The house at 52 Hawthorne was a tidy bungalow on a street of tidy bungalows. The small house wasn't anything fancy, but in the drive stood a gleaming Mercedes SUV, as if Molly couldn't resist indulging herself a little. The basketball hoop over the garage suggested kids, but there were no toys to be seen. Maybe they were too old for pedal cars. Maybe they preferred spell practice to hoop practice. Or maybe she had no kids, and the net just came with the house-a standard feature like a paved driveway.

I started with a very slow walk past. Noted that the backyard was enclosed by a privacy fence. Noted a calico cat, but no sign of a guard dog… though anything could be behind that fence. Noted a light shining from a window overlooking the drive, a window with kitchenlike curtains.

It seemed safe enough-I was just a nicely dressed forty-something walking down a suburban street. And yet, when the door to Molly's house opened and a woman's figure darkened the doorway, I realized I had a problem.

If I came back later with Jeremy, she'd recognize me and know I'd been checking out her house, which would start the interview off badly. Yet I wasn't ready to question her. So I made a split-second plan. I'd look her way and if she wasn't watching me I'd take a chance and keep walking.

I looked. Our eyes met.

I As I headed up her sidewalk, I got my first good look at the woman, She was probably in her late thirties. Short blond hair worn in an easy-maintenance but stylish tousle. An elfin face with bright green eyes. Small and compact, she was dressed in a designer sweat suit, maybe heading to the gym, maybe just wanting to look as if she was.

"Molly Crane?"

A bright smile, the welcome mitigated by a wary look in her eyes. I searched those eyes for some sign of recognition. With an average American, my chances of being recognized are on a par with any C-list movie celebrity. To those who follow spiritualists or certain talk shows, my face is unmistakable.

In the supernatural community, though, my face-recognition goes up… usually accompanied by either disapproval or contempt. Spellcasters like Molly Crane can use their talents to make a living, but God forbid I should do the same.

I saw that "I know her from somewhere" spark in Molly's eyes, and cursed. I would have been safer using a false name, but she'd realize who I was the moment I mentioned ghosts.

I climbed the steps and extended my hand. "Jaime Vegas."

Her eyes lit up in recognition. "My daughter and her friends tape you on Keni Bales every month. Please come in."

COMEDY OF ERRORS

THERE WAS NO WAY TO REFUSE without making Molly suspicious, so I stepped inside.

"Did I hear something about you serving on the council now?" Molly said as she led me into her living room. "I suppose that's what you're here about? Council business?"

Damn. Another detailI'd been hoping to keep to myself. If Molly didn't want to deal with Paige and Lucas, she might not be so keen to speak to another council member.

I took the chair nearest the hall doorway. "Not so much council business as delegate business. Helping a fellow necromancer with a minor problem-one too small to warrant the council's attention. More of a research issue, actually. A puzzle I'm trying to solve so we can document it."

"Oh?" Intrigued, but not suspicious. "So what brings you to me?"

Another smile, this one wry. "Well, I'd say you came recommended as the top witch of the dark arts and I couldn't even imagine asking anyone else, but blatant flattery doesn't work so well on people outside of Hollywood."

She laughed, relaxing now. "We have our egos, but they don't impede brain function."

"Truth is that, yes, you came highly recommended, but when I took a close look at the possibilities, you seemed the most-" a mock throat clearing, "-approachable."

She laughed hard at that. "Now, that I believe. Between the weirdos and the recluses, it can be hard finding a viable contact among our bunch."

"I was also told that there might be something I can offer you in return. Which is what I want to do. I'm not asking for favors."

"Oh? Now I am intrigued. Can I get you something to drink before you satisfy my curiosity? Coffee? Tea? Soda? Bottled water?"

I opted for the water. There are too many things a witch can do with a brewed beverage.

When she came back, I gave her a version of the story, with this fellow necromancer being bothered by spirits who couldn't make contact. So far, I said, my investigation suggested a magical explanation.

When I finished, Molly nodded, thoughtful, then said, "I'm sure you've been told that doesn't sound like the results of normal ritual sacrifice."

"I have."

"Perhaps I can help but-" She met my gaze, eyes deceptively mild. "You offered an exchange?"

"I've heard you lost someone this year," I said. "Your common-law partner, I believe. A half-demon."

She hesitated, gaze down, then nodded slowly. "Mike. Yes."

I switched to my "dealing with the grief-stricken" voice. "If you'd like to make contact with him, I could try. With articles belonging to him plus access to his grave site, there's a good chance I can do it. Not perfect. But maybe a… ninety percent chance."

Molly said nothing, just stared down into the glass cupped in her hands. Still grieving, as Savannah had said. Or maybe wondering if I was trying to con her.

I hurried on. "If I don't make contact, I'll owe you. I will contact someone for you. Guaranteed."