dropping a quarter in the proprietor’s box, she picked up the evening edition of the Herald.

“This is why,” she said once she’d returned to the cab. She held up the paper so Alex and Dr. Bell could see the masthead.

Alex Lockerby - New Gangster in Town.

Below the headline was a close-up picture of Alex being led from the Staten Island apartment building by Detective Arnold.

“I think you’re right,” Iggy said, nodding at Sorsha. “Look here.”

He pointed at a line of text in the body of the article that outright stated that Alex had murdered his business partner, Lucky Tony Casetti, so that he could seize control of the Homestead Brewery.

“How do they know the victim’s name already?” Sorsha wondered.

“If I were to wager,” Iggy said, “I’d say they had the story well ahead of time.”

“It was part of the set-up,” Alex agreed. “They probably had the story all laid out, and all they were waiting for was the picture of me being led out in handcuffs.”

“So, it’s your reputation they’re after,” Sorsha declared. “They’re trying to tarnish your public image.” As she said it, that explanation didn’t sound right to her.

“There must be more to it than that,” Iggy said, giving voice to her thoughts. “Even if they managed to force Alex to close down his detective agency, he still has his work with Barton.”

“And I’m sure Lucky Tony’s successor is going to want to keep getting preservation runes from me,” Alex added.

“What about your former partner?” Sorsha asked. “Was he just a convenient victim, or were they after him, too?”

“I don’t know,” Alex growled, “but I’m going to find out who’s responsible and they’re going to pay.”

Sorsha hadn’t really been privy to Alex's relationship with the former gangster. Neither she nor Dr. Bell liked it, but since he and Alex had been working together, Alex seemed to genuinely like the man, his previous career notwithstanding.

“I suspect you should start with Tony,” Iggy said, still scanning the article in the newspaper. “You said that apartment was some kind of safe house, so how did the killer know about it?”

“What about that Halliday person?” Sorsha asked, “shouldn’t Alex start with him?”

“He’s undoubtedly disappeared by now,” Iggy said, “but whoever set you up either knew that Lucky Tony would be at that address, or they lured him there. That narrows the suspect pool to someone in Mr. Casetti’s inner circle.”

Iggy made a good point. There couldn't be that many people who knew about Lucky Tony’s safe house, much less its address.

“That would make one of the family a traitor,” Alex mused, rubbing his chin. “That’s someone with a serious grudge.”

Sorsha looped her arm through Alex’s.

“Well that ought to make them easy for us to find,” she said, finally feeling enthusiastic.

“No one goes after a mob boss, even a former one, lightly,” Iggy said. “Whoever you’re looking for, it’s likely they’re extremely dangerous.”

Sorsha’s enthusiasm grew into excitement and she allowed herself a predatory smile.

“Oh, I hope so,” she said.

Iggy chuckled as Sorsha’s pale eyes glowed sapphire blue.

“I suppose going after a sorceress’ boyfriend isn’t to be taken lightly either.”

7

AFTERSHOCKS

The next morning Alex sat behind his office desk just staring at the phone. There were two calls he needed to make, and he didn’t want to make either of them. He’d put them off last night, but he had no excuse now.

Out of habit, Alex checked his pocket watch and found it to be well after nine.

“All right,” he said out loud as he reached for the phone. “Get going.”

First, he needed to call Andrew Barton. The sorcerer hadn’t come down to the Central Office of Police personally, but had sent his lawyer to bail Alex out.

“On second thought,” Alex said, releasing the phone, “I’d better go see Andrew in person.”

That left him just one call, and Alex dialed before he could have second thoughts.

“Connie?” he asked when the line connected.

“Yeah,” the familiar voice responded. “It’s me. I heard you got bailed out.”

“I was,” Alex confirmed. “How are things with the family?”

“I told everyone what happened,” Connie said. “They’re on board.”

That was a relief. Alex wondered if any of Lucky Tony’s people would believe the story in the paper before Connie explained what happened. He didn’t need one of the former Rosono enforcers coming after him.

“That’s not to say that they’re happy about it,” Connie went on. “Everybody wants a piece of whoever did this.”

Alex understood that.

“Connie,” he said, “I promise you, and everyone in the family, that I will find whoever did this. Once I know what their plan is, what this is all about, he’ll be all yours.”

There was a pause on the line before Connie continued.

“I never doubted you, Alex,” he said. “Just be careful, I can’t protect you on this one.”

“I know,” Alex said. “Whoever set all this up obviously wanted to drive a wedge between me and the family. We have to let them think that they succeeded, though that might not matter in the end.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, that safe house was a secret,” Alex explained, “You said that there were even members of the family that didn’t know about it.”

“So?” Connie asked.

“So whoever set this up, knew about the safe house.”

“You think we got a rat in the family?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Alex said, “but somebody lured Lucky Tony out there and they were lying in wait for him.”

“I don’t buy it,” Connie said, his voice full of passion. “The family’s not as big as it used to be. Most of us stayed with the boss when he got out because we wanted to. Nobody who stuck around would sell him out.”

Alex considered Connie’s words. In all the times he’d been to the brewery, Alex had never heard even one word of complaint about Tony or his leadership.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted, not sure he believed it, “but somebody knew. Do you think you can check your boss’ files, his appointment book, see if you can find out who he went there to meet?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Connie promised, then he hung up.

Alex sat, staring at his phone for a long time. He’d been avoiding thinking about the family. Not just the former members of the Rosono crime family, but Lucky Tony’s wife and his kids. Connie explained to them that Alex didn’t shoot Tony, but they were going to want whoever did. He wasn’t sure that all of Tony’s people were going to just wait patiently.

“I’d better find out who’s trying to ruin my reputation,” he said, rising. “Quickly.”

He picked up his hat and headed out into the hall.

“Alex!” Sherry shouted when he stepped through the door. “You didn’t come back, you didn’t call, and then I see in the paper that you were arrested?”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing he should have called her the minute he got back to the brownstone. “I was a little distracted.”

“Did you really kill Tony Casetti?”

“No,” Alex said, “but someone wants the whole city to think I did.” He sat down on the edge of her desk and launched into an explanation of the previous day’s events.

“What are we going to do?” she asked when Alex finished.

“Sit tight for now,” he told her. “We go on like nothing’s changed.”

“That might be easier said than done,” she said, picking up one of her notepads. “I’ve already got two calls this morning from potential clients who suddenly don’t have problems any more.”

“Well, that could be a coincidence,” Alex offered.

“Or not,” Sherry countered.

“We’ll get by,” Alex assured her. “For now, just act normal.”

Sherry took a cigarette from her purse and Alex offered her a light.

“Speaking of business as usual,” she said, opening her right-hand desk drawer. “I think you want this.” She took out a folder and dropped it on her desk. “This is everything I could find on your man, Roger Sherman.”

In all the excitement from yesterday, Alex had forgotten about the reason he’d sent her out of the office. Even Iggy didn’t mention it during dinner.

“Thanks, doll,” he said, opening the folder and paging through Sherry’s notes. “Hang on to this till I get back. I need to go see Andrew.”

With that, Alex left the office and headed down to the terminal. He stopped off to talk to Marnie, who thankfully hadn’t seen the paper yet, and sat, sipping a cup of her excellent coffee. Eventually, however, he had to admit he was just delaying the inevitable, so he bid Marnie goodbye and headed for the secure elevator.

“Alex,” Gary Bickman greeted him as he arrived on the office floor of Barton Electric. The chubby British man hustled across the lobby to meet him, extending his hand as he went. “I saw the papers, I’m glad you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” Alex admitted, accepting Bickman’s handshake. “Just don’t believe everything you read.”

Bickman smiled.

“Have no fear,” he said, “I know you’d never kill a man in cold blood.”

Alex chuckled. He didn’t need Bickman’s moral support, but he felt good having it all the same.

“Mr. Barton instructed me to send you right up as soon as you got here,” Bickman said, using a key hanging on his watch fob to summon Barton’s private elevator.

Andrew Barton’s office, much like the man himself, was a work in progress. The large metal table with the black sand that Andrew used to visualize his many projects was still in the center of the room, with his heavy steel desk off to the right. The back wall was made of glass, windows that stretched up to the ceiling three stories above, and showed an incredible view of Central Park and the north side of Manhattan. Along the left wall were pictures, plaques, and framed newspaper articles featuring the Lightning Lord’s exploits.

“Alex,” Andrew called, standing up from behind his enormous desk. As usual, the top was covered in blueprints, plans, stacks of paper, and scattered file folders. “It’s about time you came to see me. I need your help with the new tower in Staten Island. Not having a vault tunnel there is most inconvenient.”

“Nice to see you too, Andrew,” Alex said, crossing the open floor. “Don’t worry about me, your lawyer got me out.”

Andrew waved his hand like he was shooing a troublesome fly.

“I know what kind of business partner you are,” he said. “If you didn’t like working with that Casetti fellow, you’d have had me convince him to go away. Killing him is idiotic and you are not an idiot.”

“Uh, thanks,” Alex said.

Andrew looked up from the table where he was digging through files.

“The police don’t think you did it?” he asked. “Do they?”

“Probably not,” Alex admitted, “but I’m going to have to prove it eventually.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Andrew said, shaking his head. “I’ll call the governor, have him issue you an unconditional pardon.”

“No,” Alex said. “That will just make me look guilty.”

“Who cares?” Andrew said, picking up his telephone. “You’ve got more important things to do, like helping me for starters.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Alex said, grabbing the sorcerer’s arm. “I wasn’t in that building by accident; whoever shot Lucky Tony set me up to take the fall.”

Andrew put the receiver back down on the phone base, then sank down into the chair behind his desk.

“It was a set-up,” he said, steepling his fingers under his nose. “That explains a lot. What do you know?”

“I was approached by a man who had a set of dueling pistols,” Alex began. “He claimed one had been stolen and asked me to find it. I used a finding rune, but the stolen pistol was too far away for a firm connection.”

“But you knew it was on Staten Island?” Andrew said.

“Initially, there was a weak connection with the missing pistol,” Alex explained. “My client took the dueling pistol he had, and I told him to meet me at the Port Authority to take the ferry, then he switched pistols, giving the one covered in my fingerprints to his conspirator, the one who shot Lucky Tony.”

“And then conveniently left the pistol for the authorities to find,” Andrew concluded. “It’s not a bad job, if a bit crude.”

“They also arranged for the press to be right there to take pictures, probably gave them the story in advance too, just in time for the evening edition.”

Andrew sat back, crossing his legs.

“I may have sold your adversaries short,” he said at last.

“How so?”

“Well, they had a rather intimate knowledge of how your finding rune works,” Andrew pointed out. “They put the missing pistol just far enough away so that your rune wouldn’t make a solid connection.”

“And since it was late on a Friday, I’d have to try again the next day,” Alex finished. “That’s what gave them time to pull the switch with the pistols.”

“I wonder how long it took them to come up with that little trick?” Andrew said.

“Wait a minute,” Alex said, “those pistols weren’t some family heirloom, they were a prop for Rex Halliday’s performance.”

“Obviously,” Andrew said, clearly growing bored.

“That means whoever Rex Halliday and his partners really are, they had to buy that set of pistols,” Alex concluded. “I mean what are the odds they had them just laying around?”

“Not good, I’d say,” Andrew agreed. “I bet there aren’t very many places in the city where someone can buy a set of antique dueling pistols.”

“I need to call Danny,” Alex said, starting to turn away.

“Just a minute,” Andrew said, his voice firm. “I still need you to look over the new tower plans so you can give me an estimate on how many linking runes we need and whether or not I need a new etherium generator here in the tower. Also, I need to know how soon you can put in a new vault tunnel.”

Alex sighed. He wanted to tell Andrew to pound sand, but you simply didn’t talk to a sorcerer that way, even one you knew well. Besides, Andrew had given him a solid lead and that deserved at least a little of Alex’s time.

“All right,” he said, moving over to the desk. “Show me what you have.”

An hour and a half later, Alex dropped into the chair behind his desk. As always, his work with Andrew had gone longer than he expected, but then keeping the sorcerer focused on just one thing was a full-time occupation. Every time the Lightning Lord came across something interesting, he began to plan out how it could be used in other ways, or in other businesses he owned. Still, Alex had gotten through it.

Leaning back in his chair, Alex rubbed his eyes, then opened his right-hand drawer and withdrew a short bottle of Scotch whiskey and a round-bodied Glencairn glass. Normally, Alex just used a tumbler, but this whiskey had cost him more than usual, so he liked a little bit of ceremony with it.

Pouring out two fingers of the amber liquid, he sat back and just sipped from the glass. He needed to call Danny, but doing so would be risky. If anyone found out that Danny was even talking to Alex, it could cost his friend his job.

“I’ll have to be delicate,” he said, finishing off the Scotch and setting the glass aside.

With a confidence he didn’t feel, he picked up his phone and called the switchboard at the Central Office.

“Detective Pak, please,” he told the operator, adding in a bit of Iggy’s accent in case they knew his voice.

“One moment,” the operator said, then Danny answered.

“Pak,” he said in a harried voice.

“Busy day?” Alex asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Danny said, his voice maintaining his bored tone.

“Someone there that shouldn’t know we’re talking?”

“Yes,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

Alex heard the clunk of the receiver being set down on a desktop, then Danny spoke to someone for a minute.

“Okay,” he said, “I can talk now. Just how much trouble are you in? Even Captain Callahan won’t tell me anything.”

Alex gave a quick rundown of the setup and what he’d learned thus far.

“So, I need to figure out where those dueling pistols came from,” he concluded. “They may be able to tell me who bought them.”

When he finished, there was silence on the line.

“What I’m hearing is that you need a picture of the pistol in the evidence lock up,” Danny stated.

“I’m afraid so,” Alex said.

“Do you have any idea what the captain would do if he found out I gave you a picture of evidence?” Danny demanded.

“I know,” Alex said, “but if I don’t catch this guy, things are going to get nasty. I’ve got Lucky Tony’s associates placated at the moment, but if I don’t show results soon, they’re not going to stay that way.”

“I heard Detweiler complaining earlier that Lucky Tony’s widow is demanding the immediate release of his body for burial,” Danny said. “I’m sure they want to have their own doctor look him over for anything Dr. Warner might have missed.”

“Can you help?” Alex asked.

Danny sighed.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “I doubt the photo lab is finished with the film yet, so I’ll try there first.”

“Be careful,” Alex said. “You’ll have to do some fancy tap dancing if Detweiler catches on to what you’re doing.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Danny said. “He never goes to the photo lab.”

“Be careful anyway,” Alex pushed back.

“I’ll call you as soon as I have something,” Danny said, then he hung up.

Alex sat at his desk, considering what he knew. He was tempted to refill the Glencairn glass, but thought better of it. What he needed now was a good cigar and a chat with Iggy. If there was another way to come at the problem of the pistols, his mentor would find it.

As the thought of returning to the brownstone crossed his mind, the intercom on his desk crackled to life.

“Boss?” Sherry’s voice greeted him, made faint and tinny by the small speaker.

“Go ahead,” Alex answered after depressing the white key that activated the microphone.

“Agent Westlake is here to see you. Shall I send him back?”

Alex hesitated for a moment before answering. He’d given Agent Westlake everything he needed to catch his magical counterfeiter already, so what could the man want now?

“By all means,” he said at last, then quickly put away his whiskey bottle and glass.

A moment later the slender agent knocked on the jamb of Alex’s open door.

“Come in, Agent Westlake,” Alex said, rising and offering the Secret Service agent his hand. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Well, I wish it was under better circumstances,” Westlake said. “I took your advice and had all the major banks in the city start using magic detectors.”

“And did you get your man?”

“No,” Westlake said, his face somehow getting even more serious. “Not only did the detectors not reveal any counterfeit bills, but more money has turned up missing. I’m going to need more help with this one. I need you to come with me and take a look at one of the banks that’s been hit. Maybe you can find something there that will help.”

Alex just sat for a long moment. He really didn’t have time for this. He needed to get that picture from Danny and get busy finding whoever bought those pistols. On the other hand, it would take Danny some time to get what Alex wanted and if Sherry was right about losing business because of the newspaper story, then he was going to need every case he could get.

“All right, Agent Westlake,” Alex said, pulling out his kit bag from under his desk. “Let’s go look at the scene of the crime.”

8

MONEY

The main office of Manhattan Bank and Trust was an imposing edifice across the street from Empire Tower. It was modeled after a Greek temple with marble façades, doric columns and decorative friezes. As banks went, it was a monument to both excess and security. Since it was across the street from his office, Alex’s personal and business accounts were there, and he was always impressed when he had to go in.

He wouldn’t have minded spending a few hours there going over piles of cash and searching it for evidence.

Unfortunately, Agent Westlake’s counterfeiter wasn’t the kind to frequent opulent banks. A thirty-minute car ride later, Alex got out of Westlake’s sedan in front of the second Harlem branch of Manhattan Bank and Trust. This one was much more subdued than its parent office with only two columns made of grey stone flanking the front doors. There was a solid-looking pediment on top of the façade, but it was blank, bearing only the name of the institution.

“I guess a counterfeiter doesn’t want to cheat a bank with two dozen guards standing around when he can hit one with only a couple,” he muttered.

Just as the outside of the bank was subdued relative to the one Alex was used to, the inside was simple and basic. The main room was a rectangular space with counters on either side. Bronze cages separated the tellers from the patrons and on the left side a large steel door was set into the wall. Since the bank was open, so was the vault, though just inside the frame was a heavy steel cage door that was shut tight. Along the back wall were several doors that Alex assumed led to offices and three armed security guards were scattered around the room.

“This way,” Westlake said, heading for one of the back offices.

Alex followed him to a plain door on the extreme left side of the back wall with a brass plaque that read Nathan White. Westlake rapped on the door and a moment later a muffled voice bade him to come in.

Westlake opened the door, revealing a small office with a plain desk. Two ordinary wooden chairs stood in front of the desk with a small, serious-looking man in a durable suit on the other side.

“Agent Westlake,” he said, standing. He was short, just over five feet if Alex had to guess, with a doughy middle, like an athlete gone soft. His hair was slicked back and he had a pock-marked complexion made worse by worry lines that crossed his forehead. “Do you have any news for me?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Westlake said, stepping aside so Alex could enter, “but I’ve brought along someone who might be able to shed more light on your problem. Nathan White, meet Alex Lockerby.”

“The runewright detective?” White asked. “I’ve heard of you.”

“I want Alex to examine the bills you’ve collected, the booth where the counterfeiter passed them, and the vault where you stored them.”

“But you’ve already been over all of that.” White protested.

“My magic will allow me to see things you can’t,” Alex said, holding up his bag. “Let’s start with the vault.”

Alex sat in the bank’s small meeting room with his lantern on the table. A pale greenish light bathed the table, illuminating three lines of bills. All of them were one-dollar bills, but in the ghostlight from Alex’s multi-lamp, each bill revealed a different denomination. On the top row were fives, then tens, then twenties.

Alex studied each one through the magnifying lens in his oculus. As much as he wanted to find differences between them, each one was a perfect copy of its neighbor.

“Anything?” Agent Westlake asked.

Alex didn’t answer right away, taking the time to extinguish the ghostlight burner.

“This is powerful magic,” he said at last. “It’s so precise I can’t tell one bill from the other. They’re all perfect.”

“So, it’s not the teller’s fault?” White asked. “We didn’t knowingly accept these bills?”

Alex shook his head.

“There’s no way you could have known,” he said.

“Where does that leave us?” Westlake asked. “If we can’t detect these fake bills, the counterfeiter will just keep going.”

Alex thought about that. He was sure this was some kind of rune magic, but he’d be damned if he could figure out how it was done.

“The more we learn about the counterfeiter, the better our chances to catch him.” Alex pulled out his wallet and fished out a dollar bill. Placing it on the table next to one of the former twenties, he swapped it for the counterfeit bill. “I’ll trade you,” he said to Nathan White.

“That’s evidence,” Westlake pointed out.

“There are a few people I want to show it to,” Alex said. “Maybe they can help me help you.”

Westlake hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“I suppose I’ve got plenty more where that came from,” he grudgingly admitted. “But I want to know who you show them to.”

“Mostly my mentor, Dr. Ignatius Bell, and Linda Kellin, an alchemist with a shop just north of the park.”

Westlake made a few notes in his book, then put it away.

“All right,” he said. “I’m up against it with this counterfeiter and my superiors want to see progress. Just keep me appraised of any developments.”

With that, Alex stood and packed up his kit. Agent Westlake said his goodbyes to Nathan White and then led the way back outside to his car.

“I didn’t want to say anything while we were inside,” Westlake said once he and Alex were in the car, “but I called my office while you were working.”

“More bad news?” Alex guessed.

Westlake nodded.

“One of the other affected banks decided to use those magic detectors in their vault. While they don’t work to find counterfeit bills, they can find ones that have reverted back to their original form.”

“So we’ll know that a bank has been hit, just after the fact,” Alex said.

“It’s worse than that,” Westlake said. “They found over fifty bills in their vault that had been counterfeits.”

Alex whistled.

“Our man is taking out an awful lot of money,” he said. “I wonder what he’s doing with it?”

“Could be anything,” Westlake admitted. “He could be buying houses, or jewelry, or maybe he’s just living the high life. Whatever it is, he’s safe doing it as long as he stays anonymous.”

Alex smiled at that.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I think maybe I should take my girlfriend out on a few dates this week, see if anyone new makes a splash.”

“I didn’t know you traveled in those circles,” Agent Westlake said, obviously impressed.

“Oh, I don’t,” Alex said, with all the self-deprecation he could muster. “But my girl is Sorsha Kincaid.”

“The sorceress?” Westlake demanded.

“The very same, and she knows everybody in high society. If there’s a johnny-come-lately in the crowd, she’ll spot him.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” Westlake said, easing his car out into traffic. “Just don’t stop trying to figure out how those bills are being made.”

Alex nodded in agreement. The fact that someone was wielding rune magic in ways that had him completely stumped was irritating. He’d come to terms with Moriarty and his immortals, but some random counterfeiter? That was a bridge too far.

Alex was in a hurry, but using his vault outside in broad daylight was risky, so he grabbed a cab back to his office. If nothing else, the trip gave him time to go over his notes. Unfortunately, half an hour later, when he got out of the cab, he still didn’t have any new insights about the counterfeiter.

“Maybe I’m losing my touch,” he groused as he rode the elevator up to his office.

“How did it go at the bank?” Sherry asked as he walked through the door.

“It didn’t,” he said, finally trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Sherry regarded him as he hung up his hat, then tapped the ashes of her cigarette into her ashtray.

“Dish,” she said.

“This counterfeiter is using rune magic that I can’t figure out,” he said, plopping down on the couch.

“Magic you can’t figure out — yet,” Sherry corrected. “Your head hasn’t gotten so big that you think you already know everything about magic,” she cocked her head with a devilish smile, “has it?”

Alex sighed, then stood up. He walked over to the desk and touched Sherry’s cheek.

“Thanks kid,” he said, “I needed that.”

“So what now?” she asked.

“Time to call a pow-wow at the brownstone,” he said. “Is Mike here?”

Sherry nodded.

“We had some more cases cancel,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“Well good,” Alex scoffed. “I need him with me. If you need us, call Iggy.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

Alex opened the cover door to his vault, then stepped back.

“Here,” he said, passing the golden passkey to Mike. “Go tell Dr. Bell that I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve got to make a quick phone call.”

“Gotcha, boss,” he said, accepting the key. Then he stepped inside and headed down the hall toward the great room.

Alex turned and headed into his office, slipping into the chair behind his desk. Picking up the phone, he dialed the Central Office of Police and waited for the operator.

“Detective Pak,” he said when she came on.

“I don’t have anything for you yet,” Danny said before Alex could say anything.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“These days I can tell by how the phone rings,” Danny said. “I went by the photo lab, but they hadn’t developed the pictures from your crime scene yet. If I go by again today, Detweiler is bound to get suspicious, it’ll have to be tomorrow.”

Alex didn’t like that answer, but he couldn’t argue with it. The last thing he wanted to do was get Danny in trouble, or fired.

“It’ll have to do,” he admitted.

“You’re welcome,” Danny said, sarcasm in his voice.

“Sorry, you know I appreciate the risk you’re taking.”

“Well, it’s nice to be appreciated,” Danny chuckled. “Call me tomorrow.”

Alex promised that he would, then hung up.

When Alex arrived, Iggy and Mike were already seated around the enormous kitchen table. Iggy had laid out cold beef from last night’s dinner along with some bread and butter and a decanter of port.

“Come sit, lad,” Iggy said, setting out plates and glasses. “I figured if you brought young Michael into our discussion, it must be a particularly vexing problem. Food seemed to be in order.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Alex said, setting his kit bag on the table. “Let’s eat and I’ll tell you all about this.” He pulled the counterfeit bill from his coat pocket and set it in the center of the table.

Alex sat down and began walking Iggy and Mike through what he’d learned at the bank. When he was finished, he set up his multi-lamp and lit the ghostlight burner.

“You’re right,” Iggy said, staring through his oculus, “this bill is immaculate. When you said this magical counterfeiting was perfect, I assumed you were given to exaggeration. Mea culpa, lad.”

“Can I look?” Mike asked.

Iggy handed him the bill and Mike slipped on his own oculus. He fiddled with the magnification lens for a moment, then held the bill into the ghostlight.

“It sure looks like a twenty-dollar bill to me,” he said. “I assume our man just passed it at the bank like it was a normal twenty.”

“Exactly,” Alex said. “Whatever magic our counterfeiter is using, it wears off within a day of him passing them.”

“That’s a short window of opportunity,” Iggy observed. “He probably passes them the same day he makes them.”

Alex nodded.

“He wouldn’t want to risk the magic wearing off while he’s at the window.”

“And you don’t know how he’s doing it?” Mike asked.

“Not a clue,” Alex admitted.

Mike looked to Iggy, who could only shrug.

“Well, pardon my saying so,” Mike said, “but if either of you don’t know, then it’s probably not rune lore. Do you think it could be sorcery of some kind?”

Both Iggy and Alex shook their heads in unison.

“A sorcerer has better ways to get money,” Iggy observed.

“Which brings us back to this,” Alex said, indicating the bill.

“Alchemy?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know,” Alex said.

“You know,” Iggy interjected, “ever since you first told me about this, I’ve wondered if it’s some kind of alchemical solution, maybe combined with some kind of projector.”

“Our alchemist saturates the bills in a solution, then uses the projector to burn the image on them?” Alex said.

“Just so.”

“But how does the original one-dollar bill disappear?” Mike said.

“It’s not a perfect theory,” Alex admitted. “I’ll run it by Linda Kellin and see what she thinks. For the moment, however, I think we should go with the assumption that this is rune magic.”

Mike sat back in his chair and blew out a long breath.

“How would someone even begin to do this?” he asked.

“Well,” Iggy said, dropping into his professorial voice, “What runes do we know that could be used as a foundation for this construct?”

“Duplication Rune?” Mike suggested.

“No,” Alex said. “Too expensive.”

“The materials alone would cost over a thousand dollars,” Iggy agreed. “If our man had that kind of cash, he wouldn’t bother with counterfeiting.”

Mike looked at Alex.

“Is that why you won’t let me try that one?” he asked.

“Among other things,” Alex said. “Your rune skill is coming along nicely, but you’re not ready for that just yet.”

Mike sighed and folded his arms.

“Take heart, lad,” Iggy said. “Alex has been showing me your work. I think you’ll be ready to try some of those more powerful runes before too long.”

“Getting back to what we know,” Alex said, winking at Mike, “Our runewright has to copy the image off one bill, and lay it over the top of another.”

“Illusion seems likely,” Iggy said.

“It didn’t set off the magic detectors at the banks,” Mike pointed out.

“Which would have dispelled the illusion anyway,” Alex agreed.

“Not necessarily,” Iggy argued. “If the illusion rune is designed correctly, it’s much more stable than the one in common use.” He turned to Alex. “As well you know.”

“If our man has access to that order of runes, why is he counterfeiting?” Alex said, parroting the words Iggy had used on him the last time they’d discussed this case.

“Oh, yes,” Iggy chuckled, “of course.”

“Hey,” Mike said, suddenly sitting up in his chair, “what if this is something new, or rather old, like those Mayan guys?”

Alex and Iggy exchanged glances.

“It’s certainly possible,” Iggy said, smoothing his mustache with his thumb. “Do you think you could ask your friends in the penitentiary?” he said to Alex.

“I can,” Alex said, “but that’s probably a dead end too. If they could make their own cash, they wouldn’t have bothered trying to rob the museum.”

“It must be something simple,” Iggy said, looking up at the ceiling. “From what you’ve told me, this counterfeiter starts with five-dollar bills, then moves to tens, then twenties.”

“So what?” Alex asked.

“Well, he’s been exchanging the fake money for real money,” Iggy went on, “and you said that Agent Westlake told you that he’s done this before, in other cities?”

“That’s right,” Alex confirmed.

“Well, why is he starting over from scratch?” Mike chimed in, catching Iggy’s train of thought. “Why doesn’t he keep a real bill from his last city so he can pull the same scam in a new one?”

“Good question,” Alex said. “If he’s done this before, he’d keep samples of real bills on hand. A professional grifter would know that.”

“What if he isn’t a professional?” Mike asked. “What if he’s a copycat, an amateur?”

“An amateur couldn’t pull off the rune,” Iggy said, “much less the scam.”

“No,” Alex objected, “I think Mike’s right. What if our man is an amateur because the rune and the scam aren’t his.”

Mike’s face spread into a wide grin at that, but it faded almost immediately.

“But how did our amateur learn the rune and the scam?” he asked.

Alex shrugged at that.

“Maybe the originator retired,” he suggested, “or the new guy stole it from him.”

“A better suggestion is that he inherited it,” Iggy said.

“So our amateur is the son of the person who invented the rune,” Mike said, nodding along.

“That would explain it,” Alex said. “How he could create this incredible counterfeiting rune and still not know the scam completely.”

“So how does that help us?” Mike asked.

“It gives us a place to start,” Alex said.

“Where’s that?” Mike asked.

“In the obituaries, dear boy,” Iggy said with a grin. “Whoever the father was, he was a runewright and he would have died several weeks, maybe a month, before the first cases of funny money started circulating.”

Alex sighed, sipping his glass of port. He wasn’t looking forward to crawling through what would undoubtedly turn out to be several months of obituary notices, but he had a lead, and this time it was a solid one.

9

THE LEGAL NOTICE

“What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Alex asked Mike.

“Well, I was supposed to be using a finding rune to locate some lost documents,” he replied, “but Sherry said the client canceled.”

I guess they’re gun shy about doing business with New York’s newest gangster, Alex thought.

“I guess they found what they were looking for,” Mike added, tactfully avoiding the most likely reality of the situation.

“Well, that being the case, head over to the library and start going through the obituaries looking for any runewrights. Start two months back in the Times and the Post.”

Mike nodded at him and finished off his glass of port.

“You got it, boss,” he said, rising.

“I’ll be along in an hour or so to take over,” Alex said.

Since it would be much faster to take a skycrawler to the library, Mike headed upstairs to return to the office through the vault. Alex waited until he heard the cover door in his bedroom close before standing up to collect the dishes.

“So,” Iggy said, watching him with a raised eyebrow, “am I to assume that your continued presence means you’ve made some progress on your other case?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Alex admitted. “Danny’s working on getting me a picture of the dueling pistol, but if Detweiler finds out, he’ll be in real trouble, so he’s having to walk softly. I do, however, have this.” Alex pulled a folder out of his kit bag and dropped it on the table.

“And this is?” Iggy asked, reaching for the blue packet.

“Sherry’s research on Roger Sherman. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but I thought we could go through it together. Maybe something will jump out at us.”

Iggy nodded sagely, as he paged through the information Sherry collected.

“All right,” he said, “go get the Envelope and we’ll see if any of this relates to that stack of random documents.”

Alex stood and passed through the beaded curtain next to the kitchen’s wall-mounted telephone. The curtain hid the fact that beyond it, instead of a pantry or a bathroom, was Iggy’s vault. Alex passed through the door into the main room that he’d taken to calling the grand concourse. It had a high, domed ceiling with reproductions of famous art, including bits of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. A bubbling fountain occupied the center of the space, filling it with the sound of moving water. The floor was tiled in a mosaic pattern that radiated out from the fountain with a compass motif.

Behind the fountain, a curved staircase ran up the back wall to a room above. When Alex had first seen his mentor’s vault, that had been a bedroom, but Iggy had remodeled it into a reading library.

Four openings led from the main room. One on the left led to Iggy’s new bedroom suite and one on the right to his surgery. Alex hadn’t been invited to explore the other two, but he suspected one led to a kitchen and probably a bathroom. When you had to bring in fresh water from the real world, it was best to keep the plumbing in a single area.

Turning left, Alex went to a glass-fronted cabinet that followed the curve of the wall. Beyond the glass were decorative objects and knick-knacks Iggy had collected over a lifetime. There were also doors in the lower section and Alex squatted down to open one of them. Inside, enshrined on a shelf of its own, was the heavy leather folio the Masons had delivered to them.

Picking it up, Alex closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Did you know that it was Roger Sherman who proposed the current form of the US government?” Iggy said as Alex set the Envelope on the table.

“He suggested we should be run by corrupt idiots?” Alex asked.

“No,” Iggy chuckled. “Apparently during the Constitutional Convention, talks had stalled over how Americans would be represented. Sherman proposed the Connecticut Compromise. It meant that the states would have equal representation, but there would also be representation by population.”

Alex nodded, catching on.

“A House and a Senate?”

“Officially, it’s called a bicameral legislature,” Iggy said. “It wasn’t Sherman’s original idea, but according to Sherry’s notes, it broke the deadlock at the convention and allowed the United States to exist.”

Alex reached into the Envelope and pulled out the stack of loose papers. Originally they had been tied with a ribbon like a lady’s love letters in a penny dreadful. There were two dozen of them, each a unique page of unrelated information, as if whoever assembled the Envelope just grabbed random documents to use as packing. If it hadn’t been for the ribbon and the wax seal that held it in place, it was likely Alex would have thought the pages were just that.

“I don’t remember seeing anything in here about government or the Continental Congress,” he said, leafing through the pages. He stopped when he got to a letter written in a steady neat script. It was, in fact, a love letter, written by someone with the initial ’T’ to his love, a woman named Martha.

Alex turned it so Iggy could see it.

“You think maybe this is in code?” he asked.

Iggy looked up and then shrugged.

“Could be,” he admitted. “What can you tell me about it?”

Alex looked over the letter, looking not at the words, but everything else.

“The handwriting is consistent with a man,” he began. “Definitely right-handed. He only uses his initial at the bottom, which suggests he’s afraid of being identified if the letter were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“Probably his middle initial,” Iggy offered. “Something only people who knew him well would be likely to know. What about the text?”

“Seems pretty standard stuff,” Alex said. “‘My dearest Martha, I can hardly believe we’ve been apart for half a year. It seems an eternity.’” Alex shook his head. “It goes on like that, declarations of love and devotion without any specifics.”

“Half a year is specific,” Iggy pointed out.

“How long was the Continental Congress?”

“First or second?” Iggy asked. “It seems Mr. Sherman was at both.”

Alex sighed and set the letter aside. The next paper was a handwritten bill for what looked like building supplies. A neat line down the page listed boxes of nails, tools, lumber, paint, hinges, door knobs, and a dozen other things, each listed out with a quantity and price. Initially, Iggy had thought there might be something off about the amounts of items bought, but after talking to a few friends in the construction business, it all seemed perfectly ordinary.

“Did you know that even with all his running around, Sherman found time to be a judge?” Iggy said. “Not just a judge but a superior court judge.”

Alex laughed at that.

“I guess there were a lot of lawyers in politics back then, too.”

“Well, that’s the funny thing,” Iggy said. “Sherry made a note here that Sherman never went to law school.”

“What?” Alex exclaimed. “How was he a judge, then?”

“That’s an easy one,” Iggy said. “All you need from a judge is a sound mind for reason and a good amount of common sense. There are places in America today where you don’t have to be a lawyer to be a judge.”

That seemed nonsensical to Alex; courts had rules and procedures that were written up by lawyers and then codified by the state. How would a non-lawyer judge be able to navigate all that?

“Moving on,” Iggy said, continuing to read Sherry’s notes. “Says here that Sherman was born on April nineteenth of seventeen twenty-one, and he died on July twenty-third, seventeen ninety-three. Any of those dates relevant?”

Alex spent the next ten minutes going through the documents looking at the various dates, but none of them matched Sherman. After reviewing the loose papers twice, he was forced to admit defeat.

“Buck up, lad,” Iggy said, holding the blue folder out. “Let’s switch; you take this and I’ll look through the papers.”

Alex took the folder and handed off the stack of papers. Sitting down in one of the table’s heavy chairs, he started reading down the first page of Sherry’s notes. It didn’t take very long for the words to begin blurring together and he had to take a deep breath and shake his head before continuing.

“Steady on,” Iggy said, not looking up from the stack.

Alex began reading again, finding himself in the section about Sherman being a judge without being a lawyer.

“Not just a judge,” he mumbled, “but a superior court judge.”

The next section was about Sherman’s election to the Connecticut General Assembly and contained the kind of necessary but dry details about political campaigns. Alex could feel his mind beginning to drift again, but then he sat up straight in his chair.

“Hey,” he exclaimed, turning to Iggy. “Wasn’t there some kind of legal document in there?”

Iggy looked up from his reading, then raised an eyebrow. He shuffled through the stack and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

“Here it is,” he said. “It’s addressed to a Judge Gregory Thornton and asks that he not seize any assets from his client until the defense can arrange a hearing on behalf of his client, a Mr. Caldwell.”

“That’s all?” Alex asked.

Iggy turned the page around so Alex could see. The paper had the letterhead of a law firm, the address of the court, and then the few lines of text Iggy had read, ending with a signature at the bottom.

Alex sat back in his chair again. He was sure the legal document was a connection to Sherman and his time on the bench, but if it was, he couldn’t see how.

Iggy turned the page back around and was about to put it down when he suddenly smiled.

“What court did Sherman serve on again?” he asked.

Alex didn’t even have to look at the notes.

“The Connecticut Superior Court,” he said.

Iggy turned the paper back around with a sly grin, then indicated the address above the text.

“Connecticut Superior Court,” he read.

“That’s got to be our connection,” Alex said, his exhaustion suddenly gone.

“I’m not going to argue with you, lad,” Iggy said, reading the letter again, “but I’ve no idea what it means.”

Alex thought about that.

“Remember that kid that Bess Hackett hit with her car? Martin Pride.”

Iggy thought for a minute, then nodded.

“The tennis case,” he said, “she hit him to make room on the tennis team for her son.”

“Right,” Alex said, “and after that, Martin went to law school. He works for Richardson, Sanderson, and Michaels in the core. He’s just a staff attorney right now, but if I show him the letter, he might be able to tell us more about it.”

“Maybe this is an improper request or something like that,” Iggy suggested, offering the letter to Alex. “Excellent idea.”

Alex took the letter, inserting it in the blue folder after taking out Sherry’s notes.

“I’ll leave these with you,” he said, putting the notes on the table. “See if you can come up with anything else. I’ve got to go take over from Mike, but I’ll see if I can talk to Martin on the way over.”

“Carry on, then,” Iggy said. “I’ll call Sherry if I find anything else of interest.”

Alex leaned back in the hard wooden chair, holding the newspaper up to the light of the desk lamp. He’d been sitting there for over two hours after spelling Mike and he had very little to show for his efforts.

Agent Westlake had told him that the counterfeiter traveled around before coming to Manhattan, not staying in one place for very long. That meant that he might not even have an obituary in the New York papers even if he had died here. The fact that his heir seemed to be staying in town was a good sign that maybe he was local, which probably meant the inventor of the counterfeiting rune was originally local. If that was the case, there would likely be an obituary.

“Of course, the papers are always looking to fill out the agony columns,” Alex said to himself. That meant that an enterprising reporter might have reached out to the coroner or to the various morgues to report on deaths not otherwise posted. It was a long shot, but so was everything else about this case.

“Why should this be different?” he concluded.

Alex was reading a paper from three weeks ago. Clearly, the new counterfeiter inherited the rune and the scheme after the originator’s death, otherwise he’d know better how to work the scam. Since the first bank to be hit was two weeks ago, that meant Alex was almost finished.

Glancing down, Alex regarded the notepad sitting on the library table beside him. It contained a dozen names, the fruits of his search, and even though it wasn’t nothing, Alex couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t enough.

Shifting his gaze, Alex looked up at his kit bag, sitting just outside the circle of light from the lamp. Inside was the legal letter inside the blue folder. When he’d called the offices of Richardson, Sanderson, and Michaels, he’d learned that young Martin was out of the city interviewing someone for a case and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

He was tempted to just show up anyway and see if he could get any random attorney to help, but he remembered the trouble he had with their secretary when he had a name to drop. There was Milton Ackerman, of course, Barton’s lawyer, but he struck Alex as the kind of man who didn’t brook random legal questions with tolerance.

“Maybe Andrew would know,” he mused, but discarded the idea immediately. Andrew Barton was the sort of man who left the mundanity of legal paperwork to others.

“Focus,” he chided himself, turning back to the paper.

He read down each column until he finished, then folded the paper and picked up the next one. After another half hour, he was done. He’d added another name to his list, Peter Lee, but that was it.

Standing, he returned the newspapers to the circulation desk and headed up the stairs to the main floor. These days, his left foot hardly ever bothered him, but there was something about the marble staircase in the library that irritated it, and he was limping slightly as he reached the landing.

He hesitated before heading to the main doors. If he hurried, he might be able to get to Richardson, Sanderson, and Michaels before they closed. Maybe he could catch one of their junior attorneys on their way out.

A quick check of his pocket watch dashed that plan. It was already after five. He was certain some hard-working underling was still in the office, trying to make partner, but such a person would never unlock the doors for someone knocking.

With a sigh, Alex resolved himself to heading home. Before he did that, however, he moved over to the row of phone booths and slipped inside one. Closing the door behind him, he dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed the number of his office.

“Lockerby investigations,” Sherry’s chipper voice greeted him.

“Why are you still there?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

“I just had a feeling you’d be calling,” she said.

Alex learned a long time ago that even though Sherry’s gift to see the future was vague about most things, it was as accurate as a Swiss watch when it came to him. It didn’t matter when he went in to his office, Sherry was there ahead of him, and if he was coming in after hours and needed to talk, she’d be there.

“Did you find anything?” she asked.

“Thirteen names I need to run down,” he reported. “I could use your help with that.”

“Sure thing,” she said.

“Any more cancellations?”

“Weellll,” she said, stretching the word out.

“That bad, huh?” Alex sighed.

“There’s more stories about you in the tabloids,” Sherry reported. “They’re saying that you murdered Tony Casetti because you wanted a bigger cut of the brewery.”

Alex ground his teeth. Whoever set him up was clearly hoping to poison any potential jurors should he go to trial.

“All right,” he growled. “Anything else I need to know?”

“No,” she said.

That meant that Iggy didn’t call, Alex thought.

“One more thing,” he said, “if Mike needs something to do, have him dig into Rex Halliday. I know it’s an alias, but maybe something he put on his paperwork is real.”

Sherry agreed to pass Alex’s message to Mike in the morning and hung up.

Alex hesitated, then dropped another nickel in the slot.

“Hello?” Iggy’s voice came on the line a moment later.

“It’s me,” Alex said, “and before you ask, Martin was out of town today. I’ll have to go by in the morning. I take it you didn’t learn anything new?”

Alex knew that to be the case, but he hoped Iggy had simply decided not to bother Sherry and wait for him to come home.

“No,” he said, an edge in his voice.

“What’s the matter?” Alex asked, picking up the tension in his mentor’s voice.

“You need to get over here as quick as you can,” he said. “There’s another story about you in the papers.”

“I heard,” Alex said.

“Well, your girlfriend heard, too,” Iggy explained, “and when she read it, she came over here to see you. I’m afraid if you don’t calm her down, she’s going to go over to one of those tabloids and start freezing reporters solid.”

Iggy was not a man given to exaggeration, so Alex readily agreed.

“There’s a janitorial closet downstairs,” he said. “I’ll use my vault and see you in a few minutes.”

“Don’t dawdle,” Iggy advised.

“Right,” Alex sighed.

10

LEGWORK

Alex crossed his vault, trying not to limp. Sorsha was a calm and rational woman most of the time, but certain things simply irritated her beyond reason. He didn’t know what her beef with the newspapers was, but whenever anyone wrote something false about her, it drove her into a rage. Apparently, now that they were engaged, that protective instinct transferred to him.

With all his experience around sorcerers, Alex had largely forgotten the common perception of them, that they were akin to Greek Gods: powerful, petulant, and unaccountable. Alex didn’t know how people like Sorsha and Andrew could end up acting like children; most of the time they were paragons of culture and reason. That said, it was a well-known fact that sorcerers could be loose cannons. All Alex could come up with was that it was a side effect of their powers.

Tossing his hat on his bed as he passed out of his vault, Alex turned and made his way out of his room to the landing, then down to the main floor. He knew things were tense before he passed the first-floor landing, because the temperature dropped precipitously and stray snowflakes drifted in the air.

“Alex?” Sorsha called from the library as he continued down. “Alex, have you seen this?”

Alex hit the main floor landing and turned left into the library. Iggy was there, sitting in his reading chair, drinking a glass of steaming tea. He had his legs crossed and looked like he hadn’t a care in the world despite the frost clinging to the bookshelves.

“How dare those…those insects write these lies,” Sorsha raged.

She was dressed in her usual office outfit, black slacks with a light blue, button-up shirt and a dark blue, almost black vest. Her usually perfect hair had puffed up, either with static or magic, Alex couldn’t tell, and her eyes were shining a sapphire blue.

“You need to go over to this rag and have a word with their editor,” Sorsha said, pressing the paper into Alex’s hands. “Better yet,” she said, her expression of rage slipped into a chilling smile, “let me.”

She reached for the paper, probably to find out where the tabloid in question was located, but Alex held it behind him as he stepped in front of her.

“Sorsha, darling,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “I love that you’re willing to murder people to protect my reputation, but that really isn’t going to make things better.”

“I’ll feel better,” she growled, trying to step around him to get the paper.

“Besides,” Alex went on, stepping to the side to stay in front of her, “we have to let the tabloids print what they want. As long as whoever is trying to ruin my reputation thinks their plan is working, they won’t go after anyone else close to me.”

Sorsha’s eyes darted from the paper to him, and she let out a long breath.

“Why do you have to make so much sense?” she groused.

“Spoiled all your fun, did I?”

She gave him a sour look, but couldn’t hold it, finally breaking out into a smile.

“All right,” she said, “we’ll do it your way. But I’m still canceling my subscription.”

“As you should,” Alex chuckled. He tossed the paper on his reading chair, then leaned in for a kiss. Apparently Sorsha’s passions weren’t entirely quelled because she put her arms around his shoulders and held on for a long moment.

“If you two are quite finished,” Iggy said, setting his tea aside and rising.

Sorsha blushed and Alex darted in for a second quick peck.

“I’d appreciate it,” Iggy went on, “if you’d clean up after yourself.”

Alex turned to find his mentor rubbing a finger through the frost that covered the bookshelves.

“This sort of thing is terrible for the leather.”

Sorsha reached out, but before she banished the frozen rime, he noticed that the Archimedean Monograph didn’t have any frost on its spine, neither did the books on either side of it. Iggy’s obfuscation rune would keep most people from noticing it, but he wondered if they’d notice the missing frost?

“Now that we’re all on the same page,” Iggy said once the frost was gone, “dinner is waiting.”

“I am not finished discussing this,” Sorsha said, her eyes flashing briefly, though her voice was calm.

“Yes, dear,” Alex said, giving her a wink as he offered her his arm.

She rolled her eyes at him, but Alex could see the ghost of a smile on the edge of her lips.

As they ate, Alex filled in Sorsha on his efforts to find out who was trying to frame him. He assured her that the remainder of the Rosono family knew he didn’t shoot Tony, but he could see she was still worried.

“Maybe I should go with you tomorrow,” she said, “just to make sure everyone gets the message that you’re off limits.”

“I understand your desire to be helpful,” Iggy said, “but whoever is pulling the strings here is after Alex’s reputation. It wouldn’t do for you to get caught up in their machinations.”

“But I’m supposed to let them tear Alex down?” she demanded.

“Yes,” Alex said. “Once I find the people responsible and expose them, any damage to my reputation will disappear. Even if they manage to find something truthful to smear me with, it’ll be dismissed as just part of the original lie.”

“Whereas you,” Iggy interjected, “might not be able to wave away any dirt they throw on you.”

“Like what?” Sorsha scoffed.

“That business with the Legion leaps to mind,” Iggy countered. “Right now you have an impeccable reputation in the city, but if any of that got out, it would be very bad for you.”

Sorsha crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She was the kind of woman who didn’t like being told she was wrong.

Which is all of them, Alex thought to himself.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll stay out of this…for now.”

“Good,” Alex said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get this wrapped up as soon as possible and things can go back to normal.”

“And how are you going to wrap this up?” Sorsha asked. “Your phony client is bound to be an alias and Mr. Casetti is dead, so what do you have to go on?”

Alex gave her his best self-confident smile and launched into the story of the pistol in police custody and how Danny was getting him a picture.

“So you’re going to go all over the city to pawn shops, antique stores, and gun merchants until you find out where it was sold?” Sorsha asked.

Something in her voice told Alex that she thought he’d missed something.

“That’s the plan,” he said.

“Why don’t you just have Danny get the actual gun from the evidence room?” she said. “Have him take one of your portable vault doors, you can bring him into the vault, through to the map room in your office and then use a finding rune on the gun. It should be able to locate its partner, just like your fake client had you do.”

“It’s a good idea,” Iggy said, stroking his mustache, “but it would expose Daniel to a great deal of risk.”

“The evidence room is always guarded,” Alex said. “I doubt Danny could open my vault door in there without attracting attention.”

“To say nothing of the time required to pass through your vault to the map room and use the rune,” Iggy added. “It would be at least five minutes before Daniel could return to the evidence room, and that is plenty of time for the guard to get suspicious.”

“What about me?” Sorsha offered. “I could teleport into the room after it’s been locked up for the night.”

“There’s a guard in there twenty-four hours a day,” Alex said. “The Central Office never sleeps.”

“What about the captain?” Iggy suggested. “Surely he doesn’t believe you committed this crime.”

“Callahan?” Alex said, “probably not, but that doesn’t mean he’d be willing to help me. If this goes to trial and the DA finds out that the police gave me access to a key piece of evidence and then let me use a rune on it, there’d be hell to pay.”

Sorsha nodded.

“He’d lose his job for certain,” she said.

“I suppose you’re right,” Iggy said. “Even if the rune worked and you found the other pistol, the prosecution would say that you led the police to the place where you stashed it yourself.”

Alex had no doubts that the DA would come to that exact conclusion. Sorsha’s idea of using the finding rune in reverse to locate the elusive Mr. Halliday was a good one, much easier than the path that lay before him, but the risks were simply too high.

“I’m afraid the only course is good, old-fashioned legwork,” Iggy said, shaking his head.

“At least I’m no stranger to that,” Alex said.

Alex leaned against the lobby wall of the Piltmore building. It was an extravagant, ten-story tower just two blocks from Empire Tower. It was also the home of the law firm of Richardson, Sanderson, and Michaels.

He’d gotten up early so he could be here before the offices opened at eight. A quick check of his pocket watch revealed that it was nearly time, and, by the time he’d put the watch away, people began entering the lobby from the street. The men wore well-made suits and the women were fashionable yet slightly understated, appropriate for business.

As Alex watched them enter, some heading for the elevators and others to the stairs, he saw one young man with a slightly off-kilter gait. He was young, with dark, slicked-back hair and broad shoulders, just as Alex remembered him.

“Martin,” Alex called, pushing off the wall and heading to intercept the young man.

The young man gave Alex a quizzical look, then seemed to recognize him.

“The private detective,” he said, sticking out his hand instinctively.

“Alex Lockerby. Can I have a brief moment of your time?”

Martin pulled up his sleeve to check a wrist-watch.

“Only if it is a brief moment,” he said. “I can’t be late to work, my boss is a stickler for punctuality.”

Alex reached into his bag and handed the legal paper from the Envelope to Martin.

“What can you tell me about this?” he asked.

Martin scanned the paper.

“Well, it’s not a current case,” he said. “The date says it’s from eighteen thirty-five.”

“Does anything stand out to you?”

Martin looked at the paper again.

“It’s a caveat,” he said. “It warns the court that the defendant in this case is pursuing a hearing, though it doesn’t say what it’s regarding. Presumably the judge knew what it was referring to.”

“Come again?” Alex asked, trying to figure out if anything the young man said might be important.

“It’s a kind of legal form,” Martin said. “Whenever one party is petitioning to get a hearing, they send this to the court so they’ll stop the proceedings.”

“Why?” Alex said.

“Because the hearing might change the course of the case, maybe even get it dismissed. There’s no sense in proceeding with a case while a hearing is pending.”

“So this is just a formality?”

“Yes and no,” Martin said. “It’s procedure. The lawyer in this case is informing the judge about the hearing so the judge will postpone the case until it’s over.”

“That’s it?”

Martin nodded and handed the paper back.

“That’s it,” he confirmed. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go.”

Alex thanked him for his time and watched him hurry toward the elevators. He had hoped Martin would reveal something important about the document, some hidden meaning, but as far as Alex could tell, the paper was just what it appeared to be.

“Great,” he sighed, dropping the paper back into his kit bag. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Neither he nor Iggy had found any other connections to Roger Sherman in the documents, so he was back at square one.

We’re missing something, he thought, he just had no idea what it might be, nor where to begin looking for it.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Alex turned against the tide of arriving professionals and headed back out, onto the sidewalk.

It didn’t take Alex long to get to his office and, true to form, Sherry was there waiting for him.

“Danny called,” she said as he came in.

“I hope that means my day is looking up,” he said, hanging his hat on top of the coatrack.

Sherry nodded at him, then held up a note pad page.

“He says he got your picture, and he’ll meet you at the Lunch Box at eleven thirty.”

Alex breathed a sigh of relief and crossed the room to take the note.

“Why the Lunch Box?” he asked, after scanning the note himself. “That’s nowhere near the Central Office.”

“I suspect that’s the point,” Sherry said. “He doesn’t want to run the risk of anyone from the police seeing you together.”

Alex considered that, then nodded.

“We eat lunch together a couple times a month, so it’s not that unusual, but Danny’s probably right to be cautious.”

Sherry nodded, but didn’t add anything.

Alex put the slip of paper in his pocket and turned toward the back-office door.

"I’ve got some calls to make,” he said. “Call me on the intercom at eleven; I don’t want to be late.”

“Will do,” Sherry said.

Alex went back to his office, taking his notebook out of his shirt pocket. Flipping it open to the list of runewright obituaries, Alex picked up the phone and dialed the number of the first mortuary where funeral services were held.

“Hello,” he said once the call connected, “my name is Carter Mason and I’ve been overseas for the last few years. I’m calling about the funeral of Wilson Mack, it was on March 12th.”

“Yes,” the man on the line said, “we handled that.”

“I was wondering if you could give me a phone number for the family?” Alex asked. “I’m an old friend and I didn’t know Wilson had died until I got back.”

“My condolences,” the man said. “I’ll have to consult my files, but if you’re willing to wait a few minutes, I’m sure I can get you the number.”

“Thank you, I’ll be happy to wait.”

Once Alex had the number, he hung up and called the family. After a few rings, a young woman picked up.

“Yes, Miss,” Alex said, affecting the bored voice of every government functionary he’d ever had to deal with. “My name is Luis Clayton and I’m from the Office of Magical Oversight. I’m trying to reconcile some of our records regarding Wilson Mack.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, her voice wilting, “Wilson was my father, but he died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alex said, softening his voice a little. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you tell me if your father traveled to other states prior to his death, maybe for business?”

“No,” the young woman said. “He was a homebody, and as far as I know, he’d never been out of the state.”

“Well, thank you, Miss,” Alex continued. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

He hung up, then crossed Wilson Mack’s name off his list.

“One down, twelve to go,” he said, then reached for the phone again.

Alex was down to three remaining names when the intercom buzzed and Sherry’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“It’s eleven, boss,” she said.

Alex sighed and rubbed his eyes before reaching over to press the talk key on the intercom.

“Thanks, doll,” he said. “I’m going to the brownstone to meet with Danny, so hold down the fort till I get back.”

“Will do,” she said. “Say hi for me.”

Alex promised that he would, then headed back out to the front room to collect his hat.

“That was fast,” Sherry said with a smirk.

“Do me a favor,” Alex said as he grabbed his grey fedora, “call around to a few pawn shops and see if any of them have ever had a set of dueling pistols for sale.”

“Will do.”

Alex headed back down the hall to his vault, then through to the brownstone. Since the Lunch Box was only two blocks from there, he decided to walk. When he arrived, there were only a few people in for lunch. Still, it was only twenty past eleven by the clock on the wall, so he decided to sit at the counter and wait.

“Coffee,” he said to the waitress, then settled in to wait for Danny.

“Good, you’re here,” his friend’s voice came from over his shoulder a few minutes later. He dropped onto the stool next to Alex, then leaned on the bar with his head in his hands.

“You look like hell,” Alex observed. “And Sherry says hi.”

“It wasn’t easy to get the picture you wanted,” Danny said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulling out a brown envelope about the size of a paperback novel. He laid it on the counter and slid it halfway over to Alex.

“I appreciate your efforts,” Alex said, sliding the envelope in front of him, then slipping it into his coat pocket. “Is someone wise?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, “but I do work in an office full of trained investigators.”

“They're not watching you,” Alex chuckled.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Danny countered. “Ever since you got arrested for killing Lucky Tony, everyone who ever worked with you is getting suspicious glances.”

“Even the captain?”

Danny shrugged.

“I haven’t talked to him, but that’s suspicious by itself. Normally if he wanted information about you, he’d come to me.”

“You think he’s getting pressure from somewhere?” Alex asked.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Danny said.

“All right, you just stay cool and keep away from me and this case. I’ll let you know when I’ve got something solid.”

“I think I’m going to skip lunch,” Danny said, standing up. “With that picture of you in the paper, there’s no telling who might see us together.”

He turned and started to the door, but Alex grabbed his arm.

“Thanks,” he said.

Danny’s worried expression broke for a brief moment and he smiled.

“For what,” he said, “I was never here.” Then he turned and headed out to his car parked by the curb.

“Is your friend not staying?” the waitress asked, coming back.

“No,” Alex said, “but I am. I’ll have poached eggs on buttered toast.”

The waitress jotted the order down then yelled the order into the kitchen. While he waited, Alex took out the brown envelope and opened the top flap. Inside was a photograph of the dueling pistol taken from the side. It was exactly as he remembered it and was large enough to make it easy to identify.

“Good job, Danny,” he muttered as he slipped the photo back into its envelope. “Now comes the hard part.”

11

THE CAVEAT

“Sorry, friend,” the affable man behind the counter said with a shake of his head, “I’ve never had anything like that in here before.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might deal in this kind of merchandise?” Alex asked, trying and failing to keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Well, there’s an antiques dealer south of the park, near the core,” the man said, tapping his chin as he struggled to remember. “Yesteryear, I think it’s called.”

Alex jotted that down in his flip notebook, then returned it to his shirt pocket.

“Thanks,” he said, picking up the photograph of the missing dueling pistol.

“Buck up, friend,” the pawn shop owner called as Alex made his way to the door, “I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for eventually.”

Alex gave the man a friendly wave, but he was nowhere near that confident. As he left the pawn shop, he walked to the corner of the block, then pulled out his notebook again. It was already well past noon and he’d been gradually working his way down Manhattan Island from Harlem to midtown, stopping in every pawn shop along the way. So far, his efforts had yielded exactly nothing.

Every shop he’d visited told the same story, they occasionally got firearms in, but never anything really old. One owner had a cap and ball pistol on a shelf behind his counter, but it was from the Civil War, not the Revolutionary War.

Right now, Alex was about seven blocks from the brownstone and he was tempted to take a break, but he didn’t want to face Iggy without some kind of lead.

“Maybe I should check that antiques dealer,” he said.

Since the core was much further south, Alex caught a cab.

Yesteryear turned out to be a high-end boutique that sold pocket watches, jewelry, clocks, standing cabinets, secretary cabinets, and the odd overstuffed chair. Everything was from the last century and amounted to a presentation piece for rich people who wanted to show off.

“Can I help you?” a pleasant, middle-aged woman asked as Alex entered. She looked Greek or Italian with olive skin, dark eyes, and black, voluminous hair.

“Maybe,” Alex said, fishing the photograph of the pistol from his bag. “I’m looking for whoever sold this. It was in a box as part of a set of dueling pistols.”

The woman picked up the photograph and leaned over to inspect it.

“It looks like something we’d carry,” she said, “but I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“Is it possible someone else sold it?” Alex asked.

The woman put the paper down on the counter.

“Let me ask Lem; he’s the owner.”

With that, she turned and sauntered toward a door in the wall, her skirt swishing as she went. A minute later, she returned with a well-dressed man who looked to be in his fifties. He had grey hair and blue eyes set in a thin, angular face.

“I understand you want a set of dueling pistols?” he said, giving Alex a patient smile.

“Not exactly,” Alex said, picking up the photograph. “I’m looking for this particular set of dueling pistols, or rather I’m looking for the person who sold them.”

Lem gave Alex a long, penetrating look.

“And why do you want to know who sold them?” he asked.

Alex had expected this question long before now and he was ready with an answer.

“I’m a private detective,” he said. “The owner of this pistol wants me to find its provenance. The pistols were a gift from a friend who has, unfortunately, left the country for Africa, so I’m stuck tracking down the seller.”

Lem nodded along with Alex’s explanation, his expression getting friendlier all the while.

“Well, that is a monumental task,” he said when Alex finished. “I can say with certainty that this weapon was never in my possession.”

Alex sighed.

“Any idea who might have sold it?” he asked.

Lem thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Anyone who deals in antiques could have sold it,” he said, “not to mention gun merchants or even pawn brokers.”

“Thanks anyway,” Alex said, picking up the photograph and heading for the door.

Empire Tower was only four blocks from Yesteryear, but Alex was hungry, so he caught a skycrawler back so he had time to grab a sandwich in the terminal.

“It’s been a while since you came to see me,” Marnie said as Alex approached the coffee bar. She hadn’t been behind the counter the last few times he’d visited and he noticed she looked younger than he remembered. No doubt the perks of working inside instead of outside in the weather.

“I’m sorry, Marnie,” he said, “things have been busy lately.”

A shadow passed over the old woman’s face, but only for a moment.

“I read that terrible story about you in the papers,” she said, keeping her voice low. “I want you to know I don’t believe a word of it. Awful muckrakers,” she added.

Alex hadn’t given much thought to the stories in the tabloids. After all, he knew he was innocent, as did Sorsha, Iggy, Mike, Sherry, and Danny, and that was enough for him. More than enough. Still, the fact that Marnie believed in him made him feel suddenly better.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Are you in trouble?” she asked as she passed him a coffee in a tall cup. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Alex said after a moment. “I’m going to be all right.”

“Well,” Marnie said, busying herself by straightening her apron, “if you ever need me.”

“I always need you, Marnie,” Alex said. “Where else am I going to get coffee?”

He winked at her, then turned and headed for the elevator.

Ten floors above the terminal, Alex got off on the twelfth floor, then turned left toward his office.

“Are you back already?” Sherry asked when he entered the outer office.

“Only long enough for lunch,” he said.

“So no luck?”

Alex shook his head.

“I got a possible lead,” he said, setting his paper-wrapped sandwich and coffee cup on Sherry’s desk. “One of the pawnbrokers gave me the name of an antiques store, and their merchandise was much closer to what I’m looking for.”

“Makes sense,” Sherry said, pouring half of Alex’s coffee into her own cup. “The pistol is an antique, after all.”

Alex unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite while Sherry lit a cigarette and sipped her purloined coffee.

“How many antique shops do you think we have in the city?” he asked.

“I’ve no notion,” Sherry said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Do you want me to find out?”

Alex nodded as he took another bite.

“What are you going to do while I make calls?” Sherry asked, taking out a clean notepad from her desk.

Alex swallowed his bite of sandwich, giving himself time to think.

“I could go back to hitting up pawn shops, but that seems like a waste of time,” he mused. “I might get lucky, but the odds are definitely against it.”

“What you need is someone who knows the antique business,” Sherry said, picking up the phone. “Someone who would know what shops deal in firearms. Yes, operator,” she shifted her attention to the phone, “transfer me to information, please.”

Alex thought about that. Even with his more recent upscale clientele, Alex didn’t have much call for antiques.

“Yes,” Sherry said into the phone, “I’m trying to find a certain antique shop, but all I know is it’s in Manhattan. Yes, I’ll wait. Maybe Dr. Bell knows about antiques.” That last was directed at Alex.

Sherry might be on to something with that; Iggy had lots of fancy things in the brownstone and in his vault. The thought of his mentor’s vault brought another image to his mind, one a lot less orderly, but also full of old things.

“That’s a good idea,” he said, wrapping up the remainder of his sandwich and leaving it on the desk for Sherry, “but I think you’ve got the wrong Bell in mind.”

Half an hour later, Alex got out of a cab near Turtle Bay. Set back a bit from the road was a row of shops that had all seen better days. The third shop along the block had dingy windows and a faded wooden sign that read, ‘Bell’s Book & Candle.’

While Sherry had a point about Iggy, who generally knew at least a little about a wide variety of topics, the more Alex thought about it, the more he realized that the fancy furniture and other things in the brownstone were modern rather than old. Iggy fled his native England with the Monograph hunting group, the Whalers, on his heels, so he wouldn’t have had time to grab sentimental items.

Theodore Bell, on the other hand, had a shop full of antiques. To be fair, they were mostly books, but when Alex had needed a rare book Theo didn’t have, he’d called on a network of dealers and enthusiasts to find it.

The bell over the door jingled as he entered, causing the few customers to look up. There was an old woman examining a shelf full of various candles and a young man with blond hair who was reading from a thick book.

“Alex,” Theo called from behind the counter at the back of the store. On the counter in front of him were several carved ouija boards that he was coating with a wax finish. “What brings you back to my domain?” he asked as he wiped his hands with a towel.

Alex approached the counter, dropping his hat on top.

“I’ve got something I need help with,” he said, putting his bag down next to his hat.

Theo’s smile grew wider and he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Something interesting, I hope.”

Alex put the photograph on the counter, turning it to be right-side-up for Theo.

“Oh, this is a nice piece,” Theo said, picking up the picture. “From the detail, it looks sixteenth-century, though it’s impossible to really tell from a photograph.”

“Did you see that story on me in the papers?” Alex asked.

Theo cleared his throat and set the photograph down.

“I did,” he said. “I can’t believe the police arrested you.”

“They do that when you’re found over a dead body and your fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”

“This?” Theo held up the photograph of the dueling pistol.

Alex nodded and gave Theo the rundown on Rex Halliday and the switch he’d pulled with the pistols.

“So you’re trying to locate this Halliday person by finding out where he got the set of dueling pistols,” Theo summed up, stroking his chin.

“He said they used to belong to the revolutionary colonel, Ethan Allen, who received them from a British officer when he took Fort Ticonderoga. It’s probably just a story to sell the con, but I thought I’d mention it on the off chance it’s true.”

“Highly unlikely,” Theo said. “Fort Ticonderoga wasn’t a very large fort, there were only two officers in charge, and I’ve never heard that either of them had a set of dueling pistols.”

“So Halliday, or whoever he really is, bought them for this scheme,” Alex confirmed.

“Undoubtedly,” Theo agreed.

Alex took out his silver cigarette case and offered one to Theo, who accepted.

“So what I need to know is,” he began, offering Theo a light, “where did Halliday get a fancy case with two dueling pistols in it?”

“Good question,” Theo said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “As I said, the pistol looks authentic, and it would have to; after all, this Halliday person wouldn’t know if you were an expert on antique pistols or not.”

That was a good point. If Alex had been a collector of antique firearms and Halliday’s pistol didn’t match his story, it would have tipped Alex off before the plot to smear him even got started.

“So where does someone go if they want to buy a pair of antique dueling pistols?” he asked.

Theo opened his mouth to answer, but then seemed to think better of it. He tapped his lips with his forefinger, then nodded to himself.

“There are many places in the city that might have sold a set of pistols,” he began, “but I’m going to assume your Mr. Halliday didn’t just go around town until he found what he was looking for.”

“I get it,” Alex said, catching Theo’s train of thought. “He’d go somewhere that he knew would have them.”

“Or someplace he suspected would have them,” Theo added. “What you need to know is where that would be.”

“Tell me you know that,” Alex said.

Theo’s face fell but he rallied quickly.

“I’m only an amateur when it comes to antique weapons,” he said, “but I do know people who are real collectors.”

Alex reached into the right-hand pocket inside his suit coat and took out his wallet.

“Would this be enough of a retainer for you to ask around for me?” he said, setting a ten spot on the counter.

Theo looked uncomfortable, but took the bill. Up to this point, Theo had answered Alex’s questions out of enthusiasm, but Alex didn’t feel right about continuing that way. He remembered what it was like to have an office in a bad part of town and barely make ends meet. Theo had been a big help in the past and he deserved to be compensated for it.

“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of our friendship, after all,” he said.

“I’ll make some calls,” he said. “It might take me till tomorrow, though, because some of my sources keep odd hours, but I should have what you want by early afternoon at the latest.”

Alex thanked him and returned the photograph to his bag.

“I was hoping that you were back with more questions about Roger Sherman or some other historical figure,” Theo said as Alex picked up his kit bag. “History is so full of interesting characters and tantalizing rumors.”

“Maybe next time,” Alex said with a chuckle.

He started to turn, but stopped.

“Wait a minute,” he said, more to himself than Theo. “I’ve got something else for you to take a look at.”

With that, Alex set down his bag and pulled out the blue folder that contained the legal document from the Envelope.

“Tell me if anything about this strikes you as odd,” he said, setting the document on the counter.

Theo leaned over, scanning the document before picking it up.

“Well, it’s old,” he said, noting the date, “but I dare say you knew that already.”

Alex nodded but didn’t speak.

“Well, I’m no lawyer,” Theo went on, “but it appears to be a simple legal document sent to the Connecticut Superior Court. I can’t speak for its legal validity, but it looks perfectly ordinary.”

Alex sighed and thanked his friend again.

“Although,” Theo said thoughtfully as Alex reached for the document. “You were asking about Roger Sherman before. Did you know that he served on the Connecticut Superior Court?”

“I did,” Alex nodded. “That’s what made myself and Dr. Bell think this document might be linked to him. Unfortunately, I showed it to a lawyer and he agrees with you, it’s perfectly ordinary.”

“Did this lawyer say if it was a proper, legal request?” Theo asked.

“Sure,” Alex said. “It’s called a caveat and apparently lawyers file them all the time.”

Alex returned the document to the folder, then the folder to his bag.

“Sorry to have wasted your time, Theo,” he said, picking up the bag. “Let me know as soon as you have a lead on the pistol.”

Theo promised that he would, and Alex turned to go. Before he could step away from the counter, however, Theo grabbed his arm. When Alex turned back, he found the bespectacled little man actually giggling to himself.

“Did you say that legal paper was called a caveat?” he said, seeming to have trouble controlling his laughter.

“Yes,” Alex answered, caution in his tone. “Why?”

Theo released his hand and shook his head, managing to get his laughter under control.

“I don’t know what this is all about, Alex,” he said, “but whoever set up this chain of clues for you really did a job of it.”

“Again,” Alex said, “why?”

“Because that paper is a caveat,” Theo said, as if that answered the whole thing.

“I’m not following you, Theo,” Alex replied.

“Just wait here,” he said, scurrying off toward the young man reading by the bookshelves. He pulled various books out, pushing them back in immediately, then seemed to remember something and opened one of the drawers set into the bottom of the shelf cabinet. “Here we are,” he declared, holding up what appeared to be a thick pamphlet.

Bringing the booklet back to the counter, Theo plopped it down with an air of ceremony.

“This is what you’re looking for,” he declared.

Alex picked up the pamphlet. It wasn’t much, fifty or so pages at the most.

“What is it?” he asked, more out of reflex than anything else.

“Read,” Theo said, pointing to the long title

“A Caveat Against Injustice,” Alex read, his mind jumping into focus, “Or an Inquiry Into the Evils of a Fluctuating Medium of Exchange by Roger Sherman.”

He read it again, pausing after the first line.

“A caveat,” he repeated.

“It’s a little book Sherman wrote arguing against the use of paper money when the colonies were all independent countries,” Theo said. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but if the legal paper is the clue, that book is the answer.”

Alex couldn’t argue with him; the clue and the solution were downright elegant. A shiver ran up his back and over his shoulders as he flipped through the pamphlet. Nothing jumped out at him, but he knew Theo was right. This was the answer to the next part of the Envelope’s game.

“Theo,” he said, “you are a gentleman and a scholar.” Holding up the booklet, he asked, “How much for this?”

12

PRIORITIES

Alex hailed a cab outside Bell’s Book & Candle and headed north, eventually arriving in front of the brownstone. He’d considered going back to his office, since he had more calls to make about dead runewrights, but he was much too excited to focus on that.

When the cab finally pulled up to the sidewalk outside the Brownstone, Alex practically ran up the stairs that led to the front door. He fumbled briefly with his gold key that would allow him to pass the wards on the door, then pushed it open and stepped inside. Crossing the mosaic of Manhattan Island on the vestibule floor, he pushed open the inner door and turned right.

“Iggy,” he called. Not seeing his mentor in the library, Alex turned around and headed for the kitchen. “You are never going to believe what I found out about that legal paper…”

He was brought up short when he realized that Iggy was not alone. He sat at the kitchen table with another man in a sturdy gray suit. A pot of tea occupied the table between them, along with a cup and saucer in front of each man. The visitor was thin, but broad shouldered with a rectangular face and an overlarge nose.

Alex recognized him immediately.

“Mr. Donovan,” he said as he approached the table. “It’s been a while. I must confess, I never expected to see you here—unless you’ve come for a medical consultation with Dr. Bell?”

“That’s the first rule of my business, Alex,” Donovan said, picking one of Iggy’s good cigars up from the table’s ashtray, “never do what people expect.”

“Why don’t you pull up a chair, my boy,” Iggy said, giving Alex a direct look. It was clear that he was not happy with the spymaster’s presence.

“You said something about a legal document,” Donovan said as Alex pulled out a chair. “If you need help with that, I’ve got access to some of the best lawyers in the country.”

Alex wasn’t sure if William Donovan had just tried to gain access to the caveat, or if he was just being legitimately helpful. At this point, Alex wasn’t ready to rule out either intent.

“Since you didn’t object to my sitting down,” he said, “I take it you’re here to talk to me.”

“That’s what I like about you, Alex,” Donovan said, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips, “you catch on quick.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that things are a bit hectic in my life at the moment.”

Donovan scoffed.

“You mean that drivel in the tabloids about you muscling in on Tony Casetti’s turf?” he said. “I don’t dignify absurdities, Alex, I work for a living.”

“Are you certain about that?” Iggy asked.

“Of course I’m sure,” Donovan replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They said you were standing over the murder weapon? The one with all your fingerprints on it?”

Alex chuckled.

“That is what they said, yes.”

“Well, first, if I’d just shot someone, I wouldn’t wait around for the cops to show up, and secondly, I’d damn sure throw the gun out the window at least. Hell, you could have just opened your vault and tossed it in there, the police would never have found it.” He tapped the ashes off the end of the cigar and shook his head. “There’s no way you, of all people, would make that many mistakes in a row.” Donovan took a heavy drag on the cigar and blew out a smoke ring. “Now can we get down to business?”

“What business?” Alex asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Donovan grinned, showing more teeth than was strictly necessary, then he reached into his coat with his free hand and pulled out a dollar bill. “I understand you’ve been talking to a Secret Service man named Westlake about these.”

Alex didn’t even bother to pick his kit bag off the floor. If Donovan knew about his interactions with Westlake, the bill could only be one of the magical counterfeits.

“Yes,” Alex said, leaving the bill on the table where Donovan had put it. “I’ve been helping Agent Westlake in his efforts to find the counterfeiter.”

“And how would you say those efforts are going?” Donovan wondered.

Alex shrugged.

“Westlake has magic detectors in all the local banks, but they haven’t been able to stop whoever’s doing this.” He tapped the dollar bill on the table. “I don’t understand how that’s possible with the amount of magic something like this would take.”

“So what are you doing about it?” Donovan asked.

“We have a theory,” Iggy spoke up.

“We think that the counterfeiter is new to this scam, someone who doesn’t have all the details worked out yet.”

“And yet, he’s producing funny money that magic detectors can’t find,” Donovan countered.

“I said that we think the counterfeiter is new,” Alex reiterated. “This scam was obviously conceived by someone else, someone with lots of experience.”

“And what led you to that conclusion?”

“Since you know about Agent Westlake,” Alex said, “then I’m sure you know that the counterfeit bill scam has been run in multiple cities all across the country.”

Donovan nodded.

“In those cases,” Alex went on, “the counterfeiter only stayed a few weeks. Just long enough to maximize his take before the banks caught on.”

“And now,” Iggy said, “he’s not only staying when he should be leaving, but he’s continuing to pass the counterfeit bills, increasing the risk of being caught. The simplest explanation is that there are two different people at work, the originator of the scheme, who knew when to move on, and someone new, who doesn’t fully understand the game.”

Donovan puffed on his cigar, a pensive expression on his face.

“So the first person is the one who developed the bill altering construct,” he said, “and now, someone else has it, but for some reason they don’t know when to cut and run.”

“That’s the way we figure it,” Alex confirmed.

“But how do you explain it?” Donovan pressed. “Did the second man kill the first and steal his lore book?”

“Unlikely,” Iggy said. “Whatever this construct is, it’s bound to be extremely complex. No runewright off the street could write it just from a description in a book; it would take someone truly skilled.”

“Then how did our second man manage it?”

“We think he inherited it,” Alex said. “Lore books are passed down in families, so when the original man died, the book went to someone in his family.”

“Someone who just happened to be as talented as his dead relative?” Donovan asked.

“Rune ability runs in families,” Iggy said, “as does talent. It’s statistically likely that someone in the first man’s family would be able to reproduce his work—with some practice.”

“Seems a bit thin,” Donovan observed.

“If you’ve got a better theory, I’m all ears,” Alex said.

“No,” Donovan admitted. “Can’t say as I do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “His game is to exchange large counterfeit bills for smaller, real ones. Sooner or later one of the men Agent Westlake has watching the banks is going to grab him and that will be that.”

“Unless he changes up his pattern,” Donovan said.

“Changes how?” Iggy asked.

Donovan reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a folded paper. When he opened it, a quarter dropped out onto the table and rolled toward Alex.

“Grab that,” Donovan said, then turned to the paper. “It says here that a rare coin dealer in the south-side mid ring bought a dozen gold coins yesterday, supposedly from the Almiranta treasure. He paid sixty dollars per coin.”

“Let me guess,” Alex said, holding up the quarter, “this morning, they turned into this.”

“Got it in one,” Donovan said. “He called the cops, they called the Treasury Department, who called the Secret Service.”

“And they called you,” Alex finished.

Donovan laughed at that.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I’m just a civilian, have been for almost a decade now.”

“So someone along the way gave you a call on the sly,” Alex said, amending his guess.

Donovan didn’t answer, but winked at Alex as he puffed on his cigar.

“And you’re involved because the counterfeiter is going to devalue the money supply?” Iggy suggested.

“Hardly,” the spymaster chuckled. “I’m here because someone has figured out a way to make a perfect copy of something, and I want that construct.”

Alex sat back in his chair. Of all the things he expected to hear from Donovan, that wasn’t on the list. As he thought about it, it did make sense. The ability to create perfect replicas of secret documents, or bank records, or any one of a number of things would be invaluable to someone in the spy business.

“Even if we catch him, there’s no guarantee he’ll give up his secrets,” Alex pointed out.

“Well, catching him is always the best option,” Donovan said. “I’m sure you two can decipher whatever’s in his lore book.”

“Assuming the police find it,” Iggy said.

“That brings me to option two,” Donovan said, “the reason I dropped by. Whatever happens with the counterfeiter, I need you to make me a rune that works like his.”

“What?” Alex scoffed. “And just how are we supposed to do that?”

“Figure it out,” Donovan said as if that were perfectly obvious. “You two are supposed to be the best runewrights this side of anywhere. Are you telling me that whoever came up with this magic is smarter than you?”

“It isn’t simply a matter of intellect,” Iggy said. “The counterfeiter may have access to runes we’ve never seen before. What you’re asking might not be possible.”

Donovan turned and gave Alex a sly smile.

“I have faith in you.”

With that he crushed out his cigar and stood.

“I hope you know that war is coming, gentlemen. Having the ability to quickly and accurately reproduce documents might mean the difference between winning and losing. I know I can count on you.”

With that, the spymaster turned and headed for the door. Alex and Iggy both sat in silence until they heard the outer door close before speaking.

“At least there’s no pressure,” Alex said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve half a mind to just tell him it’s impossible, and go read a book,” Iggy growled.

“It might be impossible,” Alex pointed out. “Whoever this is might be using a different rune system, or worse, one we know nothing about.”

“That could be a problem,” Iggy agreed, stroking his mustache.

“What if it is possible?” Alex wondered. “I mean we really haven’t dug into this. We’ve been wondering how the counterfeiter did it, but we never asked how we would do it…”

Iggy raised an eyebrow at that.

“It does fire the imagination,” he admitted. “After all, we know that it’s possible, because someone has already done it. We just need to figure out what kind of constructs will yield the results we want.”

“Why don’t you go through the Textbook this afternoon and I’ll spell you after work,” Alex said. “Come to think of it, the first thing we should duplicate once we figure it out is the Textbook.”

“Assuming we can make the duplication permanent.” Iggy went back to stroking his mustache. “You know, there is one very good reason for not undertaking this enterprise.”

Alex shot him a questioning look.

“If we do succeed, your friend, Mr. Donovan, won’t hesitate to offload more little rune projects on us whenever the mood strikes him.”

“You mean if we fail, he’ll leave us alone?” Alex said. “Somehow I doubt that will be his reaction. He’ll probably bring us something else and sell it as a chance to ‘redeem’ ourselves.”

“He would do that,” Iggy growled, then he shook his head. “I don’t want to think about this right now,” he declared. “Let’s proceed as you suggested and we can compare notes tomorrow over breakfast.”

Alex sighed and nodded. He had no idea how he was going to duplicate the counterfeiter’s construct, but he hadn’t given it any serious thought either. He briefly wondered if Iggy would be willing to contact Moriarty for help, but discarded the idea almost immediately. Moriarty and his immortals would undoubtedly claim that their oath of neutrality would prevent them from even giving Alex a clue.

“Now,” Iggy’s voice interrupted his musings, “you said something about that paper from the Envelope when you came in.”

The weight of thoughts lifted immediately and Alex launched into a recitation of his conversation with Martin Pride and then Theo Bell. As he wrapped up the story, he reached into his bag and pulled out the thin volume on the danger of paper money.

“A Caveat Against Injustice: Or an Inquiry Into the Evils of a Fluctuating Medium of Exchange,” Iggy read after picking up the book. After a long moment, his mustache turned up in an enthusiastic smile. “This has to be it, Alex! Well done.”

“Do you think the next clue is in there?” Alex asked.

Iggy thought about that for a moment.

“Yes and no,” he said at last. “I suspect this volume is the key for a book cypher.”

It had been a while since Alex had to do any code breaking.

“Remind me,” he said.

“A book cypher is a numeric code where the writer uses a string of numbers to indicate a page, paragraph and line number in a certain book. You follow the code to find the word, then repeat that for all the numbers. Without the book, the numbers are meaningless, making it a simple, yet secure cypher.”

“So we have the book, now we need the numbers.”

“Just so.”

Alex thought about the various pages in the documents from the Envelope. Plenty of the papers had dates, sums, and accounting, but nothing that resembled a string of numbers. Then there was also the leather box with a broken compass inside. It had degree markings all around its face, but he didn’t remember any of them being out of order or otherwise distinct.

“I’ll go get the Envelope,” he said, standing up. Just as he did, the phone on the wall rang. Above the phone, two wires ran down from the ceiling. One was the house line for the brownstone and the other was Alex’s office line, run all the way from his desk through the vault, to his bedroom, and down to the kitchen.

The wires entered a wooden box with only one wire coming out of the bottom. A large lever, like the hand of a clock, was set into the face of the box, directly under a pair of red lights. As the phone rang, the light on the right blinked, indicating the call was coming from his office.

Reaching up, Alex turned the lever to point at the blinking light, then picked up the phone.

“Lockerby,” he said.

“Alex, I’ve got Agent Westlake here,” Sherry said. “He’d like to see you right away.”

Alex didn’t bother to hide his sigh of disappointment.

“The Secret Service man,” Iggy guessed.

Alex nodded, then covered the microphone.

“I’m sure he doesn’t know that Donovan has already brought us up to date.” Removing his hand, Alex told Sherry that he was finishing something up, but he’d be out to talk to Westlake in a few minutes.

“I’ll let him know,” she said, then hung up.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Iggy said, carrying the cups and saucers from the table to the sink. “I’ll get started on the Textbook and see what I can figure out. We’ll work on the Envelope when you get back.”

“What about Sorsha?” Alex suddenly asked. “She’ll be here for dinner.”

Iggy thought about that, then nodded to himself as if he’d made a decision.

“Maybe it’s time to bring her into our confidence,” he said.

“You said that the fewer people who know about this, the better,” Alex pointed out.

“True,” he admitted, “but the longer we keep this from your powerful and often temperamental fiancée, the worse it’s going to be when she does find out.”

Alex couldn’t argue with that, so he wished Iggy good luck with his search of the Archimedean Monograph, and headed upstairs to his vault.

13

CONTACTS

“Agent Westlake,” Alex said, opening the door from the back hallway into the front room. Westlake sat on the far couch, opposite the back door, smoking a cigarette. Sherry looked up from her desk where she had been filling out details in a case file as Alex shut the door behind him. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No, I’m sorry to keep bothering you,” Westlake said, crushing out his cigarette in the standing ashtray beside the couch. He rose and indicated Sherry. “I told your secretary to write up a file for me so I can pay you for your time.”

“I appreciate that,” Alex said. “I did spend a big part of a day following you around to various banks. Since you’re here, I assume the counterfeiter is still on the loose.”

Westlake nodded.

“He’s come up with a new trick that has my boss in Washington calling more than once a day.”

Alex knew about the fake gold coins, but he couldn’t let on to that fact without explaining his connection to William Donovan, a man who wasn’t supposed to have any government authority at all.

“Why don’t you come back to my office and you can tell me about it?”

Alex held the door open so Westlake could pass, then followed him down the hall.

“Boss?” Mike said, sticking his head out of his office as Alex went by. “I tracked down that information you wanted about runewright supplies.”

“Put it in a folder and give it to Sherry,” Alex said, “I may be busy for a while, but I’ll look at it as soon as I can.”

Mike smiled and nodded before disappearing back into his office.

Alex hadn’t remembered sending Mike to trace the counterfeiter by looking for large supply orders.

The hunt for the vision stone is distracting you, he admonished himself. Even as he thought it, he didn’t regret it. Someone else was looking for that stone, someone willing to make toxic attempts to copy it. Someone who had killed Charles Grier.

Alex’s mind flashed to his vault where the toxic curse stone sat under a rune enchanted glass. He hadn’t looked at it seriously since he and Iggy received the envelope, and while the idea of the vision stone was tantalizing, what he really wanted was the people who killed Charles.

Clenching his fist, Alex hurried after Agent Westlake. Before he turned the corner into his office, he took a deep breath and let it out. Then, plastering a smile on his face, he stepped inside.

“So,” he said, rounding his desk to sit behind it. “What is our counterfeiter up to now?”

Westlake reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a quarter, tossing it on the desk. It was similar to the one Alex had in his own pocket.

“I assume,” Alex said, picking up the quarter and making a show of studying it, “that this quarter wasn’t a quarter yesterday.”

“Got it in one,” Westlake said. “I got this from a rare coin dealer down by the diamonds district. When he bought it, it was a gold coin, supposedly from the Almiranta treasure ship.”

“I wasn’t aware Phillip Leland sold any of the treasure he recovered,” Alex said, turning the quarter over. Whatever the counterfeiter had done to it to change its appearance hadn’t left any physical residue.

It’s impressive magic, Alex thought. Damn it.

“Well, let’s take a look,” he said out loud.

Taking out his multi lamp, Alex lit the ghostlight burner, then strapped on his oculus. Dialing the magnification up to its maximum, he examined the tiny metal disk. Just like with the bills, Alex could see the glowing outline of the gold coin over the top of it. Also like the bills, each detail was precise. The only time Alex had seen coins from the Almiranta was when he and Sorsha had a private tour of the exhibit after he saved it from thieves. He hadn’t really paid attention to the coins at the time, but the glowing representation in front of him looked like something he’d expect to see in a museum.

“Do you see anything?” Westlake asked.

“Nothing helpful,” Alex said. “This is just as good a fake as the bills.”

“All right,” Westlake said, sitting forward in his chair. “I need you to find this man. I’ll give you access to whatever resources you want, but I need him found. Preferably before my boss fires me,” he added.

Alex nodded slowly. He’d already taken this case from Donovan, though the spymaster wanted the rune construct rather than the counterfeiter. Still, the easiest way to get the construct was to catch the man.

“All right,” he said, setting his oculus aside. “I can think of a few things that need to be checked out. I’d really like to know where he got a coin from the Almiranta.”

“I was wondering that too,” Westlake said. “He seems to need a genuine original to create his illusions.”

“You should pass the word to the coin dealers not to buy any Almiranta coins for a while.”

“Already done,” Westlake said.

“You’ll need to put more men on the banks,” he said. “If our man can’t sell any more counterfeit coins, he’ll have to go back to paper money, at least for the time being.”

Westlake nodded, then made a note in his flip book.

“The banks have the tellers looking for anyone depositing large bills to exchange for smaller ones,” he said. “They’re also checking the serial numbers in those cases.”

That made sense; after all, their working theory was that he was copying a single bill onto multiple lower value notes, meaning all the copies would be the same.

“Good,” Alex said. “If he has to go back to banks to get money, it sounds like you have a good chance of catching him. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can find out where he purchased the gold coin he used to make copies. There can’t be that many places that sell something like that.”

“Is that all you can do?” Westlake asked.

“No,” Alex said. “I might be able to track that coin with a finding rune, depending on where it came from. There are also a few people I can talk to about where our man might go next for money. That gold coin trick shows that whoever he is, he’s clever.”

Westlake didn’t look thrilled about such a thin lead, but with nothing better on the horizon, he wished Alex luck and left.

For his part, Alex sat, thinking about the problem. If the counterfeiter avoided banks and couldn’t sell any more gold coins, what would he try next? Checking his watch, he found it was already four o’clock, so he made a decision and picked up his phone.

“Callahan Brothers Property,” a young-sounding girl said on the other end of the line.

“Arthur Wilks, please.”

“One moment,” the girl responded.

“Wilks,” the insurance man’s gruff voice answered after a moment.

“Arthur, this is Alex Lockerby, have you got a minute?”

“Lockerby,” Wilks said, his voice still gruff. “Make it quick, I’ve got problems of my own.”

Alex gave him a quick rundown of the counterfeiter and what he’d done up to this point.

“I’m calling because I’m wondering what kind of things he might go after with this scam. Cash was obvious, but the gold coin thing came out of the blue.”

“Are you kidding me?” Wilks demanded, his voice raised.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Someone with magic like that could copy pearls, rubies, or diamonds onto rocks and sell them for a fortune,” he growled. “When did this coin thing happen?”

“Yesterday,” Alex said. “The dealer found out this morning.”

Wilks swore.

“Get off the line, Lockerby,” he said, “I’ve got to call every jeweler we cover and tell them not to buy loose stones from anyone they don’t know.”

Alex thanked the insurance man and hung up. While Wilks hadn’t answered his question, Alex had understood his fear.

He sighed and made a few notes in his book, then closed it and stood. He started toward his vault, but remembered Mike’s report on Sherry’s desk and stopped by the front office to pick it up.

“I’m going home,” he said. “Call me if anything comes up.”

Sherry promised that she would, and Alex headed for the vault.

He wanted to talk to Iggy about the counterfeiting case and see if his mentor had made any progress on the reproduction construct. That or Sherman’s caveat book. Normally, he would have just passed through his vault on the way to the brownstone, but this time he stopped in front of the desk in the far corner, the one with the curse stone on it. Strewn about the table were notebooks and loose papers, evidence of Alex’s hunt for the man or men who were trying to make their own vision stone. He’d reached the conclusion that such a thing was impossible, but that wouldn’t stop such men. They’d keep producing toxic facsimiles until they created something truly dangerous.

As he looked over his findings and the many vague clues he’d gathered, Alex forced himself to stop. He had too much on his plate right now to dive back into the curse stone. He felt a bit as if he were letting Charles down, but if he and Iggy found the true vision stone, they could use it to find the men responsible for his death. Even if the stone wouldn’t tell them the killer’s identity, they could always use it as bait to lure them in.

Shaking his head to clear it, Alex turned away and headed for his room. Once there he didn’t stop, heading directly downstairs. He found his mentor sitting in his reading chair with the Archimedean Monograph open on his lap. His multi lamp sat on the end table between the two chairs and Iggy had on a set of his yellow spectacles, studying the text that had been laid down with magical script.

“Any ideas?” Alex asked, dropping into his own chair on the opposite side of the end table.

“Oh,” Iggy exclaimed, looking up in surprise. “I didn’t hear you come down.”

“I asked if you figured anything out?” Alex reiterated.

Iggy sighed and took off his spectacles, setting them aside.

“I think I figured out another way to write a duplication rune,” he said. “It would be cheaper to make, but wouldn’t last as long. The counterfeiter might have done something like that.”

“It’s a start,” Alex said.

Iggy blew out his multi lamp, then sat back in his chair.

“I’m afraid it’s just going to be cold meat sandwiches tonight,” he said.

Alex wasn’t bothered by that, but tonight was one of the nights Sorsha would dine with them. He knew that for all her stylish clothes and her flying castle, Sorsha was pretty down to earth in private, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

“Tell me about Agent Weston,” Iggy said.

“Westlake,” Alex corrected.

“Did he tell you anything useful?”

Alex recounted his interaction with the Secret Service man and then his phone conversation with Arthur Wilks.

“Interesting,” Iggy said, stroking his mustache. “It seems like our man is both too smart and not smart enough.”

“Meaning?” Alex asked, suddenly too tired to try to work out what Iggy had said.

“Well, he’s staying here, in the city, instead of moving on,” Iggy pointed out, “thus increasing the odds that he’ll be caught. At the same time, he’s inventing new ways to run the scam besides using banks, making it harder to catch him. It’s incongruous.”

Alex had to agree, but it didn’t really reveal anything new.

“I despise incongruity,” Iggy said, as if that explained everything.

Alex sat up in his chair, an idea forming in his mind.

“I don’t know about incongruity,” he said, “but our man is rapidly running out of safe places to run his scam. I mean, the banks are being watched; once Arthur calls all his clients, word will get around to the jewelers, and Westlake is already talking to the rare coin dealers.”

Iggy nodded, taking a cigar from his pocket humidor and trimming the end.

“You’re on to something there,” he said. “Where will the counterfeiter go once all those resources are denied him?”

Alex wondered the same thing, but he didn’t have a good answer.

“Could he use it to gamble?” Alex asked.

Iggy thought about that before answering.

“Maybe,” he said, “but wouldn’t he have to win to make that work?”

“Not if he bought chips from the house, then turned them back in for cash later,” Alex pointed out.

“Someone’s likely to notice that,” Iggy said. “Those gambling parlors are always watching for cheaters.”

“So it could work, but it would be risky,” Alex summarized.

“What about other underground economies?” Iggy said, puffing his cigar to life.

“Like what?”

“Stolen goods,” Iggy said. “Just because our man can’t sell gold coins to a legitimate merchant, doesn’t mean he can’t find someone desperate who will buy them at a discount because they believe they’re stolen.”

It was a good point. The counterfeiter likely had ties to the criminal element, and finding someone to scam there might not be too hard.

“The real question,” Iggy went on, “is how do we find out who’s looking to buy hot gold coins?”

Alex actually smiled at that. He had the exact man for such a job. Of course, he didn’t like Alex at all, but that would be a minor inconvenience.

“Jeremy Brewer,” he said out loud.

“That Broker fellow?” Iggy asked. “Didn’t he disappear after you and Sorsha paid him a visit to buy Limelight?”

Alex nodded.

“He did, but thanks to the fact that Danny and I are friends, I know right where to find him.”

Iggy raised an eyebrow at him.

“Turns out the infamous Broker was tired of too many legitimate people knowing where he did business.”

“Especially ones with ties to the police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Iggy chuckled.

“Anyway, he decided to set up shop somewhere where he’d have an element of protection.”

“Don’t tell me,” Iggy said, giving Alex a sly look, “he rented space from Lucky Tony in the brewery?”

“That’s a little too incognito for the Broker’s tastes,” Alex said. “Instead, he made a deal with Shiro Takahashi and he has his own private room at the Lucky Dragon.”

Iggy snorted with laughter at that.

“I was wondering how you were going to explain cold sandwiches to Sorsha,” he said.

“No need,” Alex said with a grin. “She can always use magic to heat them up. But in this case, I suspect she’d prefer a nice dinner out.”

While Iggy chuckled at that thought, Alex stood and headed for the kitchen. Sorsha might be fairly down to earth when it came to little things, but he couldn’t just spring the idea of dinner out at one of the core’s most exclusive restaurants when she arrived. If nothing else, she’d have to change into something appropriate for going out.

“Chrysler six, fifty-one hundred,” he told the operator when he picked up the phone. A moment later he heard the voice of Inge Halverson, the receptionist at Kincaid Refrigeration. “It’s Alex,” he said, “I need to talk to Sorsha.”

“Alex,” Sorsha’s voice greeted him a moment later, “I was just thinking about you.”

“Good thoughts, I hope,” he said.

“Well, that depends on why you’re calling,” she purred.

“In that case, you’re going to be happy. How would you like to go out for Chinese tonight?”

The Lucky Dragon was the kind of place where regular people couldn’t get a table without a reservation at least three weeks out. It was much easier, of course, if the owner was your best friend’s father who liked you…and if you brought a sorceress with you.

“Right this way, Miss Kincaid,” the hostess had said the moment she identified Sorsha.

The petite woman wore a garish red and gold kimono and was clearly of Oriental descent, but her accent was all New Jersey. She must be good at her job, because Alex remembered her from the first time he’d been there, five years ago.

She led them to a private dining room in the back that was separated from the main room by a red velvet curtain, drawing it aside so Alex and Sorsha could enter.

“The waiter will be right with you,” she said, bowing from the waist.

Alex thanked her, then held out a chair for Sorsha. The little room was round, with a small table for two in the center. Several paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, providing just enough light for dining.

Before Alex could move around to his own chair, a man in a tuxedo entered and bowed. Introducing himself as the head waiter, he began to recite the menu when Alex stopped him.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he began, “but before we eat, I need someone to deliver this to Mr. Chow.” Shiro Takahashi was Danny’s father and the owner of the restaurant, but he was also the head of the Japanese mafia in New York, necessitating an alias, in this case, Chow Duk Sum.

“I’m sorry,” the head waiter began, but Alex cut him off.

“Tell him it’s from Alex Lockerby. He’ll want to see it.”

The waiter looked like a deer caught in the headlights, clearly not wanting to anger the escort of a sorceress, but not wanting to bother his boss.

“Just a minute,” he said after a long pause, then turned and left the room.

“That went well,” Sorsha smirked at him.

“Patience, my dear,” Alex said, finally sitting down.

He shouldn’t have bothered because less than five minutes later, the tuxedoed waiter was back, looking a little pale.

“My apologies,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to your party.”

Alex thanked him and pulled Sorsha’s chair out for her. The waiter took them around the outskirts of the restaurant, along the wall by the kitchen, then into a back room with several doors set into the far wall. Moving to the one in the middle, he knocked, then opened it.

The room beyond was laid out much as Alex remembered from the Emerald Room nightclub. There were two couches, a long one and a short one laid out in an ‘L’ shape. An overstuffed chair sat at one end and there was a low coffee table in the center.

Around the perimeter of the room were shelves, cabinets with frosted glass fronts, a well-stocked liquor cabinet, and several wardrobes.

Standing in the middle of the room was a man in a silk suit who held a cigar in his hand. Seated on the couch behind him was a mountain of a man who appeared to be one of Genghis Khan’s Mongols.

Before Alex could speak, the man in the silk suit rolled his eyes.

“Alexander Lockerby,” he growled, then looked at Sorsha, “and the sorceress. The last time I saw you, I had to change lodgings. So what calamity brings you two here tonight?”

14

THE SHOPKEEP

“No calamity,” Alex said, waiting for Sorsha, who sat down in the overstuffed chair. “There is some news that might concern you, however.”

The Broker scoffed but motioned for Alex to sit down, then he sat on the smaller of the two couches.

“This ought to be interesting,” he said, taking a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table. “Do tell.”

Alex sat and related the story of the counterfeiter and his magic. While he talked, Jeremy Brewer just sat and smoked, betraying nothing.

“What’s this got to do with me?” he asked when Alex finished.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Sorsha said, her voice cold and even. “With the legitimate avenues closed to him, this counterfeiter might approach you, or one of your clients, with fake valuables to sell.”

The Broker chuckled.

“He’d be a fool if he tried that,” he said. “I’m quite the refined gentleman compared to some of them. If this counterfeiter pulled something like that on one of my clients, they’d cut his fingers off and make him eat them.”

“Charming,” Sorsha said.

“What about you, then?” Alex said. “Someone claiming to have diamonds of questionable provenance, willing to sell at a steep discount as long as it’s a quick sale?”

“I admit,” the Broker said, tapping the ashes from his cigarette, “that does sound like a deal I’d be interested in. Fortunately for me, I only do business with people I know. I learned that lesson the hard way, from a British Runewright several years ago, so if your man does come here, I won’t be doing business with him.”

“You did business with us,” Sorsha pointed out, “when we came looking for that magic powder.”

The Broker shrugged, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Everyone knows you, Miss Kincaid,” he said. “And by then, your boyfriend here had been in the papers enough that I knew where to find him if there was trouble.”

“What about your associates?” Alex asked. “I have no doubt they’re very dangerous men, but this scam isn’t detectable right away.”

“Caveat emptor,” the Broker said with a shrug.

Alex looked up at his words. He knew the phrase, it was Latin for ‘let the buyer beware;’ the word ‘caveat,’ however, meant something else to him now. Absently, he wondered how Iggy was getting on with Roger Sherman’s book.

“In that case,” Alex said, covering his moment of inattention, “is there anything we’re missing? Something our man might try now that he’s locked out of bills, coins, and loose precious stones?”

This time the Broker took a few minutes to consider.

“Art wouldn’t work,” he said. “Both paintings and sculpture wouldn’t sell quickly enough; art buyers like to take their time. Could he counterfeit a car?”

Sorsha looked at Alex, but he could only shrug.

“Maybe the look of one,” he said, “but I doubt it would drive like the car he copied.”

“Then what about bonds?” the Broker said. “He could run the same scam at the banks since they’re looking for notes.”

“At least until they caught on,” Sorsha said.

“He could still milk thousands of dollars out of multiple banks before that,” the Broker said. “There are probably a lot of niche industries this counterfeiter could take advantage of, but he won’t be able to make much money at it. If the counterfeit object is too valuable, it won’t sell quickly enough, and if it’s not that valuable, it won’t be worth his time. If you ask me, he’ll stick to banks until he’s finished whatever he’s doing, or he’s caught.”

Alex thought about that, then he nodded to Sorsha.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, standing up and offering Sorsha his hand.

“As long as we don’t make this a habit,” the Broker said.

“I’m not sure if that was a waste of time or not,” Sorsha said as Alex held her chair out, back at their table.

“A bit of both, I suspect,” Alex said. “I think he’s right about the banks, though. Even with people watching, it’s not easy to switch up his game.”

“I suppose he could ask for currency for counterfeit coins,” Sorsha said. “There are far too many people making change for the police to check every one.”

Alex couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t try.

“And checking serial numbers won’t work either, since coins don’t have them.”

“Your Secret Service agent isn’t going to like that news,” Sorsha said, reaching into the empty air and pulling out her black cigarette holder.

“I suppose they could always get lucky,” Alex said, offering her a light.

“Now,” Sorsha said, once Alex had put his lighter away, “How are you doing at finding the person who’s trying to frame you for murder?”

The question was casual, as if she’d asked about the weather or where the nearest crawler station was, but there was an edge in her voice that made the hair on Alex’s neck stand up.

“Well, uh,” Alex stammered, “I’m still looking for the shop that sold the dueling pistols.”

The curtain that separated the private dining room from the rest of the Lucky Dragon opened and the tuxedoed waiter returned. Rather than taking their order, however, he was followed by several servers with full trays.

“We didn’t order yet,” Alex reminded him.

“Mr. Chow always asks to be informed when one of the New York Six graces his establishment,” the head waiter said. “He suggested a tasting of his favorite dishes.”

A serving girl wheeled a cart into the room, positioning it next to the small table. She reached down, locking the wheels so it wouldn’t roll, then bowed and withdrew. As soon as she was gone, the servers set down their dishes, splitting them between the limited space on the table and the cart. After they finished, they bowed and followed the waitress out.

“If there’s anything else you require, do not hesitate to call me,” the head waiter said, indicating a bell pull next to the curtain.

“We could use some wine with dinner,” Sorsha said.

“That’s already been taken care of,” the man said, then bowed and left.

Before he pulled the curtain, however, he hesitated as another man entered. Alex recognized Danny’s father, Shiro Takahashi, head of the New York branch of the Japanese Mafia and owner of the Lucky Dragon, though he went by the name Chow Duk Sum. He was dressed in a silk suit with a bright red tie that matched the restaurant’s decor.

“Mr. Chow,” Alex said, standing up and giving a brief bow.

Shiro turned, making sure the head waiter had closed the curtain.

“Please,” he said, giving Alex an easy smile, “there’s no need for that. Miss Kincaid,” he turned to Sorsha, “lovely to see you again.”

“Mr. Takahashi,” she said, inclining her head, “to what to we owe the pleasure?”

“When I heard you were here, I just had to make sure my people were treating you well,” Shiro said, grabbing a chair that was standing against the back wall. He pulled it up, opposite the food-laden cart. He pulled aside his suit coat, revealing that he held a slim red bottle with the etching of a dragon circling around it from bottom to top. A crystal stopper adorned the top, circled by a band of gold that had Kanji stamped in it.

“Besides,” he went on, setting the bottle on the table and sitting down. “I don’t often have the opportunity to drink with people I like.”

“We’re honored,” Alex said, putting on a smile. Shiro Takahashi might be Danny’s father, but he was still a very dangerous man.

“Shouldn’t this be mijiu?” Sorsha asked, picking up the bottle.

“It should,” Shiro said with a chuckle, “but I prefer saké, and most Americans don’t know the difference.”

“I prefer saké too,” Sorsha said, handing the bottle back.

“Allow me,” Shiro said, removing the stopper and picking up Sorsha’s glass. After filling Sorsha’s glass, he repeated the process for Alex and finally himself. “May I offer a toast,” he said, raising his glass, “to good food, good conversation, and good saké.”

Alex raised his glass, then drank. He’d had saké before, but it definitely wasn’t his drink of choice.

“Also,” Shiro said, “I understand congratulations are in order, though I don’t see a ring.”

Sorsha blushed, moving her left hand under the table.

“It hasn’t been announced yet,” she said.

“Danny told you,” Alex guessed.

“We do talk from time to time,” Shiro said, obviously hiding a smile. “And speaking of talking,” he went on, “I imagine all those scandalous stories in the tabloids aren’t making it easy for you to announce your engagement.”

So that’s what he’s here to talk about, Alex thought. I’m surprised he didn’t ask Danny. Unless he did.

“Gross exaggerations, I assure you,” Sorsha said, though that tone from earlier was back in her voice.

“But there’s some truth in those stories,” Shiro said, turning to Alex. “Isn’t there?”

Alex took a deep breath and told Shiro the story. When he was done, Shiro sat, nursing his saké.

“As frame-ups go, it’s not the best,” he said at last. “There was far too much time between when Mr. Casetti was shot and when the police arrived. A proper job would have the police coming up the stairs just as you entered the room, and they would have dealt with the bodyguards first. It would be your word against the police and the evidence.”

Alex had to admit, if Shiro had organized the frame-up, he’d still be in jail.

“So,” Shiro went on, “how are you going to clear your name?”

“Yes,” Sorsha said, giving Alex a direct look, “you never finished telling me that exact thing.”

Alex sighed, and finished his saké.

“If I can find the shop that sold Halliday the pistols, I might be able to find out who he really is. He probably wasn’t using an alias when he bought them.”

“And if he was?” Shiro asked.

“Then I have to track down everyone who knew about Tony’s safe house,” Alex said. “Whoever shot him knew about it, and according to Tony’s bodyguards, that’s not a big group of people.”

“I can see why you wouldn’t want to take that route,” Shiro said. “Dealing with what’s left of the Rosono family can’t be easy with them thinking you killed their boss. Still, that might be the only way to find out who’s behind this.”

“If it comes to that,” Alex said, “then so be it.”

“Well,” Shiro said after a short silence, “I think that’s all the time I allotted for heavy conversation.” He rose, leaving the bottle on the table. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your dinner.”

With that, he wished Sorsha good evening and left.

“He wanted to make sure you weren’t making a bid to become a real gangster,” Sorsha said, not quite able to keep the smirk off her face.

“I’m glad he was satisfied,” Alex said. “Shiro Takahashi is not someone I’d want as an enemy.”

Sorsha gave him a level stare.

“If he put a finger on you, Danny would kill him,” she said. “To say nothing of me.”

“People may think I’m a crook and a killer,” Alex said, spooning some kind of glazed meat onto his plate, “but at least I’ve got friends.”

Alex arrived late to the office the following morning but he didn’t feel bad about it in the least.

“Somebody had a good night,” Sherry said when Alex checked in with her.

“Any calls?” he asked, ignoring her.

“Nope,” she said, still grinning at him.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said, shooting her an unamused look.

“Mike’s out,” she said before he shut the hall door.

He had planned to talk to Mike about his report, especially since Alex hadn’t read it yet.

“Well, now I’ve got time,” he said to himself.

Ten minutes later, he’d been through Mike’s report twice. As far as his apprentice could tell, no one was buying up excessively large amounts of any particular runewright components.

“Well, that’s that,” he said, tossing the report onto his desk. Whatever construct the counterfeiter was using, he wasn’t having to write it for every duplicate he made. He couldn’t be without something showing in the supply orders. Iggy had suggested that maybe the counterfeiter was using a simplified version of a complex construct, but this suggested just the opposite. A construct that could affect multiple things at once required a level of sophistication well beyond a novice, or even a journeyman runewright.

It was frustrating, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that at the moment. He’d have to talk to Iggy, maybe over lunch, but right now he had other work. There were still four obituaries he needed to call on and hopefully, Theo Bell would call with a list of dealers who might have sold a pair of dueling pistols.

“Get to it,” he encouraged himself.

Alex thanked the nice older woman on the phone and hung up. Shaking his head, he crossed the last name off his list of obituaries. Something about the list tickled his memory, connected to something someone had said, he just couldn’t remember who. Before he could give it serious thought, the intercom box on the left side of the desk buzzed.

“You free, boss?” Sherry’s voice asked.

“Go ahead,” he said after pressing the talk key.

“I’ve got Theo Bell on the line for you.”

That made Alex smile with anticipation.

“Put him through,” he said.

A moment later the phone rang and Alex picked up the handset.

“Theo,” he said, “what do you have for me?”

“Good morning to you too,” Theo said with a chuckle. “I made some calls and got the same answer every time. First, are you sure those pistols were genuine antiques?”

Alex hadn’t thought about that. He did remember handling the one Halliday had shown him and it was solidly built. The handle had cracks in the wood consistent with age, and the metal was scorched and oily.

“Pretty sure,” he said. “Making them from scratch seems like a long way to go when he could just buy them.”

“That’s what I thought, based on the picture,” Theo said. “If they’re genuine antiques, there are only four shops in the city that would have an item like that on hand.”

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly; this was great news. He still might not be able to find Rex Halliday’s trail, but it wasn’t nothing.

“Give me the list,” Alex said, flipping open his notepad.

Alex’s stomach rumbled as he climbed out of a cab in front of a shop with the incredibly clever name of Martinelli’s Antiques. He supposed that someone whose business was Lockerby Investigations probably shouldn’t cast aspersions.

The shop was large and well-appointed with dark wood shelves and display tables covered with satin cloths. Small bits of household décor were everywhere, each with a paper tag on a string affixed to them. In the back of the shop were chairs, cabinets, and other pieces of furniture, but unlike most of the other shops, these were overdone affairs, with real gold leaf and cut-glass fronts.

“May I help you, sir?” a cultured voice greeted him.

Alex looked to the counter and found a portly man in an expensive suit watching him. He looked to be in his thirties, a bit younger than Alex, with dark black hair and blue eyes. His face radiated an affable openness, but something about his eyes told Alex that underneath the welcoming expression was hard shrewdness.

“I’m told you have a pair of antique dueling pistols for sale,” he said.

The man’s smile slipped for just a moment, but it returned almost instantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “we did have a nice pair last week, but they were sold.”

Alex approached the counter, then set his kit bag down and took out the photograph.

“Did they look like this?” he asked, setting the picture on the table.

The man leaned down to get a better look, then nodded.

“Yes,” he said, taken aback, “If you knew that we’d sold it, why are you here?”

“I didn’t know you sold it,” Alex said. “What I do want is to know who you sold it to. I’d like to make them an offer for the set. What can you tell me about the man?”

“Well,” the salesman said, rocking back on his heels. “He was a short fellow, a bit rumpled, with wire spectacles.”

That’s Halliday, Alex thought.

“I remember him because he came in wanting to buy the dueling pistols but another customer had come in the week before and put a down payment on them. He offered to pay more, but we’d already accepted the first customer’s money.”

“But you sold them to him anyway?” Alex asked.

“It wasn’t like that,” the salesman said, bristling with indignation. “The next day I called the first customer and he said he’d changed his mind. After that, I called the man with the wire spectacles and he came in that same day and bought them.”

That would have been just a few days before Halliday came to see me, Alex thought. They were cutting their scheme pretty close. I wonder what they would have done if they couldn’t get the pistols? Would they have waited for their opportunity, or did they have something else lined up as a contingency?

“I’d be grateful if you could give me that man’s name and phone number,” Alex said. “I’m very interested in acquiring these pistols.”

The indignation was back on the man’s face and he drew himself up to his full height.

“Sir,” he said, his voice tight and formal, “our customers trust us because we do not give out their names, much less their phone numbers to anyone who comes in here and asks.”

Alex put on a sardonic smile and leaned against the counter with his hip.

“Well, I’m not just anyone,” he said, taking out his rune book and opening it to the back. “My name is Alex Lockerby,” he went on, passing the officious man a light blue business card. “I represent this client.”

The man looked at the card with disdain, but that was wiped from his face a moment later.

“Oh,” he said as he read the name, Sorsha Kincaid, printed in dark blue ink. Alex expected him to acquiesce immediately, but for some reason his eyes slid from the card to Alex’s face. “Did,” he began, then cleared his throat. “Did you say your name was Alex Lockerby?”

“Yes,” Alex admitted, a little shocked that the clerk focused on that detail rather than the name on the card.

“Uh, wait right here,” he said, handing the card back as if it were a live snake. “I’ll just get that name and number for you.”

He practically ran to the back room, leaving Alex standing by the counter.

“That was strange,” he said out loud.

He shrugged, deciding he didn’t care why the man was suddenly so eager to help and leaned against the counter. The clerk had been reading the paper when Alex came in, and had set it aside before Alex spoke to him. One look at the headline and Alex knew what had changed the clerk’s attitude.

‘Gangster Alex Lockerby’s secret life,’ the headline declared with a subheading that hinted about his cavorting with sorceresses by night and running a criminal enterprise by day.

Alex groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. As predicted, the reporters were starting to drag Sorsha into the story.

“Great,” he muttered.

15

THE CHASE

Alex left Martinelli’s Antiques with Rex Halliday’s name and phone number in his notebook and a smile on his face. The clerk had practically rushed to give up his customer’s name and number when he thought Alex might be some kind of gangster. He didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t argue with the results.

Okay, maybe he liked the idea — a little.

He hailed the cab and gave the driver a mid-ring address on the southwest side of town. As the car pulled away from the curb, Alex sat back, dropping his hat over his eyes as he did. Despite what he’d told Danny’s father last night, if he hadn’t gotten a line on Rex Halliday, he would have been hard pressed to find a link to the people who wanted to destroy his reputation. Trying to sort through who might or might not have known about Lucky Tony’s safe house was a losing game. If the answer were easy to find, Connie would have found it already.

Alex made a mental note to call Connie and find out if he’d learned anything yet, then just let his thoughts drift. With any luck, he’d find Halliday and squeeze him for answers. Halliday hadn’t been the one to shoot Lucky Tony, of course; Alex had left him outside the building when he went in, but Halliday was part of the frame up, so he’d have some of the names of his co-conspirators.

Alex smiled at the thought of getting those names. If he was feeling especially sadistic, he’d let Sorsha try her hand at persuasion. She was a beautiful, elegant woman, but Alex knew from experience that there was steel in her.

“Bell Laboratories,” the cabbie said as the car decelerated. “That’ll be a buck and a quarter.”

Alex passed the man two dollars and told him to keep the change, then he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Bell Laboratories was on the west part of town near the meatpacking district. The building was a typical industrial building with a single-story set of offices attached to a three-story warehouse with a smokestack attached. Despite its mundane appearance, Alex knew the inside housed the telephone routing switches and operators for the entire island. Additionally, much of the research into new telephone equipment was handled there.

Alex made his way across the little manicured outdoor area between the sidewalk and the door. The mid-May weather was warming up from the cold of winter and some of the green was returning to the grass and the shrubs.

He opened the door and walked past the receptionist in the lobby, heading for the restrooms. The middle-aged woman behind the desk started to object but stopped when Alex pointed at his destination. Having been here before, he knew the restrooms were in the side hallway and that while the receptionist was taking a call, she wouldn’t see Alex slip out of the restroom and into the stairwell.

He did have to wait almost five minutes before he heard the phone on the receptionist’s desk ring, but as soon as she picked up, he walked calmly into the hall and then through the door to the stairs. His destination was on the second floor, in the operator room that served south Harlem.

Pushing the door open, he saw rows of well-dressed women seated in front of tall boards with wires running out of holes and down to desk level. Below the board was a slanted panel with round sockets in it, each one with a printed label below it. As calls came in, each operator would connect a wire running to their headphones and answer, then, after receiving the exchange, they would find the appropriate hanging wire and swap it in the socket with their headphones.

The room was a cacophony of noise with the beeping sounds the boards made and the conversation of the operators. The headphones each woman wore largely isolated them from the sound, but Alex got it full force. There were at least ten rows of operators in the room and Alex moved along the wall, looking down each row until he found the one he wanted.

“Hello, Gloria,” he said, tapping a blonde woman on the shoulder as he came up behind her.

“No,” she said, once she looked over her shoulder.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Alex asked.

Gloria opened her mouth to reply, but had to take a call. Once she routed it where it needed to go, she turned back to Alex.

“No,” she said again, “As in ‘no, I’m not risking my job for you.’ I appreciate you helping me with my dad’s will, but I paid back that favor a long time ago.”

About three years ago, Gloria’s brother tried to cheat her out of her half of their father’s will. It wasn’t a lot of money, but there were some sentimental things Gloria wanted and Alex made sure she got them. Since then, Alex had tapped her a few times when he needed to know the address of a particular phone number. Each time Gloria reminded him that if she were caught doing that, she could be fired.

“I need this one, Glory,” he said, using her familiar name. Tearing out a page from his notebook, he placed it on the switchboard in front of her. “The person at this number is the one who set me up for Tony Casetti’s death. He’s the reason the papers are printing all that vile stuff about me.”

Gloria sighed, picking up the paper.

“This has to be the last time,” she said, looking up at him.

“Cross my heart,” Alex said.

“I won’t get a break for an hour or so,” she said, tucking the paper into her pocket.

“Thanks, Glory,” Alex said, “you’re the best.”

“I’m going to have to sweet talk that old biddy in the records room,” she said before Alex could withdraw.

With a sigh, he reached into his pocket and dropped a ten spot on the switchboard.

“Sweeter than that,” Gloria muttered.

Alex dropped another ten and Gloria quickly tucked them into her pocket after Halliday’s phone number.

“I’ll call when I get the address.”

Alex thanked her, then made his way carefully back out, into the hall. He was in too big a hurry to take a cab to his office, so he found the men’s room on the predominantly female floor and stepped inside. Tearing one of his self-working vault runes from his book, he stuck it to the back wall and, after making sure he was, in fact, alone, lit it with his lighter.

The self-working rune was something he’d cooked up just before Iggy and Moriarty had put the damnation rune on him. When it activated, the outline of the door appeared in glowing magic lines without having to be pre-drawn, then the steel vault door melted out of the wall. All Alex had to do was be ready with his oversized vault key to unlock the door.

He inserted the key and turned it smartly, then stepped back as the door popped open. Taking hold of the door, he pushed it inward, stepping into the vault as he went. Once inside, he pushed the door closed again and it vanished into the dull gray walls of his vault. Alex couldn’t see it, of course, but he knew that the glowing door lines in the bathroom were vanishing as well, leaving no evidence that he’d even been there.

Smiling with satisfaction, Alex crossed the great room of his vault and headed down the left side hallway toward the brownstone. When he headed down from the third floor to the main, he was aware that the house seemed unusually still. Iggy was fond of having the radio tuned to a music station while he read or puttered with his orchids but there was no sound of brassy bands or muted orchestras.

“Iggy?” he called as he reached the landing opposite the vestibule.

Turning left into the library, he found it empty, as was the kitchen. There was, however, a folded piece of paper on the table with Alex’s name on it.

“Gone to the city morgue for a consult,” Alex read. “Back by mid-afternoon. There’s some leftover ham and hard cheese in the icebox if you’d like a sandwich. Yours, sincerely, Ignatius Bell M.D.”

Alex put the note down with a sigh of frustration. Now that he was just an hour or so away from finding out where Rex Halliday lived, he felt like a tiger pacing in a cage or a racehorse waiting for the starting gun. He was all energy with nothing to do. If Iggy were here, he’d go over the contents of the Envelope looking for numbers that might be the code for Sherman’s book about the evils of paper money.

He was tempted to dig into the Envelope anyway, but Iggy had had the caveat book for almost a full day, so he’d probably organized the contents of the Envelope to reflect his research. If Alex went blundering in there, he might mess up a full day’s work.

Bested at every turn, Alex gave up, went to the china cabinet, and withdrew a plate. Setting it on the counter by the stove, he next visited the icebox and on to the silverware drawer so he could carve off bits of ham for a sandwich. Wishing he’d picked up a newspaper, Alex sat at the kitchen table and ate his lunch in silence. He nearly choked when the phone rang.

“Lockerby,” he said after switching the line over from the brownstone to his office.

“Are you expecting a call from a Miss Gloria Farr?” Sherry asked.

“Put her through,” Alex said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Alex?” Glory said after a moment.

“I’m here,” he replied, “go ahead.”

“I’ve got your address,” she said.

Something in her voice bothered Alex.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Maybe you should let this go,” Glory said, her voice barely a whisper.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“There was a note in the file,” Glory went on. “It said that the line was not to be disconnected under any circumstances.”

“Even if they didn’t pay the bill?” Alex said.

“Under any circumstances,” Glory repeated. “It’s a code that usually means one of two things, either the line belongs to the government, or there’s a police tap on the line.”

The hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stood up. He was expecting to find some old enemy or disgruntled client at the end of this frame job, maybe even some Nazis, but not this.

“You sure about that,” he asked.

“Of course I’m sure,” Glory hissed back at him. “Now do you really want this address?”

Alex thought about that for a long moment.

“I do,” he said at last. “I have to know who’s behind this.”

Glory sighed on the other end of the line, then read out an address in northern Harlem by the East River. It was a neighborhood Alex had been to several times when his office had been up there.

“Thanks, Glory,” he said. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Watch yourself,” she said, then hung up.

As soon as the line cleared, Alex called Sherry.

“I’m going out,” he told her. “I should be back before closing.”

“Anything I need to know?” she asked.

“I’ve got a lead on Rex Halliday,” Alex said. “I’m going to see if I can lay hands on the little rat.”

“You should take Sorsha,” Sherry said.

As ideas went, it wasn’t a bad one. Sorsha’s presence was sometimes enough to get people talking.

“I’ll call her,” he promised, then hung up.

Calling Sorsha’s office, Alex learned from Inge, the receptionist, that Sorsha was out of the office, having lunch with some prospective buyers and wasn’t due back for at least two hours.

“Sorry, Sorsha,” he said once he’d hung up. “I’m not waiting."

Alex switched the phone back over to the brownstone, then turned to head upstairs before remembering his plate and cup on the table. Pausing only to put them both in the sink, he headed upstairs and back into his vault. Technically, he was closer to his destination at the brownstone, but it would be faster to go back to the office and catch a skycrawler from Empire Station. The express line would put him a few blocks from the address in less than twenty minutes.

If he hurried.

He did pause for a moment in his vault, however, to slip on his shoulder holster and his 1911.

The express skycrawler was running late, so it took almost thirty minutes for Alex to reach north Harlem. He thought about running the two blocks, but New York blocks were big and he didn’t want to be winded when he confronted Halliday, so he hailed a cab.

The building where the cab dropped him was neat and well kept, despite its being very outer-ring. According to the address, Halliday lived in apartment 307, so Alex walked up to the building like he had every right to be there and entered the ground floor. A large staircase ran up from just inside the lobby doors to the first floor, where it split into two landings, one running on either side of the building, before meeting up again at the next set of ascending stairs.

It reminded Alex of the building where he’d had his mid-ring office.

He found apartment 307 right where it should be, but stopped before he reached it, straining his ears to hear anything. For the first time since he entered the building, he was suddenly aware that the building was quiet. Alex could hear a radio on in an apartment somewhere above and even further up a baby cried for a moment, but that was all.

Satisfied that Halliday wasn’t home, Alex pulled out his chalk and drew a small rectangle on the wall. Removing a safe rune from his book, he stuck it to the wall and ignited it. Just like his vault rune, the safe rune caused a small, steel door to appear. Like the many doors Alex had into his vault, the safe rune opened into the vault as well, just into a mostly sealed box so it appeared self-contained. Inside the safe were three things, a candlestick telephone that connected to Alex’s office line, his kit bag, and his backup .38 revolver in a shoulder holster.

Selecting the kit bag, Alex removed it and set it on the floor. He removed the wooden pencil box he always kept in the kit, then pushed the bottom of the box forward, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. This was where he kept his lock picking tools hidden, just in case curious law enforcement people decided to search his bag.

Working quickly, Alex picked the lock then carefully pushed open the door. The apartment beyond appeared to be well kept, despite being mostly bare of furniture. Alex leaned down to return his tools to his bag when he heard the tread of a foot on the stairs below. Looking down, Alex locked eyes with the man coming up.

It was Rex Halliday.

Alex moved. Throwing his bag into the open safe, he pushed the steel door closed as he took off running toward the stairs. From below, Halliday produced a revolver and fired off a shot. Alex knew how inaccurate pistols could be, especially against moving targets, but the bullet punched a hole in the plaster of the wall just in front of him, causing him to stumble. Either Halliday was the greatest marksman Alex had ever faced or he had the luck of the Irish.

Reaching into his coat, Alex tugged his 1911 loose, bringing it to bear as he rounded the landing. He didn’t want to shoot Halliday, but the man still had five bullets in his gun and Alex wasn’t going to make himself an easy target.

Halliday fired again, the shot hitting the banister just as Alex cleared it. Starting down the stairs, Alex leveled his weapon at the smaller man, who turned tail and bolted around the corner, heading for the stairs down to the main floor.

Alex leapt down the stairs, taking them three at a time, then turning the opposite way that Halliday had gone in case the man was waiting to ambush him. A third shot rang out, but Alex didn’t see where it hit so he kept running.

This time Halliday was waiting for him as he rounded on the landing, firing up from the stairs below. The fourth shot missed again, but splinters from the bannister hit Alex in the face, forcing him to close his eyes. Rather than give Halliday a free shot while he blinked the debris from his eyes, Alex fired blindly down the stairs. He couldn’t tell if it hit Halliday, but it must have been close, because the man cried out and ran.

Wiping his eyes, Alex started down after Halliday. Even with his head start, Alex was certain he could outrun the portly little man. He hesitated as he pushed the building’s outer door open, wary of being ambushed again, but nothing happened, so he leaned out and looked left and right.

There was no sign of Halliday, which could only mean he’d rounded the corner of the apartment building, heading toward the back. He wouldn’t have had time to get any further away. Having no idea which way his quarry had gone, Alex turned left and raced to the corner of the building. Doing a quick head check, he found the alley beside the apartment empty, so he ran along it as fast as he could for the back of the building. If Halliday was smart, he’d try to move away from the building, to put as much distance between himself and Alex as possible. If he wasn’t, Alex should run into him right around the next corner.

When Alex leaned out into the alley behind the apartment building, leading with his 1911, he caught sight of Halliday disappearing around the corner of the next building down, heading toward the river.

“Not smart,” Alex said, running along the side of the building directly behind the apartment. At his pace, he’d reach the next street before Halliday, so he didn’t fear an ambush this time. He tore around the corner onto a street that bordered the East River. Running north, past dilapidated businesses, he was almost to the alley where he expected Halliday to appear, when he heard a gunshot.

Rounding the corner, Alex found himself in a narrow alley between a hardware shop and warehouse. Halliday was leaning against the wall of the hardware shop, panting heavily. He turned at the sound of Alex entering the alley, and when he did, Alex could see an expanding red stain spreading out from the center of his white shirt.

“Damn you,” he gasped, clutching his chest, “Damn you, Alex Lockerby.”

With that, he slumped down to the ground in a heap.

Alex took a step forward, but a new voice interrupted him.

“You,” it said in an authoritative voice, “drop that weapon and put your hands in the air.”

16

A NIGHT IN THE SLAMMER

Alex put his hands behind his head and looked at the featureless ceiling of his cell. It was well past ten and the lights were out except for one naked bulb that hung just outside the bars and gave enough light for him to see.

He sighed and wondered if he’d be able to sleep at all. It had been an eventful afternoon. He’d expected to catch Rex Halliday and spend the rest of the day leaning on him until he gave up everything. Now, Rex was dead and he was in jail on a second murder charge.

It didn’t help, of course, that he was found, standing over Halliday’s body with a recently fired gun in his hand. Whatever complaints he had about the first slap-dash frame-up attempts, he couldn’t deny that his adversary was learning. This time the police had been half a block away when Halliday left his building and started shooting. Alex arrived in the alley just moments before the police.

“You really stepped in it this time,” he said to himself.

He should have known something was off when Halliday appeared on the stairs just moments after Alex had cracked his apartment door. Since Halliday ended up dead, Alex doubted he was in on that particular setup, but someone must have delayed his return until just after Alex went into the building.

“Which means I’m dealing with a group,” he decided. He’d suspected there were at least a couple of conspirators, but there had to be at least three, probably more. “Halliday is one,” he said, ticking off on his fingers, “whoever kept him busy is two. Then, they had to have a lookout to know when I found the building, and someone had to shoot Halliday.”

Of course the lookout could easily have been Halliday’s killer, but there was no guarantee which direction he’d run once Alex started chasing him, so there were probably multiple shooters covering at least two directions.

“Four would have been better,” Alex said, “So that would bring the potential total to seven.”

Probably more, he thought. After all, someone had to have cooked up this plot and, unless he had a very personal grudge against Alex, that person wasn’t likely to be the kind to get their hands dirty.

He thought about the Legion with their supposedly massive number of followers, but discarded the idea immediately. While he was certain they would be happy to take him down, Sorsha had decimated their New York operation. They might have rebuilt, of course, but so far, no one involved with Rex Halliday had used a scrap of magic.

“That’s highly unlikely for a power-hungry group of runewrights,” he said.

There were the Nazis, of course, but they’d be more likely to just shoot Alex, or blow him up. This social sabotage didn’t seem like their style.

“Unless they want to make me desperate,” he said, “then try to recruit me.”

No, he thought. He’d made chumps out of several groups of their best saboteurs and ruined their plans at least three times. No matter if someone in their ranks wanted Alex as an ally, they weren’t likely to just forget and forgive.

Alex thought about Paschal Randolph, but the idea that Randolph might still be alive sent shivers down his spine. And Randolph wouldn’t bother with these elaborate theatrics, he’d just try to blow Alex up at his office or in a skycrawler.

“So who has it out for you?” he asked himself.

“Exactly what I’d like to know,” Sorsha’s voice spoke softly as she stepped out from the concealment of the hallway to stand in front of the bars to Alex’s cell. “Of course, what I’d like to know more,” she said, her voice warbling with barely controlled anger, “is why you went out to apprehend Rex Halliday without me.” This last came out in an angry hiss and Alex worried the guard at the desk two halls away might have heard.

“I tried to call you,” he said, adopting a sad countenance, “but you were unavailable.”

“Then you should have waited,” she snapped, much too loud for the quiet of the cells.

“Easy, love,” he said in a soft voice. “Everything echoes down here.”

“I’m using a silencing spell,” she said, raising the volume of her voice even further.

That caught Alex by surprise. Usually when he was inside the radius of a silencing spell, he could feel pressure in his ears.

“I’m very good at what I do,” Sorsha said, plainly reading the look on his face. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I was framed?” Alex offered, sitting up on his bunk.

Sorsha leveled her gaze at him, then rolled her eyes. She reached out and touched the lock on the cell door and Alex heard a click. With a quick tug, she pulled the door open, then stepped inside and closed it behind her.

“You,” she said, sitting next to him on the bunk, “are not as funny as you think you are.”

She leaned in and Alex put his arm around her, pulling her into a gentle kiss.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said when they separated.

“Whoever’s doing this wants to kill my reputation,” Alex pointed out. “They can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“They can,” Sorsha pointed out, “they just won’t get the satisfaction of you experiencing it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he admitted.

“What did Andrew’s high-priced lawyer say?”

“He didn’t even bother trying to get a bail hearing,” Alex admitted. “The police told him that they pulled a .45 caliber slug out of Halliday and, since I took a pot-shot at him to keep him off me, my gun was missing a bullet from the magazine.”

“Well, that doesn’t look suspicious at all,” Sorsha said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Seriously, what are we going to do? The tabloids already have the story, even The Midnight Sun.”

That surprised Alex. He was relatively sure Billy Tasker didn’t believe Alex was a killer, but he’d run the story. Maybe he didn’t have a choice; even though he was the head editor, there were still people above him he had to answer to.

“You should call him when you get out of here,” Sorsha suggested. “The tabloids got the story awfully fast, so I bet whoever’s behind this had the story ready to go before Rex Halliday was even cold.”

“It’s likely they gave the story over the phone,” Alex said, “but it’s worth a shot, thanks.”

“Speaking of you getting out of here…” Sorsha said, letting the thought fade out at the end.

“They’ll have to let me go in the morning,” he said.

Sorsha raised an eyebrow, but Alex didn’t continue.

“Stop being insufferably clever,” she said at last, “and explain yourself.”

“Every gun barrel is unique,” Alex said.

Sorsha shook her head and blushed a bit.

“It’s been too long since I worked with the FBI,” she admitted. “I forgot about bullet markings left by the barrel. Since you didn’t shoot Rex Halliday, bullets the police fire from your gun won’t match the one they pulled out of the body.”

Alex nodded.

“What makes you think they’ll be done testing your gun by morning?” Sorsha asked. “If the police are anything like the FBI, their technicians won’t even start for a few days.”

“First,” Alex said, giving her a knowing grin, “I imagine Captain Callahan is anxious to get those results, so someone’s probably working on it as we speak.”

“And second?”

“Second, I put an erasure rune on my 1911 a few years ago. Every bullet that leaves the barrel has the markings stripped away.”

“That will certainly make identifying your bullets easy,” Sorsha said, “but what if your adversaries figure out that trick? They could mimic it the next time they shoot someone, and it will point right to you.”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. That rune is very complex and I got it from the Textbook.”

“Still,” Sorsha said, “you should take it off. A blank bullet is something someone can replicate, but the markings left by your actual barrel are, as you pointed out, unique.”

Alex wanted to respond, to point out how good his blank bullet idea really was, but Sorsha had a point.

She had a good point.

“You’re right,” he said, “I’ll take it off.”

“See,” she said, nudging him again with her shoulder, “you knew there was a good reason to keep me around.”

He put his arm around her again.

“There are plenty of good reasons to keep you around,” he said, pulling her in again.

“Oh, no,” she said, putting her fingers on his lips. “If you think I’m going to let you take liberties in a cell under the Central Office of Police, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“You’re no fun,” Alex accused her.

Sorsha stood and looked around at the bare cell.

“And you have a twisted idea about what’s fun,” she said. She reached into the pocket of her vest and produced a pocket watch. “I’d better get going before the guard makes his rounds. Is there something you need before morning?”

“A pack of smokes and a sandwich,” Alex answered without hesitation.

“The guard will certainly know something’s up if he catches you smoking,” Sorsha said, then she reached into thin air and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper. “Dr. Bell made this for you,” she said, handing it over.

“Turkey with cheese,” Alex said, peeling back the paper. “My favorite.”

“He said to give you that one if I thought you deserved it,” Sorsha said with a smirk.

“And if you thought I didn’t?”

“He also gave me a liverwurst and onions.”

Alex had to resist the urge to gag. While he didn’t mind onions, eating them raw with liverwurst was his version of hell.

“Thanks for taking pity on me,” he said.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, then closed her eyes and vanished.

Alex sat in the silence of the holding cells and ate his sandwich. He hated to admit it, but Sorsha was right, he was being far too clever using the erasure rune. If any of his enemies figured it out, it would be child’s play to implicate him in any number of crimes.

“Here’s to you, beautiful,” he said as he finished the last of his sandwich.

Crumpling up the paper, he tucked it into his pocket, then laid back down on his bunk, certain he could finally sleep.

Just as Alex predicted, the sergeant in charge of the holding cells rousted him out of his bunk sometime before nine. To his own surprise, he was still asleep when the grizzled veteran came around, banging his nightstick against the bars.

“Get up, Lockerby,” he growled, fishing in his pocket for his keyring. “You’re sprung.”

The only thing Alex had to gather up were his shoes, so he sat up and slipped them on while the sergeant unlocked the door.

“What’s the story?” he asked.

“Like I know,” the man growled, pulling the door open. “What I do know is, you’re out.”

Alex decided not to argue the point and followed the man down the hall to the property cage and the outer door that led to the elevators. A bored officer handed Alex a box containing his keys, pocket watch, cigarette case, lighter, notebook, rune book, and shoulder holster. He knew from experience that, assuming the police were through with his 1911, it would be returned when he got upstairs.

“This way,” the sergeant said once Alex had secured his belongings, and he opened the outer door with his key.

Alex expected to be met by the elevators by Milton Ackerman, his lawyer, but instead the landing was empty, except for Captain Callahan.

Alex hadn’t seen the man in a while, but he seemed largely unchanged from the stresses of being Police Captain. He stood a bit taller than Alex’s six-one with thick, wavy hair and a square jaw. Alex often thought the man looked as if he’d stepped right off a recruitment poster. Callahan’s expression wasn’t so much angry, which Alex would have expected, but more irritated.

“I guess you know the ballistics didn’t match,” he said, without preamble.

Alex nodded.

“You want to tell me who’s got it out for you?” the big man said, reaching behind him and pulling Alex’s 1911 out of his waistband.

“If I knew,” Alex said, accepting the weapon, “I’d tell you. I’m in the dark, too.”

“You told Detective Nicholson that the dead guy was the one who set you up,” Callahan said while Alex removed the magazine of his weapon to confirm it was empty. “Is he more bait or are the people behind this tying up loose ends?”

“Bait,” Alex said, sure of that much. “What I can’t figure is how they knew I was on to him. I got his phone number from the shop that sold him those dueling pistols, then got his address from the phone company. There’s no way they were watching out for me at Bell Labs.”

“They probably paid off the store clerk at the shop,” Callahan said. “Told him to call if anyone came sniffing around.”

That made sense, so Alex nodded again, slipping his empty weapon into his shoulder holster.

“That apartment where the dead guy was living,” Callahan began.

“Rex Halliday,” Alex interjected.

“Actually,” Callahan said, pulling a flip notebook from his suit coat pocket, “his real name is Phillip Trent. He used to run numbers for the Rosonos about a decade ago.”

“That must be how he knew about Tony Casetti’s safe house,” Alex said.

“That’s how I figure it,” Callahan said. “Anyway, we searched his apartment, but no dueling pistols. According to the building superintendent, Trent had been living there for almost two years.”

“Anything in the apartment that might connect him with a group?” Alex asked. “The Shriners, the Knights of Columbus, the PTA?”

Callahan shook his head.

“The only things we found were clothes in the dresser and food in the ice box,” he said.

“Not very homey for someone who’s lived there for two years,” Alex said.

“My thoughts exactly,” Callahan agreed. “The apartment’s a front, but if these guys have been setting it up for two years, it means that whoever’s behind this plot against you, they’ve been preparing a long time. You watch yourself from now on.”

“Are you sure no one paid off the superintendent?” Alex asked.

“If they did, they paid off every resident in the building, too. Everyone we talked to confirmed that Phillip Trent had been living there, and that he was quiet. No trouble.”

“Did any of them know where he worked?”

“No,” Callahan said, “and with a bus stop and a skycrawler station nearby, it could be anywhere in the city.”

“All right,” Alex said, angry that he didn’t know more.

“Listen,” Callahan said as he pushed the elevator call button, “I know you’re not going to let this go, I wouldn’t if it were me. But I want to be kept in the loop from now on. Not Nicholson or Arnold or Detweiler — me. And next time, don’t go out hunting for one of these guys without a police escort, got me?”

Alex promised that he would comply on both counts as the elevator door slid open.

As expected, Alex was met in the lobby of the Central Office by Milton Ackerman, along with Sorsha and Iggy. There were also a dozen photographers from various newspapers standing by, snapping pictures of the entire thing.

“How are you holding up, lad?” Iggy asked as Sorsha embraced Alex.

“Just fine,” Alex said, giving Sorsha a chaste peck on the cheek.

“The police have dropped the charges in the murder of Rex Halliday,” Milton said, getting right to the point. “Since the police officers on the scene heard the shot that killed Mr. Halliday and the bullet in his body didn’t match your gun, there’s simply no way you killed him.”

Alex gave Sorsha a wink.

“That’s good news,” he said to Milton.

“Not entirely,” the lawyer replied. “I suspect they’re investigating the scene to see if you were an accessory. Maybe you lured Halliday into that alley to give someone else the chance to kill him.”

“Won’t they need to find the other shooter or at least a fellow conspirator to make that stick?” Iggy asked.

Milton nodded.

“It’s a long shot, but it’s still possible. I just wanted you to know.”

Alex stuck out his hand and Milton shook it.

“Sorry for the trouble,” he said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” he chuckled. “Most of my work with Mr. Barton is protecting him from frivolous lawsuits and government interference. It’s nice to have a good, old-fashioned criminal case to sink my teeth into.”

“Glad I could be of assistance,” Alex said, his voice full of sarcasm.

With that, Milton headed off toward the street. Alex waited for him to get a cab before he offered Sorsha his arm and led her out as well.

“So,” Iggy began once they were all in a cab headed for the brownstone, “did you learn anything?”

Alex recounted his afternoon locating Phillip Trent, the former Rex Halliday, and everything leading up to his arrest.

“That’s not good,” his mentor said when Alex explained how quickly the police responded. “Whoever’s behind this is learning.”

“Anything else?” Sorsha asked when Alex didn’t go on.

“Yeah,” he said, “the police didn’t find the dueling pistols in Trent’s apartment, or anything that suggests he was in cahoots with an organized group.”

“The apartment is probably a front,” Sorsha said. “They meant for you to find it.”

“They certainly meant for Alex to take the fall for Trent’s death,” Iggy said. “The only good thing is we know that whoever they are, they don’t understand about ballistics.”

“Which means they probably don’t have a man in law enforcement,” Sorsha added.

Alex supposed that was good news, if only just.

“So what now?” Sorsha went on.

Alex sighed, digging his cigarette case out of his suit coat pocket.

“I’m going to have a smoke, eat some breakfast, and then — then I’m going to go see a friend.”

17

STORIES

The secretary at The Midnight Sun hadn’t liked Alex almost from day one, and the look she gave him when he came in told Alex her opinion hadn’t changed. Before he’d even crossed the lobby, she was on the phone, presumably with Billy, though Alex wouldn’t put it past her to be on the phone with the police.

“Let Mr. Tasker know I’m here, please,” he said, standing in front of her desk.

She said something into the phone, then hung it up.

“He-he’s on his way,” she said, not looking Alex in the eye.

“Thanks, doll,” Alex said, then turned and walked over to one of the chairs set up in the lobby and sat down. He was surprised that Billy wasn’t already here, since his office was on the same floor, but maybe the receptionist was stalling to give the police time to arrive. Either way, Alex lit a cigarette and sat with his legs crossed as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Alex,” Billy said, rounding the corner at a fast walk, “you’re out of the slammer.”

“Obviously,” he said, standing.

“I should have guessed,” Billy said, offering his hand. “I got a call a few minutes ago from someone who claimed that you wouldn’t be charged because you used magic to hide the evidence that you killed Rex Halliday.”

That was suspiciously close to what happened, except for the killing Halliday part.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex said, retuning the handshake. “The police dropped the charges because I’m completely innocent. Just another case of wrong place, wrong time.”

“That’s awfully coincidental,” Billy said with a sly smile. “I smell a story.”

“You already have a story,” Alex said.

Billy scoffed, putting his arm around Alex.

“I have a feeling you’re here because you have a better one,” he said, leading Alex back to his office.

“You still ran with the one that labeled me a gangster on a killing spree.”

“You know better than that,” Billy said, rolling his eyes. “I knew that story was garbage, but the higher ups insisted that we weren’t going to be the only paper without the story.”

Alex had figured it would be something like that. Billy knew him too well to believe he’d just started shooting people.

“In that case,” Alex said as they reached Billy’s office, “I’m about to make your bosses very happy.”

Billy ushered Alex into a chair, then shut the door and sat down behind his paper-strewn desk.

“So,” he asked, digging out a notepad and pencil, “what have you got for me?”

Alex sat back in the chair and puffed on his cigarette; he needed all the details to be just right.

“All right,” he said at last, “it all started when a man calling himself Rex Halliday came into my agency asking me to find a stolen dueling pistol.”

Alex continued, regaling Billy with the important details of the frame-up against him, including the possibility that the clerk at Martinelli’s Antiques had been bribed to tip off the bad guys if someone came asking about the pistols.

When he was done, Billy whistled.

“You think you can make a story out of that?” Alex asked.

“Of course I can,” Billy said, sounding a bit offended.

“Are you going to get in trouble for running it?”

“Not a bit,” Billy said with a boyish grin. “The one thing you don’t want to do in the tabloid business is tell the same story as everyone else. Sometimes we have to, of course, but we’d much rather tell a story that’s not in line with the news of the day. People wonder what they’re missing, and we sell more papers.”

“Good,” Alex said. “Now what can you tell me about this anonymous person who keeps calling you about me?”

“Male,” Billy said, “sounds middle age, no accent.”

It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing, so Alex jotted that down in his notebook.

“Now get out of here,” Billy said, “I’ve got a story to write.”

Alex climbed the stairs of a nice, quiet apartment building in the west side mid-ring. The room he was looking for was on the fourth floor and, based on the building’s location, it might even have a view of the park.

Stopping in front of apartment 403, Alex raised his hand and knocked.

“Just a minute,” a male voice came from inside.

A moment later, the door opened and Connie Firenze stood there, filling the door frame with his prodigious bulk.

“Alex,” he said, his smile fading. “Any news?”

Alex looked left and right, then leaned.

“Things are going well,” he said, “and I’ve got a break in the case.”

Hearing that, Connie stepped back so Alex could enter.

“Do you know someone called Phillip Trent?” Alex asked once Connie had shut the door.

Connie thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah, little weasel of a guy, he was thin but had a beer gut. He used to run numbers for the family, back in the day.”

“Would he have known where the safe house was?”

“Probably,” Connie said. “The boss likes to have his accountant go over the figures with the bookies. He made sure none of the boys knew where the accountant lived, so they’d meet there.”

Alex sighed. It was nice to finally know how his tormentors had known about the safe house, but it also meant he was pretty much back to square one.

“All right,” Alex said, taking out his notebook, “tell me everything you can remember about Phillip Trent.”

Half an hour later, Alex emerged from Connie’s apartment, not feeling like he’d accomplished much.

“Don’t worry, Alex,” the big man said as Alex put on his hat. “You’ll figure it out, I have faith.”

“Thanks,” Alex said, hoping, rather than believing, his friend was right.

“Don’t forget,” Connie said as Alex started to turn away, “the boss’ funeral is tomorrow at the church. Ten A.M. sharp.”

Alex promised that he’d be there, then headed down to the street and hailed a cab. He still wasn’t sure attending Lucky Tony’s funeral was a good idea. Connie had assured what was left of the family that Alex had nothing to do with the shooting, but there could still be people with doubts. He didn’t want to have to fend off an angry ex-mobster at the church.

“Or anywhere else,” he reminded himself.

Ironically, fending off anyone who might still believe he was guilty was the reason he was going to the funeral in the first place. He just hoped it would work.

The cab wound its way slowly though the noontime traffic. As it went, the sky opened up and a heavy rain began to fall, making Alex wish he’d brought his overcoat. A quick check of his rune book revealed that he was out of barrier runes and climate runes so all he could do was hope the rain would pass before the cab reached Empire Tower.

As it was, the cab pulled up just as the rain seemed to fall harder and even the short dash from the curb to the entrance to the Tower was enough to leave him soaked.

Great, he thought as he rode the elevator up to the twelfth floor, dripping on the carpet. If he’d had access to his magic, he could have written a barrier rune in the cab; they were so simple all he needed was a pencil. Even that was too much for him thanks to the damnation rune, however. I’ll have Mike make up a couple before I go out again, he thought.

As it turned out, Mike was out on a case and Alex was forced to drip on the carpet of his front room while he told Sherry all about his arrest and night in the cells.

“Good,” she said when he told her about the charges being dropped. “I hope they print that in the paper! This Alex Lockerby, Gangster nonsense has gone on long enough. I had five potential clients call and cancel their appointments just this morning.”

“Don’t worry, doll,” he said, resisting the urge to hug her in his wet suit. “As soon as I find these guys, things around here will get back to normal. You’ll see.”

“I’d better,” she said, her voice serious but with a sly grin. “I’m too old to go out and find a new job.”

Alex chuckled at that. Sherry looked to be about thirty, but looks were deceiving. If Alex had the dates right, she’d been born over five thousand years ago.

“You look good for your age,” he chuckled, then took a quick step back as she tried to slug him on the arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get out of these wet clothes.”

Alex headed down the back hallway, but passed his office, entering into his vault instead. He kept a few lesser needed runes in the top drawer of the rollaway cabinet that sat next to his drafting table. A quick search of the drawer revealed that the quick dry rune he was looking for was not, in fact, present.

Straightening up with a heavy sigh, he turned toward the hallway that would take him to his bedroom in the brownstone. From there, he could hang up his wet clothes in the bathroom, take a hot shower so he wouldn’t catch his death of cold, and put on dry clothes.

“Or,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. He turned, looking down at the nondescript wooden box that sat on the floor beside the drafting table. It was about a foot and a half on the side and half again as tall, with a brass handle on the lid.

He wasn’t going to gain much in the way of time, but this option suited him much better than taking a shower.

Leaning down, he lifted the box and placed it on top of the rollaway cabinet, sliding the candlestick phone out of the way. Alex released a metal catch just under the handle, then lifted off the lid.

Inside the box was a machine; well, several machines. The main component was an antique electric pen. Thomas Edison made them and they worked kind of like a tattoo needle but for paper. The user would use the needles in the pen to push ink down through several layers of paper at once, effectively making multiple copies of a single document.

Alex had removed the needles after he bought it, replacing the tip with a split nib from a fountain pen. He’d bought the electric pen not for its copying ability, but because the pen was attached to an electric motor. Ironically, Alex didn’t need the motor either, just the pen and the connection.

The second item in the box was an ink reservoir from a tattoo pen. This one had multiple reservoirs that could be switched with a lever. Each of the reservoirs held a different kind of runewright ink.

The last item was a steel plate encased in glass. A linking rune had been carved into its surface connected to a construct that had been invented by Andrew Barton’s former runewright and genuine psychotic, Bradly Elder. Alex didn’t know what Bradly called it, so he dubbed it the etherium rune, after Barton’s etherium generators. The generators converted Barton’s magic power into electricity, the rune converted electricity back into magic. The only downside was that the rune wasn’t very efficient, requiring large amounts of electricity to gain only a moderate amount of magic. Still, for Alex’s purposes, it was enough.

Alex ran his hand over the device, finally coming to rest on a switch attached to the top of the electric pen. He toggled it and the device began to hum. If he’d had his magic, he knew he would have felt power rolling off it. For now, he’d just have to believe that it was happening.

Opening the second drawer of his rollaway cabinet, Alex withdrew a small stack of flash paper rectangles, already punched and ready to be inserted into his rune book. Taking the top one and placing it on the table, he switched the reservoir to runewright blue, then cleared the pen into a rag.

He’d attached a dial to the top of the electric pen’s motor box and he rotated it until the indicated number read, ‘two,’ then he turned to the paper and began to write.

It was an odd experience. He’d written these runes so many times before that his hand knew the way without any conscious thought. What was missing was the magic, that feeling of rightness as a construct came together. He used to know if he was doing it right just by the feel. Now that was gone.

The ink in the pen was being supplied with magic all right, but now Alex had to go slowly and make sure his line work was perfect. So far, he’d been able to make even complex runes this way without too many errors. It was a horrible way to write runes, and he hated it, but it meant he could write runes again, and he loved that.

In a few minutes, he’d finished writing a quick dry rune. Setting the pen aside, he stood and stuck the rune to his still damp suit. Lighting it with his lighter, he felt a blast of warm air, followed by the stuffy feel of a humid cloud enveloping him. A moment later the wind was gone and his suit, and himself, were dry.

Alex looked back at his machine. The linking rune connected the steel plate with Empire Tower and its etherium generators. The electrical power that it channeled into the steel plate was passed through the motor of the electric pen, to the nib, where the etherium rune converted it to raw magic. That was the trick; Alex could still imbue his constructs with magic, but from outside himself instead of from within. The amount of magic correlated to the amount of electricity in the wire and Alex could control that with the dial on top, setting it higher or lower depending on what the construct needed.

It was by far the best thing he’d ever created, and he didn’t even need Limelight to do it.

He called it the ‘blind scribe’ after the illiterate scribes who copied books by drawing letters and words without understanding them.

Alex should have put the blind scribe away and headed downstairs in the brownstone to talk with Iggy. No doubt he was hard at work on the book cypher from Roger Sherman’s book. He’d probably cracked it by now.

It was a tantalizing thought, but the power to once again write runes was too much for Alex to resist. Taking the next paper from the stack, Alex changed the pen to basic ink, then wrote out several basic barrier runes. After two of those, he switched back to runewright blue and made a few of the more complex climate runes as well. It was exhilarating.

“I hope this isn’t as addictive as Limelight,” he said as he finished the last one.

Who was he kidding? It was and he knew it was, but instead of a physical need driving him, it was a psychological one. He needed to be a runewright again, to feel the magic flowing from his core, out through his fingers and onto the paper.

Setting the pen aside, Alex took out his rune book and removed the bolts that kept it together. Pulling the two halves apart, he inserted the barrier and climate runes just past the few remaining finding runes that Mike had written for him. He couldn’t do finding runes, or many others — anything that required the magic to be laid down with intent.

Without thinking, his hands drifted to a rune in the very back of his book. It was a spiral inside a square with spidery runic text written along the outer curve. The proportions were exact, laid out according to the golden ratio, and each time the spiral crossed the vertical or the horizontal axis, the ink color changed. It wasn’t glowing, but the multiple colors made it look as if it were.

It was his masterpiece.

His hands trembled as he touched it, but he immediately pulled away.

“No,” he said. “It’s only for emergencies.”

Satisfied that he could resist the call of his master rune, and the blind scribe, Alex reassembled his rune book. That done, he boxed up the blind scribe and set it back on the floor next to the drafting table.

Once everything was in place, he looked around at his vault as if he half-expected to find someone watching him. After a moment, he straightened his newly dry suit coat and headed toward the brownstone with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

18

KEYS

“Well, you look like the cat that ate the canary,” Iggy observed when Alex stepped into the brownstone’s kitchen. He was sitting at that table with the papers from the Envelope spread out in front of him. A tumbler of Scotch and a burning cigar in an ashtray were at his elbow and he held a notepad in his lap.

“Wha-?” Alex stuttered before realizing he was still excited about being able to write runes again. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, struggling to wipe the smile off his face. “I talked to Billy and he’s willing to run the real story. He says it will sell papers because it’s a story no one else has, but I don’t know. It’s a lot less salacious than the ones calling me a gangster.”

Iggy laughed at that.

“I suspect young William will put his own flair into it,” he said. “By the time he’s done, you’ll be a noble hero facing the villainies of lesser men.”

Alex wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t want to argue, so he let it pass.

“Any luck with the book code?” he asked, pulling out a chair.

“Oh, yes,” Iggy said, though his voice held none of the enthusiasm Alex would expect with success.

“You don’t sound excited,” Alex observed.

Iggy leaned forward and picked up one of the papers from the table.

“Using the book, I found a coded message in this document. It’s a letter from a civil war commander to his quartermaster requesting supplies. I started here because there were lots of numbers.”

“And it held a message?”

“Indeed it did,” Iggy said, consulting his notebook. “The first lord standing with half a standard before the state house.”

“What does that mean?”

Iggy shrugged.

“So we need to figure out what that means to move forward?” Alex asked.

“Not quite,” Iggy continued. He picked up another paper from the desk. “This is a bill of lading from a cargo ship; it lists items received by a warehouse at Boston Harbor. It also produced a clue.” He set the bill down and picked up another paper. “This one is a receipt for building supplies,” he dropped it and picked up another. “This one is a report to the Vermont general assembly regarding the fish population in a series of rivers,” he dropped that one and swept his hand over the rest. “Out of the twenty-four documents in the Envelope ten of them contain a significant amount of numbers, and all of them produce a phrase that could be a clue.”

“Well, they can’t all be the clue,” Alex declared. “Unless,” he said, pausing to think. “Maybe all the phrases go together, to form a paragraph.”

Iggy seemed to consider that.

“How would we know what phrase went in which order?” he asked.

“The date on the papers?” Alex suggested.

“Not all of them have dates,” Iggy said. “No, I suspect that only one of these is the actual clue, the rest are distractions.”

“I guess whoever put this little treasure hunt together didn’t want to make it too easy,” Alex said. “What do we know?”

“We know that one of these papers is the one with the true clue on it,” Iggy said, picking up his cigar, “and the rest are decoys.”

“Maybe there’s something in the book,” Alex said. “A word on one of the pages that’s separate from the clue?”

“That wouldn’t work,” Iggy said with a sigh. He held up the thin copy of Roger Sherman’s book. “This was printed in nineteen o’nine. For a book cypher to work, you have to use an exact copy of the book used to encode the cypher.”

“Because a different edition might be bigger or smaller or used a different size print,” Alex said, catching on. After a moment his head snapped up and he looked across the table at his mentor. “But, if that’s true, how did you find any clues in our copy of the book?”

“Usually, a book cypher uses the page number, the line on the page, and the number of the words in that line,” Iggy explained. “The only way to ensure that a message can be decoded by any edition of the book is to use chapter numbers, then paragraphs, then the number of the words in that paragraph.”

Alex nodded along.

“So you used that method and found the clues.”

“Just so,” Iggy said, puffing on his cigar.

“So whatever reveals the actual clue, must be in one of the papers,” Alex declared.

Iggy nodded rather than answering.

“I’m going to assume you’ve been going through them looking for any clues,” Alex said, noting the look of frustration on his mentor’s face.

“I haven’t found a thing,” he growled.

“Well,” Alex said, reaching for the nearest paper, “maybe fresh eyes will help.”

“Okay,” Alex said, tossing the paper he’d been reading on the table with disgust, “I’m done.”

“Nothing?” Iggy asked from where he was preparing some kind of bread for the oven.

“No,” Alex said. “All these papers seem monotonously ordinary. If there’s a clue in there, I just don’t see it.”

Sighing, Alex put his elbows on the table, then cradled his head in his hands.

“How’s the counterfeiting case coming along?” Iggy asked.

Alex didn’t think he could feel any worse, but he managed. Collecting his thoughts for a minute, he gave Iggy a rundown of the case, including what the Broker had told him.

“So,” Alex concluded, “unless the counterfeiter gets caught trying to pass one of his phony bills, I don’t see how Agent Westlake is going to catch him. The only reason we even know about him is because he hasn’t moved on like he did in other cities.”

“What about the theory that he’s a different person,” Iggy asked as he slid the pan with the bread into the oven, “that he simply picked up where the old counterfeiter left off?”

“I went through the obituaries looking for runewrights,” Alex explained. “Every one of them has an alibi for the thefts that occurred in other cities.”

“Maybe you’re not looking far enough afield,” Iggy said, wiping his hands on a towel.

Alex gave Iggy a questioning look as the old man removed a tumbler from the china cabinet, then sat down.

“Where should I be looking?” he asked.

“What about the Office of Magical Oversight?” Iggy said, pouring a second glass of Scotch.

Alex thought about that as Iggy passed him the glass.

“Their records are usually well out of date,” he pointed out.

“Still worth a try,” Iggy said.

Alex sighed and sipped his Scotch. It was one of Iggy’s expensive brands and it went down smooth.

“Can’t we just figure out how he’s doing it?” Alex said at last. “Then we don’t have to worry about catching him.”

Iggy chuckled.

“It sounds like you’re thinking about Miss Powell,” he said.

Alex hated to admit it, but his mentor was right. Anita Powell was a brilliant runewright, a real natural with the craft, and she’d turned to murder to hurt the people that had tried to hold her back. Alex understood her frustration, just not her reaction.

“She deserved better,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Iggy agreed, “she did.”

Alex raised his glass.

“I hope that wherever she is, she’s found people that appreciate her talents.”

“Here, here,” Iggy agreed. “But your feelings on that matter shouldn’t keep you from doing your due diligence for the Secret Service.”

“Fine,” Alex conceded, “I’ll go over to the OMO in the morning.”

“Good lad,” Iggy said, sending out a smoke ring from his cigar.

“Have you given any thought to how our counterfeiter is doing it?”

Iggy let out a long sigh at that.

“I have,” he said, “but I always come back to a duplication rune. Whatever else he’s built into the construct, he has to base it on a duplication rune.”

“Unless he knows some rune that we don’t,” Alex pointed out.

“One that isn’t in the Textbook?” Iggy scoffed. “There’s no way the men who worked on that book would have left out something that powerful.”

“Could our counterfeiter have developed a new way to write a duplication rune?” Alex asked, “something simpler or using more common ingredients?”

Iggy stroked his mustache.

“Anything’s possible,” he said. “Maybe he’s found a way to reduce the power requirements of the duplication rune, or make it last longer?”

Alex sipped his Scotch and they sat in silence as the smell of bread began to permeate the kitchen.

“Maybe we’re overthinking this,” Alex said once his tumbler was empty.

“How so?” Iggy asked, contemplating the cloud of smoke that encircled him.

“We’re trying to figure out how our counterfeiter created his construct,” Alex explained, “but he didn’t get it right on the first try.”

“What are you saying?” Iggy asked.

“It’s like my climate rune. I started with the basic barrier rune because that rune already creates a spherical area of magic around the user and it already binds that magic to the user.”

Iggy made a noncommittal sound, so Alex continued.

“All I did was add a temperance rune to the construct along with that thermal transfer rune I made for Waverly Radio. The temperance rune is linked to the user though the same connection that binds the barrier rune and it tells the thermal rune whether it needs to push heat out of the bubble, or pull it in.”

“I told you at the time it was very clever,” Iggy said, “but I still don't see where you’re going with this.”

“When I first created the climate rune, I didn’t have the thermal rune,” he said. “I had to link to a boiler stone and one of Sorsha’s cold disks back in my vault.”

“Ah,” Iggy said, giving him a knowing nod. “You didn’t start with the finished rune, it was a process of trial and error.”

“Exactly.”

“You think we should start with a duplication rune and figure out a way to make multiple copies with it.” He considered that for a moment, then chuckled. “It’s likely to be an expensive round of experimentation.”

“Well, it’s Donovan who wants the rune,” Alex said. “He left us his card, so I’ll call him in the morning and get him to pay for our research.”

“Good lad,” Iggy said, then stood to check his bread.

“Is Sorsha coming to dinner tonight?” Alex asked, suddenly unclear on what day it was.

“Yes,” Iggy affirmed. “Why?”

“Because,” Alex said, “after dinner, I’ve got a fun evening planned for us.”

“This is not what I thought you meant by a fun evening,” Sorsha growled, keeping her voice low. “Dr. Bell made a wonderful dinner and, thanks to your need to teleport, it’s in danger of coming back on me.”

“Come on,” Alex said as he worked his lock picks on the roof access door, “when was the last time you got to go out in clothes that you don’t mind getting dirty?”

“Oh, I mind if they get dirty,” she said. “These are just the only clothes I have that were suitable.”

Alex glanced up from his work and took in the sorceress. She was dressed head to toe in black, including a heavy sweater, work pants, black flats, and a stocking cap pulled low over her platinum blonde hair. If she’d had dirt on her face, Alex would have had no trouble picturing her pushing a dog wagon or driving a delivery truck.

“Hurry up,” she chided him, refocusing his attention to the lock.

They were currently on top of Phillip Trent’s apartment building, and it was well after eleven o’clock. Alex was sure that the police were watching, waiting to see if anyone returned to the dead man’s apartment. To avoid that, he’d had Sorsha teleport them to the roof from a building a few blocks away. Now all he had to do was get through the locked roof door and down to the third floor.

He knew the police would have already searched Phillip Trent’s room, but there was a reason they often called him in to investigate. He could see things they missed.

“There we go,” he said as the lock clicked open. “Ladies first?”

“In your dreams,” Sorsha said. “I’ve half a mind to stay up here and be the lookout.”

Alex grinned at her, then did a quick head check of the stairwell. It only ran down one floor to the top level of the building, but it was well lit, and, more importantly, empty.

“The coast is clear,” he said, stepping inside and holding the door for her.

After Sorsha entered, Alex eased the door closed, then took the lead down the stairs.

“Can you use that sound dampening magic,” Alex whispered.

“I can,” she whispered back, “but it blocks sound coming in as well.”

“Well, that won’t work,” he said. “There’s a chance that the cops are waiting for us.”

Sorsha groaned.

“They’d better not be,” she hissed. “I’ve already teleported once today.”

“Just stay on your toes,” Alex told her as he licked his fingers then reached up to unscrew the bare lightbulb. As soon as the little stairwell was plunged into darkness, Alex stopped turning the bulb and left it in its socket.

“I can’t see,” Sorsha whispered.

“Give it a minute,” Alex replied, “then we’ll go.”

As soon as his night vision returned, Alex eased the door open, revealing the darkened hallway of the fifth floor. The landing ran all the way around the open stairwell that headed down. There were twelve apartments on each floor and Alex took the time to look at each door to make sure they were closed.

Satisfied that no one was watching, he took Sorsha’s hand and led her out onto the landing and down the stairs. Checking the fourth floor, Alex moved around to the next set of stairs and then down to the third floor. If anyone was waiting for him, this was where they would be, so he leaned down and looked around before proceeding.

“It’s clear,” he whispered, moving with Sorsha in tow to Phillip Trent’s door. “Keep watch,” he said, as he lowered himself to the floor to glance under the door. He couldn’t see much of the room, but there weren’t any shoes there with feet in them.

Getting up to his knees, Alex pulled out his lock picks and a pair of thin, deerskin gloves. Having already picked this one, it went faster, and he was inside in no time.

Opening the door, he leaned in, confirming that the apartment he could see was empty, then he stepped back and let Sorsha in before following. As he passed inside, he gently closed and relocked the door.

Sorsha held up her hand and her eyes flashed blue. This time Alex felt his ears pop as her noise shield settled into place.

“Thanks,” he said.

Taking out his rune book, Alex selected one and stuck it to the back of the door.

“What’s that?” Sorsha asked as Alex lit the flash paper.

“One of Iggy’s bar runes,” Alex answered. “It adds strength to a door and keeps it from moving. In case there are any party crashers.”

“Won’t they know you’re in here if they can’t open the door?”

“It’s a pretty weak version,” Alex said, slapping one of his new quick-open vault runes on the wall next to the door. “It’ll hold for a few hits before it dissipates, which will give us plenty of time to leave this way.” He lit the rune and the steel vault melted out of the wall. A quick twist of his key later, the door was open and the light from the vault spilled into the hallway.

Reaching into the vault quickly, Alex pulled a heavy black curtain over the open door, cutting off the light. Once that was done, he reached back inside and picked up his kit bag from the shelf just inside the door.

“All right,” he said. “Time to get to work.”

“What are you looking for?” Sorsha asked as Alex set up his multi-lamp with a silverlight burner.

“Anything the police missed,” he said, strapping on his oculus. “They will have looked in all the obvious places, so I’ll start with the floors; maybe I can find a loose board.”

“Wouldn’t the police have looked for those kinds of hiding places?”

“They would,” Alex said, letting the silverlight play over the baseboards, “but hiding places like that can be hard to find.”

Sorsha went to the little table in the kitchen area and, after casting a purifying spell on it and one of its chairs, sat down to wait.

Alex gave her a wink, then went back to searching. He was relatively sure there wouldn't be any kind of hidden cache in the front area; most people wanted complete privacy when they opened hidden places, and there was always a chance they could be surprised in the main room. The bedroom or bathroom were far more likely. Still, he couldn’t assume anything, and moved slowly around the main room looking for clusters of fingerprints or anything that looked out of place.

The police had definitely been thorough, emptying the contents of drawers and cabinets onto the floor and the counters, but that just made Alex’s job easier.

He was in the bedroom when he found what he was looking for.

“Sorsha,” he called, “come take a look at this.”

When she arrived, Alex handed her his oculus, then pointed to the inside of an open dresser drawer.

“Tell me what you see?”

Sorsha leaned in close for a moment, then reached out to touch the side of the drawer. Alex grabbed her hand before she made contact.

“Let’s not leave any fingerprints,” he said, holding up his gloved hand for her to see.

“There are lots of fingerprints on the inside of this drawer,” Sorsha said, then she looked at the outside of the drawer and frowned. “It can’t be a secret compartment,” she said, “there’s no room.”

Alex reached in and pushed the sidewall of the drawer toward the back. It shifted under his hand, moving only about half an inch, but when it stopped, there was an audible click.

“Is it supposed to do something?” Sorsha asked when nothing appeared to happen.

“Down here,” Alex said, indicating the bottom of the drawer.

The click had released a small tray that dropped down from the drawer bottom on a hinge. The tray was lined with velvet so the contents wouldn’t slide as the tray tipped downward.

“That’s ingenious,” Sorsha said.

“And much too fancy for this apartment,” Alex said. “Phillip Trent must have had it brought in when he and his conspirators set up this scam.”

Kneeling down, Alex stared inside the little space. The tray was only about half an inch deep, just enough to store papers, small valuables, or a thin book. Right now the only thing it held was a key.

Reaching inside, Alex picked up the key, holding it in the light of the lamp. It definitely wasn’t a door key.

“What do you think?” he asked, moving it so Sorsha could see.

“Safe deposit box,” she said.

Alex nodded in agreement.

Pocketing the key, he swept the open compartment with the silverlight, illuminating the dust on the velvet and something at the bottom. Alex carefully pinched the crumpled debris with his gloved fingers, lifting it clear.

“What’s that?” Sorsha asked.

“Bit of paper,” Alex said, turning it over in his hand. It was smashed into a small ball, so he held his shirt pocket open and dropped it down to the bottom.

“I think we’re done,” he said. “Whatever secrets Phillip Trent might still have, we won’t find them here.”

“Now all you have to do is find the bank that belongs to that key,” Sorsha said.

Alex gave her a sly smile.

“That might not be as hard as you think.”

19

RAIN

Despite his excitement at last night’s breaking and entering, Alex was sluggish getting out of bed the next morning. A light drizzle of rain drumming against his window served to lull his mind back toward sleep, but it wasn’t the only reason. The safe deposit key was sitting on his dresser, but he might as well have been holding it because he could see it in his mind’s eye as he showered and shaved. The former wasn’t a problem, but the latter distracted him enough that he cut his chin.

He knew how to find the bank with the box that would fit the key, even if he had to do it the hard way; all it would cost was time. But that wasn’t what bothered him.

“You have a bit of toilet paper stuck to your face,” Iggy said when Alex finally made it downstairs.

“Uh,” Alex managed, stepping over to the China hutch to study his reflection. “Thanks,” Alex said, tapping the little paper square, “but it’s still bleeding.”

“You aren’t the careless type,” Iggy said, vigorously stirring a pan of crumbled sausage, “something on your mind? Last night’s escapades not what you were hoping for?” Iggy suddenly turned and gave Alex a hard look. “You didn’t blow it with Sorsha, did you?”

Alex scoffed.

“Of course not,” he said, straightening his tie, “she loves me.”

Iggy’s hard look continued for another few seconds, then he turned back to his pan.

“Well, if it’s not trouble of the female persuasion, then what’s got you distracted this morning?”

“I found this,” Alex said, taking the key out of his pocket and setting it on the table.

“Safe deposit key,” Iggy said after glancing over his shoulder. “Do you know where the box itself is?”

“No,” he admitted, “but that’s just some legwork away. What’s got me thinking is why it was there?”

“Where did you find it?”

Alex put the key back in his pocket and told Iggy the story about the hidden cache below the dresser drawer.

“Hmmm,” Iggy mused once Alex finished. “That kind of false drawer isn’t something your fake client rigged up himself. It’s a genuine hidden compartment, and that means craftsmanship. More than that, a compartment like that takes an artist.”

Alex nodded.

“Not something you’d expect to find in an outer-ring apartment,” Alex agreed. “That’s my problem. Then there’s something else.”

“Do tell,” Iggy said, scooping sausage out of the pan into a dish.

Alex took out his rune book and opened to the back page. Inside was the little scrap of paper he’d found in the hidden compartment. After he’d escorted Sorsha home last night, he’d taken it to his drafting table and flattened it out under his desk lamp. He had hoped there was something written on it, but sadly it was blank. Reaching into the back flap of his rune book, Alex pulled out the paper and held it up so Iggy could see it.

“I found this in the hidden compartment,” he said, turning the little scrap to catch the light.

“Flash paper?” Iggy asked.

“It’s thicker than the stuff you and I use, but it’s flash paper, all right.”

Iggy sighed, cracking eggs into the sausage grease.

“You think Mr. Trent was a runewright?” he asked.

“Connie told me that Trent ran numbers for the Rosonos back in the day,” Alex explained. “Bookies use flash paper, too.”

“Then why does its presence bother you?” Iggy pressed.

“Bookies handle a lot of cash,” Alex explained, “the mobs usually keep them well paid.”

“I suppose that would reduce the temptation to dip into the proverbial till,” Iggy said.

“I don’t know what Trent did after Lucky Tony went legit,” Alex said, “but he should have had enough cash stashed away to keep a nicer place than that outer ring dive.”

“Well, you know this was a set up,” Iggy pointed out. “That apartment is undoubtedly part of it.”

Alex could only shrug at that. Iggy was right, but something about the hidden compartment and its contents continued to bother him.

“Come to think of it,” Iggy went on, “did you check Mr. Trent’s apartment with ghostlight?”

Alex slapped his forehead.

“I didn’t,” he admitted, “I wasn’t expecting magic, but Trent could be working with anyone. I can’t believe I missed that.”

“We all get careless from time to time,” Iggy said in the manner of a maxim, “especially when beautiful women tag along. You might want to make another trip.”

Alex didn’t like that idea, for no other reason than that Sorsha would be angry to have to teleport him to the roof again. Although now that she’d been in Trent’s apartment, she could teleport directly there.

“In the meantime,” Iggy said, moving fried eggs from the pan to plates, “I suggest you check your office for magic. There’s no telling what Mr. Trent might have done when you weren’t looking.”

“Right,” Alex sighed, finally peeling the bit of toilet paper off his jaw. “What are you going to be doing this morning while I’m searching my own office?”

“I’m going to take another crack at the book code,” he said, handing Alex a plate.

“Well, if you find anything, call me.”

“If I don’t, maybe I’ll write a duplication rune and see what I can do with that.”

“Good luck either way,” Alex said, taking his plate to the table.

“What are you doing?” Sherry asked when Alex entered the front room with his oculus and his multi-lamp.

“Just checking that Phillip Trent didn’t leave any surprises for us,” he said, sweeping the green ghostlight over the closer of the two waiting couches.

“Who?”

“Rex Halliday,” Alex explained, “his real name is Phillip Trent.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re looking under our couch with your fancy lantern.”

“He might have been a runewright,” Alex said, “or working with a runewright.”

Sherry sat up straight at that.

“Are we in danger?” she asked.

“If you don’t already know, I suspect we’re safe,” Alex said, moving to the couch on the other side of the room. “If anything changes, though, tell me.”

“The same goes for you,” she said. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Now that you mention it,” Alex said, shooing Sherry out of her chair so he could check under her desk, “call Agent Westlake, that Secret Service guy, and ask him where we can meet.”

“Did you figure out who’s making those counterfeit bills?”

“No,” Alex said, “I need his help with a different banking matter.”

“All right,” Sherry said, lighting a cigarette, “I’ll call him as soon as you get out from under my desk.”

Alex got out of a cab in front of New York Security Bank & Loan, in the mid-ring south of the core. From the outside, Alex couldn’t tell that the bank was on high alert for a magical counterfeiter, but that image vanished as soon as he went inside. A magic detector stood just inside the door, creating a frame the bank’s patrons had to walk through before entering the bank proper.

Next to the detector was a uniformed bank guard with three other guards occupying the main room. As Alex watched, one of the tellers raised his hand and a man standing at the back of the room hurried over with a hand-held detector, one much more powerful than the detector by the door. After a brief conversation with the teller, the man ran the detector over a line of bills on the counter.

“Alex,” Agent Westlake said, appearing at his elbow. “I was hoping you’d made some headway when you called.”

“Sorry,” he said, then he pointed at the man with the detector. “I can take a look at those for you, if you want. My equipment is more sensitive than the detectors.”

“Help yourself,” Westlake said.

Alex quickly took out his multi-lamp, then checked the customer’s money and then all the cash in the back. Much to the bank manager’s relief, all the money was real.

“Can you make one of those for all the banks in Manhattan?” Westlake asked as Alex packed up his multi-lamp.

“If I had a few months, maybe,” Alex admitted. He wouldn’t have to make a fully functional multi-lamp just to burn ghostlight, but the lamp wasn’t the real problem.

“The fuel is specially made,” he said, holding up the ghostlight burner. “Just this much costs about ten bucks.”

“Figures,” Westlake said. “At this rate, though, it would almost be worth it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” Alex said, “but maybe you can help me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the safe deposit key.

“I found this key while working another case,” he said, handing it over. “I know it’s for a safe deposit box, but I don’t know what bank it goes to.”

Westlake turned the key over in his hands.

“This is a key to a Gunderson lock,” he said, holding it up so Alex could see the letters & numbers stamped on the back. “GS stands for Gunderson and the number is one of their recent models. This goes to either New York Savings Bank or Hudson Security Bank.” He handed the key back to Alex. “I couldn’t tell you the branch, but they should be able to.”

“Thanks,” Alex said, tucking the key back in his suit coat pocket, “that’s a big help.”

Westlake sighed.

“Well, I’m glad to be of use to someone,” he said. “My boss is about ready to send half the Secret Service up here if I don’t get results.”

“Is that bad for you?”

“Technically?” Westlake asked. “No. Realistically, it could end my career. They’d bench me, or retire me.”

Alex shook his head.

“Are you sure the counterfeiter is still in the city?” he asked.

“We found three more bills yesterday,” Westlake said. “Hundreds this time. He came in and exchanged them for twenties.”

“That’s what bothers me,” Alex said. “Why is he still here?”

“I thought you believed he was some kind of apprentice who didn’t know the whole scheme?”

Alex shrugged.

“The more I think about it, the less sense that makes,” he admitted. “My mentor and I have been working on the method and, so far, we’re nowhere near cracking it.”

“Maybe this runewright knows some magic you don’t.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Alex said, offering Westlake a cigarette from his silver case, “but I’ve never even heard of magic like this. It has to be complex, something you can’t learn just from reading someone’s lore book. Not without years of practice anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever is making the fake bills now must have been trained by the person who invented the process. There’s no possibility that they trained their apprentice to do the magic but didn’t give them the details of the scam. So, why is he still here?”

“Maybe he can’t leave,” Westlake suggested. “Maybe there’s something keeping him in the city.”

That made sense, but it wasn’t especially helpful. There were a dozen reasons that could be keeping the counterfeiter here and none of them would help Alex find him.

The pair lapsed into silence until Alex finished his cigarette, then he wished the Secret Service man well and headed for the door. He had one more call to make today, then he planned to go home and help Iggy with the Envelope.

Alex was tempted to use a barrier rune as his cab pulled up to the curb beside the Trinity Church Cemetery. While barrier runes were great for keeping rain off, the bubble they formed would literally push water onto anyone you stood beside. Since he would be expected to make polite conversation, he decided to forego it.

Buttoning up his suit coat, he put on his hat and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“I should have brought an umbrella,” he muttered as the drizzle splashed against his hat brim and his shoulders.

Walking through the gate, Alex turned left and progressed around the church. In the back of the yard by a group of trees was a gathering of people, most all with black umbrellas turned up against the rain. Alex approached, standing in the back as a priest in a black suit and white collar read from the Bible.

Alex knew the citation, from the twenty-third psalm, so he let his mind drift along with the voice as he scanned the crowd. He’d never met Tony’s wife, but he knew her name was Luchia. She was obviously the woman standing beside the priest, closest to the casket. Lucky Tony was in his sixties, but Luchia must have been significantly younger than her husband. She was as attractive as any actress Alex had ever met, with dark hair and eyes and a Mediterranean complexion. A silver forelock emerged from under the brim of her black hat and dropped down over her shoulder. Clearly she favored the unusual feature, displaying it prominently. Beside her stood a tall man, who could only be one of Tony’s two sons, with a pretty blonde next to him. On Luchia’s other side were a young woman who also had a stripe of silver in her hair and a tall, athletic man.

Tony’s other two children, Alex thought. As his gaze moved further along, he spotted Connie, who was splitting his time between watching the priest and scanning the crowd. When he caught sight of Alex he gave a barely perceptible nod, then went back to keeping watch.

Connie wasn’t the only person in the crowd who noticed Alex, and a few people turned to give him angry looks. Before muttering could break out, Connie cleared his throat, glaring at anyone who’d made a noise. Immediately the noise and the looks ceased.

I can’t blame them, Alex thought. Connie had vouched for him, sworn that he wasn’t the one who shot Tony, but if there was one thing hardened criminals had a hard time with, it was trust.

Pulling his collar tighter around his neck, Alex waited until the priest finished the graveside service and the rain soaked through his coat. He was almost completely waterlogged by the time the funeral ended, and he stood aside while the crowd broke up. Luchia gave him a quick look and a nod as she left with her children, which was nicer than some of the other looks he got.

“Thanks for coming,” Connie said, stepping up beside him and covering Alex with his umbrella. “I’m sure the boss appreciates it.”

“Looks like a few of the family members still consider me a suspect,” he said.

“Don’t let it throw you,” Connie said, “Luchia and the kids, they know the truth. No one’s going to make a move without their approval.”

That wasn’t much comfort, but Alex refrained from saying so.

“Any word on Phillip Trent?” he asked instead.

“I asked around,” Connie said, “Phil worked with the family since he was a kid.”

“How well did you know him?”

“I never worked in the numbers racket,” Connie said with a shrug. “I was always a big kid, so the family had me playing bouncer at the speakeasies and the brothels. Phil was good with math, so he started off as a runner, then moved up to bookie. By all accounts he was good at his job, so good that when the boss wanted to change rackets, Phil went to work for a member of the Connolly family.”

Alex had a few run-ins with the Connollys during his career, but he’d mostly steered clear of them. The problem was that most of the family had been in jail for the better part of a decade, so who was Phillip Trent working for?

“There’s a few of them still around,” Connie said when Alex voiced his question. “And running numbers is the kind of business a person can do by themselves as long as they have a financial backer.”

“So who’s backing Phil these days?”

“Nobody seems to know,” Connie said. “A few of the guys asked around his old haunts…”

“And?” Alex prompted.

“They said that Phil used to come around for a while after the Family broke up, but no one’s seen him for at least half a year.”

“Did he move to new digs?” Alex asked, “maybe took up with another family?”

Connie shook his head.

“I contacted a couple…associates. People in the know. Nobody’s seen him.”

“He disappeared six months ago,” Alex mused. “I wonder what changed.”

“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Alex thanked him, then turned back toward the street.

His shoes sloshed a bit as he walked, and it would be murder to get a cab in this weather, so Alex walked up under the eaves of the chapel and pulled out his rune book. He tore out a complex rune with multiple colors of ink and nine nodes. It was a quick dry rune. After getting drenched last time, Alex resolved to carry one, though he didn’t want to actually use it. Quick dry runes were complex and fairly expensive to make, but this time he tore it out of his book without any hesitation. With the blind scribe in his vault, he was actually excited at the prospect of making a new one.

Sticking the rune to his already soaked suit coat, Alex lit it with his lighter. Immediately a penetrating wind seemed to come from everywhere, peeling his soaked clothing away from his skin and enveloping him in warm air. A moment later, he was completely dry, though the chilling cold that the rain had brought with it still clung to him, having sunk deep into his bones.

Flipping a few more pages in his rune book, Alex tore out a climate rune, one he’d made himself with the blind scribe, and stuck it to his coat. He had to lick it first this time, since there wasn’t any moisture to make the delicate paper stick, then lit it as well. This time there was no outward sign anything had happened. Since he was under the roof overhang, there was no rain for the now invisible bubble around him to repel, but almost immediately a soothing warmth permeated him.

Alex dropped his lighter back into his trouser pocket, and closed his rune book. As he went to put it back, a little scrap of paper dropped out from where he’d torn out the climate rune. It fluttered in the breeze and he reached out and caught it. It looked just like the paper he’d found in Phillip Trent’s hidey-hole, but obviously thinner.

“Huh,” he said, then tucked his rune book back where it belonged.

20

THE G-MAN

“Welcome back, boss,” Sherry piped up as Alex stepped into the office. She was sitting behind her desk in a neat dress with a floral print. A client case folder sat open in front of her with the stub of a cigarette drifting a thin column of smoke from its position in the nearby ashtray. “You have a visitor.”

Alex, who hadn’t been paying attention, looked up at the pair of opposing couches that took up the main part of his front office. Finding them empty, he looked back at his secretary.

With an impish grin, she leaned forward, cupping her hand beside her mouth.

“Your girlfriend is in your office,” she said, keeping her voice low.

Alex didn’t know what to make of Sherry’s posture.

“Should I go back out?” he asked, also keeping his voice low. He couldn’t think of any reason for Sorsha to be cross with him, but he didn’t have the time to deal with her if she wanted to discuss some perceived offense.

“She’s in a very good mood,” she said with an uncharacteristic giggle.

Now Alex was completely confused.

“She said that once you got here, she didn’t want to be disturbed,” Sherry suggested with a wink.

Alex gave her an unamused look.

“Sorsha would turn you into a frog if she thought you even suggested what you’re suggesting.”

Sherry snickered as Alex just shook his head and turned toward the back hallway. Despite Sherry’s ribbing, Sorsha must want to talk about something important…or personal. As he headed down toward his office, he didn’t know whether to be anxious or excited.

“Hello, Alex,” Sorsha said as he stepped through the open doorway. She wore her usual button-up shirt with a horseshoe style vest in her signature light blue. Instead of slacks, she had on a blue skirt that matched the vest.

Sorsha sat behind his desk in his chair, her feet up on the desk, demurely crossed at the ankles. She had the Times open in front of her and she curled the top edge down to look at him. Alex met her eyes briefly, but her skirt fell loose past her knees, revealing a tantalizing amount of leg. Alex almost laughed at the contrast between this Sorsha and the one he’d first met in his old office five years ago.

“Sorsha,” he greeted her, “what a pleasant surprise.”

She gave him an appraising look, then scoffed.

“When I got here this morning, Sherry told me you’d gone to that mobster’s funeral by yourself.”

It was a simple statement, but Alex knew that for the dangerous trap it was.

“I wasn’t in any danger,” he said, sitting on the corner of his desk. “Connie was there, and he already told the family that I’m not the one who shot Tony.”

“I’ve met your Mr. Constantine Firenze,” Sorsha said, folding the paper and setting it aside, “I’m not convinced about his powers of persuasion, when he’s using words, I mean.”

Alex chuckled at that, offering Sorsha a cigarette from his silver case.

“Connie does just fine,” he said, as Sorsha opened her palm, holding a small flame to light her cigarette. “Besides, the family trusts him. If he says I’m not the bad guy, they believe it.”

“All of them?” Sorsha asked. “You do remember that before they were humble beer brewers, most of them carried guns and knew how to use them.”

“I remember,” Alex said, thinking back to some of the hard looks he got when the graveside service broke up. “It’s yet another reason for me to find out who’s behind all this as fast as possible.”

“And a reason to take your sorceress fiancée with you when you go into dangerous situations.”

Alex stood and moved around the desk until he drew even with the chair. Leaning down, he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead.

“Yes, dear,” he said.

“So,” Sorsha said, putting her feet down and standing up, “where are we off to today?”

She put her arms around his neck and stared into his eyes.

“I’ve got to go looking for that safe deposit box,” Alex said, trying and failing not to smirk. “It’ll be all day in cabs going from bank to bank, unless I get lucky, then it’ll only be half a day.”

Sorsha rolled her eyes and let go of him.

“You really know how to put the romance in mundanity.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of a private detective.”

Sorsha snorted at that.

“The precise reason I was a consultant,” she said. “I only took interesting cases, and I had people to do the drudgery.”

“Speaking of that, what do you hear from Redhorn and Mendes these days?”

Sorsha sighed.

“The last I heard, they were still with the Manhattan field office,” she said.

“Do you miss it?” he asked. “Working with the FBI?”

“I do,” she admitted.

“What happened?”

Alex knew she’d been uninvited from the magical case squad, but he’d never pressed her on the reasons for the estrangement.

“Someone higher up than Director Stevens thought having a sorceress associated with the agency might prove dangerous, or perhaps embarrassing.”

“Afraid you’d turn a suspect into a weasel if they didn’t answer a question?” Alex guessed.

“Something like that,” Sorsha said, her expression going distant. “Needless to say, there wasn’t anything I could say to change their minds.”

Alex didn’t offer to intervene on her behalf; she’d never let him do that. She was a proud and powerful woman in her own right, after all. Still, Alex had a certain amount of pull with well-connected people, and what Sorsha didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Or me, he thought, but what he said was, “I’m sorry.”

“The past is the past,” she said. “It’s the impending future that’s worrying me. I have no intention of spending the day in cabs with you.”

Alex feigned offense, putting his hand over his heart.

“What about my safety?” he mocked. “Aren’t you worried I’ll get myself in trouble without you there to supervise?”

“I am,” she said, sparring right back at him, “but I think you’ll be safe enough inside banks, although with your luck you’d find one being robbed by Fred Bowerman.”

“I promise not to break up any bank robberies,” he said, raising his hand like he was being sworn in on the witness stand.

“In that case, you can go alone,” Sorsha said with mock sincerity, “but I expect you to be on time for dinner.”

“Wouldn’t dream of being late,” he said, then leaned in to kiss her.

Twenty minutes later, Alex sat at his desk reviewing a list of branches for New York Savings Bank and Hudson Security. On the desk next to him was the map of Manhattan from his kit bag and he was meticulously charting the simplest route to visit all the various branches.

“At least you look like you’re hard at work,” a voice interrupted him.

Alex looked up to find William Donovan standing in his open doorway with his arms crossed.

“What brings you by?” Alex asked, suspecting he already knew the answer, but willing to make the spymaster say it out loud.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope you and the good doctor have figured out how our counterfeiter is making his funny money,” Donovan said.

“It’s only been a couple of days,” Alex pointed out. “Inventing new constructs takes time. When a runewright rushes that sort of thing, they tend to blow themselves up.”

“Well, a man can hope,” he said, stepping into the office and taking the nearest chair on the far side of Alex’s desk. “Actually, I’m here on behalf of the Secret Service. Agent Westlake hasn’t made any substantive progress and the higher ups are in a panic. If this counterfeiter’s technique gets out, it could destabilize the dollar.”

“I thought you weren’t worried about that,” Alex said, remembering their previous conversation.

“I’m not,” the spymaster admitted, “but I like to curry favor whenever I can and some important people asked me to talk to you about it.”

“And you figure that if Dr. Bell and I do figure it out, the rest isn’t your problem,” Alex said.

Donovan chuckled.

“Exactly,” he said with no trace of irony. “Of course, I want the construct for the war effort, not to make fake money.”

“What war effort?” Alex asked. He’d faced enough Nazi agents in the last few years to know that the Germans were preparing for war, but they seemed very interested in keeping the U.S. out of it.

“You know better than that,” Donovan scoffed. “Anyway, I talked with Westlake and he filled me in on what you’ve been doing to help locate the counterfeiter.”

“It isn’t much beyond advice,” Alex apologized.

“Don’t be so modest,” Donovan said. “I’ve seen you use that fancy lantern of yours before and, according to Westelake, it’s the only way to reveal the counterfeit bills. So far, you’re the only one who can detect these bills before the magic wears off, so what I need is a supply of your lamp oil and something to hold it.”

Alex laughed and sat back in his chair.

“First of all,” he said, “my multi-lamp isn’t just an ordinary lantern. It’s covered in constructs and the glass is specially made. I have three of them and Dr. Bell has two more. We could make more, but it would take weeks and cost a couple of hundred bucks per lantern.”

“Well—” Donovan started.

“Then there’s the oil,” Alex pressed on. “It’s made from moderately expensive ingredients, which isn’t too bad in small amounts, like I use, but to make enough to supply every bank in the city with enough to matter — that would cost thousands. I’m surprised Westlake didn’t tell you that, since I already told him.”

Donovan sighed.

“I was hoping he misunderstood,” Donovan said, “or that you were putting him off.”

“Gee, thanks,” Alex deadpanned.

“I suppose if you could do that, you would have already done it,” Donovan went on. “In that case, you need to figure out how the counterfeiter is creating his fake bills, and fast.”

Alex took out a cigarette and lit it.

“You do realize that there may not be a construct to figure out,” he said.

“Never kid a kidder, son,” Donovan said, leaning forward onto the far side of the desk. “I’ve already ruled out an alchemical process, and no sorcerer would engage in such a penny-ante scam. That just leaves runes. And don’t give me any nonsense about not being able to figure it out. You already know it’s possible, so you should be able to crack it.”

Alex didn’t want to admit that he was susceptible to flattery, but it felt good to have someone other than Iggy and Sorsha praise his rune craft. Donovan was probably right, someone had figured out how to make a reproduction rune that was close to a duplication rune, just without the cost or duration.

What one man can discover, another can re-create, he thought, quoting one of Iggy’s maxims. That didn’t mean it would be easy, far from it.

If Donovan’s so hot and bothered about me figuring out the reproduction construct, maybe I can get his help with the safe deposit key, Alex thought.

He rejected the idea immediately, since he was certain that if he gave the spymaster the key, the first thing he’d do is look inside the box once he found it. Alex didn’t know what was in Phillip Trent’s safe deposit box, but he was certain he didn’t want anyone getting a look at it before him.

“Tell you what,” Alex said, folding up his map and dropping it back into his kit bag, “I’ll go around to as many banks as I can this afternoon and see what I can find with my lamp.”

“To what end?” Donovan asked.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” Alex said, “or maybe I can figure out a pattern to the counterfeiter’s money laundering.”

“It’s probably a better use of your time to start working on the rune,” Donovan said.

“Oh, I’ll give that a lot of thought,” Alex promised. “I’ll be spending a lot of time in cabs, after all. Besides, Dr. Bell won’t be available to work until this evening, so we’ll start then.”

Alex wasn’t sure what Iggy’s plans were for the day, if indeed he had any, but Donovan didn’t know that.

“Fine,” the spymaster said at last, his tone conveying that it wasn’t the resolution he wanted, but he’d take what he could get. “Call me as soon as you know anything.”

Alex said that he would, and Donovan left.

“This counterfeiting case is becoming a real nuisance,” Alex said, once he was sure Donovan had left the back hallway. Checking his watch, Alex decided to give the man ten minutes to leave the building before heading out himself. He’d grab lunch in the diner downstairs, then start his quest to locate the bank that went with Phillip Trent’s key.

Alex ate his last bite of toast, then pushed his plate away. The diner in Empire Terminal was much better than the greasy spoons he frequented in his early career. That notwithstanding, nobody made poached eggs on toast like Mary did, and now she owned some high-end joint across town with her new husband. He made a mental note to find out where and go see her, if for nothing else than a proper plate of poached eggs on buttered toast.

“Alex,” the waitress said as she picked up the empty plate.

He looked up to find the woman with a concerned face. Her name was Tracy and he’d seen her most days that he visited the diner.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, noting her expression.

She looked side to side as if she expected someone to be listening in.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Tracy said. She pulled a folded newspaper from beneath the counter and handed it to him.

Taking the paper, Alex opened it. It was the Manhattan Chronicle, one of the more salacious of the city’s tabloids, and below the masthead the lead story read: Former Detective Alex Lockerby takes over the Rosono Mob. Below the headline was a picture of himself and Connie standing over the grave of Lucky Tony Casetti.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Alex said, giving Tracy a smile. “I knew Mr. Casetti, I’m not a mobster.”

“I knew it must be something like that,” Tracy said, relief in her voice.

“Do you mind if I hang on to this?” Alex asked, holding up the paper.

“Sure,” Tracy said, “someone left it earlier.”

Alex thanked her and tucked the paper under his arm. Dropping fifty cents onto the counter, he turned and headed down to the street level to find a cab.

The first place Alex went was to the main branch of Hudson Security Bank. It turned out to be a good choice as the manager quickly identified the key as one of theirs. He couldn’t tell which branch the key was from, however, so Alex had set off on his circuit of the island.

He’d been at it for two hours and visited seven branches. There were still four to go, but they were on the other side of town, so he settled down in a cab, determined to nap. He’d almost slipped off to sleep when the cabbie braked hard, then rolled down his window to yell at someone.

Suddenly wide awake, Alex opened his bag and extracted the newspaper. He was certain that whatever story the tabloid was selling wouldn’t have any actual facts in it, but he wanted to be sure.

The truth of the article, if Alex wanted to call it that, was that it was worse than he thought. The reporter detailed his attendance at Tony’s funeral and then went into the realms of wild speculation, declaring definitively that Alex was now in control of the Rosono family. In their twisted imagination, that meant that Alex was obviously going to restore the family to their former criminal glory.

“Wouldn’t I have to take over some other mob too?” Alex muttered as he read. “What’s left of the Rosonos doesn’t have any current territory.”

Apparently the reporter thought along those lines as well, warning his readers of an impending mob war if Alex was allowed to continue his rise to power. The remedy, of course, was for the court to revoke Alex’s bail and get him found guilty for the death of Lucky Tony.

Or for some other family to put a bullet in him to make sure nothing like the reporter’s hallucinations actually happened.

Alex tossed the paper down on the seat of the cab. It was by far the most aggressive that had been written about him. Up to now, the general public hadn’t really known what to think about the story that he might have killed Lucky Tony. This article, however, had painted him as a power-hungry madman who would stop at nothing to rule the criminal underworld. If enough people believed that, or if other newspapers picked up the story, the police would have no choice but to request the revocation of his bail. If he wanted to find out who was trying to ruin his reputation, he needed to be on the outside.

Iggy would pick up the slack if he got tossed in the clink, of course, but if his enemies got what they wanted, they might go to ground. That would make them very difficult to find while Alex was out of the picture.

It was frustrating.

‘If you find yourself at a loss,’ Iggy’s voice emerged from Alex’s memory, “you should check your assumptions. You may be taking something important for granted.’

“Seems pretty straightforward,” he muttered to himself. “Someone is clearly trying to brand me a criminal and get me locked away for the next twenty years.”

There wasn’t really enough evidence to get him the chair, but stranger things had happened in open court.

No, Alex thought, if whoever’s doing this wanted me dead, there are much easier ways. They could have just planted a bomb in Tony’s safe house and blown us both to smithereens after I arrived.

“So they want me in prison,” he muttered. “Unless,” he went on, “they want something they can only get if I’m out of the way.”

He ran through the details of the frame-up in his mind, but nothing seemed likely.

“Maybe they’re planning some big crime and they’re worried I’ll expose it,” he said.

He resolved to think it through from start to finish, but just at that moment, the cab began slowing down.

“Hudson Security Bank,” the cabbie said. “That’ll be a buck twenty.”

Alex gave the man two dollars, then stepped out onto the curb. He’d have to ponder later; right now he had a safe deposit box to find.

21

SCRIP

Alex stood at the manager’s desk of the garment district branch of Hudson Security Bank, waiting for the man himself to appear. So far he’d had both good luck and bad in dealing with the managers of the various branches. The good luck was that, so far, no one had told him to hit the bricks, the bad news was that he still hadn’t found the box that went with his key.

As he waited, a slender man in a modest gray suit exited a back office and strode confidently in his direction. He had an angular face, clean shaven, with a short nose and pointed chin. The eyes were dark, but the man’s look was open, even friendly, and although he might be putting on that appearance, Alex felt it was genuine.

“I’m Andrew Steiner,” he said, holding out his hand for Alex to shake. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Mr. Steiner,” Alex began, giving him a warm smile. “My name is Carter Mason,” he said, using one of his aliases. “I work for the law firm of Richardson, Sanderson, and Michaels, and we’ve got a little problem I was hoping you could help us with.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Steiner said.

Alex took the safe deposit key out of his vest pocket and handed it to the bank manager.

“We’re charged with handling the estate of a recently deceased client,” Alex began, settling into the story he’d cooked up ahead of time. “We’re supposed to inventory the contents of the safe deposit box that goes with this key, but our client only said that it goes to a box at Hudson Security Bank. Unfortunately, he didn’t say which branch.”

“Even if this key goes to one of our boxes, I can’t open it for you without a court order,” Steiner said.

Alex was prepared for this and kept his easy smile in place.

“Of course,” he said. “Once the will is certified, we’ll get a judge’s order to access our client’s things. What I need to know now is whether or not this key goes to box thirty-five in this bank.”

Steiner looked at the key, checking the thirty-five stamped into the face of the key, then turning it over to see the serial numbers on the back.

“Once we’ve identified the branch in question,” Alex went on, sensing hesitation in the bank manager, “we can get the appropriate judicial order.”

“All right,” Steiner said at last. “You’ll have to wait here, but I’ll go see if this key fits our box thirty-five.”

Alex thanked him, then leaned against the desk to wait while Steiner departed in the direction of the bank’s vault. He checked his watch and it was only three, plenty of time to visit the other banks on his list before dinner. Taking out his cigarette case, Alex lit a cigarette to wait for the manager to return.

“You’re in luck, Mr. Mason,” Steiner said when he returned. “This key, does, in fact, go to our box.” He held the key out, but pulled it away when Alex reached for it. “I’ve already told my assistant to put a hold on that box,” he went on. “No one is going to be able to open it without a legitimate court order.”

“Very proper,” Alex said, taking the key. “I’ll get this back to the attorney handling our client’s case. It’ll probably be a week or two before you hear from us.”

Steiner shook his hand again and wished him well, then Alex headed for the phone booth on the back wall.

“Hello, Iggy?” Alex asked when his call connected. “I found the bank that goes with the key, it’s in the garment district.”

“Are you coming home then?” his mentor asked.

“No,” Alex said after thinking for a moment. “I’m sure someone’s either watching the bank or they’ve paid off someone to call them if anyone asks about box thirty-five. I need them to think I haven’t found the right bank yet.”

“If they paid off someone on the inside, they’ll already know,” Iggy pointed out.

“The longer I can keep the bad guys guessing, the more time I have to find them,” he said.

“Well, good luck then. You’d probably better get going, if you take too long inside the bank, they’ll guess that you found what you’re looking for.”

Agreeing with that sentiment, Alex hung up and left the bank to get another cab.

The man sat in a comfortable, wing-back chair, wrapped in a heavy, hooded blanket. The room was a solarium, with reading chairs, tables with lamps, and tall bookshelves lining the back wall. Normally sunlight would be streaming in from the south-facing windows, but like the man in the chair, they were covered.

The atmosphere in the room was so quiet the man fancied that he could hear the dust settling over the books and tables.

The jangle of the phone broke him out of his reverie and he picked up the receiver, holding it inside the blanket’s hood.

“Yes?” he said.

“Lockerby found the bank,” a rough voice said.

“I told you he would,” the man said, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

“How did he even get the key?” the voice on the line asked. “I’ve had people watching the apartment around the clock and they never saw a thing.”

“Never underestimate Alexander Lockerby,” the man growled, “or his bitch of a girlfriend.”

“There is one problem,” the voice said. “Lockerby wasn’t in the bank very long, and when he left, he went to another bank.”

“Did the manager lie to him about the key?”

“I don’t know,” the voice went on.

“Find out,” the man snarled, raising his voice. “And call the Fed, tell him to be ready, this might be another of Lockerby’s tricks.”

“Anything else?”

“Keep someone on the bank. I want to know if Lockerby or the sorceress show up there.”

“Will do,” the voice said, then the line went dead.

The man in the chair paused for a moment, considering the handset.

“Soon,” he said by way of a promise, then he set the receiver back down on the phone and returned to his contemplation.

Sorsha sat in Alex’s reading chair in the brownstone’s library. She’d often seen Alex and Dr. Bell sitting here with the reading table between them and a fire in the fireplace. She had to admit, the sight of them sitting in silence while both men read seemed incongruous. When she needed to read one of the many documents that crossed her desk on a daily basis, she did it at her desk or in the comfortable chaise in her sitting room. It was safe to say, she never just sat reading while ignoring another person.

She just didn’t understand the appeal.

Or, rather, she hadn’t, until she’d sat reading one of Dr. Bell’s penny dreadfuls while she waited for Alex to come home. She’d finished her work early and decided to join the boys. So far, her fiancé was still out.

The May weather outside had turned cold and rainy, so Dr. Bell had started a coal fire and the dry warmth penetrated the room in a very pleasing way. Ever since Sorsha came into her powers, temperature didn’t really affect her, but she could still appreciate a snug room. It helped that Alex's wingback reading chair was comfortable, like a pair of old slippers that had been well broken in.

The book she was reading was one she’d pulled out of the sea chest that Dr. Bell kept under the bay window. The story was titled, Sins of the Father, and told the tale of a young man’s brutal murder and his sister’s quest for justice. Naturally she became intimately involved with the rugged private detective, who was ridiculously named Derrick Slade. Despite the contrivance of both the romance and the plot, Sorsha found herself enjoying the tale that seemed to pull her along as she waited for Alex to return.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour or so,” Dr. Bell interrupted, coming into the library with his cooking apron over his clothes. “Would you care for an apéritif?”

Sorsha smiled at that, as she usually enjoyed a cocktail before dinner.

“What have you got?” she inquired.

The doctor’s eyes sparkled and his mustache bristled with a smile.

“For you, I think the Lillet,” he said. “I’ll let you decide if it should be the red or the white.”

“The white,” she said. Sorsha preferred white wines unless red was prescribed with the main dish.

Dr. Bell gave her a little bow, then moved to the liquor cabinet that stood on the far side of the bay window. A few moments later, he returned with a tall wine glass full of pale liquid that had been garnished with a twisted orange slice.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting it. She tasted the drink and found it perfect, then complimented the doctor and set it on the reading table.

“Are you enjoying the book?” he pressed.

“More than I should,” Sorsha replied. “It seems obvious that the client is the one who killed her brother.”

“Then why did she hire a detective?”

Sorsha didn’t want to admit that she actually hadn’t thought that through, but there were many possible reasons for the woman’s actions.

“I suspect she’s looking for something that’s missing or lost, and the detective is there to hopefully find it while he’s looking for clues.”

“An excellent hypothesis,” Dr. Bell said, his mustache still bristling with mirth. “Though I must point out the title of that book.”

Sorsha stuck her finger in the spot where she was reading and tipped the book so she could see the cover.

“Sins of the Father,” she read.

“I rather suspect that will give you a new direction of inquiry,” he said, then he turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Sorsha hadn’t considered that the title had anything to do with the book. This wasn’t the first penny dreadful she’d read and most of them had sensational titles designed to entice potential readers to buy it, rather than having anything to do with the story inside.

Determined to get to the bottom of the murder, she sipped her drink, then opened the book back to her place and read on.

“You’re in my chair,” Alex’s voice interrupted her several minutes later.

She looked up to find him standing over her. His eyes looked tired, but he was smiling.

“It’s surprisingly comfortable,” she said.

“Here,” Alex said, sticking out his hand.

Sorsha took it and he pulled her to her feet, drawing her into the circle of his arms for a kiss. Leaning against him, Sorsha decided that she felt like the woman from the book, falling for the dashing detective.

When they finally broke apart, Alex stepped around her and sat down in the chair, pulling her onto his lap.

“I see Iggy’s got you reading from his book collection,” he observed.

Sorsha put her arm around his neck and laughed.

“It’s actually not bad,” she said, “though the good doctor keeps asking me to solve the mystery before I’ve actually gotten to the end.”

Alex gave her a knowing look.

“He does that a lot.”

“Is that what it was like for you?” she asked, cocking her head to the side as she considered him. “Having to examine everything as if it were a mystery to be solved?”

Alex actually thought about that before he answered.

“Pretty much,” he said. “You’ve seen how we are with the newspaper at dinner.”

When Sorsha first started having dinner at the brownstone, she’d felt that both Alex and Dr. Bell were putting on a show for her, one of genteel civility. Finally she’d demanded they stop and go back to whatever they did before. That was when she became privy to their nightly newspaper ritual. It was fascinating to watch them each try to outdo each other with details of interesting stories and whatever they could deduce about them. Lately, Sorsha had found herself wanting to participate, though she hadn’t yet brought it up with either Alex or the doctor.

“So,” she said, getting comfortable sitting sideways in the chair, “did you find out what’s in your missing safe deposit box?”

Alex’s expression turned from one of contentment to the sly look of a man with a secret he can’t wait to tell. Before he could launch into the tale, however, Dr. Bell called them in to dinner

“Come on,” Alex said, shooing her off his lap, “Iggy will want to know too, so we might as well talk over dinner.”

Sorsha stood and waited for Alex to offer her his arm before walking the twenty or so feet from the library to the kitchen. Despite her recent proclivities for fine dining in Manhattan’s best restaurants and nightclubs, Sorsha enjoyed the homey comforts of the brownstone’s kitchen. The table was certainly elegant enough, made of some dense wood that had been carved all around the edges with designs and then stained dark. The rest of the kitchen was practical and without unnecessary decoration. There was an icebox standing next to a china cabinet with a short sideboard next to that. The next wall was dominated by the stove, which looked to have been originally a wood burner, but had been retrofitted for gas.

This was exclusively the domain of Dr. Bell. Alex had told Sorsha that the doctor picked up cooking in the Royal Navy as a hobby, and had been perfecting his skills ever since. Sorsha had learned to be careful at the doctor’s table as his cooking tended to inspire over-indulgence, and she didn’t want to lose her trim figure.

“All right,” Dr. Bell said as they both stopped beside the table, “everyone sit.”

Alex pulled out the heavy chair for her and Sorsha sat, allowing Alex to push the chair back in beneath her. The table was set with several covered dishes, and the aroma of fine food was heavy in the air.

Once they were seated, Alex said grace and the doctor began filling their plates. Dinner turned out to be roast pheasant with some potatoes in a white sauce, green beans, and fluffy dinner rolls. Sorsha wasn’t a huge fan of green beans, but she wouldn’t dare insult Dr. Bell by not eating them.

For his part, Alex cut the meat from his bird and then sliced open a dinner roll to make a small sandwich. If Dr. Bell noticed, he didn’t seem to care. Sorsha supposed that Alex, having principally grown up under the care of Father Clementine and the sisters of the Brotherhood of Hope Mission, had probably eaten cooked bird with his hands before moving to the brownstone.

Alex noticed her noticing his sandwich and winked at her.

That’s the trouble with Alex, she thought, he’s naturally charming. Too charming.

She resolved to keep a close watch on him when pretty women were around. His innate affability might be taken for flirting.

“So,” Dr. Bell said now that everyone had settled down to eating. “How did you get on with your mysterious key?”

Alex finished chewing, then wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“Agent Westlake told me it was either from Hudson Security Bank or New York Savings,” he said. “I started with Hudson Security and they confirmed it was theirs. From there I hit all their branches in Manhattan. The box is in the one down by the garment district.”

“What was in the box?” Sorsha demanded when Alex took another bite of his pheasant sandwich.

“No idea,” he said after swallowing. “I didn’t open it.”

“You didn’t…” Sorsha’s sentence dribbled away as she couldn’t think of a polite way to call her fiancé an idiot.

“Whoever left that key in Trent’s apartment,” Dr. Bell spoke up, “they intended for Alex to find it. They doubtless had the bank under surveillance.”

“Then why did Alex go into the bank in the first place?” Sorsha demanded. “He could have had me do it.”

The doctor actually laughed at that.

“Oh, you’re a lot less recognizable than Alex,” he said, sarcasm dripping from the words.

“What about you,” Sorsha countered, blushing slightly, “or Sherry, or Danny, or Mike?”

“Sherry is the face of my business,” Alex said. “Whoever is doing this seems to know a lot about me, so it’s a safe bet they know Sherry.”

“And he can’t involve Daniel,” Bell said, “as a policeman, he’d be obligated to report anything found in the box.”

“Danny wouldn’t do that,” Sorsha scoffed.

“No,” Alex admitted, “he wouldn’t, but it would put him in a bad situation. If it ever came out that he knew about this and didn’t report it, he could lose his job.”

“Or go to jail,” Dr. Bell added.

“That just leaves your apprentice, Mike,” Sorsha said. “Do you think they know him well enough to spot him, or are you planning to use a disguise rune?”

“Disguise runes are expensive,” Alex said. “Mike can handle it.”

“I thought you said the manager put a hold on the box,” Dr. Bell said.

“He did,” Alex said with a wry smile, “but I’ve got a plan for that.”

Sorsha hid a smile of her own as Alex detailed his plans. He was like a kid trying to impress his father with something he figured out on his own. In a real sense, she realized that the analogy was an accurate one. Alex’s own father had died when he was young, and he’d lost Father Clementine as well. Dr. Bell had taken Alex in, given him a home and a career, even taught him his most prized secrets. She suspected that the good doctor would always be a major influence in her fiancé’s life.

I guess it’s a good thing I like him, she thought. Though I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to call him ‘Iggy.’

After Alex and the doctor had gone over his plans a few times, Alex cleared the dishes away and Dr. Bell brought out a stack of papers and laid them out on the table.

“What’s all this?” Sorsha asked.

“One of these is a clue to the vision stone,” Bell said. “The others are red herrings. Alex and I have been trying to figure out which one.”

Sorsha picked up one of the pages and read through it as Dr. Bell explained about the numbers being part of a book code.

“Do all the pages make sense when you decode them?” she asked.

“You’d think not,” the doctor said, “but every page yields a phrase that could be a clue.”

“So you’re going to have to solve all of them to find the right one?”

“I hope not,” Alex said from the sink where he was washing dishes.

Sorsha put the page down and picked up the next one. The room grew quiet except for the clink of dishes as she and the doctor read through the pages.

“What was the name of that book again?” Sorsha asked as Alex dried and stacked the dishes back in the china cabinet.

“A Caveat Against Injustice Or an Inquiry Into the Evils of a Fluctuating Medium of Exchange,” Dr. Bell supplied.

“Apparently Roger Sherman didn’t trust paper money,” Alex added.

“Then this is the page that has the real clue,” Sorsha said, laying down an invoice for building supplies.

“What makes you so sure?” Dr. Bell said, picking it up to examine.

“Look at the bottom, beside the total,” Sorsha said. “It says ‘scrip,’ and that’s an old fashioned word for paper money. All the other numbers are either in coins or just numbers rather than currency. The word scrip connects this page to your book.”

22

TANGENTS

Despite being up late the night before, Alex was behind his desk at eight the following morning. He, Iggy, and Sorsha pored over the clue Sorsha had identified for several hours, but hadn’t managed to work any of it out.

“From the treasurer by 52, 7, 11 to the goods established by far man,” he repeated out loud. It didn’t make any more sense in the warm light of morning than it had in the brownstone’s kitchen the previous night. He was missing something about the clue, he knew that, but without a solid connection, the riddle was practically meaningless.

“You wanted to see me, boss?” Mike Fitzgerald said from the open doorway. The little man wore a well-crafted suit in charcoal gray and held a similarly colored hat in his hands. His hair, which had always been unruly, had been cut recently into a business-like fashion and his mustache was held firmly in place with wax.

“Yeah,” Alex said, shaking off his irritation. “Have a seat.”

Mike did as instructed and Alex tore a page off the notepad on his desk.

“I need you to go to the Hudson Security Bank branch in the garment district,” he said, handing the paper across the desk to his apprentice. “Once you’re there, I need you to rent a safe deposit box. Get it for at least six months.”

“I take it this is for a case?” Mike said.

“Yes,” Alex confirmed. He took out his rune book and tore out a very complex vault rune. “While you’re there, take your time looking at the boxes,” he said, handing over the rune.

“What am I looking for?”

“An opportunity to slap that on a wall and light it,” Alex said. “It’s one of my remote vault runes, and it’ll let me open the door from inside my vault. Once you’ve placed that, pick any box you like and have them draw up the paperwork. Get a twenty from the cash box to cover the expenses.”

Mike looked at the rune and Alex could tell he was trying to decipher it.

“Okay, boss,” he said, rising. “Anything else?”

“Don’t get caught placing the rune,” Alex chuckled.

Mike promised that he wouldn’t, then walked out.

As Alex sat, listening to the sounds of Mike’s footsteps retreating up the hall, his mind drifted back to the vision stone clue.

“Treasurer,” he whispered. It could mean anything, of course. Every organization of size had a treasurer. The bank where he sent Mike had one. How was he supposed to know which treasurer the person who wrote the clue meant?

He pulled out his notebook and flipped to the page where he’d taken notes about the clue. The word ‘treasurer’ came from the clue, $30.72, meaning the seventy-second word in paragraph thirty of Roger Sherman’s treatise. He didn’t have the book with him; it was back at the brownstone, but Alex had written the word next to the clue. What he hadn’t noticed till now was that the word was capitalized.

“So not just any treasurer,” he said, “an important treasurer.” He sat, bent over his desk, staring at the page as if willing it to give up its secrets.

A moment later, he sat up straight.

“Sherry,” he said, depressing the talk key on his intercom, “I’m going out, hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

Sherry replied that she would, but Alex was already out his office door and headed for his vault by the time her voice came over the tinny speaker of the intercom.

“Iggy!” Alex called from the top of the stairs after leaving his room. He started down the stairs, carrying his kit bag and calling again as he went.

“In the library,” his mentor’s voice drifted up to him.

“I think I figured it out,” he said, heading for the ground floor.

“Figured what out?” Iggy asked, meeting him on the landing, just outside the vestibule.

“The clue,” Alex said, heading for the kitchen. “Remember it talked about a treasurer?”

“I do,” Iggy said.

“The word in the book was capitalized. What if it’s referring to the national treasurer?”

“Well, book cyphers tend to be limited to the obvious meaning,” Iggy pointed out. “They can’t always get the exact word they want.”

Alex put his kit bag on the table and opened it.

“But what if the word is exactly what they wanted?” Alex insisted, pulling out the street map of Washington D.C. that Julian Rand, the Concierge at the Hay-Adams hotel had gotten for him. Laying it on the table, Alex slid his finger along Pennsylvania Avenue until he found the White House, then moved east to the next building across the street. “Here,” he said, tapping the map. “This is the U.S. Treasury building. Whoever is in charge of the treasury will have their office in this building. What if the clue starts here?”

Iggy stroked his mustache, nodding slowly.

“Well,” he said, his voice tentative, “if the treasurer is associated with a place, then that would make the clue easier to follow. That would make that string of numbers coordinates of some kind.”

“What kind of coordinates have three numbers?” Alex asked.

“Three dimensional ones,” Iggy supplied, “but I doubt that’s what they are. Logically, if you have a starting point, you need a degree number to point the way. If the numbers are coordinates, then they point to the destination and that would make the rest of the riddle irrelevant.”

“So how do we turn three different numbers into degrees? Add them up?”

Iggy did some quick math in his head.

“That would be seventy degrees,” he said. “Nice round number, but…give me your compass.”

Alex dug into his bag and took out his cigar box. Opening it, he took out his battered brass compass and passed it to his mentor.

Iggy laid the compass on the map, moving the map to orient with north on the compass. The brass compass had come from a World War soldier’s kit and it had a collar around the top with degree markings and a red indicator arrow. Turning the arrow to the seventy-degree marker, Iggy followed the indicated line with his finger.

“Well, that’s not it,” he said. “The line is close to Annapolis and Philadelphia, but doesn’t intersect either of them. It just goes out to sea.”

Alex thought about that.

“Maybe it’s like a combination lock,” he said. “Fifty-two left, seven right, eleven left.”

“That’s negative fifty-six degrees,” Iggy said, “or three hundred and four. That goes north, but I’m starting to think that wherever this is supposed to point, it’s going to go through New York.”

Alex was about to ask why, but then he remembered that the Envelope had been left with the Manhattan temple of the Masons.

“I guess if the Envelope was meant for us, it stands to reason that the clues would lead to places close by.”

“The Envelope,” Iggy said, slapping his forehead. “How could I have forgotten.”

He hurried into his vault and returned a moment later with the heavy leather case. Setting it on the table, he reached inside and pulled out a small leather box that was painted black.

“The compass,” Alex said, realizing what he and his mentor had forgotten. One of the many things in the envelope was an ornate brass compass with a needle that didn’t point north, but instead rotated randomly for no apparent reason.

Iggy withdrew the compass from the box and examined it.

“I don’t see any degree markings around the top,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “My eyes are a bit tired,” he said, holding the compass out, “why don’t you take a look?”

Alex reached into his kit bag and pulled out his oculus. Slipping it over his right eye, he rotated the outer collar around the lens ring until it began to magnify, then he examined the compass. The brass bottom was decorated with elaborate etching as well as the ring that kept the crystal on the top. The sides, however, were stained burgundy and were perfectly smooth.

“I don’t think this is metal,” Alex said, scratching at the side with his fingernail. The compass was almost an inch thick with a deep well under the crystal where the needle was free to spin. As Alex scraped at the sides, his fingernail left little tears in the surface of the material.

“It looks like leather,” Iggy said, peering over Alex’s shoulder. “See if you can slip it off.”

Alex didn’t think the leather ring would slide off in either direction, since the crystal retention ring and the back cap both stuck out over the side. Dipping back into his kit, he pulled out his tool roll and untied it. Rolling it out on the table, he selected a small knife with a long handle and a short blade.

“If I can get underneath it, I can cut it free,” he said.

“Careful,” Iggy urged, “there might be something important underneath.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said, easing the point of the knife into the top edge of the leather ring. It was fitted tight around the middle of the compass, but with patience, he managed to slowly slice away the layers. Eventually, the leather parted and the ring fell away.

“Would you look at that,” Iggy said, wonder plain in his voice.

Beneath the leather were three separate rings that ran around the circumference of the compass. The top ring was packed with numbers and little indentations while the middle only had a few. The bottom ring was in between with neither as many numbers as the top, nor as few as the middle.

“The rings move,” Alex said, pushing the middle one with his thumb.

“Is there a mark on the upper or lower casing?” Iggy asked.

Alex turned the compass around until he found a small notch in the lower casing.

“What was the first number?” he asked.

“Fifty-two,” Iggy supplied.

Alex rotated the upper ring until the number fifty-two was above the notch.

“Then seven,” he said, rotating the middle ring, “and finally eleven.”

When he rotated the bottom ring to the eleven there was an audible click and the compass needle, which had been drifting in lazy circles, snapped to a direction slightly east of north.

“Now put it on the map,” Iggy instructed.

Alex did so and the line pointed vaguely in the direction of New York.

“We need a map with both Washington and New York on it,” Iggy said.

“I’ll go get one,” Alex said, returning his knife to his roll-up kit.

“That sounds like an excellent outing,” Iggy said. “I think I’ll come with you.”

Masterson’s Cartography was a very upscale purveyor of maps. Alex had gone to him to acquire the maps that he used in the office’s map room because Masterson’s maps were extremely accurate.

If he was honest with himself, Alex didn’t think he needed a Masterson map to follow the envelope’s compass from Washington D.C. to Manhattan. He’d argued that a simple road map from a drugstore or a gas station would suffice. Iggy, however, was not convinced.

“We may need more detail than that,” he’d admonished when Alex explained his plan.

Alex still didn’t agree with that sentiment, but Iggy had been insistent, and he didn’t want to make the trip twice if a gas station map was insufficient.

The cartography shop was a relatively small space on the west side with a low ceiling and few windows. The overhead lights were on in the store, despite it being morning, but the lights hung down, positioned to illuminate the contents of glass display cases. Under the lights were maps of every shape and size. Most were old, or highly decorative, meant as display pieces. Along the back wall were rows and rows of shelving with drawers and flat boxes where the bulk of Masterson’s wares were kept.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” a high tenor voice asked.

The voice belonged to an older man, slightly stooped, with gray hair and a Van Dyke beard. He was excessively thin, making his reddish suit look like it was hung on him rather than him wearing it. Despite his frail appearance, John Masterson had a sparkle of excitement in his blue eyes as he emerged from behind the counter.

“Hello,” Alex said, putting on an affable smile. “My friend and I are in need of a map that shows Washington D.C., Manhattan, and all the territory in between.”

“How detailed do you want it?” Masterson asked.

“As much as possible,” Iggy supplied. “Within reason, of course.”

“Let me check my stock,” the older man said, turning toward the shelves. “If I don’t have what you want, I can order it in, or make it, of course.”

“Are all these maps done by him?” Iggy asked as Masterson began searching his inventory.

“Mostly,” Alex said. “Some of them are actual, historical maps, but he only has those for collectors.”

Iggy leaned close to a glass case that had an old-fashioned-looking naval map, showing the coast of the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. There were hundreds of tiny notes and markings that indicated the condition of the coast, naval hazards, and currents. The map was illuminated, like old Bibles, with images of the constellations above it and what looked like a merman with a trident integrated into the compass that indicated north.

“Most impressive,” Iggy muttered, more to himself than Alex.

“John does good work,” Alex admitted. “You’d have a hard time finding anyone better.”

Iggy straightened up and looked wistfully at the map in the case.

“Reminds me of a trip I took as a young man,” he said, “with some of my navy pals. During one leg, we were up in Edinburgh, in Scotland. There was a man there who made maps like these, tucked away in a little shop at the end of an alley.” Iggy shook his head with a chuckle. “I guess the ship captains knew how to find him, because he was off the beaten path for sure.”

“How did you find him?” Alex asked.

“That’s a bit of a story,” his mentor said, taking out a cigar from his pocket humidor. From Alex’s experience, Iggy always required a cigar to tell a good story.

“It started out like any other stop,” he began, then regaled Alex with the story of his and his companions’ journey. “When we first got to Scotland, Reggie caught a bit of a cold; he wasn’t dressed for the highlands when we went out. After that, he got a heavy pea-coat, but it was too late by that point. When we reached Edinburgh, he’d taken quite ill, so we put him up in a room and kept him warm with plenty of fluids, until his fever broke. That took almost a week, so between the three of us, each had several chances to go out and see the city while one of us looked after Reggie.”

“You must have really been bored to find a shop hidden up an alley,” Alex said.

“Not bored so much,” Iggy said. “There was a tavern in the vicinity that catered to the officers of the ships in the harbor. I would often find their doctors and talk shop.”

He said it without any special inflection, but something in his mentor’s posture bothered Alex, as if the old man wasn’t telling him the whole story.

“And?” he pressed.

“Well, there might have also been an attractive serving girl at this particular tavern,” he said, a wistful look crossing his face. “Redhead, you know.”

Alex knew. Unbidden, the image of Jessica came back to him. Her hair had been a color somewhere between fire and burnished copper. Something about a pretty redhead just did a man bad.

“Anyway,” Iggy continued. “I spent a fair amount of time speaking with the cartographer, learning about maps. Information I put to good use later, when writing my stories.”

Alex didn’t doubt that. Iggy was an absolute sponge when it came to technical information, absorbing whatever he could to fill his mental files. Occasionally, if he found the data interesting enough, he’d write a monograph on the subject.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” Masterson said, returning to the counter with a folded map in hand. “I think you’ll find this adequate for automotive navigation.”

He placed the map on the counter and unfolded it. Fully open, it was about three feet high and two wide. Alex could see the roads and towns that ran between the nation’s capital, up past Annapolis, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Newark until they converged on lower New York. The problem was that the two places they needed, D.C and Manhattan, were so small that Alex doubted they’d be able to figure out where the compass was pointing.

“I think we’re going to need a bigger map,” Iggy said, echoing Alex’s fears.

“What is it you need the map for?” Masterson asked, peering over his half-moon spectacles.

Alex exchanged a look with Iggy. The fewer people who knew about their little treasure hunt, the better. That said, they might just be stuck if they couldn’t get an accurate bearing from the compass.

“We’re runewrights,” Iggy finally explained, “and a friend of ours sent us a kind of magical puzzle, as a game.”

“Fascinating,” Masterson said, an eager smile spreading across his face.

“Well,” Iggy said, fishing out the compass from his suit coat pocket. “He said that if we follow this bearing, starting at the U.S. Treasury building in the nation’s capital, we’d find his location in Manhattan.”

Iggy set the compass on the table and Masterson leaned down to examine it.

“First,” he said after a moment, “let’s find out what angle this is.”

He retreated into the back of his shop, then emerged a moment later with a round piece of polished brass that had an open sight attached to the center by a pivot.

“This is an astrolabe,” he explained, setting it on the counter. “Once I orient it toward true north,” he produced a compass from his vest pocket, “then I’ll use your compass to aim the sights.”

Masterson used his compass to align the disk, then sat the Envelope’s compass in the middle of the device. He turned the sights until they lined up with the magical compass’ needle, then read from the degree markings around the rim of the device.

“Looks like thirty-seven and a half, and maybe a little bit more,” he said. “Call it thirty-seven and seven tenths. I think that will work.”

“Work how?” Alex asked.

“To determine where in New York your line from the treasury crosses,” Masterson said as if it were completely obvious. “All I have to do is a bit of math and I can determine where the line crosses into and out of each state in between the two points. Once I know where it will enter my big map of Manhattan, I can draw the line right on the map for you.”

Alex didn’t understand any of that, but a map with a line on it would be an excellent thing to have.

“How long will that take?” he asked.

“Well, the math is a bit complicated, and I’ll have to look up the latitude and longitude of the treasury building, so I could probably have it for you by tomorrow afternoon. I’ve already got several detailed maps of Manhattan, so I wont need to make one.”

Alex thanked him, then he and Iggy stepped outside.

“Should we go somewhere for lunch?” he asked, but Alex shook his head.

“Something you said about your trip to Scotland gave me an idea,” he explained. “I need to do some legwork.”

23

INCENTIVE

Alex leaned against the wall of the elevator as it ascended to the seventh floor. He’d been all over the island since sometime before noon and he was tired, hungry, and his foot hurt. Lately, he’d gotten used to his foot being sore by taking aspirin all the time, but too much walking would make it hurt regardless.

The bell chimed and the elevator door opened, allowing Alex to limp into the corridor beyond. He wanted to find a place to sit down, but the hallway was empty except for the nurse’s station mid-way along the passage.

Ignoring that, Alex limped along looking at the numbers of the rooms, stopping when he reached number seven-hundred-nineteen. Pushing the door open, he went in without stopping. The room beyond was clean and Spartan with a chair, a bed, and a tall rack that had a bag of fluid hanging from it. A thin, almost emaciated man lay in the bed, a scraggly beard on his chin and his hair unkempt. Judging by the size of the man’s clothes that had been hung up on a peg opposite the bed, he’d lost a considerable amount of weight during his stay.

Alex took the chair and pulled it over by the bed, sitting down so he could pull off his shoe and rub his sore foot. As he dropped his shoe on the floor, the man in the bed stirred.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked, his voice dry and raspy.

“My name is Alex, and I’m a private detective,” he said. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Sandoval. I had a real devil of a time finding you.”

Sandoval’s eyes opened a bit wider when Alex said his name, but he mastered his expression like a pro.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” Sandoval said after clearing his throat.

Alex chuckled and stood. He walked over to a pitcher of water that stood on a shelf by the door, pulled a paper cup from the nearby dispenser and filled it.

“I haven’t made a mistake, Wendell,” he said, handing over the cup of water. “I know who you are.”

Wendell Sandoval drained the cup, then handed it back to Alex to refill.

“You know my name,” he said as Alex poured another cup of water, “but I’m no one you’d be interested in.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Alex said, passing the full cup back over. “I’m a runewright and a damn good one, so believe me when I say that not just any runewright could create a duplication rune that’s cheap and works multiple times before dissipating.”

Wendell had raised the cup to his lips, but he stopped and looked at Alex. Whatever he saw in Alex’s face, he shook it off and drained the cup.

“I could deny it,” he said, “but I can see you wouldn’t believe me. What makes you think I’m a runewright?”

Alex sat back down and continued rubbing his foot.

“Excuse the informality, but I was shot in the foot six months ago and it still gives me trouble. As for how I know you’re a runewright,” he nodded at Wendell, “that indentation on your middle finger, that means you write often. Add to that the stain of runewright blue on the cuff of your shirt, and there’s no doubt, you’re a runewright.”

Wendell didn’t say anything, but Alex could see him thinking, trying to find a story to offer that would make him go away.

“You’re pretty observant,” Wendell said. “I am a runewright, but I don’t know how to make a duplication rune.”

Alex smirked at him as he slipped his shoe back on.

“Your son…it is your son, right?” he asked. “Anyway,” he went on when Wendell didn’t respond, “he’s been running your counterfeit bill scam all over the city. The Secret Service agent who caught on to him came to me when he realized the scam involved magic and I’ve got to admit, that’s some pretty impressive rune work you made.”

“How do you figure I’m involved with whatever you’re talking about?” Wendell asked.

“Because you have cancer,” Alex responded. “You see, I couldn’t figure out why someone with such an elegant and untraceable scam would risk getting captured by staying in one place for too long. The Secret Service knew about your scam, but by the time they showed up to investigate, you’d have moved on, so why stay in New York?”

Wendell didn’t respond, so Alex continued.

“I was talking with my mentor earlier today and he told me the story of when he and a few of his friends got stranded in Scotland,” he said. “They didn’t plan on staying, but one of their friends got sick, and they had to wait for him to recover before they could move on.”

“And you figured that because I have cancer and I’m a runewright, that whoever your counterfeiter is must be waiting for me,” Wendell stated. “Sounds like a theory, Alex, but nothing more than that.”

“Again,” Alex said with a grin, “don’t be so modest. You see, you are the only runewright I could find in all of Manhattan who has a serious disease that is curable with expensive alchemical treatments.”

“Lucky me,” Wendell sighed.

“You also don’t have a permanent address in the city,” Alex continued. “You’re not from here, you came here because it’s the best place to get that alchemical cure for the cancer in your bowels. So you needed money, lots of it, and that’s where your partner comes in. You needed a partner because it’s not like you can go out during the day. According to an alchemist friend of mine, the cure you’re taking requires ten doses over twenty days, and you have to have complete bed rest.”

“If you know all that, then you know I’m not going anywhere for at least a week,” Wendell said, his eyes boring into Alex, “so why are you really here? You want to steal my lore? You want a cut?”

Alex sat back in the wooden chair.

“It’s nice to finally talk like professionals,” he said. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t want to know how you did it. I’m already besieged by people who want me to use the lore I do know on their behalf, so if they thought I could duplicate money or documents or anything really, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“But someone wants it,” Wendall pressed.

“The government wants it,” Alex said. “Which is good for you.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because I’ve been authorized to offer you, and any accomplices that you may have, a full and unequivocal pardon. No jail time, no public trial, nothing.”

“What’s the catch?”

“If you accept, you’re the government’s man,” Alex said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “You’ll be the guy they turn to for magical duplication — instead of me.”

“What if I don’t want to be a government slave for the rest of my life?”

“You lost that option the moment I walked into this room,” Alex said. “You can deny who you are all you want, but I know, and the man who sent me will take my word over yours. Ten minutes after I leave here, he’ll have his men on every floor of this building, waiting for your accomplice to return so they can scoop you both up.”

Wendell gave him a hard look.

“If he does that, I’ll die.”

Alex cocked his head and then affected an innocent expression.

“Oh, the government will make sure you get your treatment, all paid for. Did I forget to mention that?”

“You’ve boxed me in very nicely, Alex,” he said, but the indignation had gone from his voice.

“Better you than me,” Alex chuckled.

Wendell glared at him, so Alex decided to throw him a bone.

“It’s not so bad,” he said. “The government will make sure you have a roof over your head and food on your table, even money in your pocket. Knowing my contact, he’ll probably pay you well; after all, he wouldn’t want you going back to your old scam.”

Wendell sighed, then he looked up and met Alex’s eyes.

“All right,” he said. “Tell your government man that I agree to his terms.”

“What about your partner?”

“My son,” Wendell said, “Bobby. You’ll have to bring him in without hurting him or the deal is off.”

“We’ll just wait for him here,” Alex said. “When he comes in to pay for your treatments, you tell him what’s what, then we’ll come in.”

Wendell shook his head.

“Bobby mails the payments in,” he said. “He’ll send me a letter once my treatment is done, telling me where to meet him.”

Alex just shrugged at that.

“So we wait until then,” he said, though he didn’t like the idea of letting Wendell leave the hospital before they had Bobby wrapped up. Still, that was Donovan’s problem.

Wendell’s eyes turned suspicious again.

“If I think you’re lying,” he said, “about any of it, I’ll send Bobby a message, tell him to disappear.”

“I’m not lying,” Alex said, keeping a straight face since he hadn’t run this deal by Donovan, though he had no doubts the spymaster would take it in a heartbeat. If there was one thing Donovan loved, it was getting what he wanted without a lot of trouble. “I’ll go call my client and let him make the arrangements with you. And don’t worry,” he said as Wendell took a breath to object, “I’ll have him come alone.”

“Will he?”

“He will,” Alex confirmed, standing and turning toward the door.

“Donovan,” the spymaster’s gravelly voice assaulted Alex through the phone.

“It’s Alex,” he said. “I’ve got good news for you.”

“You figure out how to make that counterfeiting rune?”

“Not that good,” Alex replied.

“Then what?” Donovan asked, his voice sounding tired.

“I found the guy that made the original,” Alex said.

“Did you call the cops yet?” Donovan demanded, the weary tone vanishing from his voice.

“You’re my first call,” Alex said, grinning at Donovan’s excitement.

“Where are you?”

“A few details first.”

“Alex,” Donovan said, a sudden edge in his voice. “What are you up to?”

“I ventured to make some arrangements on your behalf.”

“Alex,” Donovan said again, this time it was clearly a threat.

“The runewright in question is willing to surrender to you,” Alex began.

“What about his construct?”

“He’s willing to give you that as well.”

“What does he want?”

“The usual,” Alex said, “no charges, no jail time for himself and his son, and in return, he’ll be your personal, private rune monkey.”

“Which means I’ll have to stash him somewhere and keep him happy,” Donovan mused. “That’s doable. Anything else?”

“You pay my bill for finding him,” Alex said.

“Obviously,” Donovan replied, “now where can I pick up my new duplication runewright?”

“You’ll need to explain the deal to him in person before he’s willing to agree,” Alex said. “Meet me in the lobby of Lenox Hill Hospital. And that reminds me, our man has colon cancer, that’s why his son stayed in town, to get money for his treatments.”

“Tell the kid to stop,” Donovan said, “I’ll take care of that.”

“Perfect,” Alex said, “when can you be here?”

“Ten minutes,” Donovan said, then hung up.

Alex checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. He knew that Hudson Security Bank closed at five; it kept banker’s hours after all. What he didn’t know was exactly how long the manager and the tellers stayed after closing for the daily accounting. After discussing the matter with Iggy and Sorsha, he’d determined that after eight o’clock, there shouldn't be anyone left in the bank but the night guards, and the vault would be shut and locked securely.

“It’s still five minutes to eight,” Sorsha said, sitting in the reading chair in his vault library. Until recently there had only been one chair in there, but now that Sorsha was using his vault more often to travel from her office to the brownstone or her flying castle, Alex had added a second chair just for her.

“Easy for you to say,” Alex said, tucking his pocket watch back into his vest.

“I thought you had a good day today,” she said, looking up from the newspaper she was reading. “Didn’t you solve that counterfeiting case? And won’t you have the answer to the vision stone clue tomorrow?”

“That’s just it,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the fake fireplace on the wall. “I need to find the person who’s trying to ruin me. I need justice for Tony.”

“And you’re worried your lucky streak won’t continue?”

Alex sighed.

“Something like that.”

“All right,” she said, standing up and setting the paper aside. “It’s close enough to eight, let’s go look in this safe deposit box.”

Alex stepped up to the front wall of his great room. He’d painted two doorframes next to each other on the blank part of the wall. The one next to his gun locker was the space where his regular vault door would open, but the second one connected to his remote vault rune. Taking an activation rune from his rune book, he stuck it to the wall and lit it.

Sorsha joined him as the shimmering rune hovered over the wall, connecting with the one Mike had left in the bank’s vault that morning. As the linking rune made contact, the rune turned from silver to purple and the inside of a vault door melted out of the wall. Unlike normal vault doors, the back side didn’t have a keyhole but rather a lever that would disengage the door and hinges that would allow it to swing inward.

Grabbing the lever and pulling it down, Alex stepped back as the door swung open. He held his breath as a black space was revealed beyond. If there had been anyone in the bank’s vault, there would have been a light on.

Light from his vault spilled into the enclosed space, but Alex took a flashlight from his coat pocket and let the beam play over the inside of the bank vault. Along the walls were the rows of deposit boxes, with a wheeled cart in the center that had stacks of short boxes containing the bank’s cash. Bags of coins were stacked in one corner, but otherwise the vault was empty. Stepping inside, Alex played the light over the numbers on the boxes, moving along, row by row.

“What box are we looking for?” Sorsha said, moving into the vault behind him.

“Thirty-five,” Alex said.

“How can you see with that thing?” Sorsha asked, then she held up her hand and a bright light bloomed from her hand.

Alex thought about objecting, but he doubted there would be any gaps in the vault door that would allow light to spill into the main part of the bank. Switching off his flashlight, he moved down the row until he found what he sought.

“Here it is,” he said, returning the light to his pocket and removing the key from Phillip Trent’s apartment.

“Are you going to pick the other lock?” Sorsha asked, bringing her light over beside him.

“No,” he said, “these locks are made to resist picking.”

“Well, it requires two keys and you only have one,” Sorsha posted out.

“I’ve got something better than a key,” Alex said, slotting the key he did have into the right-hand lock. Once it was secure, he took out his rune book and removed a page. “Unlocking rune,” he explained, then touched the delicate paper to the tip of his tongue and stuck it to the second lock.

“Why do you pick locks if you have that rune?” Sorsha asked.

“Because,” he said, flicking his cigarette lighter to life, “it takes three days to make an unlocking rune. You have to do it in stages, then there’s the cost. They use a lot of expensive ingredients.”

“So it’s just easier to pick a normal lock?”

“Lock picking isn’t really that hard, provided you have a normal lock.”

Alex touched the tip of the lighter’s flame to the rune paper and then turned the physical key. Both locks snapped open with a click and he turned to look at Sorsha with smug satisfaction.

“Yes, yes,” she said in her most patronizing voice, “you’re very clever and I’ll get you a cookie when we get back. Now open the box, I’m dying to see what all this is about.”

Alex wouldn’t admit it, but he had the same desire.

Pulling the door open, he reached in and removed the steel box inside.

“It’s heavy,” he said, moving it to the cart with the cashboxes and placing it on top. Lifting the lid, he and Sorsha gazed down into the container.

“Bonds,” Sorsha said. “Dutch by the look of the writing.”

Alex reached in and pulled one of the loose pages from the top of what appeared to be a significant stack of the decorative certificates. They were printed on some kind of heavy, linen paper, with red and green decorations acting as a frame for the black text in the middle.

“There’s no name on it,” Sorsha said, looking over his shoulder.

“That’s because these are bearer bonds,” Alex concluded. “The preferred currency of the international criminal.”

“Bearer bonds?” Sorsha asked.

“It’s a bond, just like a war bond, issued by a financial institution or a government,” Alex explained. “The longer you hold on to them, the more interest they earn, just like any bond. The difference here is that these aren’t issued to any person or organization, and whoever presents this bond to the issuing bank can cash it out.”

“Then why not just use actual cash?”

“Cash is great until you travel abroad,” Alex said. “Converting a big stack of dollars into pounds or whatever they use in Denmark⁠—”

“Guilders,” Sorsha supplied.

“Anyway,” Alex continued, “changing a lot of cash looks suspicious, but no one looks twice at someone cashing in a bunch of bonds.”

“So why does Philip Trent have a big stack of Dutch bearer bonds in his safe deposit box?”

Alex sighed as he looked at the bond.

“I think I know,” he said, folding the bond he’d taken from the top of the stack and tucking it into his rune book.

“Well?” Sorsha demanded. “What do they mean?”

“They mean that Iggy and I have some work to do,” Alex said.

24

ANCIENT SYMBOLS

“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Iggy asked as Alex reviewed the notes he’d taken while reading the Archimedean Monograph.

“Because,” Alex said, looking up, “Bill Donovan asked us to.”

There were other reasons, of course, but Alex was just guessing at them and, like his mentor’s famous detective, he didn’t want to pose a theory too early in its formation.

“Donovan is going to be getting the genuine article from Mr. Sandoval in less than a week, assuming his treatment is on schedule, so I must reiterate my question, why are we trying to reinvent the wheel?”

“Donovan’s not going to let us see that construct once he gets his hands on it,” Alex said.

“Probably true,” Iggy admitted. “It still doesn’t mean that we have to figure it out ourselves.”

“What if we need it?” Alex suggested.

“What are we going to use it for?” Iggy asked. “It’s not like we’re in danger of running out of money. Even if we did, I’d like to think we wouldn’t turn to counterfeiting. What’s this actually about?”

Alex took a deep breath, considering what to tell his mentor.

“And don’t give me that hogwash about not revealing a theory before it matures,” Iggy went on, “I wrote that.”

“Fine,” Alex said, pushing his notes aside and sitting back in the heavy, kitchen chair. “I think I know who’s behind the attempt to ruin my reputation. I think I know who’s behind this entire plot.”

Iggy set the monograph aside and gave Alex his full attention.

“Do tell,” he said.

Alex took out his rune book and flipped to the back. Pulling open the little pocket in the back cover, he removed a small piece of torn flash paper.

“This,” he said, laying one of the pieces down on the dark wood of the kitchen table, “is the bit of paper that was stuck to the felt on the bottom of Phillip Trent’s hidden drawer.”

“We know he was a bookie,” Iggy said, “the presence of flash paper seems to confirm that.”

“Except,” Alex said, “according to Connie, Trent hasn’t been running numbers for anyone for months.”

Iggy considered that for a moment.

“Presumably, he stopped taking bets once he began working with whoever is behind the frame up.”

“It’s a good bet,” Alex said.

“So what’s your conclusion, and why does it involve that scrap of flash paper?”

“When I first showed this to you,” Alex said, indicating the flash paper, “you suggested that Trent might have been a runewright. I’m starting to wonder if you were right.”

“Is there any evidence beyond that scrap that Mr. Trent was a runewright?” Iggy asked.

“No,” Alex said, “but it’s clear that Trent’s dresser, with its expertly hidden drawer, was brought to that apartment.”

“Presumably to hide that key where you’d find it,” Iggy supplied.

“Right,” Alex agreed. “But that got me thinking. Why was there a scrap of flash paper in that drawer?”

“Maybe that’s where he kept his numbers book.”

“Possible,” Alex admitted, “but he hadn’t done that for some time.”

“When was the last time you cleaned out any of your drawers?”

It was a good point, one Alex hadn’t considered. Usually he only cleaned out the bottom of a drawer when he moved its contents somewhere else. He wasn’t so rigid that he couldn’t reorganize his office or his drafting table or even his ingredient shelves, but it wasn’t something he did often.

“Are you thinking,” Iggy went on when Alex didn’t answer, “that till quite recently, Trent kept runes in that drawer?”

“That is what I was thinking,” Alex said.

“To what end?” Iggy pressed.

“I was thinking,” Alex said with a sigh, “that maybe he started working with the Legion.”

Iggy stroked his mustache as he thought about that.

“Well,” he said, “it’s not an impossibility. Certainly, whoever is behind this is well funded and well organized and that could be the Legion. I can certainly understand why they’d want you destroyed, especially after you broke the draining rune they had on Sorsha.”

“It’s a good theory, but you’re right, it’s only a theory, and I don’t have any hard evidence.”

“I’d say the evidence you do have argues against it,” Iggy said. “So far everything that’s been done hasn’t involved magic.”

“That we know of,” Alex hedged. “They did know how finding runes work.”

“Anyone with a library card could have figured that out,” Iggy said.

“True,” Alex sighed.

“On the bright side,” Iggy went on, “we should be able to figure out the counterfeiting rune. After all, we have a tremendous advantage over Mr. Sandoval.”

“What’s that?”

“We know it can be done,” Iggy said, waggling his eyebrows at Alex.

Alex was about to point out that Iggy’s statement wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but the phone interrupted him. The light on the left side over the phone blinked in time with the bell, indicating that the call was meant for the brownstone rather than Alex’s office.

“Hello,” Alex said as he stepped to the wall and lifted the receiver. He listened for a minute, then smiled. “Thanks,” he said, “we’ll be right over.”

With that, he hung up the phone.

“That was Masterson,” he said to Iggy. “The map’s ready.”

Iggy shut the Archimedean Monograph with a snap and stood.

“Finally,” he said, relief in his voice, “something interesting to do.”

Alex gave him a sour look, then picked up the phone and called for a cab.

“The angle you wanted is here,” John Masterson said, indicating a blue line that ran from the bottom of his map of Manhattan, through the middle of the city and then out toward the ocean. “It crosses near several points of interest, including New York University, Empire Tower, Rockefeller Center, Central Park, the New York City Museum, and points north.”

Alex leaned close, tracing the line with his finger. Masterson was right, the line cut right through Manhattan from south to north, almost parallel to the named streets. As he followed the line, it didn’t pass through any of the places he might expect. It did intercept Central Park, but it was too far away from the zoo and the museums.

“I was hoping our destination would be obvious,” Iggy mumbled, leaning close to the map.

“Is it not to your liking?” Masterson said, a note of worry in his voice.

“You’re certain this is accurate,” Iggy asked.

“Exactly accurate,” Masterson insisted.

“Can I borrow your magnifying glass?” Alex asked the mapmaker.

“Of course,” he said, handing over a large bit of glass with a wooden handle.

Alex leaned close, following the line from the point it entered the map. It went through dozens of buildings, but nothing that stood out. Still, he was going to have to mark each one and eliminate it as a possibility.

“Unless something stands out,” he mumbled.

“It runs through Central Park” Iggy said, “There could be dozens of things there that might be significant.”

Alex moved the magnifier up and followed it as it ran by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Masterson had marked the roads through the park and the line followed along East Drive for a while, crossing bridges and several small clearings before passing the New York City Museum.

“The park would be a good place to leave a clue,” Alex said. “There’s plenty of markers and monuments there that haven’t changed since they were put in.”

“Seems like a sound deduction, lad,” Iggy agreed.

“Do you have a detailed map of Central Park?” Alex asked.

“Of course,” Masterson said, turning to the shelves on the back wall. “Give me just a moment.”

While Masterson was gone, Alex returned to following the line through the city. Lots of the blocks in the city proper didn’t have their individual buildings marked, only the points of interest were labeled, so Alex couldn’t be sure how many houses and shops the line bisected.

“If it’s not in the park, how are we supposed to figure out where to look?” he grumbled.

“I don’t know exactly when the Envelope was made,” Iggy said, “but any building newer than the turn of the century is probably out.”

Alex kept following the line, but it scrupulously avoided anything significant or old. It did cross a few buildings, but nothing important enough to be marked on the map.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” Masterson said, returning with a folded map. “Am I to assume you want to purchase this map as well?”

“Put it on the bill, John,” Alex said, suppressing a smile. He hadn’t intended to stiff the man, but Alex guessed enough people had that Masterson always made the transactional intention clear.

Satisfied by Alex’s response, Masterson unfolded the map and laid it atop the other.

“This is the north end of the park,” Masterson said, indicating the legend on the map.

“The line runs pretty close to Sixth Avenue,” Alex said, pulling out the map of Manhattan and using it as a straight edge. “That means that it runs about here.” He laid the Manhattan map’s edge along where he thought the line went.

“I’ll start at the north end,” Iggy said, leaning close to the map.

“Here,” Alex said, passing him the magnifier and retrieving the one he’d forgotten he kept in his kit.

“Thanks, lad.”

“May I inquire what you’re looking for?” Masterson asked.

“It’s a clue in a puzzle a friend sent us,” Iggy explained, using the same answer he’d used the last time they’d met with the mapmaker.

Alex followed the line north, passing by the south pond and past the zoo. Since the zoo was only a few years old, he ignored it and continued north. The line ran close to the fountain at Bethesda Terrace, but not close enough. It did cross right through the bridge where East Drive crossed Seventy-Ninth Street, but that wasn’t really significant and Alex had no idea when the bridge was constructed.

“Better mark it,” he mumbled, pulling out his pencil and placing an ‘X’ on the spot.

Satisfied, he moved on, soon reaching the Museum of Art.

That would be a perfect place to hide a clue, he thought, feeling a surge of excitement.

The line didn’t run through the museum, but it was very close. Close enough that even a tiny error by Masterson, or even his placement of the guiding line, might compensate for it.

“This could be it,” he muttered, hovering his magnifying glass over the museum.

“Looks like a possibility,” Iggy said, leaning close. “The museum has been there for decades.”

“Well, it’s the only thing south of the lake that the line even gets close to besides this bridge.” Alex indicated his pencil mark.

“I doubt a bridge would contain the clue,” Iggy said. “Too easy for it to get damaged and then have repairs mess up the clue.”

“Well, that only leaves this,” Alex said, pointing to the museum. “Should we check it out?”

“I do love museums,” he said. “In any case, it’ll be worth the exercise. Pay for the maps and I’ll go summon a cab.”

Alex reached for his wallet, then carefully folded the maps after handing over Masterson’s fee.

Alex and Iggy stepped off the skycrawler at the Metropolitan Museum station, and descended to street level.

“Marvelous inventions, those skycrawlers,” Iggy said. “I’ll never get used to traversing the city so high above the traffic.”

It really wasn’t that high, just a bit taller than a single story, but Alex couldn’t argue with the charm. When the weather was warm and clear, he loved to ride in the open-topped Brooklyn express across the East River. The view was magnificent.

“This way,” Iggy said, heading for the main doors.

Alex followed him up the stairs and inside the museum, excited to find the next clue.

An hour and a half later, Alex had lost his excitement. After wandering around, just looking at things, he’d decided to ask one of the workers if they had any permanent exhibits. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that most of the art was permanent, since the museum owned it. From time to time, pieces were lent out to other museums or private collections, but those were only temporary arrangements.

“It’s too chaotic,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I’m afraid I must agree,” Iggy said, leaning on the wooden bar of the raised information desk. “I doubt anyone would leave a clue here, not and expect anyone to find it.”

“Maybe we missed something from the Envelope,” Alex suggested. “Maybe a clue that will lead us to a particular work of art.”

“It’s possible,” Iggy admitted, “but we’ve been over everything in there pretty thoroughly. The only clue we got led us to that line, and the answer has to be somewhere along it.”

The helpful woman who manned the information desk had put out a sign that said, Back in Ten Minutes, so Alex pulled out the map of Manhattan and laid it out.

“Why not use the map of Central Park?” Iggy asked.

“The line on this one was put there by Masterson using whatever math wizardry he does,” Alex explained. “I doubt it’s off at all, so let’s check it.”

Taking out his magnifier again, Alex looked at the line as it ran through Central Park.

“Look at this,” he said, handing the magnifier to Iggy, “the line doesn’t actually touch this museum.”

Iggy examined the map, then leaned so close he almost touched it.

“There’s something here,” he said, indicating a spot just behind the museum. “And the line runs right through it.”

Alex pulled out the Central Park map and laid it beside the Manhattan one.

“Here,” he said, tapping a tiny white circle that seemed to be attached to the marked footpaths through the park.

Iggy leaned in again.

“I see it,” he said, “but it’s just a round mark on the map. It doesn’t say if there’s anything there.”

“There must be,” Alex said, moving around to the side of the information booth. Earlier, he’d noticed a map of the museum along with some of the grounds around it. “Here,” he said, tapping the glass in front of the map, “It says that there’s an obelisk there.”

“A monument then,” Iggy said. “Does it say when it was built?”

“Nope,” Alex said. “It just says obelisk.”

Alex knew what an obelisk was, of course, he’d seen a large one when he visited Washington D.C. That one was called the Washington Monument.

“Should we give it a look?” he asked. “It’s not far behind the museum, and we’re already here.”

Iggy didn’t look convinced, but he rallied.

“I suppose that since we’re this close, we might as well.”

Alex led the way out one of the back doors, then onto the footpath that ran around the building from the street side. According to the map, the second fork in the path should lead them under East Drive and then on to the obelisk.

The trees were thick in this part of the park and Alex couldn’t see the object of their search until he was right on it.

“Oh, my,” Iggy said as the obelisk came into view.

Alex was inclined to agree. It wasn’t a monument, at least not one built on this continent. It was made of beige stone, the color of old parchment, and stood at least two stories tall. It sat on a square plinth of slightly darker stone, with another base layer of white stone underneath.

“That’s Egyptian,” Alex gasped, noting the hieroglyphics that ran up the length of the obelisk in three vertical rows.

“Well, that’s certainly old enough,” Iggy said with a chuckle. “Let’s get a closer look.”

As they approached, Alex could see that despite the obelisk’s imposing form, and its obvious age, no one was standing around or sitting on the nearby benches. The trees around it were thick and had the effect of screening the tower of stone from passersby. A large metal plaque was mounted to an angled frame with words cut into it, so he headed that way.

“Cleopatra’s Needle,” Alex read. “Originally erected in Heliopolis by Thutmose the Third. Later moved by Cleopatra to the Caesareum in Alexandria in honor of Mark Antony. Erected on this spot January 22, 1881.”

“This has to be it,” Iggy said. “It’s consistent with our clue-leaving friend’s sense of style.”

“Not to disagree, but what kind of clue is this?” Alex asked.

“There’s another plaque over there,” Iggy said, pointing to the next side of the square walkway around the obelisk.

“Ah,” he said, reaching it before Alex. “Look here, it’s a translation of the hieroglyphics.”

This plaque held a board under a pane of glass, like a theater window. Under the glass was a large paper with a drawing of the four sides of the obelisk, along with a full translation. As far as Alex could tell from a cursory reading, the inscriptions were either prayers or poetry, entreating favors and blessings from the various Egyptian gods.

Looking to his right, Alex saw another plaque on the square walkway’s west side. Leaving Iggy to his more thorough reading, he headed over to it.

“Iggy,” he called a moment later, “you were right, this is the clue, no doubt about it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Alex pointed to the plaque and began to read.

“Donated by Isma’il Pasha, the Khedive of Egypt, to the United States of America. Secured through the efforts of Henry G. Stebbins, Judge Elbert E. Farman, and Cornelius Vanderbilt.”

“Farman,” Iggy said with a quizzical look.

“It’s from the clue,” Alex said. “‘From the Treasurer by 52 7 11 to the goods established by far man.’ This is definitely the clue.”

25

GHOSTLIGHT

Alex lit the burner on his multi lamp with the ghostlight burner clipped in the bottom. Closing the shutter, he donned his oculus and stood up, pointing the escaping light at the enormous stone obelisk.

“You were right,” he said to Iggy. “I can see magical residue over some of the symbols.”

“We may have to come back after dark to make sure your light can reach the top,” he said, examining the plaque with the translation of the hieroglyphics.

“I can see one up at the top,” Alex said, “but you’re probably right. We should bring Sherry down here, she can tell us which symbols are connected to which parts of the translation.”

“You’re assuming the translation is accurate,” Iggy pointed out. “I’m sure Sherry will be able to read the hieroglyphics, of course, but we have no idea how accurate this printed version is.” He tapped the glass cover that protected the printed image of the obelisk and its translation. “If Sherry is more accurate, that might change the meaning of the clue, since whoever made it most likely used this translation.”

“Maybe,” Alex said, “but she’d be able to tell us if the translation is inaccurate, right?”

Iggy cocked his head and then laughed.

“I didn’t consider that,” he admitted. “I must be hungry.”

“It is after noon,” Alex pointed out, moving around the obelisk. “There are highlighted symbols on all four sides,” he reported.

“Pity we can’t just mark up this explanation plaque,” Iggy said.

“It’d be nice to have a duplication construct right about now,” Alex ribbed his mentor.

Iggy gave him a sour look, then shook his head.

“I’ve been giving that some thought since this morning,” he said. “I’m not sure inexpensive and repeatable duplication is possible.”

“How do you figure that?” Alex asked, blowing out his ghostlight burner. “We’ve made temporary runes last longer before.”

Iggy nodded.

“After giving it some thought, there are only two kinds of constructs that can be extended or enhanced; ones that require very little magic power, like the lock rune on your cash box, or my disguise runes, and ones that have a very short activation time. Those would be your shield rune or climate construct.”

“There’s got to be more than that,” Alex said, packing away his gear.

“If there are, I haven’t thought of them,” Iggy said with a shrug. “The difficulty is the strain on the construct. If it takes too long to activate, the rune begins to break down before the magic is completed. The same holds true if it draws too much power at once. Duplication runes create an exact copy of something from nothing, which takes an enormous amount of magical energy.”

“Then how did Wendell Sandoval do it?” Alex asked.

“He must have started with some rune other than duplication.”

“Well, we know his construct doesn’t create a new copy out of nothing,” Alex pointed out. “His requires an actual bill to use as a base.”

Iggy stroked his mustache while he looked up at the obelisk.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose he could have started with some kind of disguise or illusion rune.”

“No,” Alex said. “those magic detectors are built to see through illusions, and Sandoval’s bills are good enough to fool them.”

“I can do that too,” Iggy said, “or are you forgetting those fake bills I gave you when you were first looking for the Broker?”

“I remember,” Alex said, “but you told me that each of the disguise runes you made for those bills took over an hour to make. Sandoval isn’t doing that, and his apprentice certainly isn’t. It would take over a day for an apprentice to make one of your runes, assuming he could do it at all.”

“An accurate summation,” Iggy said. “Also, my disguise runes work from my knowledge and memory, they don’t create a magical photograph of an existing object.”

Alex sighed.

“Do you think Donovan will let us talk to Sandoval about his construct once his son is safely in custody?”

Iggy chuckled.

“Do you want Donovan to know you can duplicate things at will?”

“No,” Alex admitted. “We’ll just have to think of something else.”

“Let’s think about it over lunch,” Iggy said, checking his watch.

Since the skycrawler station was just beyond the museum, Alex and Iggy returned to Empire Station and its little café. They’d spent most of the journey and the time waiting for their food in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.

“I wonder if we’re coming at this problem the wrong way,” Iggy said at last.

“How do you mean?” Alex asked, after swallowing a bite of his sandwich.

“We’re assuming that Sandoval based his counterfeiting rune off a duplication rune that he somehow cut down to use less power, and fewer rare materials.”

“Right,” Alex agreed.

“What if he started with something like a disguise rune and built it up?”

“Isn’t that just the same problem, but in reverse?”

“Not at all,” Iggy said, stroking his mustache. “Disguise runes and duplication runes are fundamentally different. It would take a completely different set of skills to modify either one.”

“And that’s assuming you’re right about the rune used as the base of the construct,” Alex pointed out. “It could be anything.”

“Well, not anything,” Iggy chuckled, “but we may need to look further afield for possibilities.”

“Well, I’ve dodged enough work for one day,” Alex said. “Why don’t you go home and look through th⁠—”

“Alex,” a new voice interrupted him, “thank God your secretary knows your schedule so well.”

Alex and Iggy turned to find William Donovan bearing down on them from the direction of the elevators.

“Donovan,” Alex acknowledged him. “Where’s the fire?”

“Downtown,” the spymaster said once he arrived, keeping his voice low. “Agent Westlake and a few of the local cops have Bobby Sandoval trapped in a bank.”

“What’s the problem then?” Iggy asked. “Surely you can whisk him away once he’s in custody.”

“Assuming he isn’t shot by a nervous flatfoot or bank guard first,” Donovan said. “It’s not as simple as Dr. Bell presents it,” he said, turning to Alex, “the police have control of the bank, but no Bobby.”

“He disappeared?” Alex asked, suddenly interested.

“Maybe,” Donovan said with a shrug. “Maybe he’s using a disguise rune, or he’s invisible somehow, but it won’t matter if someone gets spooked and shoots him.”

“Wendell Sandoval isn’t going to play ball if you let his son get killed,” Iggy agreed.

Alex leaned down and picked up his kit bag from the floor.

“All right,” he said, picking up the rest of his sandwich with his other hand, “I’ll head over there and see if I can find Bobby and get him to come in without a fuss.”

Donovan handed him a slip of paper with a south mid-ring address on it.

“It’s First Colonial Bank,” he said.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Donovan shook his head.

“I can’t afford to be seen anywhere near this case,” he said.

Alex wondered why that would matter, but decided the answer was probably too long a story for the time he had.

“Tell Sherry where I went,” he said to Iggy, then took another bite of his sandwich and headed for the skycrawler platform.

First Colonial Bank was an impressive edifice that stood on the corner of its block, with a red brick façade and white trim. Even if Alex hadn’t had the address, it would have been easy to spot; there were a dozen police cars parked along the street, and men in blue uniforms encircled the building.

Alex didn’t see anyone he recognized, so he walked up to the nearest uniformed officer and adopted a harried look on his face.

“I’m here for Agent Westlake of the Secret Service,” he said. “He’s expecting me.”

“You’ll have to ask the sergeant,” the officer said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the front doors. “All I know is I’m supposed to stand here and keep people out.”

Alex thanked him and headed toward the bank’s main entrance. The sergeant turned out to be a barrel-chested man with a balding head and no discernible sense of humor. He barked at Alex, trying to shoo him away, but finally relented when Alex wouldn’t take the hint.

“You,” he hollered at one of the officers keeping onlookers back, “go inside and find that fed, tell him he’s got a visitor.”

The officer disappeared into the bank and returned half a minute later with Westlake in tow. The Secret Service agent looked harried, but his mood brightened when he saw Alex.

“What are you doing here?” he asked once the policeman had returned to his crowd control duties. “Not that I’m unhappy about it.”

“I heard about the standoff on the radio,” Alex lied. “I thought I’d better swing by in case it was our man. Did you get him?”

Westlake’s expression soured.

“No, although no one can explain why,” he said.

“How do you know it’s him?” Alex asked.

“Everyone who wants to change big bills has to sign in and show an identification card, and when our man was told that, he balked. One of the security guards got suspicious and used a magic detector on him. His money didn’t set it off, but he did, buried the needle.”

Probably magical residue from writing those duplication runes, Alex thought.

“As soon as that happened, he took off, ran into the back office area and promptly disappeared.”

“Is everyone still inside?” Alex asked.

Westlake nodded.

“The police are questioning everyone and checking them with the magic detectors. So far, they’ve found nothing.”

“Well, it sounds like they’re doing everything right,” Alex said, begrudgingly impressed by the police department’s tactical thinking.

“You don’t suppose he was working with a sorcerer, do you?” Westlake said absently. “Maybe they teleported out.”

Alex put a hand on Westlake’s shoulder, bringing the Agent’s attention back to him.

“If your counterfeiter has a sorcerer for a partner, he wouldn’t be robbing banks.”

Westlake took in a deep breath through his nose, then let it out slowly.

“This case has got me going round in circles,” he admitted. “I can’t think straight.”

“Do you mind if I have a look around?”

“Go right ahead,” Westlake said. “I want this matter wrapped up as soon as possible.”

Alex gave him a reassuring pat on the back, then headed inside the bank.

Where the outside of First Colonial was mostly calm, with just a few curious onlookers standing around, the inside was a symphony in chaos. At least a dozen uniformed officers were moving around the space, going in and out of doors, and up and down the stairs to the second floor. All of them appeared to be looking for Bobby, but Alex could tell that they’d long since given up actually finding anyone.

They’re just going through the motions, he thought.

“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded, and Alex turned to find himself looking down at a short man in a police uniform. He appeared to be in his thirties with bushy dark hair and hard eyes. Based on his size and the fact that his nose appeared to have been broken at least twice, Alex assumed he was used to having to prove himself with his fists.

“Alex Lockerby,” Alex introduced himself, handing over one of his business cards. “I’m working for Agent Westlake and he asked me to take a look around for anything magical.”

“Runewright detective,” the short man said, “I’ve heard of you. Heard you bumped off that mob boss, Lucky Tony. Why should I let someone like you have free run of a bank?”

“First of all,” Alex said, keeping his voice even and friendly, “I did not kill former mob boss Tony Casetti. Secondly, if you’re worried about me, feel free to come along while I search. Bring some of your friends, we’ll make a party of it.”

The little man’s brows dropped down over his eyes, which bored into Alex as if they had the power to discern the truth just by looking.

“We’ve already got people watching the money,” he said at last. “So get going and make it quick.”

Alex put his hand over his heart.

“Of course,” he said.

That distraction dispensed with, Alex moved to the nearest counter and opened his kit. Taking out his gold lighter, Alex lit the wick on his ghostlight burner, then clipped it into the multi lamp. Instead of his oculus, he opted for the yellow pince-nez spectacles. There was no sense in having every officer in the building stopping to ask what he was doing.

Alex’s first instinct was to ignore the teller windows and the walkway behind them; Bobby Sandoval had run off toward the back of the bank, after all, but if he was using some form of invisibility, he could be anywhere. Resolving not to let Bobby slip by him, Alex shone his light into the aisles behind the counter.

As he expected, the ghostlight revealed nothing, but he felt better for having been thorough.

The police had about a dozen people sitting on chairs in the far corner of the main room and a detective in a brown suit was interviewing them. Alex walked beside them, shining his light surreptitiously over the group as he passed.

Nothing.

With the front room ruled out, Alex began looking into the back offices. According to Donovan, Bobby Sandoval had run into one and disappeared. Since Alex didn’t know which one, he checked them all. He could have stopped one of the many policemen and asked, but knowing might bias him in his search, so he chose to go on without any specific knowledge.

As it turned out, it wouldn’t have mattered. When Alex walked into the junior manager’s office, he knew where Bobby had gone. Right there, on the back wall, was the outline of a door, still glowing with magic.

“That’s not good,” he said to the empty room.

If Bobby had left the bank through his vault, that meant he knew how to open multiple doors. As far as Alex knew, that was a closely guarded secret. Moriarty and his immortals could do it, and his ability to use his vault to come and go was what put Alex and Iggy onto the idea.

What one man can invent, another can discover, Iggy’s voice sounded in Alex’s memory. He didn’t know what might have given Wendell Sandoval the idea, but his skill with runes meant that figuring out how to open multiple doors into a vault wasn’t beyond him.

Then there was the Legion. Alex didn’t know if they had access to that particular trick, but he doubted it. When Sorsha attacked their Manhattan home base, there had been several cars in the drive and out front. If they knew how to use vaults for travel, they wouldn’t have risked calling attention to their safe house with all those cars.

Leaning close to the wall, Alex examined the magical residue. Something about it bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Setting his kit bag and the multi lamp down, he took off the pince-nez spectacles and replaced them with his oculus.

“That’s better,” he said, stepping back to look at the entire area. He could tell the residue was fading, but that was to be expected. Residual magic was eventually reabsorbed by the universe; the thing was, it was always reabsorbed at a constant rate.

This is wrong, he thought to himself.

He had to take another step back before he saw it. The shape wasn’t a rectangle, like a vault door would make, it was a circle.

Alex had seen circular doors before, but only on fancy shops and themed restaurants. There just wasn’t any reason to make a vault door in a circle; in fact, as Alex thought about it, he realized it would make the construct unnecessarily complicated.

“So, if this isn’t a vault door,” he mused, moving close to the wall, “what is it?”

Dialing up the magnification in his oculus, Alex leaned in close, careful not to block the light from his multi lamp, and examined the edge of the residue pattern. He could see it fading from the outer edge inward, which he expected. The rune that had created the circle was most likely in the center and that would be where the residue was the most concentrated.

As he watched, Alex could see the residue retreating in streaks, rather than fading as a whole. It was as if the residue wasn’t a uniform thickness.

“But it should be,” he said, scratching at it with his fingernail.

A thought struck him and he just stood there for a moment, struck by the implications. Shaking himself back to sensibility, he picked up his bag and his lamp and headed toward the front of the building.

“Did you find anything?” Agent Westlake asked as Alex reached the front door.

“I think you can call off the search,” Alex said, keeping his voice low. “It looks like the counterfeiter used some kind of magic to escape.”

“Some kind?” Westlake asked, his brows knitting together. “You mean you don’t know.”

Alex shook his head.

“I don’t know everything about rune magic, Agent Westlake,” he said. “No one does. What I can tell you is that he’s gone.”

Westlake sighed.

“All right,” he said. “I appreciate your looking. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

Alex promised that he would, then hurried off down the sidewalk, shining his still lit multi lamp at the building as he went. He didn’t expect to find any residue on the front, nor on the side as he turned into an alley to move along the side of the bank. When he got behind it, however, he found a green glowing circle of fading residual magic in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable brick wall.

Twenty-five minutes later, Alex pushed through the front door of his office. As he expected, Sherry was on the phone, making notes on a pad in front of her. What he didn’t expect, but should have, was William Donovan sitting on his couch reading a newspaper.

“Truly salacious,” he said, folding the paper and setting it aside. “Especially what they’ve been saying about you.” He looked up at Alex.

“I would have thought you were smart enough not to believe everything you read in the paper,” Alex said.

“Oh, I am,” Donovan said, standing up, “but most people aren’t.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, that if they come for you over this Lucky Tony business, I’d be happy to find a place for you in my…organization.”

Alex was certain the spymaster could easily make him disappear, chuckling all the while.

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied, “but right now you’ve got bigger problems.”

“I assume you didn’t find young Bobby,” Donovan said.

“It’s much worse than that,” Alex said. “Do you have someone watching Wendell?”

“Of course, why?”

“Because he’s a much better runewright than we gave him credit for.” When Donovan didn’t respond, Alex continued. “Bobby left the bank using some kind of…exit rune.”

“I thought they were called escape runes.”

“No,” Alex said, “if he’d used an escape rune, the whole place would have lit up like the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center. This rune is different. I don’t know how, but when Bobby used it, it opened a hole in the back wall of the bank and he just…walked out through it.”

“And nobody noticed a hole in the back wall?” Donovan said, incredulity in his tone.

“That’s just it,” Alex continued, “it’s like a vault door; once you’re done with it, it closes up like it was never there.”

“Interesting,” Donovan said. “I wonder why they aren’t just using that rune to rob the bank vaults?”

“No idea,” Alex said. Admittedly that would be a better way to get money. “Maybe Wendell and Bobby were hoping to pull of the scam without getting noticed. A few banks get their vaults emptied out and it brings down all kinds of heat.”

“It’s as good an explanation as any,” Donovan admitted. “What I’m failing to understand is why this changes anything. Bobby’s not going to be able to spring Wendell from the hospital until his treatment is done, and once that happens, we’ll be waiting.”

“You’re assuming the exit rune is the only trick Bobby has up his sleeve,” Alex said. “What if Wendell has been busy? What if Bobby still has cards to play, like an actual escape rune? You might lose them both.”

Donovan chewed on his lip.

“You make a good point,” he said. “We need to wrap up Bobby before Wendell’s treatment is finished; the question is, how?”

Alex just shrugged.

“If I think of something, I’ll call you.”

26

TRANSLATIONS

“What’s the next one?” Sherry said, staring at the board with the representation of Cleopatra’s Needle under a pane of glass.

Alex held up his lamp, squinting at the obelisk.

“You should do this,” he said, trying to figure out what the little picture cut into the stone actually was.

“Just tell her what it looks like,” Iggy said as Sherry traced her finger along the vertical row of hieroglyphics in the printed image.

Alex took a step back, then two forward. It would be easier if he knew what constituted a complete symbol.

“I don’t know,” he said, “three shepherd’s crooks over an ocean? Then there’s a squinty eyeball, and an insect, maybe a bee.”

“Well, that’s not right,” Sherry said.

“Of course not,” Iggy agreed. “Everyone knows it’s eye before bee, except after sea.”

Alex rolled his eyes. By this point he was used to his mentor’s dry, British sense of humor. Sherry, however, looked at Iggy and actually groaned. For his part, Iggy chuckled away, completely oblivious to the reactions of his companions.

“You do this,” Alex said, handing Sherry his lamp and the yellow, pince-nez spectacles.

“Anything to get away from here,” she said.

“Just tell me what it says,” Alex said, taking out his notebook.

“Okay,” Sherry said, squinting up at the monument. “Fashioned, to be, lord, then there’s the number two, and that’s all that’s on the east face.”

“Fashioned to be lord two,” Alex read back.

“It makes sense at least,” Iggy said.

Sherry moved around and started reading again.

“The first bit is, the Lord,” she said. “Son of his loins, then fashioned, then perfections of their, then Kingdom, then giveth, then life, then and.”

“The lord, son of his loins, fashioned perfections of their life and,” Iggy read over Alex’s shoulder. “That doesn’t sound like a complete sentence.”

“Do you think the words are out of order?” Alex asked Sherry.

“No way to know,” she said. “I’m just reading them from top to bottom. You want me to do something different?”

Alex thought about that. Changing it up might yield something different, but there was no guarantee of that.

“No,” he said at last. “Keep going as you have been.”

“All right,” she said, “next face.”

She moved around the obelisk, then stared up again.

“First there’s the number 1, then Content with victory,” she read. “Who, then rulers of nations, ordered unto.” Sherry moved the lamp light down the stone then continued, “To,” she said.

“The number two?” Alex asked.

“No,” she replied, “Like t-o.”

Alex wrote that down.

“Okay, go on.”

“Giveth, then life, then the number three again.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s it for this side,” she said moving around to the last face. “There are only three highlighted symbols here, and they’re all connections that loosely translate to the.

Alex looked at his notes.

“Assuming these words all form a sentence, it isn’t a very long one,” Alex said.

“Thirty-four words by my count,” Iggy said.

“Are you sure they’re in the wrong order?” Sherry asked, still looking at the obelisk.

“I can’t think of a single instance where the word ‘the’ is repeated three times in the English language,” Iggy said.

“So how do we unscramble a word jumble that includes the phrases ‘content with victory,’ ‘son of his loins,’ and ‘rulers of nations’ in it?” Alex asked.

“There must be something in the Envelope,” Iggy said. “Something we didn’t recognize until we knew the clue was on an Egyptian obelisk.”

“Boys?” Sherry said.

“I don’t remember anything Egyptian in the envelope,” Alex said.

“Context, dear boy,” Iggy countered. “We’ll need to⁠—”

“Boys!” Sherry yelled.

Alex turned to find her leaning past the railing, trying to get closer to the obelisk.

“Sherry?” he asked.

“There’s something in the magic,” she said.

Alex moved up behind her and she passed him the yellow spectacles.

“Look at the bottom corner,” she said as Alex slipped the spectacles over his nose.

Alex squinted through the lenses, trying to focus on the green square hovering just off the surface of the stone.

“I can’t see it,” he said, then passed the spectacles to Iggy.

“Well, if you can’t see it, these old eyes don’t stand a chance,” his mentor said as he accepted the glasses.

“Just hold on to those,” Alex said, moving to where he’d set his kit bag down. A moment later he was back, slipping his oculus over his head. Rotating the outer collar until the lens turned yellow and he could see the glowing magic residue on the obelisk, Alex switched to the inner ring, twisting it until the magnified image came into focus.

“Well?” Iggy demanded as Alex stared at the glowing square.

“It’s a number,” he said, “written in the magic, just like the Textbook. It says, ‘Seventeen.’”

“Do they all have numbers?” Sherry asked.

Alex moved around the obelisk, checking each of the glowing rectangles.

“Looks that way,” he said as he went.

“I knew there must be some way to orient the clue,” Iggy said, “but this is quite clever.”

“It’s lucky I noticed it,” Sherry said. “Otherwise you two would be back at the brownstone trying to find a clue in whatever you’ve got. Which reminds me, you still haven’t told me what this treasure hunt of yours is all about.”

“I assure you, my dear,” Iggy said, “as soon as we find what’s at the end of this quest, we’ll let you in on our little secret.”

Sherry made a noise in her throat that clearly indicated doubts, but before the conversation could go any further, Alex found what he was looking for.

“Here it is,” he said, raising his voice to cut through the discussion. “Number one.”

He took off the oculus and offered it to Sherry.

“You’ll have to look around, but all the numbers are in the bottom right corner. Go ahead and read it out again.”

Sherry sighed and strapped the oculus over her eye.

“It’s one of the connectors,” she said, “the.”

She moved around until she found the second word.

“This is the number two.”

Alex wrote that down, keeping track of the numbers as she went. It took almost a quarter of an hour, but eventually, they had the entire clue.

“The two lord who fashioned the perfections of their kingdom, content with victory, giveth life to the son of his loins, fashioned to the three three lord, and ordered unto the rulers of nations,” Alex read.

“That makes a little more sense,” Iggy said. “It’s obviously talking about a person, but why are their two threes in the middle, back to back?”

“Maybe it means thirty-three,” Alex suggested.

“Or six,” Sherry said, “if you add them together.”

“Both excellent deductions,” Iggy admitted. “We’ll have to decode some of the clue before we know what it’s meant to be, I think.”

“Then we’ve done all we can do here,” Alex said, checking his watch. “It’s after five, what say we get some food to take out and head back to the brownstone.”

“Oh, no,” Sherry said. “You promised me a decent meal if I helped you out here.”

“Well, I’m too knackered to cook,” Iggy said, “what say we call Sorsha and dine at the Rainbow Room?”

Alex wanted to get started on this clue, but bringing Sorsha in would fill up their evening. Still, he had promised Sherry.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s head back to the office and I’ll contact her from there.”

When they reached the offices of Lockerby Investigations, Alex left Iggy and Sherry in the waiting room and excused himself to his office. Once there, he closed his door and sat on the corner of his desk, turning the telephone toward him. Taking out his rune book, he turned to the back and plucked a business card from the little flap. Picking up the handset, he used the rotary dial to call the number, then waited for it to ring.

“Donovan,” the spymaster said, picking up on the third ring.

“It’s Alex. I think I know how we can catch Bobby Sandoval.”

“I’m all ears,” Donovan said.

Alex outlined his plan, detailing what Donovan needed to do to help set it up.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Donovan said when Alex finished. “There’s this guy who calls himself the Broker, I’ll lean on him to help get the word out.”

“I’m already acquainted with Mr. Brewer,” Alex said. “You leave him to me, just make sure you hold up your end.”

“Why Alex,” Donovan said, “you’re a man of surprising depth. All right,” he conceded, “I’ll let you handle the Broker.”

There was a pause on the line and Alex sensed hesitation.

“What is it?” he pressed.

“I get that you’re going to lead this horse to water,” Donovan said, “but can you make him drink?”

“Don’t worry,” Alex chuckled. “When he gets thirsty enough, he’ll drink.”

Donovan wished him luck and hung up.

Tucking the business card back into his rune book, Alex leaned over his desk and opened the middle drawer, taking out a thin, black book. Flipping to the letter ‘L,’ he picked up the handset again and dialed another number.

“I need to speak to Mr. Chow,” he said when someone picked up, “tell him it’s Alex Lockerby.”

There was a pause and a minute later a man with a slight Asian accent came on the phone.

“I must admit, I’m a little distressed by what I’m reading in the papers about you,” Mr. Chow said by way of greeting. “I do hope you’ve kept my son out of your troubles.”

Alex felt a chill run up his spine.

“Danny’s nowhere near this,” he assured Shiro, “and don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“Excellent,” he said with no particular emphasis on the word. “What is the subject of this discussion then?”

“I’m going to give Mr. Brewer a call,” Alex said. “I wanted to run it by you first, of course.”

“I have made Mr. Brewer certain assurances,” Shiro said. “I appreciate being informed. What is the subject of this visit?”

Alex took a breath then launched into an explanation of what he needed to Danny’s father.

“You always impress me, Alex,” Mr. Chow said. “Mr. Brewer is probably the only man in the city who can do what you want. Very clever. Just be certain that if this soufflé you’re baking explodes, that none of it lands on my son or myself.”

“Understood,” Alex said, then hung up the phone.

As soon as the handset hit the cradle, his office door opened and Sorsha swept in. He had long ago given her one of his rune keys so she could pass through his office at will.

“What was all that about?” she asked, nodding at the phone.

“Something for William Donovan,” Alex said. “I think we can catch the counterfeiter.”

“And why does that involve Danny’s father?”

“It doesn’t, it involves Jeremy Brewer.”

Sorsha made a face.

“I could call Danny’s father back and let him know that you and I will talk to Brewer in person…”

“Don’t you dare,” Sorsha said. “I wouldn’t mind going out for Chinese, but I don’t want that man spoiling the evening.”

“What do you think about the Rainbow Room?”

Sorsha broke out in a demure smile, then sat down beside him on the desk.

“I’d be delighted,” she said. “We haven’t been dancing in a while.”

“We can dance,” Alex said, “but we’ll have some guests.”

He explained about his promise to Sherry and about Iggy’s reluctance to cook that evening.

“So,” Sorsha said, narrowing her eyes, “you just want me for my reserved table on the roof.”

“That’s not why I want you,” Alex growled, leaning in quickly to kiss her on the neck.

Sorsha let out a very unsorceresslike squeal and jumped off the desk.

“Don’t do that,” she scolded, but there was no anger in her eyes. “Now take the good doctor home and both of you put on a tuxedo, I’ll not be seen at the Rainbow Room with a party that’s dressed down.”

“What about Sherry?” Alex asked. Sherry was dressed very well for a front office secretary, but that was hardly fit for a fancy club.

“You worry about yourself,” Sorsha said. “I’ll take care of Miss Knox. Meet us back here in half an hour.”

“Yes, mother,” Alex said, leaning back to dodge the swipe Sorsha took at him before she headed into the hall and down toward the front office.

“Can you do that bubble trick?” Alex asked, leaning over the table to be heard above the Rainbow Room’s band.

Sorsha wore a form-fitting dress in her signature dark blue. It had full sleeves and went down to her knees, but the sleeves were more like gloves, only being attached to the dress by thin strips of fabric that left Sorsha’s shoulders bare. Much to Alex’s delight, the slit in the side of the skirt went up far enough to reveal a generous amount of leg.

Sherry was wearing some designer dress that Alex hadn’t seen Sorsha wear, though undoubtedly it came from her closet. It was burgundy, like the sorceress’ lipstick, and had frills along the shoulder than ran down one side.

“What?” Sorsha asked, leaning close to Alex.

“Exactly,” he said. “Your soundproof bubble.”

Comprehension dawned in the sorceress’ face and she snapped her fingers. Immediately the sounds of the band, the dancers on the floor, and the other diners vanished, leaving an echo in Alex’s ears that took a moment to go away.

“Much better,” he said.

“How?” Sherry demanded, so Sorsha explained the soundproofing to her.

“An excellent use of magic,” Iggy chuckled. “I really should figure out a rune to do the same thing. I’d make a fortune selling them.”

“Well,” Alex mused, “we already know how to make a bubble around someone; the minor barrier rune does just that. The problem would be keeping sound out; that’s got to be an order of magnitude more power.”

“Enough of that,” Sorsha interjected before Iggy could comment. “I don’t want you two wandering off into a discussion of magical theory. First, it would bore Sherry, and second, I want to know what you’re doing to clear Alex’s name of Mr. Casetti’s murder.”

Alex was surprised by Sorsha’s chosen topic, but he rallied.

“Let me guess,” he said, “there was another hit-piece about me in the papers?”

“Ironically, no,” Sorsha explained, “it was the Times reporter demanding to know why the District Attorney hasn’t filed charges yet.”

“What did he say?” Iggy asked. Clearly he didn’t have time to read the paper either.

“He said that the investigation is still ongoing.”

“That is strange,” Alex said. “They already have the evidence from Tony’s safe house and Phillip Trent’s apartment, what else are they investigating?”

“They’re still looking for a way to pin the murders on you,” Sherry said, sipping her wine. “I’m sure they’ll keep investigating until they get what they want.”

Alex knew the tone in his secretary’s voice, this wasn’t her ladies’ intuition, this was her gift, not that he needed that reassurance to believe her analysis.

“It is a problem,” Iggy said, nursing his whisky. “We need to find out who’s actually behind the plot to smear your name.”

“The only lead I have is that safe deposit box full of bonds,” Alex said. “I don’t for a minute think they belonged to Phillip Trent.”

“Do you think he stole them?” Sorsha asked. “Is that what this whole sordid affair is about?”

“I doubt it,” Iggy said. “Everything up to now has been carefully orchestrated. Whoever put those bonds in that safe deposit box meant for Alex to find them.”

“Why?” Sherry asked.

“They’re the bait in the trap,” Alex said. “They’ve marked them, or someone in the bank is their inside man, it doesn’t matter; as soon as I show up to collect them, the cops will be on me in a second.”

“There are other ways to remove them,” Sorsha pointed out.

“True,” Alex admitted, “but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Sherry asked.

“Unfortunately, my dear,” Iggy explained, “the point is to use their own trap to bait out the people behind the shooting of Mr. Casetti and everything that’s happened since.”

Sorsha gave Alex an alarmed look.

“Is the doctor saying what I think he’s saying?”

Alex nodded.

“If I want to clear my name, the only move I have left is to spring their trap.”

“But it’s a trap,” Sherry pointed out.

“And knowing that gives us the advantage,” Iggy said.

“It doesn’t feel like you’ve got much of an advantage,” Sorsha countered.

“Well, I’m not quite ready to put myself on the firing line,” Alex said, flashing Sorsha a sly grin. “First I’ve got to get Donovan out of my hair, something I could use your help with,” he told the sorceress. “Then, if I’m going to get out of the trap with my skin and my reputation, I’m going to need some props.”

27

STONES

Alex paced back and forth in the brownstone’s library. Every third or forth pass, he’d step to the big bay window over Iggy’s dime novel trunk and look down at the street.

“Please sit down,” Iggy said, glancing up from his latest pulp acquisition. “You’re expecting a phone call, not a visitor, and you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“How long does it take to spread a few rumors,” he growled. “The Broker should have had this taken care of yesterday.”

“If you knew how to do his business, you wouldn’t need him to do it,” Iggy said. “It stands to reason he’s moving as fast as possible.”

“Assuming he’s not sitting on his hands and just laughing about it,” Alex countered.

“Counterfeiting affects his business, too,” Iggy said. “He’s got no reason to fight you and every reason to go along.”

That was true, as much as Alex hated to admit it. He’d had Shiro ask the Broker for a favor, one the criminal entrepreneur was reportedly eager to carry out. If nothing else, he was keeping his powerful and dangerous host happy, and that was worth any effort he’d have to put in.

Still, Alex thought, he should have called by now.

As if manifesting from his will, the telephone rang. Alex and Iggy exchanged looks, then Iggy rose and they both headed to the kitchen.

“Lockerby,” Alex said when he picked up the phone.

“It’s the Broker,” Jeremy Brewer said, Alex recognizing his voice.

“Everything squared away?” Alex asked when Brewer didn’t go on.

“Took longer than I thought,” Brewer said.

Alex was about to demand an explanation, when he continued.

“The good news is, I got ahold of your counterfeiter. With the banks requiring a two day hold on exchanged currency and the coin shops not buying right now, he had to reach out.” There was the briefest of pauses on the line, then Brewer continued. “How did you manage that, by the way?”

Alex chuckled.

“The Feds want this guy,” he said, “so they took care of the banks. As for the coin dealers…I know a guy.”

He didn’t want to out Arthur Wilks of Callahan Brothers Property to the person who was likely his most significant rival.

“Well, it worked,” Brewer said when Alex didn’t elaborate. “Someone he reached out to contacted someone I knew and that was that. I talked with him right before I called you.”

“Did he take the bait?”

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Brewer said.

Alex thanked him, letting go of his previous irritation. Brewer had gotten him the results he wanted, and now all he had to do was wait.

“This better not come back on me, Lockerby,” Brewer said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

“Relax,” Alex said. “What do you think would happen to me, if I led the Feds to the Lucky Dragon so they could arrest you?”

There was silence on the line while Brewer mulled that comment over.

“Our mutual friend wouldn’t like that,” he finally said, referring to Shiro.

“No,” Alex agreed, “he would not.”

“Fine,” Brewer said at last. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t hear from you again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Alex said, then hung up.

“Everything ready?” Iggy asked.

Alex nodded at him while he took out his rune book and removed a business card from the back. Picking up the phone’s earpiece again, Alex waited for the operator, then gave her the exchange from the card. A moment later the voice of Agent Westlake came on.

“Stan?” Alex said, “it’s Alex. I’ve got very good news for you.”

“You found him?” Westlake’s excited voice burst over the line.

“Not quite,” Alex said, keeping up the enthusiasm in his voice, “but I know exactly where he’s going to be in just a little under two hours.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“It’s a long story,” Alex said with a grin, “I’ll tell you all about it after you and two or three of your boys meet me at…have you got a pencil?”

“I’m ready,” he replied.

Alex gave him the address and encouraged him to hurry, then hung up.

“I’ll get my coat,” Iggy said, untying the sash of his purple smoking jacket.

“Sorry,” Alex said, putting a hand on Iggy’s arm. “I’ve already got a partner for this job.”

Iggy gave him a sour look, but Alex clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

“It better be someplace nice,” he groused.

“How about the Astor Roof?” Alex said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do and only an hour or so to do them.”

Alex passed through his vault into the back hallway of his office, checking his watch as he went. There was still plenty of time, but he definitely didn’t want to be late.

From behind him, Sorsha cleared her throat and Alex turned, holding the door for her even though he’d gone through first.

“I appreciate that you’re in a hurry for this mysterious outing, but that’s no excuse to forget your manners,” she said. He’d called her at work, so they’d had to stop by her castle so she could change out of her usual work outfit consisting of slacks, a vest, and a button-up shirt. Now she wore a modest sundress with a blue and yellow floral pattern.

“My apologies,” Alex said bowing low as she passed.

Sorsha smirked at him as he closed the door, but then her expression got serious.

“If there’s food involved in this little errand of yours,” she said, looking at him intently, “it better be good. I had three meetings this week that were catered by the same dreadful company, so no dog wagons or greasy spoons.”

Alex put his hand over his heart and adopted a mortified expression.

“Madam,” he said, sounding deeply offended, “you wound me.”

“That’s not all I’m going to do if you stop at an automat.”

“Don’t worry, doll,” Alex said, letting a smile spread across his face. “There’s not going to be any food where we’re going. That said,” he continued when Sorsha’s expression soured a bit, “you can explain everything about our adventure to Iggy at the Astor Hotel’s Rooftop Gardens.”

That seemed to cheer Sorsha up and she leaned against him.

“See,” she said in a saccharine voice, “you do remember your manners when you try — and don’t call me ‘doll.’”

Alex took her arm, then led her along the hall to the front office. When they entered, both Sherry and Mike were there, discussing some ongoing case. The conversation ceased, however, when they saw Sorsha.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sorsha said.

“Alex doesn’t like us to talk shop in front of clients,” Mike said, “or anyone, really.”

Sorsha gave Alex an appraising look.

“Is that what I am around here?” she asked. “Just an outsider?”

Her tone was light and flirty, but Alex could read that danger sign from a mile away.

“Force of habit, my dear,” he said.

“‘My dear’?” Sorsha shot back. “I almost prefer ‘doll.’”

Alex opened his mouth, but Sorsha cut him off.

“Almost,” she emphasized. “Now, isn’t it about time you told me what this secret mission of yours is?”

“You get to help me catch a counterfeiter,” he said.

Sorsha looked a bit confused by that.

“How am I going to do that?” she asked.

“By pretending to be my wife and excitedly looking for a nice tennis bracelet for me to buy for you.”

Sorsha raised her eyebrows at that and a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth.

“Now that does sound like fun,” she said. “I don’t know why you were being so secretive.”

“Because it’s basically a stake out,” Sherry said, trying not to smile.

“You mean we’re going to be standing around for hours while we wait for your counterfeiter to arrive?” Sorsha asked him, assessing the situation perfectly.

“Hopefully not,” Alex said. “Our man was given a very specific time window, between four-thirty and five.”

“So we only have to stand around for half an hour,” Sorsha corrected her previous statement.

“I’ve seen you shop for longer,” Alex said, his voice dry.

Sorsha laughed at that, her nose wrinkling adorably.

“I suppose you have,” she said.

Alex offered her his arm, but before she could take it, Mike spoke up.

“Real quick,” he said. “I got everything taken care of. Mr. Barton helped with the bank, but I got it all done.”

Alex thanked him, then offered his arm again.

“Are you sure you want to take Miss Kincaid with you?” Sherry asked.

Sorsha gave her a dark look, but Sherry didn’t react.

“She is one of the most recognizable women in the city, after all.”

Alex hadn’t even considered that. For most people, seeing a real live sorcerer was akin to seeing a movie star, though infinitely more terrifying. His mind flashed back to the chill that ran up his spine that day she’d walked into his old mid-ring office. He didn’t read fashion magazines, but he’d known her instantly.

“Maybe stop and pick up a wig,” Mike offered.

Sherry quickly put her hand over her mouth to hide her grin at that suggestion. Sorsha, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered.

“You don’t have a wig in that dimensional storage box of yours, do you?” Alex asked.

“Of course not,” she growled at him as if the suggestion were preposterous. She did, however, reach out into empty air and pull a hand mirror into her grip. “Hold this,” she said, handing Alex her purse.

Holding the mirror out at arm’s length, Sorsha turned her head this way and that, observing it from all angles. After a moment, her hair began to shimmer, and then to change. It grew longer, dropping down just past her shoulders, and the color changed from a platinum blonde to a glossy black. Just as Alex thought she was finished, Sorsha’s hair seemed to rise up as it pulled itself into loose curls. At the same time, her pale Nordic complexion darkened to something more Mediterranean.

“There,” she said, looking at him with dark brown eyes. “That should do the trick.”

Alex stared at her. She was still the same Sorsha, but on the other hand, it was like she was a completely different person. That opened up some interesting possibilities.

“Go on,” Sorsha said, leaning close with a dangerously predatory grin. “Say it.”

She had clearly read Alex’s thoughts from the unguarded expression on his face.

“I have nothing to say,” he replied, his voice completely and carefully devoid of any emotion, “nothing whatsoever.”

“Good,” she said, standing straight again.

“Although,” Alex continued, pressing his luck, “I do wonder why it takes you so long to get ready to go out if you can just do that.”

Sorsha’s eyes narrowed into slits and Sherry snorted, covering her mouth again.

“You know what, never mind,” Alex said, sticking out his arm. “Whatever time it takes you is clearly worth the goddess that shows up at the end.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Sorsha said, her dark eyes turning blue for a brief moment. She took his arm and together, they left the office in the direction of the elevator.

“Alex,” James Van der Waller said as Alex led Sorsha into his store. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m a nervous wreck.”

Alex didn’t need to be told that; he could hear the tension in the little man’s voice, and his bald pate was sweating.

“Deep breaths,” Alex said, stepping up to the counter. “Sorsha, this is James Van der Waller, owner and operator. James, this is Sorsha Kincaid.”

“The sorceress?” James said, a quizzical look on his face.

Alex leaned in and lowered his voice.

“She’s in disguise.”

Sorsha rolled her eyes, but James understood immediately.

“Many famous people like to shop incognito,” he said, then turning to Sorsha, he gave a small bow. “I didn’t know Alex was so well connected.”

Alex wondered how that was possible, considering how it was rare for a month to go by without a story about his dating habits making the tabloids.

“Have Agent Westlake and his men arrived?” he said.

James shook his head.

“I’ve been listening for the back door, but so far no one has knocked.”

Alex told Westlake to bring his boys through the back in case Bobby was staking out the store.

“Well, he should be along any minute,” Alex assured him.

I hope, he added to himself.

James took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I appreciate you thinking of me, Alex,” he said, patting his chest in an effort to slow his breathing, “but I’m not cut out for these criminal games.”

“Just relax,” Alex said. “This guy isn’t some hardened criminal with a gun in his pocket, he’s just a kid trying to get money for his dad’s hospital bills.”

“What if he does bring a gun?” James said, his voice reduced to a squeak.

“First of all, his name is Bobby and he won’t have a gun,” Alex said.

“And secondly,” Sorsha added, “Alex brought me to make sure nothing happens to you.”

That seemed to calm James down tremendously and he actually smiled. That smile ran away from his face a moment later when a knock came from the back door.

“I’ll get that,” Alex said, patting James on the shoulder. “Why don’t you show Miss Kincaid some nice tennis bracelets?”

Alex stepped around the counter and headed into the back. He’d been to the back of Van den Waller’s Jewelry before, years ago when he located a case of missing diamonds for the man. To one side was a complete workstation for cutting, polishing, and fitting diamonds into various pieces of jewelry. While James did the work on the stones himself, the rings, bracelets, and necklaces were designed by famous designer Melissa Calomey, and produced elsewhere.

On the other side stood a large steel safe next to a work desk littered with paper. The delivery door was sandwiched between each area and Alex twisted each of the three heavy locks that kept it secure before pulling it open.

“Alex,” Agent Westlake greeted him, seeming a bit flustered and more than a bit irritated.

“What kept you?” Alex asked, genuinely curious.

“Some higher-up is muscling in on my operation,” he grumbled as three burly men in suits followed him into the shop.

“Do you know why?” Alex asked, shutting and re-locking the door.

Alex knew very well why, since he’d set the whole thing up, but he wasn’t about to tell Westlake about William Donovan.

“No,” Westlake admitted. “My boss called right after I hung up with you and told me someone named Donovan would be by once we made the arrest and I’m supposed to relinquish the counterfeiter into his custody.”

“You don’t even get any credit for the arrest?”

Westlake chuckled.

“That’s the one bright spot,” he said. “Donovan insisted that I get all the credit. I guess no one is supposed to know that he’s involved.”

“Well, that should make your boss happy,” Alex said.

“It will,” Westlake sighed. “I just don’t like not being able to finish a case. My counterfeiter isn’t going to spend the next twenty years in jail, he’s going to be in some government office working off his debt to society.”

“Well, as long as it gets paid, who cares who the collector is?” Alex pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right,” Westlake admitted. “Besides, I’m getting close to retiring, the last thing I need is to raise my blood pressure.”

“All right,” Alex said, heading back to the front of the store, “the counterfeiter should be here any minute. He’s a young man who goes by Bobby Sandoval, stay out of sight and listen. James will bring him back here so you can grab him and make the arrest.”

Westlake gave Alex an authoritative nod, and Alex passed through the curtain to rejoin the others.

James was in the process of showing Sorsha a bracelet with tiny diamonds in five neat rows that ran around the band. In the middle was a slightly wider piece set with diamonds and emeralds for color. Alex knew nothing about fancy tennis bracelets, but he knew expensive when he saw it, and he figured he could probably buy a house in Brooklyn for less than the emerald bracelet was worth.

“It’s lovely,” Sorsha said, holding it over her wrist so Alex could see.

“It is that,” Alex admitted.

It was clear that James was really selling the tennis bracelet story as there were four equally expensive-looking bracelets laid out on a black cloth atop the counter. One by one, Sorsha held them up and discussed how they did or did not satisfy her tastes. The last bracelet in line had the word ‘Name’ laid out in the stones on the band.

“I can put whatever name you want on there,” James said helpfully, as Sorsha examined it.

“I don’t know that I’d want my name on my jewelry,” Sorsha said. “It’s too obvious.”

“Use your middle name,” Alex said. He knew that Sorsha Kincaid wasn’t Sorsha’s real name, but he didn’t know if she had adopted a middle name. “Do you have a middle name?” he asked.

“I do have a middle name,” she said, looking coy.

“And?” Alex pressed.

“It’s Therese,” she said. “It was my mother’s name.”

Alex wondered if that had been part of her original name, or if she’d adopted it later, but he decided not to ask. He’d learned what he wanted to know.

Ten minutes later, just as Alex was starting to wish he’d never thought of this cover story, the bell over the door chimed and a young man with brown, curly hair entered.

There wasn’t anything especially noteworthy about him, other than the fact that he looked too young to be looking for jewelry by himself. Alex knew this was Bobby; it had to be given his resemblance to his father, Wendell.

“Excuse me,” James said, then he walked to the other end of the counter where Bobby waited. They had a brief, hushed conversation, then James turned to Alex and Sorsha.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, then led Bobby into the back.

As soon as the young man disappeared through the curtain that separated the back room from the front of the store, a short ruckus erupted. A moment later, James came back with Agent Westlake in tow.

“It went off just like you said, Alex,” Westlake said as his men followed him out of the back, bringing a handcuffed Bobby with them.

The bell over the door chimed and Alex turned to find William Donovan, himself, entering.

“You don’t understand,” Bobby wailed. “You have to let me go.”

“Easy, kid,” Donovan said, stepping up to the youn man. “Your father’s going to be just fine. Right now, what he wants is for you to come along quietly so you don’t get hurt.”

“You don’t know anything about my dad,” Bobby said, pulling on his handcuffs as if he thought he could break the chain that connected them.

Donovan leaned in and whispered something and, after a moment, Bobby visibly relaxed.

“All right, Agent Westlake,” Donovan said, turning to the tall, athletic older man. “Have your men put our young friend in that brown car by the curb.”

While Westlake passed along the order, Donovan reached into his coat and took out a sealed envelope.

“What’s this?” Westlake asked as Donovan passed it to him.

“A commendation from the President,” Donovan explained. “Detailing how your hard work and dedication prevented a major financial disaster from befalling this nation.”

Westlake looked at the envelope, then opened his suit coat and tucked it into the inside pocket.

“I suppose it’s a good consolation prize,” he said.

For his part, Donovan laughed and clapped the bigger man on the shoulder.

“I thought you’d see it that way,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take young Bobby to see his father.”

With that, Donovan turned and left.

“A commendation from Roosevelt,” he said, looking at Alex. “Not bad at all.”

“You earned it,” Alex said.

“Did I? All I really did was bring you in on the case. You did most of the heavy lifting.”

Alex just shrugged.

“I’ll send you a bill,” he said.

Westlake shook Alex’s hand, then headed for the door. Once he was gone, Alex turned to Sorsha.

“You can take off your disguise now,” he said. “Not that I don’t like this look, but I prefer the real you.”

Sorsha shook her head and her dark hair vanished, leaving her platinum bob and pale complexion behind. When she looked back at Alex, her blue eyes were back and she sighed.

“It’s like tensing a muscle,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me while I hold it, but it feels good to let it go.”

“James,” Alex said, turning to the proprietor, “do you have that favor you owe me?”

James nodded and handed Alex a folded cloth.

“Do you mean to say,” Sorsha said, hands on her hips, “that you bullied poor James into using his shop for this?”

“Of course not,” Alex said, opening the cloth so that a platinum ring set with a diamond and two sapphires rolled out into his palm. “I did that so I could do this.”

With that, he dropped down on his knee and held up the ring so she could see it.

“Sorsha Therese Kincaid, will you marry me?”

28

BAIT

Alex squared his shoulders as he stood in front of the garment district branch of Hudson Security Bank. He didn’t need to stand there, empty leather valise in his hand, but he knew someone was watching and he didn’t want to take the chance of them missing him.

He placed a lot of faith in his assumptions, and it would be a shame if his mysterious opponent didn’t show up.

Satisfied that he’d paused for long enough, Alex strode away from the curb and up the steps that led to the bank’s front door. Moving like he hadn’t a care in the world, Alex entered and proceeded past the tellers to a woman sitting at a desk along the back wall. Giving her the deposit box key, he waited while she summoned a manager to take Alex to the vault.

Alex didn’t have to check his watch to know that there were only ten minutes left until the bank closed. He’d timed his entry specifically to avoid the general manager he’d spoken to the last time he’d visited.

Less than a minute later, the girl returned with a thin man in tow. He looked to be in his late twenties, dressed in an immaculate gray suit with slicked back hair and a warm smile.

“I’m Gregory Wilson, the assistant manager,” he said. “Are you Mr. Lockerby?”

Alex nodded as the girl handed him Alex’s key.

“Right this way,” he said, turning to the hallway that led to the vault. “If you’ll just wait here,” he said, indicating a small room with a table and a single chair, “I’ll bring your box in directly.”

Alex knew the drill: Gregory would go to the vault, use both keys to remove the metal box, then bring it to him in the little room. He would then leave Alex alone with the box for as long as Alex wanted, or until closing time.

As Alex sat, he could hear the jangling of keys and a clang as the inner cage door of the vault opened. A minute later, Gregory was back with the metal box, placing it on the table, then withdrawing.

Standing immediately, Alex put his leather valise on the table. He pulled up the hinged metal lid of the safe deposit box and quickly began transferring the paper bonds to the valise. It took less than a minute to empty the box, then he opened the door and waited for Gregory Wilson to return it to the vault and bring him the deposit key.

“Thank you for banking with us,” he said as Alex headed for the door.

Taking a deep breath, Alex put his hand on the door and pushed it open. Stepping outside, he paused at the top of the steps. He saw them, of course; they weren’t making any attempt to be subtle. Four uniformed police officers stood at the bottom of the stairs, two on each side. Alex noted that he didn’t know any of them. Beyond them, at the curb, were two police cars, sitting with their engine’s running.

Alex continued down the stairs as the police moved to intercept him.

“Hello, boys,” he said in his most genial voice. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Wait here,” one of the officers said as he took Alex’s left arm. A policeman on the other side grabbed his right arm as well.

Both men looked to the street, and the door to the first police car opened and Detective Nicholson got out. Alex expected him to be followed by his boss, Lieutenant James Detweiler, but instead a heavyset man with hair going gray at the temples followed him out.

“Assistant Director Washburn,” Alex said, missing pieces of the puzzle snapping into place. He didn’t think he had all of it yet, but the sight of the FBI Assistant Director of the Jersey City field office definitely made sense.

“I’m afraid we need to see inside your bag, Alex,” Detective Nicholson said, keeping his voice polite.

Alex wasn’t surprised to see the detective here. Nicholson never had been very bright, and Washburn would need someone with actual authority to make arrests in Manhattan. Someone he could either bully or manipulate.

“This bag?” Alex said, holding up the valise. “I hope you have a search warrant.”

“Don’t make this harder on yourself than it needs to be,” Washburn growled.

“You’re a little out of your jurisdiction,” Alex said as one of the cops jerked the bag out of his hand. “Although now Lucky Tony’s murder makes more sense.”

Washburn had bet his whole career on bringing down the Rosono crime family, only to have its head, Lucky Tony Casetti, give it up and take the family legit. Alex knew it had been a blow to the man and that he’d been watching Lucky Tony ever since. Washburn had even put men on the brownstone to follow Alex around at one point. It made perfect sense for him to be involved in a plot that resulted in Lucky Tony’s death.

“I’m just here as an observer right now,” he said, a predatory grin spreading over his face.

“Detective,” the policeman who’d seized Alex’s bag called. He held up one of the red and green printed bonds.

“Just where did you get these?” Nicholson said, coming over to examine the bond.

“They’re part of an ongoing case,” Alex said. “That’s all I’m at liberty to say.”

Nicholson scratched at the bond with his thumbnail, then turned to Washburn and nodded.

“That’s my cue,” he said. “These bonds appear to be Dutch in origin.”

“So?” Alex shot back.

“So a large number of these Dutch bearer bonds were stolen from a man named Marco Baratta,” Washburn said, his face splitting into a delighted sneer.

Alex knew that name. The Baratta family ran most of the west side of Manhattan in the days before prohibition. Lucky Tony had risen to lead the Rosono mob by pushing Marco and the Baratta family out of their territory.

“Stolen by your former friend,” Washburn went on, “the man you murdered, Lucky Tony Casetti.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Alex said.

“Then why do you have the bonds Mr. Casetti used to cement his rise to power?”

“Those aren’t Lucky Tony’s bonds,” Alex said.

“They have serial numbers on them,” Washburn shot back. “Once we check them against a list of the stolen bonds, your goose is cooked.”

“I like goose,” Alex said, keeping his expression neutral.

“Keep that attitude, funny man,” Washburn said, his confident sneer finally cracking. “Take him away, detective.”

Detective Nicholson nodded at one of the policemen who had hold of Alex’s arm and the man slapped a handcuff on his wrist.

“You’re under arrest,” he said as the cop on the other side pulled his hand behind his back where the first officer secured it as well.

Alex tried to put on the most confident smile he could as suddenly a mass of reporters rushed from the corner of the bank and began snapping pictures. As he was led to the patrol car, he wasn’t surprised when none of them shouted any questions in his direction.

Two hours later, Alex sat in an interrogation room. Detective Nicholson had asked him questions about the bonds and how he got them out of the bank. For his part, Alex had given only simple and obvious answers until Nicholson was called away. Apparently it was taking a while for the police to get the list of stolen bonds from the evidence warehouse, or at least that was their story. Now Alex knew that Assistant Director Washburn had been the one to put the bonds in safe deposit box thirty-five so that Alex could find them. He clearly had the list of missing bonds, but he couldn’t just produce it without raising questions about why he had it, so that left the police to rummage through evidence storage for the original files on the bond theft.

When the door to the interrogation room opened, Alex expected to see Nicholson, finally returning with more evidence and more questions. Instead, it was Andrew Barton’s attorney, Milton Ackerman, who entered.

“How are you holding up?” he asked as he sat down across from Alex and set his shiny leather briefcase on the table beside him.

“Fine, all things considered.”

“I’ve been over the charges the police are preparing,” Ackerman went on as if he hadn’t heard Alex’s reply, “and if they can prove those bonds are the same ones from the Baratta robbery, it makes their case against you for Mr. Casetti’s murder stronger.”

“But still circumstantial,” Alex pointed out.

“Men have gone to the chair on circumstantial evidence,” Ackerman warned. “Don’t take this lightly.”

“Trust me,” Alex said, leaning forward across the table, “I’m not.”

“Good,” Ackerman said, pulling a legal pad and pen from his briefcase. “Now it’s too late to get a bail hearing, but I doubt any judge would release you at this point. Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I can start putting together a defense?”

“Never mind about that,” Alex said. “What time is it?”

Ackerman pushed up his sleeve to reveal a wristwatch.

“It’s just after seven,” he said. “Why?”

“No reason,” Alex said. “It’s just there’s no clocks in here and I’m starting to get hungry.”

Ackerman looked at Alex the same way dogs did when their owners talked to them, with his head cocked to one side.

“I don’t understand,” he said, “you’re in here facing charges for conspiracy and murder and you’re worried about food. Just tell me what happened at the bank?”

“That’s something else you don’t need to worry about,” Alex said, then he reached out and tapped the legal pad. “Write this down. There’s a letter addressed to you in my office. My secretary, Sherry Knox, is holding it for you and she’ll be there waiting for you as soon as you leave here.”

“Why all the secrecy?”

“Because it’s a lot to explain and I didn’t know if we’d have time to talk about it here,” Alex explained. “Once you read the letter, you’ll need to talk to Andrew, but that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Ackerman finished writing and looked up at Alex.

“You really think you’re in that much danger?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“More than you think,” Alex said, lowering his voice as well. “Whoever is framing me, whoever shot Tony, they want me dead or in jail for a very long time. They’re not going to just sit by and let me ruin their scheme. They’re going to have someone here to make sure everything goes according to plan or to kill me if it doesn’t.”

“Do you know who’s behind all of this?” the lawyer whispered. “I’m sure Andrew would love to have that information.”

The clear implication was that the Lightning Lord would come down to the station and personally take care of the guilty party. That was the last thing Alex needed. He knew Assistant Director Washburn was involved, but he’d met the man before and Washburn didn’t have the mind for something this complicated. If Alex wanted to know who was really pulling the strings, he was just going to have to wait until they showed their hand.

“I’ll be all right,” he insisted to Ackerman. “You’ll understand when you read my letter.”

“All right,” the lawyer said, packing up his pad and pen. “I’ll have a word with the desk sergeant by the elevator and see if they can get you a sandwich or something.”

Alex thanked him, and Ackerman walked out.

When he left, Detective Nicholson came back in. He looked smug as he took the seat on the far side of the desk, but the satisfied smile on his face wasn’t reflected in his eyes.

“Having trouble with the evidence storage?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Nicholson said, his confidence returning. “You and I both know that those bonds are the ones Lucky Tony stole. It’s only a matter of time until we find that list.”

“You could always ask Assistant Director Washburn for his copy,” Alex said. “He’s the one that put those bonds in that safe deposit box, after all.”

“Shut up,” Nicholson growled, but his confidence was gone again.

“Of course, then you’d have to explain why he had a copy of the exact piece of evidence you needed. Honestly, I’m wondering why Captain Callahan hasn’t asked him to explain how he knew where those bonds were in the first place.”

“You think you’re so smart,” Nicholson said. “We didn’t know where they were, we just followed you around. It helped that the bank manager called us after your little visit.”

Alex had to admit that was a convincing cover story, one he was certain Detective Nicholson hadn’t thought up. Nicholson was an adequate detective, but he didn’t have the kind of imagination to really be clever. From what Alex had seen of Washburn, he and Nicholson were birds of a feather, and that meant someone else had cooked up this scheme. Whoever they were, they were clever enough to get Alex thrown in jail for shooting Tony, but they’d left enough to chance that Alex had managed to wiggle out. When that happened, they sacrificed Phillip Trent, effectively shutting him up and casting more suspicion on Alex. Whoever was behind it was smart, but didn’t have experience with frame-ups.

“Nothing to say, Lockerby?” Nicholson taunted when Alex didn’t reply. “You’re the kind of guy who likes to run his mouth, so what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Alex yawned.

“You’ve got nothing solid on me,” Alex said. “I’ll be out of here in no time.”

Nicholson’s face clouded with rage and he suddenly lashed out, landing a fist right to Alex’s cheek. Because of the table between them, the blow wasn’t as strong as it could have been, but it was enough.

Alex raised his head, rubbing his cheek.

“That was pretty good, Detective,” he said. “But you’re forgetting who my friends are. If I come out of lockup all covered in bruises, two of New York’s sorcerers are going to be pretty upset.”

“They’re not going to shield you once they know the truth,” Nicholson snarled. “The people of this city don’t like murderers. Pretty soon you won’t have any friends.”

“Well,” Alex said, ignoring his sore jaw, “until that happens, you better mind your manners.”

Nicholson looked like he wanted to hit Alex again, but he clearly thought better of it. He wasn’t the brightest detective in the city, but he wasn’t stupid. He took a moment and visibly relaxed.

“Do yourself a favor, Lockerby,” he said, his voice calm and even. “If you confess, it could mean the difference between spending the rest of your life in prison, or going to the chair. I’ve seen that, it ain’t pretty.”

“Sorry, Detective,” Alex said. “I just have this rule about not confessing to crimes I didn’t commit. It’s a matter of principle, you see.”

Nicholson shook his head and sighed.

“Fine,” he said, “maybe a night in the cooler will give you time to think.”

Alex wasn’t sure if they’d given him the same cell as before; most of the cells in the Central Office’s lockup looked the same. Whether it was or not didn’t really matter, he still had trouble getting to sleep, despite being tired. He’d give anything for a cigarette, but the police had confiscated all his personal possessions.

“This is getting to be a habit,” Sorsha said, appearing outside his cell. She leaned on the bars for a moment, breathing though her nose as the wave of nausea that accompanied teleportation ran its course.

“Thanks for coming,” Alex whispered, sitting up on his metal cot.

Sorsha held up her index finger for a moment, then she took a deep breath and stood up. With a wave of her hand, Alex felt the air pressure change and his ears popped as her silence magic enveloped them. Once that was done, she touched the lock on his cell door and it clicked open.

“You’re wearing the ring,” Alex observed as she opened the door and stepped inside.

Sorsha wore black slacks, a blue shirt with a black vest, and a hooded cloak over everything. With the hood up, the only thing that stood out in the darkness of the lockup was the diamond and sapphire ring on her left hand.

“You didn’t expect me to take it off, did you?” she said, her tone aghast. She held out her hand and admired the jewelry. “I think you did a very good job, and I should show it off as much as possible.”

Alex patted the cot beside him and Sorsha sat, leaning into his side.

“You might want to consider putting that thing in a drawer until all this is over,” he said. “I’m sure there will be more of those ‘gangster’ stories in the paper by morning. It might hurt your business if people know we’re official now.”

Sorsha scoffed.

“First of all,” she said, “no one else even makes refrigeration disks, so my customers are loyal.”

“That’s not loyalty,” Alex objected, “it’s a lack of options.”

“You say potato…” Sorsha said, waving her hand as if to dismiss the objection. “Besides, the evening papers were already touting stories of your infamy, and not just the tabloids. There was even a story in the Times.”

Alex wasn’t surprised by this; the mastermind behind the plot to ruin him had shown a remarkable ability to manipulate the press.

Sorsha took his hand and smiled, but he could tell she was worried, at least a little bit.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. “I still have a few aces to play.”

Sorsha sat up, pulling away from him, and gave him a steely look.

“I’m almost your wife,” she said, steel in her voice as well. “I’ve had it with you playing those aces so close to your vest. You are going to sit there and tell me this marvelous plan of yours or so help me⁠—”

“All right,” Alex interrupted her. He laughed at her adorable stern expression, then put a reassuring hand on her knee. “First of all, you really don’t have to worry that they’re going to find me guilty of killing Tony.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” Alex said with his most innocent smile. “I have an alibi.”

Sorsha was not amused and she pulled him down until her forehead touched his.

“Explain it to me,” she growled, her eyes glowing softly. “Now.”

“Okay,” Alex chuckled. “To understand, you have to go back to the day Lucky Tony was shot.”

29

REVELATIONS

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the dusty tenement hallway, sending a chill through Alex. He’d been shot at enough that he flinched away from the door, but there weren’t any holes in the wood, so whoever was shooting, they weren’t shooting at him.

The gunshot was immediately followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. It was that sound that forced Alex to move. Stepping back, he lifted his foot, then lashed out at the door just below the lock. The jamb split and the door flew open, revealing a surprisingly neat apartment beyond.

Alex didn’t have time to assess the apartment in detail because of the body on the floor. A body he recognized.

“Tony,” he shouted, darting inside and kneeling by the stricken man.

Blood seeped out under his white shirt from a hole right through the breast pocket.

“Alex,” Tony gasped, a rattling wheeze in his voice.

“Boss!”

Alex looked up to see Connie and a younger man he didn’t know come bursting into the room. Both had heavy, automatic pistols in their hands, ready for anything.

“Hold it,” the younger man said, pointing his gun at Alex.

“Easy,” Connie said, grabbing the younger man’s gun and pulling it down. “What happened?” he asked Alex.

“I was outside the door,” Alex began, pulling out his handkerchief.

“Window,” Tony gasped as Alex covered the wound and began pressing down.

“Check it,” Connie said to the other man, then knelt down beside Alex. “How bad is it?”

“It isn’t good,” Alex said, his mind racing.

“I’m done for,” Tony said, his breathing becoming more labored. “Find out who killed me, Alex.” Reaching up, Tony took Connie’s hand. “Take care of Luchia, make sure she’s okay.”

“Don’t talk like that, boss,” Connie said, squeezing his hand. “Alex, can’t you do something?”

Alex took a breath, then pulled out his rune book. Standing, he slapped a vault rune on the wall and quickly lit it with his lighter. As soon as the paper vanished, a silver line appeared on the wall, outlining a door, followed closely by the heavy steel door.

“Stay with him, Connie,” he said pulling out his key ring and jamming the old-fashioned key in the lock in the center of the door. “Keep him talking, I’ll be right back.”

Pushing the door open, Alex followed into the vault. His destination was his first-aid room, but he stopped long enough to slap a large red button mounted on the side of his gun locker. There wasn’t any response to this action, but with no time to hesitate, he ran to the right-hand hallway and burst through the first door.

Unlike Iggy’s surgery and medical suite, Alex’s first-aid room was just big enough for a gurney on one side and a set of cabinets with potions and a sink on the other side. Ignoring everything else, Alex yanked open the first cabinet and scanned the paper labels along the front of the shelves until he came to a blue one. Taking it down carefully, Alex turned and headed back out into his vault’s great room, then across to the still open vault door.

“Boss,” Connie was saying, shaking Tony’s hand. “Alex is back, just hang on.”

“Lift up his head,” Alex said, working the lead seal out of the potion bottle.

“What’s that?” Connie asked as he cradled Tony’s head.

“Oil of suspension,” Alex said, finally managing to get the stopper out. “Hold him.”

Alex put the opening of the bottle in Tony’s mouth, then tipped it slowly up. Tony spluttered, then began swallowing the liquid. When it was done, his breathing slowed until it stopped entirely, and his face turned gray.

“Alex!” Connie shouted. "What did you do?”

“The potion stops all biological processes for five minutes,” Alex said, sitting back. “After that, he goes back to the way he was.”

“What good will that do?” the younger man blurted out from where he kept watch at the window. “The nearest hospital is at least fifteen minutes from here.”

“You’re wrong about that, young man,” Iggy said, leaning on the wall that made up the door frame of Alex’s vault. He was dressed in his smoking jacket over his shirt and slacks and had his slippers on his feet. He was also panting like a race horse.

“I got your emergency call,” he continued. “What happened?”

“Tony’s been shot,” Alex said, moving so Iggy could see.

Iggy pushed off the wall and knelt down next to Alex.

“Hey,” the younger man objected, “who is this guy?”

“This is Dr. Bell,” Connie said, “now shut up.”

“How long ago was he shot?” Iggy asked.

Alex thought about that. It seemed like a lot had happened since Lucky Tony was shot, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute, maybe two.

“That’s good,” Iggy said when Alex informed him. He pulled out his green backed rune book and tore a rune out from the front. “Close your vault and open mine,” he said, handing the paper to Alex, then he fished an ornate key out of his trouser pocket. “This door goes directly to my surgery.”

Alex stood up and moved to the wall, grabbing his vault door and pulled it closed.

“I hate to break this up,” the young man said, “but the cops just pulled up.”

“We can’t have them interfering,” Iggy said. “This man needs immediate attention and I don’t want to explain how I have a surgery in my vault.”

Alex opened Iggy’s vault and true to his word, it opened directly into his surgery. Without hesitating, Alex grabbed the wheeled gurney and pulled it into the apartment.

“Grab his shoulders,” Alex told Connie as he moved to Tony’s feet.

“Careful,” Iggy said, as Alex and Connie lifted the inert body onto Iggy’s gurney. From outside, the sound of confusion and running feet came through the window. “The police came awfully fast.”

“It was a set-up.” Alex nodded.

Iggy flipped to the back of his book and tore out another rune.

“In that case,” he said, laying the paper on Tony’s chest, “you’ll need something to show the cops.”

“Why?” Connie asked. “Can’t we just close the door once you have the boss in your vault?”

“Not if they’ve already been told that someone was shot here,” Alex said, “besides, they’re bound to notice the blood on the floor.”

“And that gun,” the young man said, pointing under a fancy couch.

When Alex saw it, he knew exactly what kind of frame up this was. The gun that had been used to shoot Tony was the one he’d come looking for, and, unless he was mistaken, it was the one he’d been given to handle by Rex Halliday.

“We could still beat it, down the fire escape,” Connie said.

“No,” Alex said. “I need to let this play out. It’s my only chance to find out who’s behind this and what they want.”

“Stand back, then,” Iggy said as the sound of men coming up the stairs reached them. He put his rune paper on Tony’s chest, then lit it. A moment later Tony’s frozen body split in two and a copy of him flopped onto the bloody rug.

“What the hell!” Connie swore.

“Duplication rune,” Iggy said. “Now help me.”

Alex grabbed the back of the gurney and helped Iggy move it across the threshold of his vault.

“Hurry,” the young bodyguard said, standing by the door. “They’re almost here.”

Alex pushed the gurney into Iggy’s surgery, then dashed back out into the apartment and pulled the heavy door closed. It had just finished vanishing into the wall when the first policemen reached the top of the stairs.

“That body will deteriorate in three days,” Alex whispered to Connie. “Tell the family they have to bury it before then.”

“What about the boss?”

“I’ll have Dr. Bell call you as soon as⁠—”

“Freeze,” a uniformed policeman said, barreling through the open door with his revolver drawn.

When Alex finished the story, Sorsha just looked at him with her mouth hanging open.

“So, Tony is alive?” she demanded.

Alex nodded.

“He’s not out of the woods yet, but Iggy’s got him recuperating at some private facility upstate.”

“So if you have to, you can prove you didn’t kill Tony by showing that he’s still alive,” Sorsha concluded.

Again, Alex nodded.

“Then how much longer are you going to keep up this farce?” Sorsha pressed.

“As long as I have to,” Alex said. “Whatever game is playing out here, it isn’t just about ruining my reputation. Something else is going on. I can’t quit until I know what they’re really after.”

“I thought you said Assistant Director Washburn was behind all this.”

“He’s their front man,” Alex agreed, “but if it was his game, he’d be wrapping it up now, not pushing me to confess. He’s already got what he wanted, Lucky Tony is dead⁠—”

“As far as he knows,” Sorsha added.

“Lucky Tony is dead, as far as he knows,” Alex amended. “Now all he needs to do is let the legal process play out; in fact the further he stays away, the less likely anyone would catch on to his involvement.”

“And yet he was present at your arrest,” Sorsha mused. “You’re right, someone else is behind this,” She turned to look at him with her pale blue eyes. “Now, how are you going to find them?”

“By figuring out what they’re after,” Alex said. “They want something and they’re not giving up until they have it. Once the police find that report on the bonds, they’ll start pushing for real. With a little bit of luck, I should be able to get them to tip their hand.”

“What if you can’t?”

“Then I’ll have to make them even more desperate,” Alex said, pulling Sorsha close. “It might get ugly before all is said and done.”

Sorsha snorted at that.

“The papers already have the story of your apprehension with bonds that belonged to Lucky Tony,” she said. “So, if you’re counting on getting a fair jury, you might want to make a different plan.”

“Don’t worry, doll,” he said, squeezing her to his side again.

“But I do worry,” Sorsha sighed. “If you make these people more desperate than they already are, they might hurt you. They might kill you.”

“No,” Alex said, surety in his voice. “They can’t kill me until they get whatever it is they’re after.”

“Unless what they’re after is simple revenge,” Sorsha pointed out.

Alex laughed.

“If that’s all they wanted, they’d have killed me right along with Tony,” he said.

“Be careful,” Sorsha admonished him. “Desperate people do desperate, and often stupid, things. They might kill you out of spite.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised her. “Now you’d better go. I need to get some sleep before I have to face Nicholson and whoever else they’re going to throw at me tomorrow.”

Much to his surprise, Alex slept well in lockup, at least until the guards came to roust him out of bed in the morning.

“Your lawyer’s here,” the guard who rapped on the bars said.

Alex folded up the rough blanket that came with the bed, then followed the guard out and up the elevator to the interrogation rooms. He was ushered into room three where Milton Ackerman waited for him.

“Detective Nicholson will be here in a few minutes,” the guard said to Ackerman. “You got till then.”

He closed the door and Ackerman waited a moment for the guard to withdraw down the hallway.

“I read your note,” the lawyer began. “I have to admit, I do not know why you have me doing all these things.”

“Don’t worry,” Alex interrupted, “everything will be clear soon enough. Is Andrew on his way?”

“Yes,” Ackerman said, “but I’m not sure when he’ll get here.”

“As long as it’s before nine, it’ll be fine. You need to stick around too; I’ll need you when Nicholson gets here.”

“I should advise you not to take the detective and his crew lightly,” Ackerman advised. “Those bonds you had were stolen in an especially violent robbery. Three men were killed.”

Alex hadn’t thought about that. He knew that Assistant Director Washburn had blamed Lucky Tony for the robbery, but he hadn’t supplied any details. Tony was a ruthless mobster back in the prohibition days, so being involved with the murder of three men wouldn’t have been out of character.

“Is there any evidence that Lucky Tony was involved?” he asked.

Ackerman shrugged.

“I’ve requested the police file on the original robbery but, as of last night, they still hadn’t found it in the evidence vault.”

That didn’t make Alex feel any better. He knew that Washburn had a copy of that file, or at least he’d seen one, but his hatred for Tony and the Rosonos was more than enough motivation to lie about the crime. If the police had to release him because they couldn’t prove the bonds were the ones from the robbery, all his clever work would be for nothing. It was a terrible thought.

“Never mind,” Alex said, pushing his worries aside. He had more than enough to occupy his mind at the moment. Before he could press Ackerman for more information, the door opened and Detective Nicholson entered, carrying the valise Alex had used to hold the bonds.

“Hello, Lockerby,” he said, placing the bag on the table. Opening it, he pulled out a stack of paper that had been stapled together. “We finally found that police file.” He dropped the stapled pack of papers on the table in front of Alex. “Do you know what this is?”

“Oh, let me guess,” Alex said, “it’s a list of those stolen Dutch bonds.”

“Got it in one,” he said, reaching for the bag.

“Before you get into that,” Ackerman said, pulling out his notepad. “I’d like to know how you just happened to be standing outside the garment district branch of Hudson Security Bank?”

Nicholson sighed and sat down on the far side of the table.

“It’s no secret,” he said with a shrug, “your client was involved in the shooting death of Phillip Trent. When we searched Mr. Trent’s apartment, we found a key to a safe deposit box and when we searched that box, we found the bonds.”

“Then why didn’t you pull the file on the bonds earlier,” Ackerman asked, “to check the serial numbers?”

“We would have,” Nicholson said, “but we wanted to set a trap for your client and he’s got friends in this department, friends who might have tipped him off if we requested those files. We figured he killed Lucky Tony and then Trent to get his hands on the bonds, so we left them where we found them and put the key back in Trent’s place. That FBI guy, Washburn, figured we’d catch your client when he searched the apartment for the key, but I guess he didn’t give your client here enough credit.”

Ackerman looked up from his notepad and cleared his throat.

“So, if I understand what you’re saying,” he said, “you believe that Alex killed Mr. Casetti and Mr. Trent in furtherance of obtaining Dutch bearer bonds that were stolen in a violent robbery where Mr. Casetti was allegedly involved.”

“That’s about it,” Nicholson said. The detective spared a glare for Alex before turning back to the lawyer.

Alex just sat at the table watching and waiting for the other shoe to drop. So far Ackerman was playing his part perfectly, and Nicholson was too dim to doubt his own position.

“And you planted a safe deposit key, intending for Alex to find it, then when you assumed he did, you staked out the bank and waited for him to take the bonds.”

“See,” Nicholson said with a predatory grin on his face. “It’s so simple the jury will get it the first time.”

“And this safe deposit key,” Ackerman continued, checking his notes. “What box was it for?”

“What difference does that make?” Nicholson asked, his voice wavering for the first time since he entered.

“What number?” Ackerman repeated.

Nicholson scoffed, then pulled out his flip notebook and paged through it.

“Thirty-five,” he said after searching the page.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Ackerman said, “because the key you took from my client was for box seventeen.”

Nicholson looked as if he’d been brained with a bat.

“What?” he managed at last.

“Seventeen,” Ackerman said. “When you arrested Alex, you took a safe deposit key from him, it’s in evidence. It’s the key to box seventeen, not box thirty-five.”

“That…” Nicholson said, his eyes snapping to Alex, “that’s not possible.”

“Well, the key is in your evidence locker,” Ackerman said with a shrug, “it should be easy to check.”

“If he didn’t have the key to box thirty-five,” Nicholson growled, standing up and reaching into the valise, “then how did he get these?”

The detective pulled a bond from the top of the stack and threw it down on the table. Ackerman picked it up and held it up to the light.

“The stolen bonds were Dutch, correct?”

“Of course they were Dutch,” Nicholson almost shouted.

“Well, this isn’t a Dutch bond,” the lawyer said, turning it so Nicholson could see it. “This text is in German, and there’s a flag in the corner with a red plus sign. This bond is Swiss.”

Nicholson’s eyes tried to jump out of their sockets, and it was all Alex could do not to burst out laughing. The detective reached back into the bag and pulled out a handful of bonds, flipping through them as fast as he could.

“What did you do?” he demanded of Alex.

“What are you talking about?” Alex asked.

“I saw these bonds when we arrested you, and they were Dutch.” His voice rose toward hysteria. “You did something to them!”

“From my jail cell?” Alex asked, keeping his voice calm and even. “You’ve had those bonds the entire time. It’s true, I know a few tricks, but runes are a hands-on kind of magic. If I wanted to do something to the bonds, I’d have to be alone with them.”

“Then why, the hell, do you have Swiss bonds?”

“I believe I can answer that,” Andrew Barton said as he strode in through the door. He wore a dark green suit that shimmered like it had silk threads woven into it, and he carried a walking stick topped with an enormous emerald. Alex had told him to dress to impress, but he was forced to admit that the sorcerer had gone overboard.

“Who are…” Nicholson started, but then recognized the sorcerer and wisely shut his mouth.

“I’ll make it simple for you, Detective,” Andrew said, sitting down in the seat that Ackerman had just vacated. “My competitors often have people placed at my various banks to keep an eye on when I move my money around. If I set out to buy a company or a patent, they can move to block me if they know how much cash I’ve secured.”

“What does that have to do with bearer bonds?” Nicholson asked, his voice and tone much more civil.

“I’m glad you asked,” Andrew said as if he actually was. “I have many safe deposit boxes around the city, stashed with easily moved commodities, like bearer bonds. Yesterday, I asked Alex, one of my trusted confidants, to retrieve my bonds from Hudson Security Bank and bring them to me.”

“You expect me to believe that, Mr. Barton?” Nicholson asked.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Andrew said, then he reached into thin air and produced a formal looking piece of paper. “This is the receipt for the bonds,” he said, handing it over. “As you can see, they were purchased by my company, Barton Electric, about six months ago.”

Detective Nicholson’s face blanched as he read the document. Alex wondered if he would walk or run when he left to call Assistant Director Washburn.

“I need to check that key,” he said at last, setting Barton’s receipt down on the table. He quickly stuffed the bonds back in the valise and stormed out of the room.

30

BREAKOUT

Alex waited until the sound of Detective Nicholson’s footsteps vanished down the hall outside the interrogation room. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before leaning forward on the table.

“I take it that went well,” Andrew noted.

Alex sat up straight again and nodded.

“About as well as could be expected,” he said.

“I don’t mind being pulled into one of your cases, Alex,” Andrew said, “but I don’t really understand what this accomplished. You tricked them into arresting you, spent a night in jail, then gave them an alibi that will ensure your release. It just seems like so much theater.”

“It does look that way,” Alex admitted. “Whoever is responsible for the shooting of Tony Casetti and then silenced Phillip Trent wants something, and not just to slander me in the tabloids.”

“Libel,” Ackerman interjected. “Slander is when you say something false about a person, but when you do it in print, that’s libel.”

“Anyway,” Alex said, irritated by the correction, “maybe these people want the secrets of writing my finding rune, or something to do with an old case, or maybe they need my help and don’t think I’d agree willingly.” His mind flashed to his search for the vision stone. “Whatever it is, they need me in jail to get it.”

“So they need you out of the way?” Ackerman offered.

“Could be,” Alex shrugged, “or maybe they just need leverage over me to get me to go along with whatever they want.”

“And now you’re going to be released again,” Ackerman said, “Doesn’t that put them back at square one?”

“Eventually, maybe,” Alex said, “but right now I’ve got them squeezed pretty hard. It’s going to take time for you to get me out of here and that gives them a very narrow window to act.”

“Speaking of that,” Ackerman said, tucking his legal pad back inside his briefcase, “I’d better get over to the courthouse and see about getting you released.”

“I have to go, too,” Andrew said. “There’s a board meeting with the railroad people that I can’t afford to miss. Do come by the office, though, and tell me how it all worked out.”

Alex promised to do just that, and Andrew and his lawyer left.

For a while, Alex just sat in the interrogation room. He had assumed that a guard would be by to return him to his cell once Ackerman left, but as the minutes dragged by, no one came. Eventually, his wandering attention turned to the desk and the stack of paper that sat, innocently, in the center. Nicholson had taken the bonds when he left, and Alex smirked at that thought.

It was Iggy who had given him the clue to cracking Wendell Sandoval’s copy rune. He’d pointed out that runes could use magic power in one of two ways: they could consume a large amount quickly, which would destroy the rune. Or, they could use a small, but steady amount of power for a longer period of time. The problem with the copy rune was that it needed to use a large amount of power, but sustain the construct over time. From a strictly technical standpoint, the copy rune shouldn’t be possible, but where magic was concerned, there were always a few gray areas.

Alex’s shield pendant was one of those exceptions. Shield runes fell into the high energy consumption category, where the original construct faded immediately after being activated. It left five lingering charges behind, but those were self-contained, not part of the original construct. Alex had lengthened the duration of the effect by carving the rune into a block of titanium and linking it to the pendant he used to wear before the damnation rune cut off his access to magic.

The solution to the copy rune was to write a partial duplication rune, one that would create a duplicate image of something, but without any physical component. Next, Alex carved it into another titanium block, giving it the ability to sustain large infusions of magical power. The last step was the one he was particularly proud of, to provide power to the rune, he used the etherium rune and a link to Andrew Barton’s etherium generators. Just like he’d done with the blind scribe, Alex used a dial to regulate the electricity he tapped from Andrew, and then turned that into magical energy to feed the hungry copy rune. When he wanted to copy something, he’d turn the flow of magical energy on, and when he was done, he’d turn it off. The rune would degrade over time, as all runes did, but it wouldn’t break down in a matter of hours because of the constant flow of magical energy.

Once he had the copy rune finished, it had only taken him a few minutes to transfer one of the Dutch bonds onto the stack of Swedish ones.

Putting his hands behind his head, Alex leaned back in his chair. It was one of the neatest bits of rune craft he’d ever pulled off, and he did it without resorting to Limelight.

A sudden, burning need pulsed through Alex at the thought of Limelight and he forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. In an attempt to distract himself, he glanced back at the interrogation table. Nicholson had taken the valise and the Swiss bonds when he left, but the stapled stack of paper was still there, in the middle of the table. Reaching for it, Alex turned it face up, revealing not just the inventory of the missing bonds, but the entire police report on their theft.

Curious, Alex paged through the stapled pack. Everything about the robbery was exactly what he’d been told, including the suspected involvement of Lucky Tony. At the end of the stack, however, was the rest of the story. Apparently the bonds had been found in a safe in a bar that used to be one of the Rosono Family’s speakeasies during Prohibition. The police raided it back in nineteen-thirty because it was being used as a gambling parlor. Since the bonds were evidence, and they had no official owner, they’d stayed in the police lockup, just waiting for Washburn to come along and use them to frame Alex.

“I’ll have to tell Ackerman to subpoena this report if he has trouble getting me out,” Alex muttered. “I bet Captain Callahan didn’t know someone took a stack of valuable bonds out of the evidence warehouse.”

There was a polite knock at the door and Alex quickly set the report down on the table.

The door opened and Danny walked in, closing it behind him. Alex sat up eagerly as his friend sat down.

“So,” Alex said, “what did you find out?”

Danny grinned, then took out his pack of cigarettes, offering one to Alex.

“Thanks,” Alex said, relief flooding through him, it had been over half a day since he’d had a smoke, after all.

“Nicholson went up to his desk after he left here,” Danny said, “I had Crawley keep an eye on him while I went down to the switchboard.”

“Who did he call?” Alex asked, a thrill of excitement running through him and leaving his fingertips tingling. Whoever his shadowy tormentors were, Alex felt they were about to be revealed.

“He called over to the courthouse,” Danny said. “Judge Templeton’s office.”

Alex had heard the name Templeton but he didn’t know the man. As far as Alex could remember, there weren’t any untoward or suspicious rumors going around about him.

“What did he want?”

Danny shrugged as he puffed on his cigarette.

“An emergency search warrant,” Danny said.

“He wants to search my office?”

“No, he wants to search the brownstone,” Danny said. “We assumed that he knew about the frame-up, so he knows there’s no evidence implicating you there. Unless he’s planning to plant some.”

“Everyone on the search team would have to be in on it with him,” Alex said, running the entire day’s events over in his mind. Danny was right, it only made sense if Nicholson wasn’t in on the plan, but he’d been too eager and too dogged in his pursuit of this case.

“Is Nicholson on the short list for promotion?” he asked.

Danny shook his head.

“Nobody at the lieutenant level is retiring any time soon,” he said.

“Then Nicholson had to be in on the plot,” Alex said. “I’ve seen his work for years and he’s a lackadaisical investigator at best, he hates hard cases.”

“What does that tell you?” Danny said, giving Alex a penetrating look.

Alex reached down and picked up the stapled report on the table. On the back of the pack, a yellow paper label had been attached with glue. It reminded Alex of the cards libraries used to track who had checked out a particular book. In this case it had the names and badge numbers of everyone who had taken custody of the report. At the bottom, right where it should be, was the name, Derek Nicholson, along with his badge number, two-hundred fifty-nine.

Looking at the name, Alex struggled to come up with a reason for a mediocre detective to become involved in a plot against him. Nicholson was one of Detweiler’s boys, but Detweiler was the kind of man who’d run straight at you if he had a problem. He would never be involved in any of this cloak and dagger stuff.

Alex looked back at the paper label again, then stood up so quickly his chair fell over behind him.

“What?” Danny demanded, standing as well.

“Nicholson’s badge number is two-hundred fifty-nine,” Alex gasped.

“So?”

“Do you remember Malcom Jones?”

Danny’s brows knit together for a moment.

“Wasn’t he the guy in charge of William Ashford’s political campaign?” Danny asked. “The one who was involved with the mind control runes? He died in FBI custody, right?”

Alex nodded.

“Before he died, he told Sorsha that he had been marked fifty-nine. In the Bible, Mark five, verse fifty-nine refers to the Legion.”

“And Mark is the second book of the New Testament,” Danny added. “So you think it’s the Legion that’s after you, and Nicholson is what, a spy for them? Seems a little far-fetched just from a badge number.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means,” Alex said, tugging at his tie. “The Legion love to show off how clever they are. It also means that I know what they want; it’s the Archimedean Monograph. That’s why they’re so desperate to get a search warrant for the brownstone.”

“Doesn’t that thing protect itself?” Danny asked. “They can search all day and not find it.”

“Normally yes,” Alex said, pulling his tie free from his collar and tossing it on the table, “but the Legion will come with detection magic. They’ll know that the book will be hidden by magical means.”

“All right,” Danny said, crushing out his cigarette. “I’ll go across the street to the diner and call Iggy, tell him to put the monograph in his vault and take down your cover doors.”

“That won’t work,” Alex said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I thought I remembered Judge Templeton; he specializes in magical cases. Nicholson saw him to get an extended warrant, one that covers both my vault and Iggy’s. We could refuse to open them, of course, but that would just put us in the slammer until we complied.”

“Give the monograph to Sorsha, or to me,” Danny said, “then they can search your vault as long as they want.”

“No, they can’t,” Alex insisted, tossing his shirt after his tie.

“First, why not,” Danny asked, “and second, why are you taking your clothes off?”

“There are magics in my vault that no simple runewright should be able to do,” he said, reaching down to tug off his left shoe.

“Can’t you hide that stuff? Danny asked.

“Nicholson and the Legion will have their warrant in less than an hour,” Alex said, turning the shoe upside down, “assuming they don’t have it already. I doubt I can clean up my vault in that time.”

Alex didn’t mention that with the damnation rune in place, he couldn’t make alterations to his vault at all. Using his thumbnail, he pried under the rubber part of the heel, feeling for the little groove. When he found it, he pushed hard and the heel pivoted open, revealing a small space beneath.

“Emergency stash?” Danny asked.

Alex nodded.

“I need you to go up to Captain Callahan’s office right now,” he said. “Tell him that this whole thing is an excuse to search the brownstone and our vaults. Then stay in the office with Callahan until all hell breaks loose.”

“What are you going to do?”

Alex looked up at his friend for a long moment.

“I’m busting out of here,” he said, pulling two folded rune papers from the space in his heel, followed by a paper matchbook.

“Which means I need an alibi,” Danny said, not bothering to try to talk Alex out of his present course of action.

“It might take a while to get this sorted out,” Alex said. “Take care of yourself.”

Danny grinned back at him.

“You too.”

With that, Danny exited the interrogation room. Alex could tell by the sound of his heels on the floor that he was walking quickly toward the elevator. Wanting to give him as much time as possible, Alex unfolded the two rune papers. One was a special version of his enhanced vault rune that didn’t require him to draw a door or clean up after it. This one opened the vault door automatically, without his needing to use his key. The other was something he’d written with the blind scribe. It was a complicated bit of rune craft and he was very proud of it. The main idea was that the damnation rune used void magic to separate him from the magical energy of the universe. To do this, it required some kind of continuous power source, otherwise the void rune would eventually stop working. The rune Alex had written didn’t attack the damnation rune; he knew enough about it to believe it was impervious to such magic. That said, the power had to be coming in through a linking rune from somewhere else, somewhere outside of the damnation rune itself.

He took a deep breath.

“Relax,” he said as he stuck the flash paper to his chest, right over the damnation rune. “Either this will work or it’ll kill you. Either way you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Picking up the paper matchbook, Alex tore off one and then struck it. Hesitating only briefly, he touched the flame to the paper and the blocking rune he’d created flared to life.

“It wor—” he started to say, then a tremendous crushing pain hit him. Gasping, he clawed at the rune on his chest. It had lost its glow and now appeared gray and inert. As his nails dragged over it, they caught something physical and Alex dug at it. Part of the rune lifted up, off his skin, with a tearing sound and a fresh burst of pain.

Ignoring his nerves, Alex got his thumb under the physical manifestation of the rune and pulled. Slowly, the circular construct over his heart peeled away from his skin, leaving bloody patches behind. Biting his tongue to keep from screaming, Alex heaved at the construct, finally pulling it free of his chest.

His whole body trembling from what felt like exhaustion, Alex held up the object he’d literally pulled out of himself. It was a formerly flat bit of some soft metal that had been somehow attached to him. Blood and bits of his own flesh clung to it and Alex threw it into the far corner by the door in disgust.

“That’s how they did it,” he gasped, his lungs heaving. “They anchored the rune to that thing; that’s why magic directed at me wouldn’t effect it.”

His hands still trembling, Alex picked up the vault rune with his non-bloody left hand, licked it, then stuck it to the back wall of the room. Fumbling with the matchbook, he eventually got one lit and opened his vault. He was about to go through and leave the Central Office behind, but he stopped, going back for the strange metal that had been imbedded in his chest.

“Best not leave you,” he said.

As he turned toward the open vault, he almost slipped, his shoe losing traction in some blood on the floor. Looking down, he found his chest bleeding freely, dripping down and beginning to soak into his pants.

“No time for that,” he growled, picking up his shirt and pressing it against his wound. He transferred the metal anchor to the same hand with the shirt, then gathered up his tie and his other shoe. Moving carefully around the blood spatter, he passed into his vault.

Long ago, Alex had rigged up a cylinder of compressed air that, when triggered, would force his vault door closed. As he passed inside, he hit the switch and the metal arm attached to the cylinder hissed, pushing the heavy door closed behind him.

He needed to warn Iggy as soon as possible, but Alex had been waiting a long time for what came next and he wasn’t going to skip it. When he reached his first-aid room, Alex opened a medicine cabinet behind the mirror over the sink. There, on the right side of the top shelf, was a potion bottle with a fat bottom and a narrow neck. The bottle itself was made of brown glass to protect the potion inside from light, and there was a red cross painted on the round part.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, taking it down. He didn’t hesitate, but grabbed the rubber stopper with his teeth, pulled it out, then spit it into the sink. Placing the opening to his lips he tipped it up and drained the contents.

The liquid was slimy, like trying to drink raw eggs, and it tasted of sour grapes and salt. He wanted to gag, but there was no time for that, so he forced every drop of the potion down.

Setting the bottle aside, Alex waited for the effect of the major healing potion to begin. When it did, he wished it hadn’t. His chest felt like someone was trying to put the rune anchor back in, but that was small potatoes compared to his shoeless left foot. It felt like a branding iron had been forced though the middle of it.

Crying out in shock from the sudden pain, Alex clutched at the sink, using it to remain upright. The sounds of cracking bones came from his foot and Alex felt a boiling nausea fill his throat. He lost his grip on the sink and fell to the floor, clenching his fists as his muscles trembled.

Alex had no idea how long the effects of the potion lasted, but they finally abated, leaving him gasping on the cold tile of the floor and covered in sweat.

“Can’t stop,” he admonished himself, then rolled onto his stomach and pushed up onto his knees. When he stood, he wobbled for a moment before finding his balance. The ever-present pain in his left foot was finally gone. He didn’t check; he knew the healing potion had done its work.

Grabbing a towel, he wiped off the sweat from his face and chest, then took off his belt and allowed his bloody slacks to fall to the floor. He’d take care of them later.

Clad only in his underwear, socks, and a single shoe, Alex headed for the brownstone cover door. His gold access key was back at the Central Office with the rest of his usual gear, but he didn’t need it anymore.

“It’s me,” he said, touching the knob, and the door released.

Unable to contain his satisfied smile, Alex hurried into his room. He quickly dressed himself in his gray suit and then headed downstairs.

“Iggy,” he called as he went two at a time, something he hadn’t been able to do recently on account of his foot. “Iggy, where are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I?” Iggy said, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hand. “Why are you here, I thought you were locked up at the Central Office.”

“I am,” Alex said, “or rather I’m supposed to be.”

“You broke out?” Iggy demanded. “That’s absurd, you know that will only make you look worse. What were you⁠—”

“Iggy!” Alex shouted, grabbing his mentor by the shoulders. “I know who’s behind everything. It’s the Legion and what they’ve been after is an excuse that will get them a warrant to search this house.”

“They’re after the Monograph,” Iggy said, catching on instantly.

“I don’t know how long we’ve got, but we need to clean up the house and our vaults,” he said.

“There’s not time enough for that,” Iggy scoffed. “Your telephone line running from here to your office would take half an hour to strip all by itself. Besides⁠—”

Alex took a breath to protest, but Iggy put a hand on his shoulder and pointed out of the brownstone’s bay window. Even from his vantage point, Alex could see a dozen uniformed officers pouring from a paddy wagon that slowed to a stop across the street.

“They’re already here.”

31

LEVERAGE

“What do we do?” Alex asked, turning to Iggy.

Before his mentor could answer, someone outside began pounding on the door.

“I’ll grab the monograph,” Alex said, speaking quickly, “then we can use my vault to get to Sorsha’s.”

“Easy, lad,” Iggy said, putting a restraining hand on Alex’s arm. “It’s going to take them a few minutes for them to get in, so we’ve got time.”

“But—” Alex began.

“Just listen,” Iggy said. “I have to go get Penelope off the back stairs, she needed a little direct sunlight.”

Alex remembered that Iggy gave some of his rarer orchids names; he also spoke to them, even read them stories. He didn’t remember which one Penelope was, but at least he knew what his mentor was talking about.

“While I’m gone, I need you to go over to the pegs by the door,” Iggy continued. “Pull out the one closest to the vestibule, then step back. I’ll tell you when to pull the lever.”

“What?” Alex demanded, but Iggy simply pushed him in the direction of the front door, then hurried off toward the kitchen.

“Okay,” Alex said to himself. He turned toward the vestibule’s glass door, looking at the row of pegs along the wall by the main floor landing. They’d been there the entire time Alex had lived with Iggy and they all appeared worn from use.

Following his mentor’s instructions, Alex stood in front of the last peg in the row, the one closest to the vestibule door. Reaching out, he touched it with his finger, but nothing happened. It seemed for all the world like an ordinary peg.

“Pull it out,” Alex repeated the instructions as he took hold of the peg. Tensing his shoulder, he pulled, trying to apply steady pressure rather than jerking on the wooden peg. It resisted at first, but then there was a popping sound and it came free.

A section of the wall advanced toward him, swinging outward on a hidden hinge and forcing Alex to step back. As the door passed him, swinging away from the vestibule, he saw a blank metal wall behind it with a lever mounted in the exact center. It reminded Alex of the electrical switches he’d seen in monster movies, the kind that would turn on lights in a dungeon’s lab or send thousands of volts through a corpse to bring it back to life.

“I see the lever,” Alex called, but he got no reply. He didn’t know what it did, but as the pounding on the front door became a rhythmic banging, like the police were using a battering ram, he reached out and took hold of the handle.

Alex heard the back door slam over the sounds of the banging, followed by Iggy’s voice.

“Pull it all the way down,” he said.

Alex didn’t hesitate, pulling the lever out of the clip that held it in the upright position, and snapping it down into a similar clip below. There was a crackle of electricity, followed by the hum of an electric motor and the hissing release of a gas power actuator. It reminded Alex of the automatic cylinder he’d rigged up in his vault.

Before he had time to consider that, the metal wall started swinging outward, in the opposite direction from the secret door that had hidden it. Stepping back, Alex watched as a massive vault door appeared from the recess of the hidden compartment. Moving steadily, it swung out and over the vestibule door, fitting perfectly over it.

There was a metallic click, and then the door and the vestibule vanished.

As did the sound of the banging.

And the light from the bay window.

Suddenly the brownstone was dark and silent.

The space where the glass-walled vestibule had been was the same shape, but with mirrors where the glass had been. Taking three steps back, Alex looked in the direction of the bay window and found it had been replaced by a mirror as well.

“Iggy,” he called, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice.

“Do you like it?” Iggy asked, joining him in the library.

“We’re in a vault,” Alex gasped, his mind finally sifting through the facts. “How?”

Iggy chuckled, then turned, beckoning Alex to follow him.

“I did it while you were in Washington with Barton,” he said. “I brought workmen in and had them move everything into my vault with the excuse that I was having some work done.” He held aside the beaded curtain to his vault and gestured for Alex to follow him inside. “Once that was finished,” he went on, “I expanded my vault out until it was an exact replica of the brownstone, except now, if you came in through the vestibule or the back door, you were entering my vault, instead of the building. When I had everything perfect, I called the workmen back and had them return everything to its place.”

“Only now, the furniture, the books, the dishes, everything was in your vault and the brownstone was…what?”

“An empty building,” Iggy said with a chuckle. “I reckon about now, Washburn and Nicholson are breaking in only to find bare floors and empty shelves coated in dust.”

Iggy turned aside and went to a door on the left side of his vault’s elaborate and opulent great room.

“I admit,” Alex said after clearing his throat, “I’d pay good money to see the looks on their faces, but I can’t help wondering how we’re going to get out of your vault?”

Iggy looked back at him with a sublime grin, then took hold of the door handle and turned it.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said, then pushed the door open.

Beyond, Alex saw a large sitting room, paneled with light colored wood, broken up by dark beams. It reminded him of the Tudor buildings Broadway always used in Shakespeare plays. Leather furniture and carved reading tables were scattered around the space and bright sunlight was streaming in through rows of windows.

As Alex stood, dumbstruck by the sight, Iggy stepped through the door, then turned around, spreading his arms dramatically.

“Welcome to Eureka,” he said. “My country estate.”

“Your…what?” Alex managed, following Iggy through the door.

Once inside, Alex could see large windows with gauzy curtains that barely concealed a long, rolling stretch of grass beyond. An opening in the wall showed a hallway that ended in what looked like a library with several doors in between.

“Where are we?” he asked, somewhat in awe.

“Vermont,” Iggy said, “just outside of Manchester.”

“How?” Alex managed.

“After Paschal Randolph tried to invade the brownstone with one of his snow globe bombs, I realized there might come a day when we’d have to stage a tactical retreat,” Iggy said. “So I acquired this property through an estate agent and linked it to my vault. You already know how I refitted the brownstone.”

Alex had been around the block a few times, both as a detective and as a runewright, but this was so far beyond anything he could have imagined, he was dumbstruck.

“Ah, I thought I heard you, sir,” a deep voice came from behind Alex.

Turning, Alex found a tall man with broad shoulders wearing a sturdy shirt and trousers with an apron over the front. He had slicked back, blond hair and an affable smile.

“Gregory,” Iggy said in a welcoming voice. “It is me. This is my apprentice, Alex Lockerby. Alex, this is Gregory Iverson, he’s my agent who looks after the house.”

“Will you be staying, Doctor?” Iverson asked.

“I’m afraid so, and for some duration,” Iggy replied. “Things in the city are a bit out of hand at the moment.”

“I’ll have Clara get your rooms ready,” he said, then nodded to each of them and turned on his heel, departing the way he had come.

“Clara?” Alex asked.

“Gregory’s wife,” Iggy supplied. “She handles the cooking and maid work while Gregory does the cleaning and maintenance.”

“I knew you were rich, old man,” Alex chuckled, “but I didn’t know you were that rich.”

“Never mind about that,” Iggy said, shutting the door that led to his vault and the faux brownstone. “Let me give you the nickel tour, then I think it would be best if you called Sorsha and invited her up here to dinner.”

“Right,” Alex said.

“Alex, thank God,” Sorsha’s relieved voice greeted him once she’d picked up. “A detective was just here saying you’d vanished or the brownstone had. He wasn’t making a lot of sense, but he was angry. Honestly, if I hadn’t been seen by two dozen people in various meetings throughout the day, I swear he planned to arrest me.”

Alex laughed at that.

“I’d have gladly gone to jail to see that,” he said.

“Where are you?” Sorsha demanded. “Are you safe, is Dr. Bell with you?”

Alex took a deep breath, then launched into an explanation of everything that had happened in the last few hours. Even though he lived it, it still sounded like an outlandish fairy tale as he retold the story.

“Eureka?” Sorsha asked when he finished.

“That’s the question you have?” Alex scoffed. “It’s a way of naming the place after Archimedes; he thought up a way to measure the area of a crown by immersing it in water, then jumped out of his bathtub and ran naked down the street shouting, ‘eureka.’”

“I’m not visiting if naked running is required,” Sorsha replied.

Alex smirked. It was a joke, and he knew that, but when they first met, Sorsha had always been so serious. This side of her was nice to see.

“No running, no public nudity,” he said. “But Iggy and I would love for you to join us for dinner. I’ll pick you up through my vault.”

Sorsha agreed, but then paused for a long moment.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Inge just brought me the evening paper,” she said.

Alex groaned.

“Don’t tell me.”

“The top story says you broke out of police custody and led them on a chase across the city to the home of Dr. Bell, where both of you vanished.”

“I suppose I should have expected that,” Alex sighed.

“This is bad,” Sorsha said. “They seem to think you’re Al Capone. There’s even a statement from Captain Callahan where he promises to bring you to justice.”

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” he assured her. “It will take some time, but we’ll get this all sorted out.”

“What about Sherry and Mike?” she asked.

“Sherry will keep the office running and Mike can handle the case load.”

“All right,” Sorsha said, mollified but not convinced. “I’ll be ready in half an hour, come get me at my castle.”

Alex promised that he would, then hung up. He thought about joining Iggy in Eureka’s library for a cigar, but decided he’d better change clothes instead. He still wore the suit he’d hastily put on when he scrambled back to the brownstone. He wasn’t even wearing a tie. The least he could do was dress up for his first dinner in Iggy’s secret estate.

Moving back to the parlor, he entered Iggy’s vault, crossed the great hall, then passed through the beaded curtain into the kitchen of the faux brownstone. The mirrors that connected to the windows in the real world no longer let in the light or scenes outside the real brownstone, so he switched on the kitchen light.

Once he reached the third floor, he opened the door to his room, switched on the light…and froze. His bloody trousers and shoes were right where he’d left them, on the hardwood floor, and the rest of the room was exactly as he had left it, with one exception. A dark green folder sat right in the middle of his made bed.

Alex was certain the folder hadn’t been there before, and the ones he used at his office were blue, not green.

Cautiously, he moved to the edge of the bed to get a better look. The folder was exactly what he thought, a paper cover that looked to hold a decent stack of documents inside. On top was a rectangular piece of paper that had been torn from a note pad. It appeared blank, so Alex picked it up and turned it over, revealing writing on the back.

The lettering was a confident, flowing script and at the bottom, below the writing there was a wax seal. Alex focused on the first line and started reading.

Alex,

I have to say, that was quite a show you put on today, kid. Good work keeping the Archimedean Monograph out of the hands of those Legion idiots. Since it looks like you’re going to have some free time, and you managed to remove your runic leash, I figured it was about time I started using you for your intended purpose. I’ve left you a folder with the details of a case. It’s nothing that will get you picked up by the New York Police, but you should be careful just the same. I’m sure the FBI will put you on their wanted list after today.

You should find the case challenging, which I know you’ll enjoy. Feel free to use any resources you trust, and be sure to say hello to your lovely fiancée for me. Also, tell Dr. Bell that he has excellent taste in hideouts.

Yours Sincerely,

M

THE END

You Know the Drill.

Thanks so much for reading my book, it really means a lot to me. This is the part where I ask you to please leave this book a review over on Amazon. It really helps me out since Amazon favors books with lots of reviews. That means I can share these books with more people, and that keeps me writing more books.

So leave a review HERE. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just a quick note saying whether or not you liked the book.

Thanks so much. You Rock!

I love talking to readers, so please drop me a line at dan@danwillisauthor.com — I read every one. Or join the discussion on the Arcane Casebook Facebook Group HERE.

And Look for Alex’s continuing adventures in Thicker than Water; Arcane Casebook #13.

Preorder Here

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to my amazing beta readers, they really helped take this book to the next level.

Lyn Adams

Bob Brown

Virginia Carper

RJ Carvalho

Cat

Mike Dunkle Sr.

Ann Engel

Pam Foye

Fiona Harford

Tan Ho

James Hodges

Mark

ALSO BY DAN WILLIS

Arcane Casebook Series:

Dead Letter - Free Prequel

In Plain Sight - Book 1

Ghost of a Chance - Book 2

The Long Chain - Book 3

Mind Games - Book 4

Limelight - Book 5

Blood Relation - Book 6

Capital Murder - Book 7

Hostile Takeover - Book 8

Hidden Voices - Book 9

Pound of Flesh - Book 10

Equal & Opposite - Book 11

Available in ebook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook.

Arcane Irregulars Series:

Two companion volumes to the Arcane Casebook series. These books expand the AC universe and tie into the main story.

Curse of the Phoenix - Book 1 (Takes place after AC# 6)

Shadow of Anubis - Book 2 (Takes place after AC #8)

Dragons of the Confederacy Series:

A steampunk Civil War story with NYT Bestseller, Tracy Hickman.

Lincoln’s Wizard - Book 1

The Georgia Alchemist - Book 2

Other books:

The Flux Engine

In a Steampunk Wild West, fifteen-year-old John Porter wants nothing more than to find his missing family. Unfortunately a legendary lawman, a talented thief, and a homicidal madman have other plans, and now John will need his wits, his pistol, and a lot of luck if he’s going to survive.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan was born in Washington D.C. and grew up in rural Maryland. Over the years, he’s worked as a computer programmer, technical writer, game designer, software tester, web designer, and even insurance salesman.

He wrote for Wizards of the Coast, creating four books for their iconic DragonLance series. Dan is currently working as an Indie author and writing the long running Arcane Casebook series.

Dan lives in Utah at the mouth of a canyon where the wind always blows.

For more information:

www.danwillisauthor.com

dan@danwillisauthor.com