He drummed the fingers of his right hand on his thigh for a moment. "Mendoza was getting ready to retire," Marcone said. "He had a final scheme to complete. I owed the man for loyalties past, and at his request I allowed him certain liberties."

"He was selling something independently?"

Marcone nodded. "The contents of an old storage locker. Mendoza had come across the key to it in an estate sale."

That was criminal-speak for purchasing hot merchandise from a mugger or burglar. "Go on."

"The key opened a storage locker that had been sealed since 1945. It contained a number of works of art, jewelry, and similar cultural artifacts."

I arched an eyebrow. "Loot from World War Two?"

"So Mendoza presumed," Marcone said. "He offered me my selection of the contents, and in return I allowed him to dispose of the rest in whatever manner he saw fit."

"What did you get out of it?" I asked.

"Two Monets and a Van Gogh."

"Holy crap." I shook my head. "What happened then?"

"Mendoza went about liquidating his cache. It had been in process for several weeks when he reported that one of the people he had approached regarding an antique book seemed to have access to resources that were well beyond the ordinary."

"Did he give you a name?" I asked.

"A man named Grevane," Marcone said. "Mendoza asked for my advice on the matter."

"And you told him about how wizards are technologically challenged."

"Among other things," he said, nodding.

"But the deal went south."

"So it would seem," Marcone said. "Since Mendoza's death, I have asked Miss Gard to collect information on recent events in the local supernatural community."

I glanced at the woman and nodded. "And she told you there were necromancers running around."

"Once that had been established, we attempted to narrow down the location of these individuals, particularly Grevane, but met with very limited success."

"I'm able to find where they've been," Gard said without turning around. "Or at least where they've been weaving their spells."

"And there are a number of hot spots of necromantic energy around town," I said. "I know that already."

Marcone placed his fingers in a steeple before him. "But what I suspect you do not know is that last night at the location on Wacker, a member of my organization had an altercation with representatives of a rival interest from out of town. There was a gunfight. My man was mortally wounded and left for dead."

"That doesn't add up to necromancy," I said, frowning. "What caused the hot spot?"

"That is the question," Marcone said. He took a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passed it to me. "These are the names of the responding EMTs," he said. "According to my man, they were the first on the scene."

"Did he talk to you before he died?" I asked.

"He did," Marcone replied. "In point of fact, he did not die."