“Are you getting married?” Cornelius asked.

“No.”

R stood for Rogan. Connor Rogan, except nobody called him that. They called him Mad Rogan, the Scourge of Mexico, the Butcher of Merida, the man who’d nearly leveled downtown Houston trying to save the rest of the city. Mad Rogan and the rest of humanity were never on a first-name basis. He cut buildings in half, threw buses like they were baseballs, and when he and I were done with Adam Pierce, he’d invited me to become his . . . mistress would be the polite term. It took all of my will to turn him down. Even now, when I thought about him, my pulse shot up. Unfortunately, my grandma witnessed our parting fight and decided that sooner or later we would get hitched, a fact she shared with my two sisters and two cousins, and since three of them were under the age of eighteen, the teasing was relentless.

“Coffee? Tea?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine Mad Rogan in my office. I remembered the feel of his hands on my skin. I remembered his taste. I slammed a mental door on that thought so hard my whole skull rattled. Rogan and I were over before we even had a chance to start.

I took my seat, trying to remember everything I could about Cornelius. He had distanced himself from his House and moved out of their territory to a very comfortable, but modest by the House’s standards, residence. He was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife worked somewhere—I had no idea where. He detested the entire Pierce family. That was pretty much it.

“Why don’t you tell me about your problem and I can tell you whether or not we’re equipped to handle your issue.”

“My wife was murdered on Tuesday night.”

Oh my God. “I’m so sorry.”

Cornelius sank deeper into his chair. His eyes turned dull as if dusted with ash. His words sat there between us, lead bricks on the table.

“How did it happen?”

“My wife is . . . was employed by House Forsberg.”

“Forsberg Investigative Services?”

“Yes. She was one of the attorneys in their legal department.”

Private investigation was a small field and you got to know your competitors pretty quickly. Full-service juggernauts similar to Augustine’s MII were rare. Most of us tended to specialize, and Matthias Forsberg’s firm concentrated on the prevention of corporate espionage, which meant they did bug sweeps, information security audits, and risk assessments. The word on the street was that occasionally, if the check was big enough, they would change hats and engage in the very things they offered to protect you from. Once in a while you’d hear rumors about possible legal action, but no cases had ever reached the public eye, which meant House Forsberg had a robust legal department.

“On Tuesday night my wife called at nine thirty to tell me she would be working late.” Cornelius’ voice lost all emotion. “At eleven, she and three other lawyers from her department walked into Hotel Sha Sha. They came out in body bags. There is an established way to handle matters when someone dies in the service of your House. When I approached House Forsberg this morning, I was told that my wife’s death is a private matter, unconnected to her job.”

“What makes you think it was connected?” Hotel Sha Sha was an expensive boutique hotel, located on Main Street. It was small and private and just upscale enough to add glamor to a clandestine meeting without breaking the bank. I’d tailed more than one cheating spouse there.

“I may not be a Prime, but I’m still a Significant and a member of a House. When I ask for information, I get it.” Cornelius reached into the folder and handed me a piece of paper. “Nari was shot twenty-two times. Her body”—his voice caught—“her body was riddled with bullets.”

I scanned the ME report. Nari Harrison’s body showed bullet wounds from left and right sides. They had to have occurred simultaneously, because the trajectory of the projectiles would’ve changed once she fell. Two of the gunshot wounds were in her forehead. The ME noted that her face showed signs of gunfire stippling. In the margins of the report someone had scrawled notes in shorthand, as if writing something in hurry. HK 4.6 x 30 mm. Traces of HTSP. Stippling, twelve to eighteen inches.

I had this terrible feeling in my chest, as if a heavy cold ball somehow formed just under my heart and was growing larger and heavier by the second. “Who made these notes?”

“The leading detective. This is all he could give me and it took a lot to get that much.”

“Did he explain this to you?”

Cornelius shook his head.

The woman he loved was dead. Now I would have to explain how she died. He was sitting right in front of me, a living, breathing human being. His daughter was in the next room.

I took a deep breath to steady my voice. He’d come to me for professional advice. I had to give him my best opinion.

“Your wife was hit by armor-piercing rounds from a Heckler & Koch MP7. It’s a vicious weapon developed for the German army and the counterterrorism division of the German police and designed specifically to penetrate body armor. It’s meant for military use. The pattern of the gunshot wounds indicates that your wife was in the center of two intersecting fields of fire.”

I took a mug with a little kitten on it and set it in the center of the desk, grabbed two pens, and lined them up diagonally in front of the mug, one pointing to the left, the other to the right.

“HTSP stands for High Tensile Strength Polyethylene. She was wearing a ballistic vest.”

“That makes no sense.” Cornelius stared at me. “She had a bulletproof vest, but she died anyway.”

“Yes. In fiction, vests stop everything. In reality, ballistic vests are only bullet resistant. They come in different levels of protection. Your wife was likely wearing a vest rated up to Level III, which means it would probably stop several 7.62mm rifle rounds. Even then, being shot in a bulletproof vest feels like taking a hammer to the body. In this case, your wife was shot multiple times by personal-defense-class military-grade firearms designed to pierce body armor. Death was instant.” At least I could offer him that.

He didn’t seem to draw any comfort from it.

I had to keep going. I’d started this; I had to finish. “The gunpowder stippling occurs when someone is shot at a close range and gunshot residue is deposited on the victim’s skin. This includes gunpowder burns, soot, and pitting and tearing of the top layers of the skin, if the gun discharged close enough.”

He clenched his right fist. The knuckles of his hand went completely white. He was probably picturing Nari’s face in his head.

“According to this report, after your wife was already dead and prone on the ground, someone pumped two bullets into her forehead. The lead detective estimated the range to be between a foot and a foot and a half.” Just about right for someone holding a Heckler & Koch straight down.

“Why? She was already dead.”

“Because the people who did this were well trained and thorough. If we get reports on the other three lawyers, it’s highly probable they were also shot in the head. A group of people ambushed your wife and her colleagues, killed them with military precision, and then lingered long enough to walk through the scene and put two bullets in the heads of those present to ensure there were no survivors. They did this in the middle of Houston, they made no effort to be subtle about it, and they got away clean. This wasn’t just a professional hit. This was a message.”