“I don’t think that’s the answer,” Karl murmured.

I glanced at him, but only got that distant look as his thumb rubbed his jawline.

“On to supernatural means, then,” Lucas said. “The most obvious is a glamour spell. Under the circumstances, however, I can’t imagine it.”

“With a glamour spell, you have to expect to see someone else,” Paige explained. “For example, if Lucas and I left and I said I was coming back, then cast a glamour spell to make him look like me, you’d see me walk into the room. But if I didn’t say I was coming back, there’s only a fifty-fifty chance it would work. And if you expected Lucas, you’d see right through it.”

“It’s a temporary illusion,” Lucas said. “Prolonged use isn’t possible.”

“Especially if multiple people saw and recognized him, without expectations.”

“That’s the only supernatural solution I know of, but I’ll go to headquarters and conduct the proper research. They have the most extensive files in—”

His cell phone rang. A line grew between his eyes as he answered it.

Paige lowered her voice. “He’s not going to find the time. I’ll do it. Do you guys want to come? Or, better yet, maybe you could check the scene where we found Carlos. If there are scents or visions, it might help fill in the blanks.”

“Will do,” I said. “Is the site still secured?”

“Discreetly. I’ll have Lucas call ahead.”

LUCAS: 17

BY NOON I’D BEGUN TO WONDER whether it was possible for a cell phone ringer to wear out. If so, I prayed it would happen soon.

I couldn’t complete a call without hearing the call waiting blip. If I managed to hang up, the silence would last less than ten seconds. My only choice was to let voice mail pick up for a few minutes by discreetly flipping the ring option to vibrate. I was becoming frightfully adept at operating that particular function. Not that it helped—I only had more calls to return and fell ever farther behind.

Some of the calls were case related—Simon with lab results, Dr. Aberquero with autopsy findings, a guard reporting from a scene. All expected and essential. But the others ran the gamut from “Should I cancel Mr. Cortez’s lunch with the governor on Monday?” to “Hi, it’s Bob in marketing, and I really hate to bother you, but your brother wanted to see my plans for the Wellspring campaign before I submitted the material to the printer.” Part of me longed to say, “Do you remember who you’re talking to and do you think I even know what the Wellspring campaign is, much less care?” But that wouldn’t do, no matter how frayed my nerves.

I had to calm “Bob” down and tell him that if he’d been put in charge of Wellspring, then my family had every faith in his abilities and instincts. And if anyone complained, I would handle it. At this rate, I was going to be responsible for every problem from buying the wrong manufacturing plant in Missouri to a copier paper shortage at the Seattle office.

There were VPs capable of handling these problems, but the absence of the top three men crippled day-today operations. Ideally, we’d have declared a period of mourning and shut down Cortez Corporation, giving my father time to recover. But the majority of the company holdings were in the human sector. Telling the world two Cortez brothers had died of unrelated causes in one night would open the door to investigations, by the police, the press and the stockholders.

Somewhere between persuading my father not to kill Carlos and coordinating the stakeout mission of the gang’s warehouse, I’d come up with a plausible story. Hector had died of a stroke. William, then, had to hop on the jet and fly to New York to salvage a merger orchestrated by Hector, which might, in the aftermath of his death, fall through. Somewhere between Miami and that meeting late this afternoon, William would suffer a coronary, brought on by his weight, jetlag, grief and worry over the merger. Awkward, but the best I could manage, running on stress and caffeine. So by tonight, the world could know that the Cortez Corporation had suffered a horrible tragedy, and would close operations temporarily to mourn. For today, though, it was all up to me.

Paige came with me back to headquarters. Once there, I moved on autopilot, my brain spewing commands, my body obeying, no time to pause much less think.

Yes, it’s a horrible shock. Yes, my father is well, thank you.

No, I’m sorry, but I really can’t look at that. No, I’m sorry, but I won’t be at that meeting. No, I’m sorry, I don’t know who’s in charge of the special dispensations department now, but I will find out.

We met the guard I’d requested for Paige. I told him to take her to the research rooms, assign someone to guide her through the system, then stay with her until I joined them.

I said good-bye to Paige. Tried to ignore the worried look in her eyes. Kissed her forehead. Saw her onto the elevator. Caught the next one going down. Pushed “basement” for the morgue.

“Lucas!”

The use of my given name yanked me out of automode, and I grabbed the elevator door before it shut. A young man in a suit was jogging across the lobby. Everyone had turned to stare, but no one tried to stop him. His face was flushed from running, and his shoulder-length blond hair, usually neatly tied in a conservative ponytail, hung around his face.

“Sir?” Griffin said.

I raised my hand, saying it was fine. I let the young man onto the elevator and pushed the basement button again. He panted, his eyes bright from exertion, big and impossibly blue. The trademark Nast eyes. Savannah’s eyes.

“Sean.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. Griffin tensed.

“I’m so sorry, Lucas. I know you weren’t close, but I’m sorry. How’s your dad doing?”

“All right.”

“And—” He turned to Griffin. “Your partner, right? Troy?”

“He’s recovering, thank you, sir.” Griffin’s response was polite, but had a brittle edge. Nothing against Sean personally, but rather, who he was and what his appearance portended.

“Your grandfather is here, I take it,” I said. “And your uncles.”

“Yeah. I just…I wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“Because they aren’t here to pay their respects.”

“Well, they are, technically, but…”