When Gabriel phoned the detective to say we’d reached the city, he was directed to an address. It was not a police station address. The detective still refused to explain, and Gabriel’s grumbling protests didn’t change anything. She was giving him the runaround for purely sadistic fun, and Gabriel threatening to complain to her superior was like the brattiest kid in school threatening to tell the principal that a teacher was being mean to him.

“Any chance we’re being set up?” I said as Gabriel drove through the city. “Some fae pretending to be a Chicago detective, luring you to an out-of-the-way location?”

“I know Detective Fahy. We’ve had dealings before.”

“Uh-huh. What’d you do to her?”

He glanced over. “Is it not possible I simply mean she worked a case I defended?”

“Nope. Spill.”

“I may have inadvertently prevented her from getting a promotion.”

“Inadvertently?”

“I had evidence thrown out in a case, on the grounds she’d contaminated it at the scene. At the time, she’d been up for promotion, and when the judge ruled in my favor, she lost that promotion. I could hardly foresee the repercussions.”

“Did she contaminate evidence?”

“The judge thought it was a strong possibility, given the persuasiveness of my argument.”

“In other words, no.”

“I could not have been expected to foresee—”

“If you’d known it would cost her a promotion, would you have done differently?”

“Of course not. My job is to defend my client to the best of my ability. It is the responsibility of the police and prosecution to protect their case. Any repercussions from their failure to do so cannot be laid at my feet, as I told Detective Fahy when she complained. She must simply do a better job next time, and if she cannot, then perhaps she didn’t deserve the promotion.”

“And you’re surprised she’s giving you a hassle now?”

“Yes, I am. A strike within the realm of the professional never justifies retribution in the realm of the personal.”

He slowed at the address, an upscale chain hotel. As we walked in, an anxious-looking manager was waiting.

“Can you tell me what this is about?” Gabriel asked as the manager led us along the main hall.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. A misunderstanding. An accident. An unfortunate accident. These things happen.” He cast a nervous glance at a middle-aged couple and steered us away, saying, “This way, please. The service elevator is quicker.”

He whisked us up to the fourth floor, and we passed a member of a crime scene team heading for the main elevator.

“The stairs,” the manager said to her. “Please use the stairs. And if you could be more discreet…”

The young woman kept walking. Two hotel guests peered out of their doors to watch her pass, forensics kit in hand.

“An accident,” the manager whimpered, as if to himself. “They happen. We can’t help that.”