“Well, I grasp that Redlick Group’s spokes-douche, Tom Mandibole, is a homer for the project. He scoffed at the suggestion it’s dead and buried.”

“Him.” Delia looked as if she was about to cross herself.

I bit my tongue to resist confiding details of what I’d gleaned in what was becoming a wide-reaching investigation into the seamier side of large-scale construction. I hadn’t managed to read anywhere near the entire collection of reports; I nonetheless skimmed until my eyeballs bled. I came across a series of memos. These memos between congressional watchdogs and their agents embedded in the Jeffers Project led me to conclude the government didn’t pull support from the collider due to waste or cost overruns. Those bastards calculate corruption into the bid. The government picked up its marbles and went home because a keen mind on the congressional oversight committee realized Redlick and Zircon, and those other shifty industrialists, had a hidden agenda. Late in the game, an independent geologist on the federal payroll produced evidence of previously undisclosed irregular seismic activity. Carefully obscured from the public, a full-fledged report alleged that an unstable fault line disqualified the collider. The Jeffers Project founders pled ignorance and were lucky to dodge fraud charges. Immense wealth is better than Kevlar sometimes.

Intriguing as it might be, Delia’s perspective wasn’t quite valuable enough to overcome my suspicion of the heiress to the Labrador empire and future holder of the keys to Zircon Corp.

“Does Mandibole have reason to be optimistic?” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Certain unscrupulous persons would slit a baby’s throat to see the collider resurrected. Why do you suppose Gerald Redlick went into politics? He means to influence the government on behalf of his family, his company, and the grand project. Grand projects yet undreamt of, in fact.”

The witch’s cauldron of paranoia and unrequited foreboding in the back of my mind began to bubble.

“You’re perilously close to telling me something,” I said. “Lummoxes are slow on the uptake. If you’ve a point to make, spell it out in all caps.”

“The Labradors and Redlicks no longer see eye to eye about that bloody space-age catacomb. Zircon prefers the project to remain dormant. Redlick and allies desire its revival. You said it—cold war.”

“I wish you and yours the best of luck in the feuds to come.”

She rewarded me with a wan smile.

“Daddy is aware of your traipsing around where you damned well shouldn’t be. The enemy won’t come here into our territory. They’ll wait to catch you in the open. Daddy would encourage you to continue fucking around and do his dirty work by remote control. I’m imploring you to walk away. There are worse fates than concrete galoshes.”

“Thank you for your concern.” I projected calmness. Riding my decades of finely honed bravado into the dirt.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” Delia’s boots crunched on a rime of snow and ice as she sashayed down the walk. A luxury SUV, fit for the president or a foreign potentate, glided up. A gorilla in a trench coat helped her inside.