‘Bruce Hunter and Ambrose Beeks.’
‘Thanks, Ji-ho. Send me the files.’
‘Uploading to SPEL now,’ he promised, and the line clicked dead.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
‘You think his own friends did this to him?’ Robbie murmured. ‘The other protestors?’
I nodded. ‘They tipped their hand. Showing up too early like that, it set alarm bells ringing right away. They’re cocky, think they’re leading us on a merry goose chase.’
‘You’re better than them.’
‘Forensics have come a long way. Kate’s the one who cracked this case, not me. She found the dead tissue. A less meticulous ME wouldn’t have.’
‘You’re the one who’s going to find out which of them did it, and you’re going to bring them down.’
I enjoyed the sureness in his voice.
‘I am,’ I agreed.
I scanned the files Ji-ho had uploaded to SPEL, and then I tapped out my orders to Unit 13:Round them all up and bring them in for interview.
Time to rattle some cages.
Chapter Eighteen
I’d laid it on thick withThe Mystic Informer, and they had promised an incendiary article would be in print by midday. Time enough for me to use it with my suspects, especially asTMIhad promised to email me an advance copy.
My phone pinged with a message from Ji-ho.I dug deeper into our protestors, found some interesting background you’ll want to know before you sweat them.
I wanted to follow up with Ji-ho, but my stomach was growling, so I headed to the mess to grab some refs first, which for me meant a cup of tea and a hobnob to be chased with a Dr P, because I wasn’t a madman.
As promised Laura had baked a significant volume of biscuits, all carefully decorated with little houses in honour of Unit 13’s impending move and McCaffrey’s concluded one.
Roberts was in the mess with Atkinson when I walked in. I made a brew and snagged a biscuit.
‘Did Laura make them?’ Atkinson asked me, eyeing the baked goods with suspicion.
‘She did,’ I confirmed.
Atkinson winced. ‘Then I’ll pass.’
‘You will not,’ I said firmly. ‘She made them for all of us. She gave up her evening to bake, so the least you can do is eat them.’
He sighed and grabbed a biscuit. He bit into it, but it didn’t break.
‘Dunk it into a cup of tea to soften it,’ I advised, demonstrating. I held the definitely-gone-past-golden biscuit in my tea, and when it softened, I ate it. ‘See?’
‘And we’re humouring her, why?’ Atkinson asked grumpily.
Roberts reached out and cuffed his partner over the head. ‘Because Laura is a kind human being whose life is hard enough without you ingrates making it harder. Eat a damn bikkie and thank her for it.’
Sometimes, magic or no, Roberts and I were one hundred percent on the same wavelength.
‘She’s a terrible baker,’ Atkinson groused.
‘Everyone is terrible when they start a new hobby,’ I pointed out. ‘But how do you think they get better?’ I asked patronisingly, like I was talking to a five-year-old.
