“Scarlett?”

I jumped about four feet in the air, leaping off the bed and backing into the corner farthest from the doorway before I realized what I was doing.

Cruz was standing there, a tentative smile dying on his face. “Whoa, sorry. I’m sorry. The door was open, and I saw your van. I got worried when you didn’t answer. Are you okay?” He took a step forward, hands lifting to touch me, but stopped.

Good instinct. Anger rushed through me like an electric current—anger and fear and grief, all braided together. I counted to ten, still panting, and as soon as I’d calmed a little, I realized that I was wearing a clingy T-shirt, underwear, and nothing else. Fantastic.

He looked down at me at the same time I did, and I heard him take in a breath. “Um, sorry, I—”

“Turn around,” I yelped.

He spun. “Sorry! I’m sorry!”

I yanked open the top dresser drawer and pulled out a bra, then scooped a pair of less-than-clean jeans off the floor.

When I was dressed, I said, “Okay. You can look.”

“God, Scarlett, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Cruz said, pivoting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Please don’t sneak up on me again. Breaking and entering is still a crime for cops, you know.” My voice came out frosty.

He just said, “Sorry. But I got your message. I thought we should talk.”

“Just...Meet me in the kitchen, okay?”

He left, and I took a deep breath, sitting back on the bed. Less than twenty-four hours to deadline. I didn’t have time to be rattled.

When I couldn’t stall anymore, I jerked my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, and went down to the kitchen. Cruz had figured out the coffeemaker and was opening cupboard doors to find a mug. I skirted him to get to the right cupboard, next to the sink, and pulled out two of Molly’s kitschy Hollywood souvenir mugs. He didn’t ask for cream or sugar, and I didn’t offer. We just sat down at the kitchen table, black coffee in front of us, and I began to talk.

I started with the crime scene and what I’d noticed about the silver. Then I told him about the timing of the whole thing, how it almost seemed designed to hurt me. By then I was beginning to doubt myself, wondering again if sleep deprivation had just gotten the better of me, but he looked very thoughtful, nodding. “What about you?” I said finally. “Have you learned anything?”

“I got stuck doing interviews with people in the area, and then I had reports and stuff. I gotta get back to the official investigation, but I did call San Diego to get James Rucker’s alibi. He checks out.”

I sipped the coffee. “Okay...”

“I also swung by Thomas Freedner’s place, but he wasn’t home. Guy has a crappy rental in Studio City, and there was no sign of life. I went around, peeked in the windows. Everything was neat as a pin, hardly looked lived-in.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Might mean nothing. The guy could just be neat. Or maybe he left town, like the other human servants. I’ll keep trying, but meanwhile, I also had an idea, along the same line as yours. It’s about where those chains came from.”

“I told you, I’m on it. But I don’t know what else to do until Dashiell wakes up. It’d be different if I had the actual chains, but I don’t suppose you want to steal them from police evidence, right?”

“No, no.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But I had another idea. There can’t be that many people who make restraints out of pure silver.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“Well, then maybe the chains came from the same place as those handcuffs, the ones that your friend was...um...wearing. Maybe if we figured out where those came from, we could figure out where the chains came from.”

“Yeah, but I already know the cuffs were Dashiell’s, and he’s...” I paused, and an idea sparked in my head. “Okay, you’re onto something. What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “Seven forty-five.”

“Let me make some calls. If I can get the handcuffs from Eli, I can trace them to their maker.”

He looked puzzled. “How?”

“Well, I know a pretty good witch. And she can probably get the morning off.”

Chapter 19

Cruz had to get back to the precinct, so I had to go see Kirsten by myself. He’d been unhappy about my going alone, but I’d just scoffed at him. I’ve been alone with Kirsten many times, and though witches sometimes give me the willies, they can’t actually hurt me. Not with spells, anyway. Besides, I didn’t have her permission to bring a civilian cop—not an oxymoron here, trust me—over for spell time, and of all the Old World creatures, the witches take that kind of thing the most seriously. Historically, witches and law enforcement have not been good bedfellows.

First, though, I had to go by Eli’s and get the handcuffs, which he’d taken home with him, probably to dispose of. I was really hoping he hadn’t gotten that far.

Eli’s apartment is down in Santa Monica, three blocks from the ocean. It’s a ramshackle old adobe building, the kind that’s “decorated” with that dingy-seashell look. I parked illegally behind the building’s dumpster and climbed three floors of outdoor stairs to knock on Eli’s door.

“Hey,” he called from below me. I stepped away from the door and peered down the alley. Eli was walking toward his apartment, wearing a wetsuit and carrying a surfboard. He looked as happy and relaxed as I’d ever seen him, at least outside of my radius.