“I don’t know yet, but we’ll figure it out.” He sighs. “We just have to take it one step at a time. Let’s concentrate on getting the replica made first. The Stern Grove Festival is here.” He circles a park on the map. “And the Bubble Car depot where you’re going to make the exchange with Faye is in St. Francis Circle.” He traces a path to a point at the edge of the park. “It shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes to walk there—remember, the timing is important. You have to drop the key fob containing the mold and photographs in the return kiosk right away. Once I put the ring mold in the liquid nitrogen, it will harden the wax, but if it’s in there for more than an hour, it will start to dissolve. And Faye will be waiting. She’ll be disguised as a Bubble Car employee and will break into the kiosk to retrieve the key fob, but we don’t want to risk her running into a real Bubble Car employee or anyone emptying the kiosk before she does.”

“I know, I know.” I turn the key fob over, examining the key emblem etched into it. A gift from Allard, it has a hollow interior and a seven-letter code that must be correctly arranged on the side roller bar to access the compartment. Faye already knows the password is “Justice.” “Isn’t a key fob kind of archaic?”

“Yeah, but the Bubble Cars kept getting hacked, so the city went old-school. The cars will only start if the key fob is present.” He shakes his head. “I love it when technology breaks down. Maybe someday they’ll see it our way.”

“Maybe, but I’m not getting my hopes up,” I say.

“Me neither,” he says, still studying the map. “Have you decided how you’re going to get pictures of the ring?”

“Yep—with this.” I pull the 1950s Echo 8 Lighter Camera I borrowed from the Crypt—on a hunch it might be useful—out of my tool garter and flip it open. “It’s a concert. She’ll want to smoke, right? I’ll be able to get up close when I light her herbs. Simple.”

He squints at the lighter. “It’s never as simple as you think. We don’t have room for mistakes. Are you sure that thing will work?”

“Positive.”

“Give it here.” He waves it toward him.

“Why?” I cradle it to my chest.

“Just let me see it.”

I hesitate.

“I’m not going to hurt it,” he says, his eyes flashing.

“Fine.” With a sigh, I give it to him.

He flicks the lighter. Nothing happens. He tries again. Nothing. Holding it up to the light, he examines it. “Did you put lighter fluid in it?”