Trying to ignore the mental picture my imagination provided, I called the contact number. There was no answer, not even a machine. I called his former place of work next, my intuition settling into a nice groove at the name of the place: Seary Security.

The woman there was very nice, but she didn’t know anything, telling me that Mr. Seary’s wife was away at a “health resort” trying to relearn how to sleep. She did look in her files, though, telling me that they had been contracted to install a safe on the Kalamack estate.

“Security…” I murmured, pinning Mr. Seary’s packet to the bulletin board atop Glenn’s sticky notes to get it out of my way. “Hey, Glenn. You have any more of those sticky notes?”

He rummaged in his desk drawer, tossing me a pack, shortly followed by a pen. I scrawled the name of Mr. Seary’s workplace and stuck it to his report. After a moment’s thought, I did the same to the woman’s, writing “safe designer” on it. I added a second sticky note with “Talked to T” circled in black ink.

A scuffing in the hallway brought my eyes up from the third report. I made a noncommittal smile recognizing the overweight cop, minibag of chips in hand. He acknowledged me and Glenn’s nod, coming to a rest in the doorway. “Glenn’s got you doing his secretary work?” he asked, his good-old-boy tone almost thick enough to cut.

“No,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Trent Kalamack is the witch hunter, and I’m just taking a moment to tie the links together.”

He grunted, eyeing Glenn. Glenn wearily returned his look, adding a shrug. “Rachel,” he said, “this is Officer Dunlop. Dunlop, this is Ms. Morgan.”

“Charmed,” I said, not offering my hand lest I get it back covered in potato-chip grease.

Not getting the hint, the man walked in, crumbs falling to the tile floor. “Whatcha got?” he said, coming to peer at my thick reports stuck to the board atop Glenn’s faded sticky notes.

“Too soon to say.” I pushed him out of my space with a finger in his gut. “Excuse me.”

He backed up but didn’t leave, going instead to see what Glenn was doing. Heaven save me from cops on break. The two talked over Glenn’s suspicions concerning Dr. Anders, their rising and falling voices soothing.

I blew chip crumbs off my papers, my pulse quickening as I saw that the third victim had worked at the city racetrack in weather control. It was a very difficult field of work, heavy in ley line magic. The man had been pressed to death while working late, stirring up a fall shower to dampen down the track for the next day’s race. The actual implement of death was unknown. There had been nothing in the stables heavy enough. I didn’t look at that picture, either.