“Or him or her,” says Candy. “It could be a person.”
“Good point.”
Brigitte shakes her head, picks up my coffee.
“Is this yours?”
“Yes.”
“May I?”
“Of course.”
She takes a sip and sets down the cup.
“What was most interesting,” she says, “is that even when I became quite physically insistent that they tell me about the money, no one would. They are all quite afraid of both Wormwood and Tamerlan.”
Julie writes something down on a pad.
“I’ll do some research on Wormwood. If they’re operating in California, they must at least have a business license.”
“I can help with that,” says Candy.
“Thank you.”
Brigitte says, “By the way, I showed each of them the photo you sent me of the brand on your guest’s arm.”
“And?”
“No one was able to identify it. Some seemed quite certain they could, and consulted various grimoires and books of arcana. It was all futile.”
“A
re any of those Dead Heads going to remember your face?” I say.
“The ones not staring at my chest.”
“I mean will they be able to identify you if Tamerlan or someone asks?”
“They might know my face, but not my name. And I wore gloves, so there will be no fingerprints or any aetheric residue they can use to find me.”
“You’re the best,” says Candy.
Brigitte winks at her.
I look at Julie.
“Any chance I could get Vincent’s knife back?”
Julie frowns.
“Why?”
“It’s not a very good reason.”
“Then why should I give it to you?”
“Because maybe it will look different after our trip to Murphy Ranch.”