She raised a hand in farewell. She strolled back to Midnight Pawn, going up a few steps to the door on the right of the building and entering there, turning right to go down to her apartment. She could have entered the pawnshop and spent some time talking to Bobo, but she wasn’t in the mood. She was fond of her landlord, but she found him a little boring. She still couldn’t believe he’d hidden those books that Lem had been looking for so hard and so long. Not that Bobo had done it maliciously; he hadn’t known the smelly old volumes were important to Lemuel.

But still.

In her silent apartment, she checked her special e-mail account, the one she used only for work. Her agent said, Everyone pleased.

That was his usual comment, and it meant the money had been transferred as they’d specified.

But he’d added another sentence. Other party collateral damage?

He meant Rachel Goldthorpe. She answered immediately, No. Coincidence. And natural?

Right after she hit “Send” she got up to turn on the television. But she heard the ping that indicated she had e-mail. Surprised, she returned to her desk. The response read, Sources tell me unnatural.

“Huh,” she said out loud. “But that’s a big complication.” Should she alert Manfred? On the whole, she thought not.

She was sorry two hours later when news crews rolled into Midnight.

Sorry she hadn’t left town.

6

Manfred was deep into work mode, which meant he was visiting all his websites, taking phone calls, and churning out advice and predictions to all his followers. Not that Manfred habitually thought of them as followers—he called them clients. He never thought of himself as a confidence man, since he was the real deal. But his talent did not always manifest at the time he needed it to, so sometimes, naturally, he had to fill in.

That was the way he looked at it.

When the first knock came at the door, he raised his head, annoyed. Who could it be? Most of the people of Midnight knew his schedule, and they wouldn’t come visiting during his work hours. A bit irritated, he went to the door and opened it. The click of a picture being taken, which reminded him of a cricket’s chirp, sounded several times.

“Mr. Bernardo, is it true that Rachel Goldthorpe was in your room at Vespers when she died?”

Don’t ever look furtive, his grandmother had always told him.

Manfred managed to control his pulse and his face, though inside he was scared as hell. “Yes, absolutely true,” he said. “She was a longtime client of mine. I was shocked and saddened by her death.” What was this all about?

“A client? For what service?” The newswoman, a junior one you’d send out if the story wasn’t that important, looked righteous as she demanded an answer.