“Yes,” he said.

“Good.” Because once that contract was over, I would make Rogan eat every single word of this message. I had no idea how I would do it, but it would happen.

“If I may,” Melosa said. “We have a saying in this business. Don’t look a gifted aegis in the mouth.”

“What was your last assignment?” my mother asked.

“I was guarding the Argentinian finance minister,” Melosa said. “I was pulled from that detail last night, but I’m in operative condition. Equzol is a hell of a drug.”

“I feel like I missed something. We’re going to Baranovsky’s art gala?” Cornelius asked, his face puzzled.

That’s right. He’d slept through it. I told him that my personal “relationship” with Rogan wouldn’t interfere with this investigation. I would keep my word, no matter what it cost me.

“Come inside,” I told Melosa. “There are pancakes and sausage. Feel free to have some while I bring Cornelius up to speed.”

Briefing Cornelius took a lot longer than I’d anticipated and by the time I was done, my throat was in serious pain. He took it well. He and Melosa watched the video of the overpass incident, and then Cornelius declared he would be coming with us from now on.

Which was how all three of us ended up going to see Ferika Luga together. Cornelius said that his sister frequently shopped there for formal attire, and since I had no idea where to buy a suitable dress, I decided to trust his judgment. I also dipped into my emergency budget. I wouldn’t be wearing a dress Rogan bought me.

Since my Mazda was gone I abandoned all pretense of blending into the traffic and took one of the captured ATVs instead. ATVs weren’t made for comfort or for city traffic. We stood out like a sore thumb, and by the end of the trip, I’d need a butt replacement. The day had started on a high note so far. I couldn’t wait to see how wonderful things would get from now on.

As we drove out of the neighborhood, we passed a crew installing an electric fence along Clay Road.

“Did Rogan move his headquarters somewhere around here?” I asked.

“Yes,” Melosa answered. “It’s not cost effective to protect two different headquarters.”

“Where is it located?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

I finally understood why he was called Mad Rogan. It wasn’t because he was insane. It was because he drove you nuts with sheer frustration.

We had to make a detour into an older neighborhood, where Cornelius disappeared down a narrow street with another mysterious sack.

“What’s in the bag?” Melosa asked.

“He won’t tell me. For some reason I thought it might be body parts, and now I can’t get rid of that thought.”

“It’s not body parts. The bag would be lumpy.”

“That occurred to me as well.”

While we waited for Cornelius, Bug emailed me Forsberg’s autopsy report. No traces of foreign particles had been discovered; however the wounds contained traces of frozen tissue. Someone had frozen Forsberg’s eyes and the brain behind them, turning it into mush. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. Sadly there was no way to narrow it down. The Assembly’s visitor logs were handwritten and kept confidential. Even Rogan couldn’t gain access to them.

This mysterious ice mage was really getting on my nerves.

Ferika Luga was a short, plump woman of Native American heritage. Her shop occupied one of the business suites in a high-rise, sandwiched between an accounting firm on the floor below and an Internet start-up on the floor above. Cornelius mentioned that she saw clients by appointment only, so he had called ahead. I don’t know why I had expected a retail space, but there was none. The front of her workspace was a simple open room with a row of chairs at one end, floor-to-ceiling window on the right, and a wall of mirrors on the left.

Ferika looked Melosa and Cornelius up and down and pointed to the chairs. “Wait here. You—come with me.”

I followed her to the back, through a door, into a dressing room with a round platform in the middle. A large mirror occupied one wall. Through the open door on my left, I could see a sewing workshop and rows and rows of dresses in plastic, hanging on a metal rods suspended from the ceiling.

“You’re going to the Baranovsky’s dinner.” Ferika faced me. “What do you want people to see? Don’t think, say the first thing that pops into your head.”

“Professional.”

“Think about it. Picture yourself there.”

I pictured myself on a shiny floor. Rogan would be there in all of his dragon glory. I’d need a spear and a helmet.

“What is it you do?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Are you going to hide that thing on your neck?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The older woman crossed her arms, thinking. “How did you get it?”

“A man tried to kill me.”

“Since you’re standing here, he didn’t succeed.”

“No.”

“Wait here.”

She disappeared between the racks of clothes. I looked around. Nothing caught my eye. The floor was plain chestnut-colored wood. The ceiling had lots of white panels. The mirror offered my reflection—the bruise really was a wonder.

“How long have you worked for Rogan?” Cornelius asked.

The wall, apparently, was paper thin, because he hadn’t raised his voice, but I heard him clearly.

“A long time,” Melosa said. “You might say I’m one of the original employees he hired after separating from the military.”

“In your experience, does he often become infatuated?”

Where was he going with that?

Melosa cleared her throat. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my employer’s personal life. And even if I was, I wouldn’t. The major has earned my loyalty. I would take a bullet with his name on it. He is entitled to his privacy and I’ll safeguard it, so I suggest you choose a different line of questioning.”

Well, she’d shut him down fast.

Ferika returned, accompanied by a younger woman carrying a black dress. “Put this on.”

I stripped and slid into it as she watched. It was surprisingly heavy. Ferika’s helper zipped the back, held out her hand, and helped me step back onto the platform. I looked into the mirror and held still.

The silhouette was timeless: two thin straps supporting a sweetheart cleavage that left my neck and most of my chest bare, close fitted waist, and a skirt gracefully falling into a train, not long enough to become cumbersome and allowing me to move fast if I had to. The fabric of the dress, black silk tulle, would’ve been completely sheer if it wasn’t for the thousands of black sequins embroidered into it. The complicated pattern curved around and over my breasts, lined my ribs and hugged my hips, finally fracturing into individual whorls just below mid-thigh. They slid down the sheer tulle skirt like tongues of black flame, melting into nothing near the hem. The dress didn’t look embroidered; it looked chiseled out of obsidian, like some fantasy bodice of a Valkyrie. It looked like armor.

“How much is it?”

“Fifteen thousand.”

“I can’t afford it.”