“I know. It’s a big operation, easy to get lost in.” I smiled amiably. “I wanted to talk to Petra’s coworkers, to see if she’d been in touch with any of them.”

“And had she?” Strangwell asked.

“I don’t think so. They say that she turned standoffish when she started working for you. Was that one of your conditions?”

His cold eyes turned fractionally chillier. “I expect everyone who works for me to protect the confidentiality of our clients. The fact that NetSquad talked to you without permission makes me think I haven’t been clear in communicating that rule.”

Tania Crandon flushed again. It was clearly supposed to be her fault that her team had chatted with me. She started to apologize, but I cut her short.

“You have a young and energetic team. And I’m guessing that if you tamp down their exuberance, you’ll lose the best qualities of their work. I’m V. I. War—”

“I know who you are. Your uncle is here. We’d all like to talk to you, to make sure you don’t do something that might jeopardize our ability to find Petra.”

I didn’t know if he was being an SOB because I’d spoken to the NetSquad, or because I was Petra’s cousin and she’d disappeared on him—or because it was his nature—but I followed him into his office. I knew Peter was there, of course, and it wasn’t surprising to see George Dornick, since he was advising the campaign on security, but I was startled to see Harvey Krumas as well.

Of the four men, only Strangwell looked at ease, his cold, shrewd eyes surveying me to see how I was reacting to the group. Harvey and Peter were both flushed—whether from anger, fear, or some other emotion—I couldn’t decipher their expressions. Even Dornick, a vision in pearl-gray shantung and pink shirting, looked ill at ease.

I moved forward before Strangwell could take complete control of the encounter. “Mr. Krumas, we met at your son’s fundraiser on Navy Pier. George, have you come in to augment police efforts to find Petra? Mr. Strangwell, can you tell us what Petra’s been working on the last ten days or so? She’s been seen in some odd places, and it would help if I knew whether you’d sent her to them or she’d been going on her own.”

“Odd places?” Dornick said. “Like what?”

“Like the Mighty Waters Freedom Center a few nights after it was fire-bombed.” I touched my face inadvertently. “Like my childhood home the night someone threw a smoke bomb through the window.”

“Petra wouldn’t go to South Chicago, not unless you took her there. Damn it, Vic, if you put her in front of a crew of gangbangers—” My uncle’s outburst lacked conviction, apparently even to himself, since he let Dornick cut him off midsentence.