Page 13 of Hawk & Sparrow

“Then someone took it.” Vesper began to pace. A theory was forming. “Someone drugged Mr. Gladwell to incapacitate him, then bludgeoned him with the champagne bottle. Then, somehow, they got back into the museum and made off with the prototype for his invention without getting caught. It’s all connected.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

“I could,” said Vesper. “If you’d let me work this case with you.”

Chief Stettner massaged his temples. “We’ve been over this, Evans. You’re a reporter, not a police officer. You don’t have the credentials.”

“Maybe not.” Vesper didn’t miss a beat. “But I’ve learned everything I know from the best investigator in this city.”

The police chief shifted his weight, looking abashed. Tom may have been the one who’d taught Vesper about the finer points of writing for a newspaper, but she’d honed her investigative skills under Fred Stettner’s guidance. He’d taught her how to pay attention to details and patterns, how to push for answers and when to pull back. They operated differently to be sure, but Vesper could appreciate that she and the police chief always shared a mutual interest in the truth.

“Look, Evans,” he said in a gentler voice. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this isn’t going to be business as usual. Mr. Gladwell appears to have been connected with some pretty high-profile people, so there’s going to be a lot of eyes on this investigation. My department needs to show the city that we can be trusted to do this right and find justice for the victim.”

“I understand.”

“To that end, I’m asking you to let me do my job.” He gave her a stern look. “And I’m asking you not to interfere. I’d like your word.”

Vesper sighed. “You have it.”

Chief Stettner nodded. “Thank you. In exchange, I’ll—”

“Get me an exclusive,” Vesper said dully. This was Stettner’s standard method of keeping her out of his way. When she met the police chief’s gaze again, he looked more sympathetic.

“You should be home resting, Miss Evans,” he said. “Whatever story you’re working on can wait, your deadlines be damned.”

“I’m not here for a story,” said Vesper. That was, at least, a half-truth. “I left my notebook in the maze last night. I was hoping to get it back.”

The police chief glanced toward the maze’s entrance. “I know the one,” he said. “But I didn’t see it in the maze, and I’ve been here for hours looking for that champagne bottle. Even if I had, though, I’m afraid I can’t allow you inside an active crime scene. It could compromise its integrity.”

Vesper pursed her lips. She’d suspected he might say as much.

“Miss Evans.” Stettner lowered his voice. “If I find your notebook, I’ll see that it’s returned to you. I promise you that.”

It was the best offer she’d get. “Thank you, Chief.”

“Have a good morning.” He started to walk away, then seemed to remember something. “And Miss Evans?” New wariness clouded his expression. “Watch your back out here. My men caught some Rousers lurking around late last night. Mostly kids, but they can still be dangerous in groups. I know you’re perfectly capable, but…” Real concern touched his face. “Be careful.”

“I will,” said Vesper. “Promise.”

The police chief tipped his cap, then headed back across the museum lawns. Vesper watched him go, thinking. The note about the Thally Rousers—one of the city’s local gangs—was a good lead. Instinctively, she reached into her bag for her notebook before remembering it wasn’t there. Her heart ached at the loss. If Stettner hadn’t seen her notebook in the maze, it meant someone else had taken it. For the time being, it was truly gone. She sighed.

Without her notebook, she didn’t have the notes she’d taken from her respective interviews with Mr. Gladwell and with Maximilian Kite, which meant she couldn’t work on her assignment. Fresh guilt washed over her. That piece was due later today. The Globe needed it for the front page of tomorrow’s edition. Without it, and on such short notice, she didn’t even know if she could fill the space with something else in time. She’d have to tell Tom, and then they’d have to scramble for a different story to replace it, which Ronaldo would still have to copyedit, which meant—

“Funny, I thought I might find you here.”

Vesper stilled. She was almost sure she recognized the owner of that low voice, though she so wanted to be wrong. Slowly, she turned.

Maximilian Kite was standing halfway up the museum’s front steps, his expression smug.

“Good morning, Miss Evans. Looking for something?”

Vesper’s eyes cut from the sorcerer to the object suspended in midair, just above his open hand.

It was her notebook.

SIX

SATURDAY, 5TH OF NOVEMBER—10:02 A.M.