“Doughnuts and rolls,” I said lightly, holding the bag. “An offer of appreciation from a tax-paying vampire to the Ombuds who represent her.”
Roger glanced back and I met his gaze, saw the apology there. But he slid the device into his pocket and walked over. “It’s good to see you, Elisa.”
“You, too,” I said and nodded toward the wall screen. “Fairies?”
He glanced back. “Yes.”
“I thought they confessed.”
“They did,” he said. “But there were some inconsistencies I didn’t like.” He looked back at me, expression pained. “And I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.”
I nodded, and it was at least comforting to know the shut-out was as difficult for them as it was for me.
Petra came toward us, her dark hair in a bouncy tail, and took the bag, peeked inside. “Oh, you get extra-good representation now,” she said and pulled out a cream-filled log nearly as long as her forearm.
“Dibs on sprinkles,” Theo said, rising from his own chair. He squeezed my arm, made his own dive, came up with a cake doughnut covered in them.
“You want?” Petra asked Roger.
“No, thanks,” he said, patting his flat belly. “I’m not much for sweets.”
“Perish the thought,” Petra said, moving back to her desk.
I plucked an old-fashioned from the box, took a seat at one of the empty chairs, spun to face them.
“Let’s start with Jonathan Black,” I said, pulling off a chunk of doughnut. “I met him on the way in. Who is he, and what does he want?”
“He’s delicious,” Petra supplied. “All blond and dreamy. Like a caramel sundae. Part elf, but I don’t know the details.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
Theo came around the desk. “You have reason to believe he isn’t?”
“I don’t have reason either way. I just got a vibe. And he said he’d hoped to meet me.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“The first note sent to me said almost the same thing.”
Theo frowned. “It’s a pretty general thing to say. But . . .”
“But,” I agreed. “He said he represented some interests who owed me a favor,” I told them, and offered the details. “Do you know who he represents?”
“Not specifically,” Roger said, frowning. “We’ve worked with him in a few minor matters. He’s been vague to maintain his clients’ confidentiality, which isn’t surprising. I presume they’re well funded since they have the money to act through an intermediary.”
“Or they want to hide their identities.”
“It’s not impossible,” Roger said. “But why would they? There are Sups with arrest warrants, sure, but no one who’d have power like that.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said and paused. “He said he wanted to meet me, but he didn’t mention anything about the AAM or the fight at the Grove.”
“He didn’t want to bring up sour grapes?” Theo asked. “Something that might hurt you?”
“Maybe.” I was suspicious, and I didn’t like situations without clear boundaries, clear rules, when motivations were cloudy. But it seemed there was nothing more to learn at the moment. “Never mind,” I said. “What about the stalker?”
If I called him “the” stalker, instead of “my” stalker, it was less personal. Less disconcerting.
“Very little,” Theo said. “No fingerprints, no DNA on the paper.” He tapped his screen, and an image appeared on the glass panel. Pale shadows on white I could hardly make out.
“What is that?” I asked. “A building?”
“The Water Tower,” Theo said. “It’s the watermark from the notepaper, scanned and enhanced. We were able to trace it, but it’s common. Available online and at dozens of shops in Chicago alone. The ink was just as common. Basic office supply pens.”
“Who writes a creepy love note with a basic office-supply pen?” Petra asked. “You need a fountain pen and wax seal at a minimum.”
“So,” I said, “he’s not into high-end writing implements, or he was smart enough to pick something difficult to trace.”
“One of those,” Theo agreed with a smile. “And the postage mark from the first note doesn’t do us any good. The postage was purchased from a kiosk, paid with cash. No other way to track it.”
“What about the loft security camera?”
“Proves you didn’t leave the apartment when Blake was killed. Doesn’t show anyone unusual who might have delivered a letter.”
“Maybe he’s a ghost,” I said with a sigh.
“Ghosts rarely obsess over humans,” Petra said. “That’s actually a myth.”
I had been joking, but decided I’d take her word for it. “What about Blake?”
“There’s no surveillance video of his death; he was left in a security camera blind spot,” Theo said. “So either the killer got lucky or knew where the cameras were located.”
“Maybe he works in the building?” I wondered.
“We’re going through the list,” Theo said with a nod.
“I still think it’s weird he was in the Brass & Copper building ten minutes before dawn to get coffee. Why did a member of the AAM walk into that building for coffee when there are a dozen coffee shops on the street within a few blocks?”
“Maybe because it’s across the street from the Portman Grand,” Petra said.
I stared at her. I’d known they were both on Michigan, but hadn’t realized their proximity. “It’s across the street?”
“Give me a sec,” she said, frowning as she began typing, pulling data onto the wall screen. A search, a map, an image of that block of Michigan. And the Portman Grand sitting right across the street from the gleaming Brass & Copper building.
“Awfully convenient,” I murmured, thinking about the rising sun and the very short time the victim—and killer, if a vampire—would have had to make their escape.
“Still—why would you risk it?” I asked again, the same question that had been gnawing at me. And then I realized—he didn’t have to risk it.
“The Pedway,” I said. “Does it connect the buildings?”
The Pedway was a system of under- and aboveground walkways through downtown Chicago that allowed Chicagoans to get around even in the depths of winter. What would a vampire like better than a safe underground passageway between your hotel and a little caffeine?