"We already knew that."
"Yeah, but to kill off someone so closely involved in his current business dealings could make a bit of a mess of said dealings."
"Not necessarily. Logan's practice wasn't a solo one, was it?"
"Well, no—"
"So I'm betting one of the other partners knows enough to take over the reins. Our fake Nadler wouldn't risk jeopardizing his plans by having no one else up-to-date on the lay of the land, so to speak."
"I guess." He studied the image for a moment, then pointed to the scar on Nadler's forehead. "That looks fairly serious. Might be worth checking to see how it was acquired."
I frowned. "If he is a face-shifter, it wouldn't matter. He can simply make it disappear when he reverts to his regular self."
"Yeah, but there're certain wounds that are impossible for any shifter to heal. Those made with silver, for instance, will always leave a scar, and sometimes the wound can be so deep that scarring is inevitable." He looked at me. "You should know that, given how many scars your Aunt Riley has."
Good point. "Can you do a disk print of those for me? And send a copy of the younger and older Nadler to my phone? I'll need to give the disks to Uncle Rhoan, but I want some images to work with myself." And at least if I gave him the disk, he wouldn't be as shitty with me when he realized I'd already copied them. And he would—the tattered state of my clothes would be enough of a giveaway to someone who knew what I was.
Stane nodded, clicked a button, then flicked the pictures into another program on the other side of the desk. "I'll run a search on all the photos and see if I can find a match on any system."
"He has to exist somewhere." He couldn't disappear off everyone's radar once he'd left the office—not if he wanted to maintain credibility as Nadler. And he could hardly kill off every single person who currently knew him. That would only make it easier for the Directorate to connect the dots.
Stane rose and walked across to the printer sitting on the coffee table—although just why it was there rather than closer to his bridge was anyone's guess. He came back with a disk. "All possibilities are recorded on this."
"Thanks." I shoved the minute disk into my jeans pocket—there was just enough fabric left to hold it in place. I finished my drink, then pushed to my feet. "We'd better get back."
He gathered Blake's disks and handed them to me. "I'll let you know if we get any hits."
I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Stane."