“You think it was a hit?”
“Street thugs don’t pack 500s.” I held up my thumb and finger in the shape of a gun. “That’s a weapon you use to make a statement. It’s meant to be seen and heard as much as felt.”
“An astute observation, Mr. Solomon, especially in light of London’s strict gun laws.”
“That’s my point,” I said. “Whoever did this wanted to be damn sure all the details of the hit were easy to relate.”
“What other details?” Lakshmi pressed.
“The shooter. Maybe thirty years old. A little shorter than me. Stockier, though. White makeup all over his face and scalp. Black X’s on his eyes and stitching over his lips.”
“Such a close description,” she said. “Almost as if you knew the man.” She was prodding me. “I suppose it’s just a habit to guess at music preferences. Take you,” I said. “Long hair. Simple black clothes. Swords and knives for hunting thanaturgic criminals. No visible tattoos. And you wear a crucifix.”
Lakshmi cocked her head to one side. “Interesting.”
“All of which suggests,” I continued, “that if you listen to metal, you’re probably into bands like Underoath or Skillet.”
“Actually, love them both,” she said. “But I met my husband at the Buck ’N’ Bull.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you a country fan,” I said. “Your point is that someone wanted Henry out of the way to make the Iron Horse easier to take.”
She said nothing for a few seconds, then leaned forward again. “How would you know that?”
I stared back at her. “I don’t, for sure. But something is happening to this barrier . . . this ward around the Iron Horse. It’s shrinking or something. And if it is, then maybe someone knew about that. And if so, couldn’t they have planned when and where to jump Henry?”
“If that’s true, and if taking the Iron Horse is the motive, why not just wait for the ward to exhaust itself?”
“You’re the detective. But Henry didn’t deserve this.”
“So say all the rest. Still, any man so universally loved has secrets. Some worth killing over.” She held up a hand. “I concede my cynicism. But you’ll grant me that much, given what I do for a living.”
The British were so bloody polite.
“Henry’s body was gone when I came back,” I told her. “He’s got to be out there somewhere. Hiding. Maybe hurt.”
She pursed her lips a moment, then said, “Well, evenattemptingto kill him is a violation of Precedent. To say nothing of the use of a firearm, which is strictly forbidden.”
“That why you carry blades?” I asked.
“In part,” she said. “Any thread-bound Strata-being can absorb a bullet and walk away. But a proper blade can sever their bindings and strike at their shadows to put them down.”
“Well, I wish I could have done something for Henry,” I said. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find the bastard who hurt him and return the favor.”
“Raptorials aren’t a revenge agency, Mr. Solomon.” Her voice got quiet. “But nothing would make me happier.”
The way she said it reminded me of the oath my father swore against the Latin Kings who’d killed my brother Dan. And I’d seen him keep it. Dad had made me watch when he cut a couple of them down with one of their own machetes at Westwood Park. I remembered thinking about how those boys had dads, but also about how they’d killed my brother.
“You’ll keep close, I trust,” she said. “I may have more questions for you.” “Of course.”
She pulled a small handbook from a rear pocket and laid it on top of my books.
“What’s this?” I asked, turning back the cover to the title page:The Maturation and Menace of Wraiths.
“Might be useful later. There’s some evidence of a wraith in the area where Mr. Wilkinson was shot. Be watchful.”
Maybe it was the creature that had chased me down the alley. Seemed wraithlike enough. But I didn’t want to extend her visit, so I didn’t bring it up. I walked her to the door, and she handed me a card with her name and number on one side and a raptor drawn in a few elegant lines on the other. “If you think of anything, please call. Because I get the feeling, Mr.
Solomon, that you’re holding something back.”
