He looked back over his shoulder. The imp was close, almost close enough to grab him.

Coop reached into his suit and pulled out the secret weapon he kept for just such emergencies: a set of nail clippers. While the imp took swipes at his face with its free claw, Coop calmly clipped the tips of the ones holding onto the zip line. The imp, possessing just a little less brainpower than a wedge of cheddar cheese, didn’t seem to understand what was happening and why it was slipping. Even when it began to fall it stared at its hand in wonder. Coop thought that he might have seen some kind of realization spread across the imp’s face just before it hit the ground, but he was moving too fast to be sure.

When he was past the trees outside the wall, Coop squeezed the hand brake on the grip, which slowed him enough that he could jump off the line and hit the ground running. He headed straight for his car, parked at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac.

I’m gonna make it.

He didn’t make it.

The car gave an encouraging beep when he pushed the button on his key ring to unlock the doors. The moment he got the driver’s-side door open, though, lights from a semicircle of cars hit him. He had to put a hand up in front of his face to see what was happening. Red and white bars on a few of the cars pulsed like a jailhouse disco. Coop dropped his bag to the ground. Cops. At least a dozen of them.

They’ve been waiting for me this whole time.

At least Phil wasn’t around to start another round of skull karaoke.

Two men in suits reached him first. They flashed badges, but Coop couldn’t read them in the harsh light. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who they were. A couple of Abracadabrats: detectives from LAPD’s Criminal Thaumaturgy squad.

The taller of the two shoved him back against the car, reached into the front pocket of Coop’s suit, and pulled out the stolen folder.

How did he know what to look for . . . and where?

The detective broke the seal, thumbed through the papers, then showed them to his partner. The second detective looked them over, sighing at what he read. It occurred to Coop that he had no idea, beyond a folder, what he’d been hired to steal.

What the hell did I just give them? Missile launch codes? The formula for Coke? Abe Lincoln’s porn stash? Whatever it was, he knew it was bad.

“Isn’t someone supposed to read me my rights somewhere around now?” Coop said.