“Understood,” I said. “Now, what can you tell me about this case?”

Benicio ordered a room-service lunch for us, which we ate in the hotel room while discussing the case. If Benicio had any problem discussing Cabal problems with a witch, he gave no sign of it, but was as generous with his information and offers of assistance as I could want. More generous than I wanted, to be honest. I was uncomfortable enough taking a case Benicio had brought to us. I didn’t want to work with him any closer than necessary.

There were a few strategic moves I could make that made me feel less like I’d been suckered into working for Benicio. Earlier, I’d notified the hotel that I’d be staying on, and asked them to change the billing to my credit card. They were less than a third full, with no hope of major bookings soon, so after some dickering, we’d agreed on an affordable rate. I didn’t tell Benicio that I’d switched the billing. By the time he found out, it’d be too late for him to argue.

I also gave Benicio back his bodyguard. When he protested I argued that with Griffin on grief-leave, Benicio needed one of his regular guards, and my own investigating would be less conspicuous without a half-demon shadow.

Benicio left at one. Lucas still hadn’t called about the necromancer. While I waited, I read through the files. I kept my cell phone on the desk, checked for messages twice, and adjusted the ring volume once. A bit anxious for Lucas’s call? Nah.

When the phone finally rang, I checked caller ID, and answered with “You found someone?”

“I apologize for taking so long. Two of my contacts were slow in phoning back, then I had to wait for court to recess.”

“But you found someone?”

“A fortuitous collision of circumstances. A first-rate necromancer who just happens to be on business in Miami this week.” His voice sounded oddly strained, as if forcing cheerfulness. Must have been the connection.

“Perfect,” I said. “When can he meet me? Or is it she?”

“Early this evening, as a matter of fact. Very fortunate. The only other possibility couldn’t make it until Monday, so this is quite the lucky break.”

Did it sound as if he was trying to convince me? Or himself?

“Okay, so tell me about—”

“Hold on.” A muffled word or two to someone else. “It appears the recess ended sooner than I expected. Do you have a pen?” He gave me the address and directions. “Now, everything’s been arranged. Someone will meet you there. They’re expecting you between six-thirty and seven. It’s a reasonably good section of town, but I’d still advise that you ask the cab driver to wait until you’re inside. Go to the rear door, knock, and give your name.”

“Speaking of names, what’s this necro—”

“They’re calling me in now. I have togo, but I’ll phone you tonight. Oh, and Paige?”

“Yes?”

“Trust me on this one. However things may appear, please trust me.”

And with that, he was gone.

The Meridian Theater Proudly Presents…

“IS THIS IT?” THE DRIVER ASKED.

I leaned forward and read the sign: PARKING FOR EMPLOYEES AND GUESTS OF THE MERIDIAN. ALL UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S RISK AND EXPENSE. Was I a guest of the Meridian? What was the Meridian? Damn Lucas. I’d left a message on his cell, asking him to call me back with more information, but obviously court was running late today.

The directions he’d provided had taken the cab on a convoluted path through an industrial area when, according to my new Miami map, I could have accessed the same street off a major thoroughfare. Of course, the driver hadn’t suggested a shorter route, though I had caught him smiling at the meter once or twice.

The address Lucas gave me was right here. The parking lot. What exactly had he said? There’d be a rear door. To my left was a block-long wall dotted with air vents and barred windows, plus two entrances: a loading dock, and a double set of gray-painted metal doors.

I asked the driver to wait, got out, and walked to the doors. They were indeed solid, with no handles or locks. Beside them was a doorbell marked DELIVERIES. I double-checked the address, and rang the bell.

Thirty seconds later, the door swung open, letting out a blast of shouting voices, rock music, and power tools. A young woman squinted out into the sunlight. She wore cat’s-eye glasses, red leather pants, and an ID badge with an obscenity in the name space.

“Hi, I’m—” I raised my voice. “I’m Paige Winterbourne. I was supposed to meet—”

The woman shrieked over her shoulder. “J.D!” She looked back at me. “Well, come in, girl. You’re letting out all our air-conditioning.”

I excused myself while I paid the cab driver, then hurried back to the building. As I stepped inside, a fresh song started, volume cranked. At first wail, I winced.

“Isn’t that god-awful?” the young woman said, slamming the door behind me. “It’s Jaime’s warm-up song. ‘My Way.’”

“Tell me that’s not Frank Sinatra.”

“Nah, some dead Brit.”

“Recorded as he was dying a long, painful death.”

The woman laughed. “You got that right, girl.”

A fortyish man appeared, slight, balding, carrying a clipboard, and looking harried to the point of exhaustion. “Oh, thank God. I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

He grabbed me by the elbow, tugged me into the room, and propelled me through a mob of drill-wielding men working on what looked like a scaffold.