She'd run through Walsh, Kiser, and Hoyle with detailed analysis. Travis got a shrug and a wave. That gap told me more than her words did.
"You'd be surprised how often those overlap."
She met my gaze across the table. "You think it's him?"
"I think anyone in your orbit is a potential suspect until we clear them." I made a note to send the full list to Heartline for deeper background pulls. "Family?"
"Estranged. They think I'm an embarrassment. I think they're judgmental. Nobody's picking up the phone." She said it flat, final—a door she'd nailed shut a long time ago.
There was a flicker behind her eyes when she said it—quick, buried. But I caught it.
She noticed me noticing. Changed the subject. "What about you, Marine? Any ex-girlfriends I should worry about showing up with a grudge?"
"I don't bring my personal life into work."
"How very disciplined of you." She leaned back in the booth, studying me. "Let me guess. Married to the job. Too focused for relationships. Just the work."
"Something like that."
"Lonely way to live."
"I prefer 'focused.'"
"Same thing, different packaging."
It wasn't. But I didn't argue.
CHARLIE'S APARTMENTwas dim and cluttered when we got back—takeout containers on the counter, notes pinned to every surface, her camera equipment spread across the kitchen table like a war room. She uploaded the Gilded Hart photos to Morty, changed clothes twice, rejected three wigs, and finally announced tonight's plan.
She had a source meeting at Velvet Arrow—an underground speakeasy where Cupid City's elite traded secrets over craft cocktails.
"You're posing as my date," she informed me while holding up earrings to her reflection.
"Excuse me?"
"My source won't talk if I show up alone. He's paranoid. Thinks I'm wired or being followed." She held my gaze in the mirror. "Ironically accurate, in this case."
"I'm your bodyguard, not your accessory."
"Tonight you're both." She pulled out a black dress that looked like it would cause problems. "Wear something nice. The Arrow has a dress code."
VELVET ARROW WAS HIDDENbeneath a vintage clothing shop in the old warehouse district. You had to know the password, which changed weekly. Charlie knew it.
Of course she did.
The interior was dark wood and deep velvet, candlelight flickering in crystal holders, jazz playing low enough to allow conversation. A place where secrets changed hands between sips of overpriced bourbon.
Charlie had changed into the black dress. It did exactly what I'd feared it would do—hugged every curve, left just enough to the imagination to make a man stupid. Heels that added three inches to her height. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders, lips painted red.
She looked like the kind of trouble men write bad poetry about.
"Try to look less like you're mapping exit routes and more like you're on a date," she murmured as we followed the hostess to a private booth.
"I'm always mapping exit routes."
"Then do it while looking at me like you want to take this dress off."
I cut my eyes to her. She smiled—slow, deliberate, fully aware of what she was doing.
