I tapped my pen against my lips. There was one thing that bothered me. According to Herald gossip, Kaylee Cabera was a Prime like her parents. Most Primes couldn’t wait to undergo the trials. Four of Kaylee’s cousins had taken the preliminary test, and while it didn’t grant certification, it let the family ballpark their power range. Two of them had been designated as tentative Primes and the other two were likely Significants. House Cabera had plastered the results all over their website. I couldn’t find any record of Kaylee’s preliminary test or her submitting to the trials.
There were reasons for which a Prime might delay being officially recognized. Usually, they had to do with business or family considerations. For example, a House involved in a feud might postpone the trials to appear weaker than they were and surprise their opponents.
However, the Caberas didn’t feud, and Kaylee was a fixture among the young House scion scene. Her Instagram and Herald told me she was a privileged child. She wore expensive clothes, drove luxury cars, dined in trendy restaurants, and hung out with people who did the same. I pulled her transcripts from Rice through the Warden Network. She ran track and was pursuing a B.A. in psychology and her grades in public speaking classes told me that if she suffered from social anxiety, she had a good handle on it.
Sometimes people deliberately hid their talents. Olivia Charles, the woman who’d killed Cornelius’ wife, had been a manipulator, a mage who could impose her will on other people’s bodies. She had registered as a psionic. But that scenario still required one to show up for the trials.
Something just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and I would have to interview Kaylee to get more information.
My phone chimed. Agent Wahl. I braced myself.
“Hello?”
“That’s one hell of a favor!” Agent Wahl hissed into the phone in that way people do when they’re furious but have to look calm because they have an audience.
“We’re even now.”
“I don’t know what we are right now, Prime Baylor. This is a staged scene. What do you expect me to do with this?”
And how did he know that? Linus’ crew had successfully relocated three murders during my tenure alone, all with no one the wiser. They were flawless.
“I expect you to investigate. Very loudly. It would help if you refused to answer questions, then had a press conference where you gave the bare minimum of information, and then refused to answer questions again.”
“You want me to be a distraction.”
“I want to be free to conduct the investigation. Besides, you enjoy press conferences. You can wear that black suit again, the one you said makes you look inscrutable but official.”
“Does the Warden know about this?”
“As of now, I am the Acting Warden. The National Assembly appreciates your cooperation and understanding, Agent Wahl.”
There was silence.
“Is he alive?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
More silence.
“I want in,” Wahl said.
“You are in. I reached out to you because I trust you. Because he trusted you. I need you to investigate the case, bring me in as a consultant, and take the credit when it’s solved.”
“By solved, do you mean the truth or a cover story the National Assembly finds convenient?”
“It will be a version of the truth we can both live with.”
More silence.
“Fine,” Wahl said. “As long as you understand that I am a fucking FBI agent, and I will not allow myself or the agency to be used to delude the public.”
I could bring up the Warden Network and offer him a dozen examples of the FBI doing just that. But I needed him on my side, and I respected his ethics. They aligned with mine.
“I have every intention of solving this murder and bringing the culprit to justice. We’re not going to frame anyone or let anyone go unpunished. Can you live with that?”
“I’ll take it. I’m going to talk to the Cabera family.”
“Can I meet you there?”
“Yes. I want to get there by five. Don’t be late.” He hung up.
I walked over to Alessandro’s office. He leaned back in his chair, his feet on the table, a phone to his ear. I rapped my knuckles on the doorway. He winked at me.
“Love and kisses to Maya. Ciao!”
He hung up and grinned at me.
“Ciao?”
I had never heard him say that in a professional setting. Ciao was very informal, both a greeting and a goodbye, and it had originated from the Venetian dialect’s s’ciào vostro meaning “I am your slave.” The phrase wasn’t meant literally; it was used more as “I’m at your service” and it was mostly said to younger people and friends and family, those you knew very well.