“Do you think your . . . secretary could do something about that noise?” Conrad asked. She leaned her cheek into her hand, rubbed her temple, wincing as the bell continued to chime.

“Defective cell phone,” Sylvie said. “Nothing to do but wait for the battery to die.” She relented. “Why don’t you go up to my private office. I’ll be up in a moment, as soon as I see Adelio out.”

The detective barked laughter. “I’ll go. I can take a hint. But I will catch up with you.” The door shut behind him, leaving Alex and Sylvie alone in the office.

Sylvie lowered her voice. “Alex, I need to talk to you. Let me get rid of Conrad. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Conrad’s your client,” Alex reminded her. “Try not to turf her out like you did Suarez, huh? She’s paying us.”

“So’s Wright,” Sylvie said.

Alex’s brows raised. “I knew you were hiding something. You didn’t want the case last night, and this morning you’re all grabby, dog in the manger. What’s going on?”

Sylvie shot a quick glance up the stairs, a quick one toward the door, and pulled Alex closer. “Just watch Wright when he comes back. Tell me if you see it. You knew him, too.”

“Knew who? His ghost?”

Sylvie nodded, feeling sick and giddy at once, as if this secret, held for such a short time, had festered. Even hinting at the truth made her think of lancing poisons from a wound, that squeamish combination of horror and relief.

Alex’s eyes went wide as she proved that she knew far too much about the way Sylvie’s mind worked. “You think it’s—”

“Not think,” Sylvie said. “Know. It’s Demalion.” Even at a whisper, the name exploded into the room like a bomb. Alex collapsed back onto the couch as if her knees had been cut out from under her.

She looked up at Sylvie, her eyes all shocked pupil, her voice very gentle. “Sylvie. Grief can really fuck you up. Guilt and grief together can get downright Shakespearean. All blood and delusions . . . Demalion coming back? It’s not possible.”

Sylvie laughed. “Alex. Look at my life and tell me what is and isn’t possible. I’ve dealt with werewolves, witches, gods, and immortal, amoral ancestors who wanted to storm heaven. What’s one ghost finding his way back compared to all of that?”

8

Something Blue

ANYTHING ALEX WOULD HAVE SAID IN RESPONSE WAS DERAILED AS, upstairs, the door to Sylvie’s office opened and closed with a bang, a clear sign that Lisse Conrad was getting impatient. Sylvie growled. “That woman’s such a—”

“Client,” Alex said, jumping onto the escape hatch of the conversation without her usual subtlety. “She’s our client. Go deal with her.” She rose from the couch, filled with a manic energy.

Sylvie imagined if she didn’t go upstairs, Alex would try to shove her up the treads. “Fine, but don’t think you’re being subtle.”

“Go, go!”

Less irritated than she let on, she took to the stairs. Alex didn’t want to think about it, fine. Alex wanted to think Sylvie was crazy. Not fine, but Sylvie could disabuse her of that easily enough the moment Demalion showed up again.

Sylvie let herself into her private office with her game face on: a little irritated, easy to shade toward neutral or to critical judgment. Her private office was usually off-limits to the clients, so she hadn’t bothered with any attempt at décor. She’d scrounged the filing cabinets, the desk, the standing fans from UM’s redecorating sales, and it showed. Her office looked like a particularly shabby dorm room, right down to the ratty futon behind the door.

The single window didn’t let in much light, being an alley view of the bar wall next door, and what sunlight came in was fractured, dancing prismatically along the linoleum, split by chips in the glass from the time Sylvie had found herself body-slammed into it by a pissed-off sorcerer.

Lisse Conrad sat in Sylvie’s desk chair, pushed back from the desk, her spine straight and her hands crossed neatly on her lap. In her shoes, Sylvie would have taken the opportunity to snoop. File drawers beckoned; the computer was right there—locked, of course, and coded besides, but right there.

Normally, Sylvie would make a point of removing the woman from her seat—she was in control here, not Conrad, no matter which way the money ran—but she wanted to be done with this. “I have a lead. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Suarez. I’ve found one of the burglars, but I’m holding out for the rest. I’d like to wrap this up all neat and tight before we go to the police.”

“The longer it takes, the less likely we are to regain our belongings,” Conrad said. “For the chain stores, that doesn’t mean much. It’s just money. For businesses like mine, like the people I represent, it means a lot more.”

“They’re not selling them,” Sylvie said. “Nothing’s shown up on the market. It’s being kept, so your chances of getting your belongings back are better than usual. But not if we let the police blunder in too soon. These aren’t your usual burglars.”

“What—they’re . . . magical?” Conrad said. Her expression was guarded. “You think I didn’t want you here because you were an investigator? I didn’t want you here because you have a strange reputation, Ms. Lightner, and rumor has it, you believe some strange things.”

Sylvie said, “I’ve investigated people who thought they could do magic.” Another truth—the false-alarm file existed for a reason—but the bigger truth left unsaid. “It’s Miami. When you live in an exotic city, your rumors have to be more exotic still. Did you hear the one that said I killed vampires? That one’s my favorite. Me and Buffy, saving the world.”

The woman shook her head, pale hair barely moving. No patience at all. “You have a plan?”

“Why keep a single minnow when you can use it as baitfish? I know one of the players; I’ll link her to others and net them all at once.” Sounded good to her, and by the relaxing of Conrad’s shoulders, good to her also.

“Time frame?”

“Soon,” Sylvie said. “Best for all concerned. Oh, and ask your jeweler friend what his policy is on rewards.”

“We’re paying you already—”

“His art deco greyhound got picked up by a bystander. She said she got rid of it. I’m not so sure. We can probably get her to cough it up with a little bit of cash. She doesn’t know the actual value.”

“It’s stolen property. The police can retrieve it.”

“The police get involved, she’ll claim total ignorance, and he might lose the brooch forever, piss off the customer waiting for it. Just have him call me.”

A few back-and-forth comments later, Sylvie ushered Conrad down the stairs and out the door. She handed Alex another check with a smile. “For expenses. Cash it.”

“And Wright’s check? I haven’t cashed it yet. I could send it and him on to someone else. I still think Val—” Alex said it all on one long breath, half-apologetic, half-challenging.

“Last time I tell you,” Sylvie said. “My case. I’ll help him.”

“Glad to hear it,” Wright said, closing the front door behind him. “So’s the ghost.” She jerked in surprise. She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t expected him back so soon. Noon at the shrimp shack was a madhouse, which was exactly why she had sent him there. To get breathing space.

He handed her a white paper bag, hot and grease-spotted, and said, “The one place had lines down to the beach.” He smiled with the smug awareness that he had confounded her plan. “I got us conch fritters instead. I don’t know what a conch fritter is, but it’s fried, and people looked happy to be buying them.”

“Good choice,” Alex said, when the silence threatened to linger. Her smile, a little tight, flashed and faded. She pushed Wright gently toward the kitchenette, her fingertips on his shoulder, and said, “You’ll love ’em. You like spice? There’s habañero sauce in the fridglet.”