A Vigil in the Mourning (Soulbound #4) - Hailey Turner Page 0,115

the video was clear enough to make out much of anyone through the snow. As evidence of the Dominion Sect’s intent went, it was fairly damning.

Westberg’s fourth home in Wrigleyville had been bought through several shell companies. Once they made it inside, Patrick understood why Westberg seemed to want to keep his name and affiliation buried beneath layers of paperwork.

The home, when the SOA agents and workers entered, was like a museum of artifacts. It was not something a conservative democrat with a well-known record of personal anti-magic and anti-anything supernatural politician would want to be known for owning.

Westberg had paid quite a small fortune for the home to be warded so no hint of magic would seep past the threshold. Inside, artifacts were displayed as if they were works of art being showcased in a museum. Considering the mix of magic, and the costs of individual wards to keep some of the more malignant artifacts contained, Westberg’s illicit pastime wouldn’t have endeared him to some of his donors.

Benjamin let out a low whistle, making sure to keep his hands to himself as they looked around the living room they found themselves in. “Guess he was living a double life after all.”

“Most politicians do in one way or another,” Kelly said.

“They’re announcing his death at a news conference later today after the family has been notified,” Patrick said, squinting at the glass display case inside a grandfather clock. The gris-gris there looked old, but the magic in its making felt strong.

“His name is still on the ballot. I think it’s too late to remove it since the election is so soon.”

Benjamin pursed his lips. “That’ll make for some messy voting.”

Patrick straightened up and fought back a yawn. “We’ll need a CSU team in here and someone from Archives. Tell them to bring a couple of warded transport vans. This is going to take longer than a day to tag, archive, and remove everything for evidence. Some of this stuff might not even be stable. The containment wards are all overlapping in a real bad way.”

“Maybe Westberg was a shitty archivist,” Kelly said.

“And a shitty politician,” Benjamin added.

“I’ll drink to that once we’re off shift.” Kelly sighed. “I wonder if it’s too much to hope he kept the records for all of this onsite somewhere.”

In Patrick’s experience, people who dealt with the black market rarely kept records. The less incriminating evidence lying around, the better. Patrick didn’t know what Westberg was thinking when he decided to create a veritable museum inside a house.

Three hours later, after clearing every room of any active spells meant to keep people out and do harm, Patrick decided it was all about the money.

During the course of clearing the building, he’d discovered a veritable knot of spells and wards over a portrait of Westberg’s wife in the master bedroom. Judging by the structure of the walls and the layout of the room, he was pretty certain there was a safe behind the portrait.

Getting through to it took two more hours of delicate spellwork performed by a sorceress Patrick was never going to introduce Wade to because the teen didn’t need to know her job existed.

Agent Sasha Kuznetsova, out of Archives, had an affiliation for spell breaking, which, in layman’s terms, meant she was a thief.

“But I’m an approved government thief,” she’d told Patrick with a cheeky grin before getting to work.

Thief or evidence collector, it didn’t matter, because Sasha’s ability to unweave spells got them past the portrait to the safe underneath.

And then Patrick happily blew the lock off with a focused blast spell when it was decided by the higher-ups that waiting for a day to get someone in to crack the electronics on the safe would take too long.

Once they were in, Patrick pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, ignored how badly he wanted to sleep, and nodded at Sasha. “Ready?”

Sasha picked up her camera. The stack of empty evidence bags for collection purposes, and her clipboard of forms, were on the nearby desk within easy reach. “Let’s get started.”

Inside the safe were stacks of money in various currency, three bars of gold without serial numbers, a hard drive, and a small stack of files that Patrick went for first. Between him and Sasha, they managed to sort and log every file. He flipped through each one, skimming over notes in shorthand that was probably Westberg’s personal code. A few had pictures of items that were probably in the house or maybe in