Sergei picks up the thread. “From there we tracked the drop. Cash pickup at a florist in Tribeca. Floral delivery service was real. Delivery route was not.”
He slides a photo across my desk.
Alena.
Dark glasses. Cream coat. Stepping out of a black SUV outside the florist on the exact day the money changed hands.
Not proof by itself. Not enough.
I don’t say that. They already know.
Anton nods toward the file. “We kept digging. One of Alena’s old drivers is in debt. Gambling. Private, but not private enough.”
Anton taps the tablet in his hand and plays a clipped voice note. It is distorted. The sound quality is shit. But the voice could be Alena’s.
Could be.
“…just make her nervous enough to leave…”
The clip ends. I say nothing.
Because that is not proof. But who else could it be except for her? She’s always held a grudge against me for abandoning her.
Anton says, “The timing is almost too helpful.”
I look at him. He shrugs once.
But there’s something pulling at me. “Alena wouldn’t leave any loose ends behind, especially if she doesn’t want this traced back to her,” I say.
Then Sergei says, “Or she got sloppy.”
Also, possible. Maybe even likely.
Alena is smart, but pride makes people careless. And she has plenty of pride.
“I should have known,” I say.
That part is true whether she did it or not.
I should have handled Alena months ago. I should have known she would not take rejection quietly. I should have known that anyone with enough resentment and access would look at Zatanna and see the easiest way to wound me.
The fact that the evidence may be incomplete does not make the danger less real.
“So what do you want done?” Anton asks.
I set the photo down. “Nothing direct,” I say.
Both men look up.
“If Alena did this, she expects rage. She expects a visible reaction. I’m not giving her that.”
Sergei nods slowly.
“Dig deeper,” I continue.
“And Alena herself?”
“Watch her.” I pace once behind the desk, then turn back. “She may not be working alone.”
