“Based on these photographs, someone clued in to us investigating as far back as the day when we came to your offices, which means Eddie likely knows we found the server room.”
“Are you looking for Eddie’s prints?”
“No.Eddie didn’t leave these—timing doesn’t work.We lost him at Penn Station, and he didn’t have a bag large enough for photographs this size without bending them.”
Adrien nods slowly.“Hudson gave me the greenlight to fire him.If he’s aware we’re onto him, this changes things.”
“Maybe.But someone is paying him for information.And someone definitely knows about us.”
I blow the dust I’ve layered on the print, scanning for uneven texture.
“Do you think Eddie knows someone broke into your home?”
I consider what he’s saying.“I’d expect he’s fully aware a team is investigating him.Now, whether he’s aware someone texted me to stop and left this little gift, it’s conceivable the people who hired him are the ones wanting us to stop.”
“The woman Eddie met at the waterfront—could she have done this?”
“That woman works for Moira Kelly.Catriona Murphy.I doubt she’d be sent for this kind of project.She’s more of the courier sort.”
“Moira Kelly.Magpie?”
“Rumors have abounded about Magpie for as long as I can remember.Magpie trades in secrets the way others trade in stocks.”
What we’re doing—what we’re risking—isn’t on that level.It can’t be.“It’s likely they know very little about us—our group is new.Maybe she’s hoping this will scare us, but I’d bet she’s more interested in how we react and who we contact.”
“Then what has she learned?”
“We didn’t call the cops or the FBI.So she’s probably assuming we’re not the feds.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“From Magpie’s perspective?I’m not sure.”
I move to the last photograph.It’s one of me in the back of a car service.It could have been taken any time or anywhere, and I don’t hate it as much as the other photos because it’d be next to impossible to notice someone snapping a photo from a building or storefront when speeding past.The grain pattern suggests 400 ISO film—deliberate.Harder to trace.Probably shot from 200 meters with a 600mm lens.
There’s also a photograph of Adrien crossing the street into his office from The Sanctuary.I’m not shown in the photo, but again, it’s impossible to know the date.The shadows indicate mid-afternoon, between two and four p.m.based on the building angles.A thought occurs to me.“Did you get a text?”
“From who?”
“An unknown number?Anything threatening?Demanding?”
“No.Nothing like what the senator has been getting.”
I pause, looking up from the last photograph.“What’d he get?”
“A second delivery.A threat.”He zeroes in on the photos.“Sent to his office, not his home.”
“Right.KOAN has security set up at his home.”
“What did your threat say?”The timbre of his voice roughens, low and dangerous.At the moment, he’s all angry protector with no sign of the aloof businessman.
“Just one word,” I say, spreading the dust over the photograph.“Stop.Not exactly threatening, but the timing was suspicious—came right before I found the break-in.”
The ninhydrin powder catches nothing—no ridge patterns, no partial prints.Professional work.
He picks up his phone and dials, holding it out, leaving it on speaker.
“Mr.d’Avricourt’s office.”
