Page 78

Standing next to me, he was only a couple inches shorter, and built almost as trim as I was, which is saying something, because he definitely was not an elf. He held out a hand, and I took it. His grip was firm, but he didn’t try to crush my hand like an asshole or pump my arm over-enthusiastically.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing back at the table where he’d been sitting—where his coat sat slung over the back of one chair and a navy blue mask with something in gold printed on it hung from the little hook on his table.

“Sure,” I agreed, grabbing my coffee and pastry and following him.

He had a plate with the remnants of his breakfast on it, as well as half what looked like some sort of blended coffee beverage that was definitely more of a summer sort of drink than what one would order in December in Wisconsin. But to each their own. He wanted to drink iced shit in winter, that was his problem.

We settled into the chairs, and I took a sip of my extremely tasty latte, then looked at the surprisingly youngish and attractive man across from me, still trying to reconcile the gruff voice with the body. “What can I do for you, detective?” I was being polite, both because I figured Ward would want me to, on behalf of Beyond the Veil, and because I needed Smith to like me well enough cooperate when I started asking him for favors.

“Gregory Crane,” he said, his rough voice still disconcerting.

I arched an eyebrow.

Blue eyes studied me. “Do you think he committed suicide, Mr. Hart?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because he said so,” I answered.

“He said so? Mr. Crane’s son?”

I frowned, but I guess I now knew why it was nobody had responded to Ward’s tip. “No. Gregory Crane.”

It was Smith’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“You know I work for Beyond the Veil, yes?”

He nodded.

“You know what we do?”

“You had Mr.—” He paused, scrolled a little on his tablet. “Campion speak with the late Mr. Crane?”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t he contact us?”

“He did,” I replied.

Smith’s face turned into a handsome thundercloud. “Who did he talk to?” he demanded.

“Van Buren,” I replied calmly.

“Sonofa—” He cut himself off before he finished the curse.

I took another sip of my latte. “Believe me, been there, done that,” I told him.

Smith let out a heavy sigh. “That why you left the force?” he asked me.

I smirked. “Youhavedone your homework, haven’t you?”

He smirked back and made a toasting motion with his coffee before taking a sip out of the metal straw stuck into it. The guy brought his own fucking straw.

I had pegged himallwrong.

“I’m guessing nobody documented the fact that one of my… colleagues shoved me into the middle of a riot, hoping I’d get beaten to death.”