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I nodded. “Sure. Raj is a friend.”

“Well, I’m not going to be able to get someone here from Virginia, but I think that between the violent protests and the suicide-murders, I’ve got a good argument for federal intervention.”

I frowned at him. “I don’t disagree, but why are you telling me?”

“Because I’m going to ask to exhume Mr. Crane. And probably Ms. Redsky.” He blew out a breath. “I’m also going to request that Van Buren get pulled from any Arcanid cases, and I’m going to ask for a second CSI evaluation of Mr. Crane’s office.” He paused, but his expression told me he had more to say. “I assume no one else has been in there?”

“I asked Elliot not to. I don’t think he wants to, anyway.”

“Okay. Don’t share this yet, but things could get complicated.” He frowned. “I’ll need the younger Mr. Crane’s permission for an exhumation, at least if I don’t want to go through the mess of an extensive court order.”

I nodded. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Thanks.” He stood up and picked up his tablet again. “Take it easy, Hart.”

“I’ll try. Be careful,” I told him. “I’ve been where you are, and it can get ugly fast.”

He flashed me a jaded smile. “I don’t have pointy ears,” he replied. “But I’ll watch my back.” Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a folder. He stepped close enough to hand it to me. “I didn’t give this to you,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “But let me know if anything else occurs to you.”

I barely waited for the sound of the front door closing behind him before opening the file, my eyes rapidly scanning the pages to determine what he’d given me.

There was a paper-clipped set of papers detailing summaries of several cases overseen by Dr. Leon Reynolds, the ME who had missed—or deliberately ignored—Gregory Crane’s headwound. He’d also been the presiding ME for Tara Redsky, Mariah Bowan, Devon Swiftwater, and Aaron Boushie. Their case files—slim as they were—made up the rest of the papers in the folder. What was noticeably absent was anything about Janice Butcher.

At least until I noticed the post-it stuck on the inside of the back of the folder.VB has Butcher—can’t get anything.I could understand it well enough: Van Buren was the lead on the Butcher case, and Smith didn’t have access and didn’t want to stir the pot by asking for it.

Given how much shit he was already going to land in, I didn’t blame him.

Taavi came in, then, carrying a mug of cocoa and some cookies, which he set next to me. “What’s that?”

“Some files that I definitely didn’t get from the good detective about other shifter cases.”

Taavi’s eyebrows went up. “All of them?” I’d told him what Raj had confirmed for us.

“Except Butcher. That he couldn’t get.”

“Anything noteworthy?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Can I help?” He carefully sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to disturb me.

“Get me a pencil and a highlighter?”

“I can do that.” He stood again, but I hadn’t missed the slight edge to his voice.

“Taavi.”

He paused, and I reached out and took his hand. “When I’ve finished one, would you also read through it? Just in case?”

He gave me a small, self-conscious smile. “You don’t need to let me look at the file,” he told me. “I’m not a detective.”

“No, but you do notice things or ask questions that make me realize what’s missing more often than my pride would like,” I admitted. “And clearly my judgment hasn’t been the best recently, so yes, I really would like you to look through them.”

In response, he smiled again, then bent and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Okay.” Then he left the room, presumably in search of the requested writing implements.

* * *

At the backof the stack of case files worked on by Reynolds, I found the rap sheet for a man named Keith Baker. He’d been convicted of a couple of drunken disorderlies and had a few speeding tickets, but Smith had writtenmaybe MFM?across the top of the page.