The first thing Mac did was ask Caden to do a ‘rewind’ in the converted warehouse.
“At least show us if we’re dealing with a magic-user,” said Mac, brow furrowed and hands on hips. Indira refused to come out of the bathroom, but the other three of them watched as Caden worked his hands in complicated spirals, turning slowly to blanket the whole, wide room with a layer of white mist.
While Joey was unnerved by the entire situation, he was always intrigued to see Caden channeling magic. Not only because Joey had never seen a Channeler at work before but also because—well, Caden had a handsome concentration face. Joey had eyes, didn’t he? Sue him.
As the mist settled from the ceiling, clouds of it began to stand out in red and in a pale blue. “The blue is Martha,” said Caden, voice a little strained, “but I don’t know the red.”
Mac spoke. “What’s a Channeler look like? What would it look like if you showed us since we got here?”
“I’d light up in purple,” said Caden.
“So not a Channeler,” put in Frankie.
Mac paced the length of the red mist, white mist swirling around with his movements. “It just shows up here in the middle of the place. How far did you rewind?”
“This is two days ago. I started from today and worked backwards.”
“So the red just…showed up?” said Frankie. “And then it chased Martha into the kitchen, she grabbed a knife, and whatever it was stabbed her with, I dunno, an ice pick or something.”
“Ice picks are smaller than that,” said Joey faintly. The hole in Martha’s head had been practically the size of a golf ball. The scene was playing in full Technicolor in his head: some formless monster appearing, the terror on Martha’s face as she ran and grabbed a knife from the knife block on the counter, then stab, whatever it was jabbing her through the skull.
Frankie shrugged. “A spear, maybe.”
“Maybe,” said Mac, voice dubious. “Okay, Caden, you can drop it.”
Caden’s arms fell to his sides and the mist abruptly dissipated. The red seemed to be burned into Joey’s mind, though: he kept staring at where it had appeared. No trail from the door or windows. Just suddenly there in the middle of the room.
Heaving a sigh, Mac said, “Let’s go give the guy the bad news, ask him some questions. Indira!” he called. “Wipe your fingerprints off the toilet bowl, we’re going!”
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Paul’s hand moved from fingernail-biting to covering his mouth in horror when he saw the looks on the team’s faces as they emerged from the warehouse. “No,” he said behind his hands.
“I’m sorry,” said Mac, voice heavy. Turning, he gestured at Joey, who extended the seal pelt from the coat rack to Paul. Paul accepted the pelt and clutched it to him as though it were a security blanket. “We’re gonna have to ask you some questions, try to figure it out ourselves. Wanted to make sure you had her seal skin before we went—can you send it to her family?”
Paul nodded, face blank in his shock. “What happened? Was she sick?”
“Indira?” prompted Mac, since it was her job as the Spy to conduct investigations and interrogate clients.
Stepping forward and effectively hiding that she’d been ill not ten minutes previous, Indira said, “Do you know anyone who’d have motive to kill Martha?”
Paul’s hand went to his mouth again and he shook his head.
“Did she have any enemies, or anything worth burgling?”
“No, no enemies,” stuttered Paul. “And it’s not like she was rich, especially after sinking all her money into converting the warehouse.”
Joey found his mouth moving without his permission. “Did she have any valuable magical artifacts?” The rest of the team glanced back at him with raised eyebrows where he stood behind the others, and Joey forced himself not to shrink. “Besides her pelt, I mean. Something that someone else could have used.”
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Paul paused for a moment. “It was the weirdest thing. Martha had a baseball that belonged to a Channeler, used to play in the major leagues in the ‘40s, she said. Kept it in a little display case by the couch.”
“Joey,” said Mac, and jerked his head toward the front door.
Joey ducked back inside the warehouse, though he’d hoped not to have to go in there again. Now he was alone in the dead woman’s house with her corpse, and that was not pleasant. He hurried over to the living room set and sure enough there was a little clear plastic display case on a side table: open and empty.
So he’d been right to speak up, though he wished he had waited for someone else to suggest it. But it was so obvious that a pattern was emerging in their gigs—not in all of them, but in many of them—of magical objects going missing followed by hauntings or supernatural infestations. Now someone had actually died—was it because she’d had the baseball? Had whoever—or whatever—killed her stumbled across her when they were robbing the apartment?
When he emerged once more from the warehouse door, Joey found Indira pulling her travel packet of tissues from the front of her pale pink and black lacey top to offer to Paul. Mac caught Joey’s eye, and Joey shook his head. Mac accepted this and turned his attention to Paul once more.
“Okay,” Mac said and put a steadying hand on Paul’s shoulder. “We’ve cleaned the scene so no one will know we’ve been here. You’re free to call the police to investigate, but obviously don’t mention that Martha was a selkie. Maybe the police will have something more to offer. If we find anything else out we’ll let you know.”
“Wait, but—but what happened? You said she was killed?”
“Trust me when I saw you don’t wanna know how,” said Mac. “If I were you, I wouldn’t go in there.”
Seeming unnerved by this, Paul took a couple steps back from the warehouse door.
The ride back to HQ was a solemn and silent affair. The only time someone spoke was Mac saying, “I’ll push our other gig ‘til tomorrow. When we get back everyone take five then we’ll regroup in the shop.”
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Once settled in the cozy must of the antiques store with warm light pouring through the front windows, everything seemed a touch less horrifying. It didn’t hurt that Caden had turned up at Joey’s elbow with a cup of coffee that he’d prepared just to Joey’s liking, black with two sugars, with a secret smile just for him. It made Joey feel a little warm inside, even when Frankie protested, “Hey, where’s coffee for the rest of us?” Neither Caden nor Joey dignified this with a response.
Mac got everyone’s attention with a loud clap of his hands. “Okay, what is this? Ideas?” he said, referring to the problem they were facing.
“I think it’s the silver fox,” said Indira. Frankie scoffed. “No, but listen, he was at two of the places we think were robbed, and I think I saw him at that place last week with all the pixies.”
“Indira’s right,” said Mac, and Indira preened. “Either we have a stalker or this guy’s got something to do with it.”
“And what is ‘it’?” said Frankie. “Someone wanna lay it out?”
“Someone’s stealing magical objects and we don’t know why.” Now everyone was looking at Joey. He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “It’s letting more stuff into the city. You have to admit we’ve had more gigs than usual.”
“You’re right,” said Frankie. “Tons of beasties.”
“I wish we had more of a network of magic sensitives and non-humans in the city so we could put out a blast to tell people to guard their stuff,” said Mac. Joey refrained from saying that he had suggested putting something like that together several years ago on multiple occasions. Mac had told him he didn’t want more spreadsheets in his life; the financial one was bad enough. “For now I just want everyone to keep a lookout on assignments: if anyone sees our stalker there, speak up.”
“The silver fox,” insisted Indira, but Mac ignored this.
“Maybe take a picture if you see the guy. All right, pack it in for the day, this has been a rough one.”
Frankie and Indira stood to go, but Joey needed another minute. He glanced over and Caden was looking at him, sympathetic, before he, too, headed for the door. That left Joey sitting alone on a rickety wooden chair and Mac in his customary pink armchair. The store was quiet for a moment.
Sipping his coffee, Joey’s mind flashed back to what he’d seen at Martha’s apartment: the corpse’s face, empty-eyed, the stark round hole in her head, the blood puddled beneath her. His coffee seemed to turn to ash in his mouth and it was a struggle to swallow.
“You okay, kid?” said Mac softly, and Joey looked up from his mug. No words came to him. “Yeah, that’s a no.” Mac sighed. “They can’t train you for this stuff. My first time seeing a body I was just like Indira—and I didn’t even make it to the bathroom. It was bad.”
Joey’s eyes shifted back to his half-empty coffee mug, the chip in the rim, the words on the side, ‘Let’s go bump in the night’, half worn off.
“I’m sorry we had to send you out there,” continued Mac heavily. “If I’d had my way you would have stayed in the office and never seen that. You want my advice, you’ll get home, take a Benadryl so you can sleep, then in the morning it’ll look better. I promise.”
When Joey still didn’t look up, he heard Mac stand and approach, then felt him place a hand on Joey’s head as if in a benediction. Somehow Joey felt supremely comforted by this; probably no one had touched him like that since he was a kid. Then Mac drifted away into the back, and left Joey alone with his coffee and his thoughts.