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“That man is no Chuck Merit,” Gabriel said, derision obvious in the tone.
“No, he is not,” my father said, taking my mother’s hand. “He’s a political operative with more interest in staying in the mayor’s good graces than in finding the truth. He’s had a very easy tenure up to now, and he took a great deal of pride in the talks, in the shine they brought to the city. He won’t like his blemish on his record, and he’ll want to close this quickly.”
“And damn the consequences?” Gabriel asked.
My father inclined his head. “But he’s the Ombudsman, so he’s the one we have to deal with. Do you have an attorney you trust? If not, I can make a recommendation.”
“Emma Garza,” Gabriel said. “Tanya’s sister. She’s an attorney, and she can handle this.”
“Good.” My father frowned. “You know we have to stay out of the investigation, let the Ombudsman handle it. That was the deal we struck.”
“I’m aware,” Gabriel said dryly.
“The Ombudsman will likely keep us updated, given the crime occurred here,” my father said. “And whatever we learn, we’ll tell you. In the meantime, be careful.” His eyes were cold and hard. “Because peace has apparently become too much of a burden for some of us.”
“Let’s go,” Gabriel said, and headed for the door. Connor followed him out, and didn’t so much as look at me on the way.
So much for friendship.
• • •
“Riley wouldn’t have done this,” I said, looking back at my father when the shifters were gone, their magic receding behind them.
“It certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d do,” my father said, but his tone was soft. “But our feelings about him didn’t sway Dearborn, and they probably wouldn’t sway a jury.”
Kelley stepped into the doorway, screen in hand. She was tall and slender, with pale skin, dark eyes, and gleaming ebony hair that fell just past her shoulders.
“But perhaps this may,” my father said, gesturing her into the room.
Kelley walked to the television, pointed her screen at it. The monitor filled with a color shot of the brick patio.
“Surveillance video,” my father said, and we all walked closer to get a better look.
I glanced at him. “You waited until Dearborn was gone to watch this.”
“I wanted to see what happened at my House first,” he said. “Then we’ll report.”
Being the kid of Ethan Sullivan was a masterclass in political strategy.
Kelley advanced the video, and we watched as sups silently milled around the patio, chatting, checking out the barbecue grill and burners, and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. Tomas walked into the frame—and the video shuddered, shook. When it cleared again, Tomas was on the ground, dead. Riley stood over him, bafflement in his expression.
“There’s no video of the incident,” my father said, and looked at Kelley.
“There is not,” she said. “And no other camera caught this particular spot.”
“That’s... interesting,” my father said.
“Isn’t it, though?”
I looked between them, then back at the screen. “You think someone altered the video.”
“The camera was fine until it wasn’t,” Kelley said with a nod. “And Tomas was alive until he wasn’t.”
“What about the other parts of the yard?” I asked. “Whoever killed Tomas would have been covered in blood, and he or she would have to make an entrance and an exit. Surely some other camera captured it.”
“They did not,” Kelley said. “Conveniently enough, there appears to have been a cascading failure among certain of the House’s cameras.” She futzed with her screen, and the video footage was replaced with an overhead view of the House and lawn. A series of red dots made a path from between the patio and the fence on the west side of the House.
“They came in over the fence?” my mother asked.
