“It doesn’t work like that.”
“And how does it work? Magic?” The
scorn in Reese’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Autopsy.”
“The first guy to die from this
stuff. Check out his autopsy, then you’ll see what this stuff does to people.
It may start out nice and slow, but it builds, and then it’s too late.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hang on.” I dug into my bag to pull
out the file, jostling the brooch from the stash free of its napkin.
“Matsumoto. His name is—was—Ken Matsumoto.”
“Matsumoto? He’s one of the dealers
for the Russians. I’m sure they’re miffed that their own dealer used the
competition’s product.”
“Yeah. Bet they’re all broken up.”
“You’re not telling me everything,
Allen.”
“I would happily tell you everything
except that you would never believe it. Any time I come close to mentioning
magic, you start ranting that I’m a con artist.”
“You are. You’re a self-deluded con
artist. That doesn’t mean you don’t end up in the mix of things. You’ve some
knack for this detective thing if the BPD is willing to keep you on the payroll.
I’ve got good money that says you were responsible for the new special division
that Collins heads up.”
“I need better delusions.”
“Not so long as you can point me to
the good stories.”