As Adam searched for a basement, I poked around the living room. Needlepoint on one end table. A half-constructed model ship on the other. The pillows and throws all looked handmade. Same for the artwork. None of it was particularly good. A couple of artistic dabblers.

I found a photo. The Schmidts were just what I expected. Middle-aged, plain, slightly dumpy. They looked happy, though. I glanced around the living room and could picture them there, doing their arts-and-crafts hobbies together.

“Just storage in the basement,” Adam said when he came back. “And not a lot of that. All of the boxes have been there a while. They’re covered in dust. No strange smells.”

Mrs. Schmidt’s SUV was in the garage, along with a bicycle built for two. A childless couple, who’d met late in life, content in each other’s company.

We checked the key rack. Two sets were there. No sign of a wallet for Schmidt, although he may have kept it elsewhere.

“It’s a coin toss,” I said finally. “He might have been murdered and dissolved in lime. Or he might have taken a taxi to the hospital because it was cheaper than paying for parking while he stays at his wife’s bedside.”

“We’ll hit the hospital in the morning. For now, let’s try to find a cell phone number.”

I found a cellular bill in the “to be paid” pile. I called Schmidt’s. His voice mail picked up and warned me that his access would be spotty—presumably because he’d be at the hospital a lot—and urged me to e-mail him instead. I’d already done that, so I left a message. I tried his wife’s number, but it forwarded to his.

Adam logged onto the computer. It didn’t even have a password. While he checked e-mail, contacts, and the calendar, I did the same with the physical versions, looking for a name I recognized or a suspicious notation. Nothing.

We went through the house again, searching for hiding spots. Not a damned thing. Either Schmidt was a master criminal or he was as clean as he seemed. I was starting to suspect the latter. It still didn’t explain his connection with Leah. Then Adam said, “Schmidt is from Wisconsin. Moved here ten years ago, after he met his wife.”

“Right.” I thought for a moment. “Wisconsin? Isn’t that—?”

“Where Leah was a deputy sheriff? Yep.”

fourteen

Adam found the connection with a simple search on the Internet. Twelve years ago, Schmidt had been arrested for DUI in an accident that had injured three people. According to the local paper, it had been his third charge.

Two years later, Schmidt had moved to California. I found no evidence of jail time or even a license suspension.

“Did you see any booze in the house?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Recovered alcoholic, then. Wanna bet who was the arresting officer at the accident scene?”

Somehow, Leah must have known he was a necromancer and she’d cut him a deal. She also must have known a loophole he could use to get off on the charge. Then he’d owe her a future debt. It would have seemed like a good deal at the time. But he’d have been better off bargaining with a demon.

I talked to Sean that night. We’d been playing phone tag all day. I told him about SLAM. He hadn’t heard anything about it, which only meant the Nasts considered it too minor to bother him with while he was abroad. He promised to look into it when he returned in a few days.

Again, I woke up first. I could make a comment about Adam getting older and needing his sleep—and I’m sure I would, as soon as he woke up—but he’d been hard at work on his laptop when I drifted off.

I went down to the lobby of the Marriott we’d checked into the night before. I’d seen a Starbucks kiosk, and mentioned that whoever woke first could grab coffees. Adam hadn’t argued. It was a hotel lobby. Not exactly a dangerous place.

I got in line behind a couple bickering about their plans for the day. One wanted to visit an old friend; the other wanted to sightsee. They were making my head ache. I was two seconds from tapping on a shoulder and telling them they should each do whatever the hell they wanted—the bonds of marriage do stretch that far—when I felt something poke at the base of my spine. Something cold and sharp.

The woman behind me leaned forward and rose on her tiptoes. “Step out of line now.”

When I hesitated, the blade bit in deep enough to make me wince. I got out of line.

“We’re going for a walk,” the woman said. “I’m backing away, but if I see your lips moving in a spell, I’ll kill you.”

I gave a pointed look around. “And nobody’s going to notice?”

“My mission is to kill you. If I die doing it, my death will be a worthy one, ridding the world of another witch.”

I glanced at her. Middle-aged. Mousy brown hair. Behind her glasses, her eyes glowed with the fervor of obsession.

“Aunt Rachel, I presume?”

“Outside, witch.”

“Right. Outside. Where you can kill me and leave my body in a gutter. Does anyone actually leave bodies in gutters anymore? Even alleys are hard to find.”

“Outside.”

She started heading toward a parking garage door, but people were coming through into the lobby. She prodded me up a flight of stairs to the meeting room level, then out an exit there to the parking garage.

“Can we discuss this?” I said as she steered me toward the stairwell. “I got the impression from your sister that you wouldn’t be unhappy to see Veronica dead. I could do that for you. One free assassin, at your service.”

“We can handle her without your magic, witch.”

“Okay, I won’t use magic. I’ll be discreet. Speaking of which, you’ve gone a little off the playbook here, haven’t you? A young woman gutted in a stairwell is hardly going to be mistaken for a natural death.”

“That’s why you’re going up the stairs. To the top floor. Where you will leap to your death.”

“Are you sure? Because this building doesn’t look that tall. I’d hate—”

I wheeled and chopped down on her knife-hand. She slashed and the blade cut my palm. Blood sprayed. I kicked. She went down, knife still gripped tight. I kicked again, this time at her arm. She rolled and the blade sliced the back of my jeans. I stumbled.

She leapt to her feet and ran at me. I landed another kick, this one to her stomach. She fell, and I tried kicking the knife out of her hand, but the tip caught in my pant-leg, and I lost my balance. I went down, face-first, palms slamming into the pavement, my back exposed, brain screaming that I’d made a fatal mistake.