“No. I mean . . . it’s a fraternal matter . . .” Unable to explain himself, he let his words trail off into a mumble.

She frowned, debating whether to believe him. “You told me you could handle yourself.”

“And I can. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to commit social suicide. Certain things have to stay within walls, Miranda.”

Her eyebrows went right up at that one. He flinched. “There’s no palatable way to say this, Miranda. There are things that he may tell me that he will certainly not say in front of you.”

“Then do what you have to do,” she said. “You’re the boss.”

He held her stare, not fooled for a moment by her pretended surrender. “You have to trust me, Miranda.”

She watched him walk away, feeling helpless again. If only I could be a fly on that wall.

Or a spider.

She glanced down at the unspoken words and caught the eye of a small spider that was climbing the edge of her chair’s arm. He waved two of his legs lazily at her in greeting.

“Why are you wasting time on Boadu? Trust me, he’s not the one we’re looking for. He’s a liar with unclean hands, but he isn’t important.”

“Don’t tell me what’s important,” Miranda muttered through clenched teeth. “If you’re not going to be helpful, go away, or I’ll stop believing in you again.”

He laughed at her and vanished.

“Dr. Ecouvo?” the receptionist called. “Your car is here.”

She barely responded to the driver’s queries about her well-being, forcing herself to answer for the sake of courtesy and out of the increasingly painful sense of obligation that she felt toward Khabir and his domestic staff. He noted her mood and soon returned his focus to the City traffic, leaving her to brood in silence.

Did she really need the Trickster’s help? She could imagine it: Khabir and Dr. Boadu exchanging their special twisted handshake while grinning like two neighborhood boys with the password to the tree house club. They would probably inquire about each other’s work, perhaps discuss some shared responsibility for the latest fundraiser or social event, and then Khabir would manage to come around to the meat of the matter. Would he grow serious, speaking in a low voice that invited confidence? Would he be embarrassed and apologetic, trying to hide it with a nervous laugh and a shrug?

“You did the autopsy. You saw her dead on a slab. Did you ever see her alive? Did she dance for you at a special-invite party? Did you notice who she smiled at? Do you know how she got home? Did you find out her name?