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“No, they couldn’t.”
“But that does not exonerate your friend. It indicates only that there was at least one other party involved in the murder. Someone with magical skills and the intention to use them to cover up a crime.”
That made it sound like a conspiracy, which didn’t bode well for the peace talks or peace in Chicago. “Or one person who wanted to cover their tracks,” I said.
“Yes,” Marion said. “That is possible.” But she didn’t sound convinced. “What are your next steps?”
“I’ve talked to Riley, and I’m going to talk to Connor Keene, Gabriel’s son. He’s Riley’s friend and would know if Riley had enemies.”
“Or a temper?”
It was a logical question, but it suggested she wasn’t buying my theory. “If he has a temper, I’ve never seen it. But I understand and respect your concerns. That’s why I’m going to talk to Connor. If I learn anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“That is as much as you can do,” Marion said. “But I fear for this process. Someone wished to interrupt it. And they have succeeded.”
• • •
I could hear the music a block before I arrived at Little Red, the low bass line, throbbing drums, and thrumming guitar. Either the Pack had turned up the jukebox or there was a concert tonight at the bar.
I guessed the answer by the dozens of gleaming bikes lined up outside.
I skipped the bar entrance, went in through the office. Berna sat in the lobby on her scooter, staring intently at an e-reader beneath an enormous pair of pink and rose gold headphones. I guess she didn’t like the band. She looked up when I walked in, gaze narrowed.
“Connor,” I mouthed.
“Garage,” she said, returning her gaze to her book.
Permission enough, so I headed through the hallway she’d led me down before. When in doubt, I turned toward the noise.
The door to the bar vibrated on its hinges with each strum of the bass guitar from a band covering Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower.” I pushed open the door and was nearly pushed back by the deafening sound. The tables were full, the air smelled of smoke and spilled beer, and the room buzzed with magic strong enough to raise the hair on my neck. Shifter magic was a powerful thing, and there were a lot of shifters here. That gave it a dangerous edge.
There were also plenty of humans in the crowd, mostly twenty- and thirty-somethings who probably hadn’t come to the bar for the music but for the magic. For the power and the possibility something might happen.
The door to the garage was closed, but shifter free. I walkedinside and closed the door, which muted the sound of the band to a dull roar.
I didn’t see any shifters. But the magic in the air said I wasn’t alone.
A low stool rolled through the bikes on the other side of the room with a squeak of rubber on linoleum. On it sat a narrow-eyed Miranda.
She wore skinny jeans, black boots that laced up to her knees, and a black bra beneath a distressed black tank. Her hair was curlier today, soft, dark waves that framed her face perfectly.
The boots said she was ready to fight. And so did the expression on her face.
“You aren’t wanted here,” she said, rising. “You arrested our Pack mate.”
“The CPD arrested your Pack mate because he was literally holding the murder weapon.” But I held up a hand before she could argue. “And I know he didn’t do it, so save us both the lecture. I’d like to talk to Connor.”
“He’s busy trying to take care of Riley. And it’s two days before Alaska.”
It took me a second to get the reference. “Oh, right. The road trip.”
“Thereturntrip,” she said. “It’s important for the Pack.”
“I’m sure it is.” But I didn’t move. “I’d still like to talk to him.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Look,” I said. “I get that you have a problem with me, although I don’t know how that’s possible, since we don’t actually know each other.”
