about the blackmail."
"Or he still has feelings for me," I said, putting a hand on my chest. "Ours was a forbidden love. . . ."
Ethan rolled his eyes and swatted me playfully on the leg with the newspaper. "That's enough egotism for you today. Get up. It's another night, which means another riot is possible, and we're running out of Houses to burn. Call Catcher. See if Detective Jacobs found out anything about that syringe. And follow up again with Charla Bryant and the videos of the facility. I want this solved!"
There was a knock at the door. Ethan and I looked at each other.
"They usually don't start rioting this early," I said.
"I was serious about the 'solving' bit, Sherlock," he said, and walked to the door.
While Ethan chatted with the visitor, I climbed out of bed and gathered up clothes. After a moment, Ethan closed the door again.
"Who was it?"
"Helen," he said. And when he stepped around the wall again, he looked confused.
"Well, don't leave me in suspense."
"Charla Bryant is downstairs, and Helen says she's inconsolable."
I stood up straight. "Inconsolable? About what?"
"I don't know. Apparently she waited outside on the portico until the sun went down, then started knocking until Margot opened the door. She's waiting for us in my office. Perhaps you'll want to get dressed."
"On it," I said, grabbing the pile of clothes and heading to the bathroom. "I apologize for the ensemble ahead of time," I yelled from the bathroom. "My leathers are toast."
When Ethan didn't respond, I assumed he'd decided to deal with it.
-
Eight minutes later, I was in jeans, boots, a black shirt, and the black jacket from my official Cadogan House suit. It seemed likely I'd have to leave the House for some ornery errand or other, and while I'd put on the suit jacket to make a good show while I was still here, I wasn't going to investigate crimes in a suit.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since dusk, and I already missed my leathers. They fit perfectly, and obviously had saved my skin in a number of battles.
But immortal, they weren't.
After nabbing water from Margot's dusk leavings - I decided against the blood until I learned precisely what Charla was crying about - we headed downstairs to Ethan's office.
Charla stood in the middle of the room. Instead of her usual suit, she wore jeans, snow boots, a sweater, and a parka. Like so many of us over the last few days, she looked like she'd been crying.
"Your grandfather?" she asked, rushing toward us. "He's all right?"
"He's in the hospital, safely out of surgery, and beginning the recovery process," Ethan said. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head and handed him a manila envelope. "The security tapes. I just watched earlier, and came over here as soon as I could. I waited outside." She looked at us. "This is our fault."
Ethan stilled, then gestured toward the couch. "Why don't you sit down," he said, "and we can talk this through. Could we get you some tea?"
She shook her head but walked over to the couch. Clearly troubled, she sat nervously on the edge of the seat, as if waiting for a bad verdict.
Ethan opened the envelope and pulled out a disk in its jewel case. While Ethan moved to the inset television on the opposite wall and futzed with the electronics, I took a seat by Charla.
"I could get you some water?"
She shook her head, tears gathering at her lashes again. "I'm fine. Let's just - get through this."
Ethan queued up the video, then moved aside so we could see the screen.
The video was in color and showed a clean, white facility that looked a lot like a kitchen. The tape moved haltingly, more like stuttering time-lapse photography than a video, but it was bright and clear, which made for a nice change. We didn't usually get high-fidelity evidence.
"What's this?" Ethan asked.
"The lab," Charla said. "The room where Alan does his research and we test samples. This is the two days before the riot. When I was at the spa."
A figure walked into the room. It was Alan Bryant, Charla's brother. He walked to a counter and reached beneath it, feeling around for something. After a moment, he pulled out a brown envelope that had apparently been stashed there. Another man approached him.
Ethan cursed in Swedish, his native language, an affectation he usually saved for big developments . . . like the fact that Alan Bryant and John McKetrick were