"Where are you going?" Damon called.

"Wherever they are."

A necromancer?" Karl said as they got into the car.

"That's what I was trying to say in the interview room, when I said we shouldn't talk. I'm sure there was a microphone, but I also think Detective Findlay had another kind of listening device. A ghost."

"So he's a necromancer."

She nodded. "I caught the warning vision when we met Findlay in the hall, but it was so weak it took me a while to figure out his type. Even then, because it was weak, I thought it was someone else in the building. I picked up mild chaos vibes when I got in the room, and I caught a few snippets of his thoughts, enough to tell me what was bothering him. Me. My job."

"A reporter."

"A paranormal investigative reporter."

"Ah." Karl pulled from the parking lot.

"The third and final clue? He kept glancing toward the door."

"I noticed that. I thought he was expecting a partner to join us."

"So did I. But he was looking a little too long, like he was watching or listening. I've spent enough time with Jaime Vegas to recognize that look – a necromancer with a ghost in the room. Like when Eve's around – Jaime can't help looking her way, listening to her. She's better at hiding it than he is, though."

"So we have a necromancer homicide detective assigned to Portia Kane's murder? A murder involving the Nast Cabal?"

"I agree. When there's a Cabal involved, there's no such thing as coincidence."

"Your mind-reading skills are improving."

"No, just my Karl-reading skills."

He checked the mirrors. "So what else am I thinking?"

"That Detective Findlay is a plant. A legitimate homicide detective, but on the Cabal payroll. When the call came in, the Cabal pulled strings, and he got the case. That means we need to find Robyn, and if she hasn't turned herself in yet, stop her before she does." She stopped. "Shit. He has our names. Our real names."

"Not much we could have done about that. He found yours and I wasn't taking any chances with an alias. My record is clean – "

"I mean, if he reports our names to the Nasts, and they run them against their database, we're going to pop up. So I need to warn the council. Right now, though, my main concern is Robyn. Between placing that call and getting to the station, something happened."

"It's probably just a mix-up. But we'll make sure of that, obviously. I placed a few calls while I was waiting for you – one to the motel and one to our hotel, in case she did back out and went there." Another mirror check. "I also called Lucas, and he's going to contact all the precincts, as Robyn's legal representative, claiming she wanted to turn herself in alone and was supposed to phone him once she had. He'll say he hasn't heard from her, so he's calling around, seeing whether she went to the wrong one."

"Good idea. Especially if Detective Findlay is on the Cabal payroll. He probably never made those calls." She stopped. "Or maybe he already knows where Rob is."

"Because he has her? I don't think so. We've picked up a tail."

"Detective Findlay?"

"So I would presume."

"Let's lose him, then start looking for Robyn."

Finn lost Adams and Marsten. He'd followed them to their hotel, waited, waited some more, then flashed his badge to the desk, and gotten a room number. He'd sent Damon up. He returned to say they weren't there.

Finn had been tempted to go up himself and verify this. But Damon was right: it wouldn't take more than a toe over the line for Marsten to scream harassment. If they were in their room, they obviously weren't meeting up with Peltier, which is why he'd followed them. If they'd snuck out again, then he'd lost them.

Back at the station, they looked at Peltier's cell phone. Her schedule was entirely business-related. Remembering that barren apartment, Finn wasn't surprised.

Robyn Peltier seemed to be all business these days. Finn knew what that was like. He'd been in L.A. six years and still didn't have what anyone would call a social life. He'd come here to start a new job, then built his life around it. Even the last woman he'd dated was a paramedic, and she'd asked him out. He wasn't ashamed of this. It was just that kind of job. If you wanted, you could make it your life. He had.

So Peltier's schedule revealed nothing. Same with her contact list. Every L.A. number had a business connection, neatly typed, no shorthand or code. Those that looked like friends and family were non-California area codes, most from Pennsylvania.

Hope Adams's cell phone number was there, and matched three entries on the log of calls received, all made Friday morning. Exactly as she'd said.

Before that, the last call Peltier received had been Thursday from Portia. Around midnight she'd placed the call to 911. Nothing after that until Adams the next morning. The next outgoing calls were long, four of them on Friday morning.

"I'll bet they're from the guy who found the phone," Damon said. "Calling everyone he knew out-of-state, getting a little added value before pawning it."

Finn suspected he was right.

"There should be a notes section." Damon settled onto the desk. "Bobby always keeps notes. I'd check the text message log, but you won't find much. She doesn't like texting."

There were notes, but all business, like the schedule. And she'd only used text messaging to reply to messages from Kane. He skimmed those. Some were business. Others more ambiguous, Kane wanting Peltier's opinion about this or that, like she was asking an older sister. Peltier's responses were diplomatic but personable, gently guiding Kane to make better choices.

The final text message, sent Thursday afternoon, read "Wait til tabs see this!!!" and had a photo attached. Finn opened it, but with the tiny screen, he could only make out a woman in a dress.

"Mail it to yourself," Damon said.

"Hmmm?"

"Forward it to your e-mail account and open it on your computer. That's what Robyn did." He pointed at the screen. "See that symbol? It means she forwarded it."

Finn nodded and did that, his thick fingers clumsy on the keys. How the hell did kids these days do this? They must all have the dexterity of spider monkeys -

Had he really just thought "kids these days"? He sounded like one of the old men in his apartment building who were always stopping him to complain about the college girls on the fourth floor. Some days it was hard to remember he was only thirty-four, especially when he hung around someone like Damon, so easy with a laugh, quick on his feet, full of…

Full of life? A cruel slip of the tongue. Dead at twenty-nine – the same age Finn had been when he'd come to L.A., when he'd felt like he was just starting his life, leaving home and heading out to the big city. What if, on that trip, he'd seen someone pulled to the side of the road? He would have stopped, like Damon. That was how he'd been raised. What might a woman like Damon's killer have thought, seeing a guy Finn's size bearing down on her on a dark, empty road?

"It should be there now."

"What?"

Damon pointed at the computer. "The file should have arrived by now."

"Right."

He spoke too loudly both times and the other detectives in the room – Vanderveer and Scala – looked over, then shared an eye roll.

"You okay, Finn?" called Vanderveer, a burly detective approaching retirement, his pitch-black hair screaming dye job.

"Yeah. Just trying to open a photo Portia Kane sent Robyn Peltier. Computers aren't my thing."