Gianni’s report was short and to the point. His time line matched Sinclair’s up to the lab, where they became separated. He was assisting the other team in securing what was left of the lab when he heard the mayday. He met Foyle and Sinclair at the door, and they entered the workroom. He maintained position at the entry while Foyle and Sinclair secured the room.

She gathered the reports and tapped them on the desk to neaten the pile. She caught Sinclair’s eye and nodded. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. “You already said that.”

“No, I mean for finding me.”

He gave her a curious look, as if surprised she would be grateful that he’d done his job. She was, in a way. Just because it was his job, didn’t mean he had to do it right-or well. “Sure. You’re welcome,” he said.

“I’m sorry about Sanchez,” she said.

Sinclair frowned and pulled his chair to his desk. “Yeah.”

She kept her face neutral. Anger and annoyance hovered around Sinclair, but no substantive grief. When a family member or friend died, a sense of grief became a distinct part of someone’s essence for a time. Anger was often part of it as well, but it was unusual to feel no grief at all. Odd reaction to the death of a teammate.

She gestured at the reports. “Can I take these for the night?”

His eyes shifted to the closed door to Foyle’s office. “It’s probably a good idea to have them sitting on my desk at the end of the day.”

Laura affected a confused look, as if she didn’t pick up his subtle warning. She handed him the file. She didn’t need to take it home. Her natural talent and druidic training ensured that everything she read had logged itself into her photographic memory. Sinclair would be surprised to hear her recite the reports verbatim. Or maybe not. They used to have a druid on their team. Sinclair might be more aware of her talents than his experience would indicate.

Gianni broke the awkward silence by slamming down the phone. Laura startled for effect. By the lack of reaction from Sinclair, she suspected that Gianni was a chronic phone slammer. He didn’t look happy. “Let’s go for a beer.”

“I’m in,” Sinclair said.

They both stared at her, almost challenging her to refuse. She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to beg off. Her headache had lessened but not gone away. She still had Guildmaster Rhys’s speech to review. But she didn’t want to miss the opportunity to make more of a connection with them. Not with Foyle acting so strangely. Something was definitely going on in the squad, and she wasn’t going to figure it out by playing the unsocial outsider.

“Sounds good. Where’s the locker room?”

A strange tension vibrated off Sinclair while an equally strange sense of satisfaction came off Gianni. She hoped neither emotion indicated one of them was going to take a shot at her.

THE VAULT WAS a club everyone knew by reputation but few under a certain income bracket ever experienced. The clientele varied in character throughout the day, but the atmosphere didn’t. Money and power ruled. The upstairs lounge functioned as the power lunch site where lawyers and lobbyists dined with elected officials and their staffs, maintaining the facade of friendship against a backdrop of exchanged favors. By midafternoon, the room evolved into an elite social club that included women and fey, meaning it had the trappings of an old men’s club with the vibe of the new century. The bar saw traffic for the after-work decompression and late in the evening for post-charity-event socializing or breaks from late-night strategy sessions. Laura had been there a few times as Laura Blackstone as well as Mariel Tate, her high-level InterSec persona. She was surprised that two midlevel police officers were interested in the place and more surprised they gained entrance without their badges.

Sinclair and Gianni met her after she parked her SUV in a lucky spot on the street. The doorman held the door as they entered-Laura first, which she wasn’t sure was courtesy or sexist. As the closing door cut off afternoon daylight from the dimmer foyer, the doorman said, “See you later, Sal.”

So Gianni, at least, was known at the Vault. If she had to guess which of her companions was a regular, she would have said Sinclair before Gianni. Sinclair had the look of a Vault bar patron, early twenties to late thirties, dress pants and shirt. She admitted that he looked handsome, equally comfortable in the sports coat he was wearing as he was in the black SWAT-team gear. Without asking or being told, Gianni leaned in to the coat checkroom and retrieved a sports coat that hung with several identical ones under a discreet sign indicating that they were required dress for men. Laura trailed behind them to the bar.

The bartender finished an order, then handed up draft beers to Sinclair and Gianni. He smiled at Laura inquiringly. “Same for me,” she said.

No one spoke as they assessed the room. Laura recognized several people, some from meetings as Laura Blackstone or Mariel Tate, some from the evening news, but mostly the room was full of the unknown people who made the wheels of government turn. Years ago, when she found herself in D.C. advocating for the fey more and more, she’d bought a book to learn how the American democratic system worked. A week after her first job at the Guildhouse, she threw the book away.

Washington worked like so many other governments-relationships and favors drove policies more than rules and regulations ever could. The letter of the law was followed, but the intent or the spirit of it wasn’t always. Words on a page could mean anything if someone powerful enough wanted them to. That was one of the reasons humans feared the fey, though they might not articulate it that way. There was a fear, sometimes a real one, that the fey would use their power against anyone who threatened theirs. High Queen Maeve wasn’t known as the Bitch of Tara for nothing.

The bartender slid a beer next to the first two and walked away. No bill. No tab.

Sinclair picked up a glass. “To Gabrio Sanchez.”

“To Sanchez,” Laura said, and tapped his glass with her own. Gianni frowned as he tapped glasses but didn’t verbalize the toast. He turned a shoulder to them and faced the busy room. Laura sipped her beer, scanning the crowd with a practiced innocent air.

“Have you ever been here before?” Sinclair asked.

She shook her head, amused that it sounded like a lame conversation starter for a pickup. “I’m not much of a bar person.”

Gianni walked off without a word. He leaned in halfway down the bar and started talking to two young women. Laura didn’t think much of it. While they were out of his price range, they were close enough in age to keep it not-creepy. She scanned the bar again until her gaze settled on Sinclair. He smiled.

“What the hell are we doing here?” she said.

He chuckled and finished off his beer. “Gianni does a detail here every once in a while, so he likes to think he belongs.”

“And you?”

The bartender landed another beer for both of them. “I work details, too, sometimes. Mostly I come to watch Gianni make an ass of himself,” Sinclair said.

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “Nice. So why am I here?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Why’d you come?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get to know Sanchez’s friends.”

Sinclair stared into his beer. “You having survivor’s guilt?”

She paused, considering whether Sinclair would like that or not. “No. It was screwed up, but it wasn’t my fault.”

Sinclair nodded once sharply. “Good. Sanchez wasn’t worth the guilt.”

Sinclair knew she was a druid. He had to know she sensed things off people, even if he didn’t know that she could sense emotion more acutely than other druids. He had to know he was not putting out mourning signals. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why didn’t you like Sanchez?”