He nodded. “I wanted to give her a chance to get away. She can report to the CPD if she chooses to, tell them what’s happened to her. But that should be her choice, not a decision forced on her by a police raid.”
“That was a good call.” I plucked a peanut from my plate, crunched it. “Speaking of the CPD, I think they’ll find more than they bargain for.”
Ethan frowned. “Oh?”
“Let’s say, hypothetically, that you previously visited La Douleur. In said hypothetical visits, did you ever see paper exchange hands?”
He smiled slyly. “Of course not. No one who visits that particular establishment wants a paper trail.”
“Precisely. So why were there so many file boxes in the back room?”
Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again.
“Exactly,” I said. “I’d also bet running a criminal empire requires plenty of paper. Even if Reed’s gone digital now, he’d still have decades of paper. Hell, the tax evasion alone would require boxes of it. And where better to stash it than a neighborhood too polluted to visit?”
Ethan smiled warmly. “My, my, Sentinel. We might have to increase your stipend.”
Every Cadogan Novitiate received a stipend for their contributions to the House. I didn’t really need the money—not with the Master’s apartments and a Margot to boot. But I appreciated the approbation.
“I’m sure you can think of a more interesting reward for a job well done. Or a clue well located.” I speared a chunk of fried egg. “We put the CPD onto Cyrius Lore and La Douleur, and we’re one step closer to bringing down Adrien Reed.” I looked up at Ethan. “He’s going to be pissed about that. He’s also going to know that we know about Hellriver and La Douleur, that the alchemy and sorcerer are his, that he’s responsible for Caleb Franklin’s death, and that he has something big planned.”
“Perhaps,” Ethan said. “Although I wouldn’t put it past Cyrius to avoid telling him, take whatever emergency cache he’s squirreled away and leave town. He doesn’t seem like the brave type. Either way, Reed will know we are on his path, and not afraid to get our hands dirty. I think that’s a fairly good play.”
“It’s a good start,” I agreed. Bringing down an enormous criminal organization was going to take a lot more than that.
“It’s been a good night for you,” Ethan said warmly. “You found a necromancer, kicked some fairly significant ass, and discovered some very good information.”
I mimicked a microphone drop.
Surprising no one, Ethan didn’t get it.
“If you keep me in Thai food, I’ll try to come up with more good information.”
“Let’s start with the one plate, Nancy Drew, and see where it goes from there.”
? ? ?
Little Red took up a corner in Ukrainian Village and was bounded by an alley on the other side. The walls were brick, and the front featured an enormous plate-glass window beneath a glowing sign.
When Ethan opened the door, the scents of meat, cigar smoke, and beer wafted out. The linoleum was dark, warped, and worn, the walls were dingy, and the tables were uneven, with wads of napkin stuck beneath too-short legs. It looked the same as it had the last time I’d been there; it was good to know some things didn’t change.
Shifters sat at the tables, talking quietly, drinking beer, playing cards, and sending us distrustful looks as we walked across the room. We’d worked hard to make allies of the North American Central Pack. Yes, the shifters were in mourning and entitled to their feelings. I just wished they hadn’t been so negatively directed at us.
Chin up, Ethan soothed as we made our way to the bar, where a short woman with bottle-bleached hair flipped through a magazine.
She looked up, gave us a once-over, and slapped the cover of the magazine closed with a powerful thwack that made some of the shifters sit up and take notice.
Steady, Sentinel, Ethan said.
I could be steady; I was trained for it. I just didn’t want to be on the outs with Berna. She was pushy, abrasive, nosy, and had a wonderful hand at grilled meats. I liked her a lot.
“What is this?” she asked, in a voice heavily accented with Eastern Europe. Her eyebrows, slender drawn-on arches, were furrowed with irritation.
“Gabriel asked us to come by,” Ethan said.
But Berna dismissed the sentiment with a swat of her hand. “No. This.” She pointed an arthritic finger back and forth at us. “You must be marry.”
“We must be merry?” Ethan asked, obviously confused.
But I understood exactly what she meant.
“We aren’t Twilight, Berna.” She had a thing for the books, and seemed to think—or maybe hope—that Chicago’s vampires had something in common with the fictional ones.
She made a pfffing sound. “Vampires. Sparkle. If you are in love, you marry. This is life. This is way.”
“Ah,” Ethan said, his lips spreading with amusement. “I do intend to make an honest woman of her.”