I smiled back. “I’m still working on that one.”
• • •
The Ombudsman’s office was located in the abandoned brick factory that also housed Cook County’s supernatural prisoners. The factory’s offices had been renovated, and a second building had been converted into a space for supernatural mediations and educational events. That had been my great-grandfather’s doing: adding a learning component to the office’s mission. The city’s politicians had, for once, done some long-term thinking and agreed with him.
The property was fenced, but the gate was open, the entranceedged with shrubs and a sign bearing the office’s logo. That was also part of the deal my great-grandfather had made for rehabbing the factory. He’d agree to move his HQ from the South Side neighborhood he’d worked in before, but the gate had to stay open, the offices had to be inviting, because he’d wanted humans and supernaturals to feel comfortable visiting here. Now it looked more like a campus than an industrial relic.
I walked to the admin building, waved at the guard who sat near the entrance. Clarence Pettiway had guarded the office since I’d been old enough to visit, and always had a book in hand.
This time he looked up from a faded paperback and lifted a hand in a wave. His dark skin was liberally wrinkled, but his eyes were still sharp.
“Well, if it isn’t little Elisa Sullivan. Although not so little now.”
“Mr. Pettiway, it’s good to see you.” I gestured to the book. “What’s in the queue today?”
He turned it over, revealing the creased cover of Homer’sThe Odyssey. “Hope to get in a little classical reading this week. Working on one of those Top 100 Reads lists. What brings you by?”
“I’d like to speak with one of your prisoners. Riley Sixkiller.”
The smile disappeared, and his face went hard. Mr. Pettiway was retired from the CPD, but he was still a cop at heart. “He’s in lockup. And Mr. Dearborn didn’t authorize you through.”
That was a tricky one.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” I confessed. “But Riley’s been a friend for a really long time, and I think someone set him up. I’d just like a few minutes to hear his side of the story. I know I’m asking you for a lot. But I promise I’d only need a few minutes.”
It took nearly a minute for him to relent, to rise and put down his book, then walk me down the hallway to the dismal concrete corridor that led to the holding facility.
Mr. Pettiway pressed a hand to the security plate, and the doorpopped open with a loud, mechanicalclick. He held it before it could close, looked back at me again.
“I’m allowing this because of your great-grandfather, and because I figure you’re a pretty good judge of character. But you’ll be careful?”
“I promise.”
And I could handle myself better than Mr. Pettiway imagined.
• • •
The room was enormous, big as a football field with walls twenty feet high. And it was empty except for the glass-and-concrete cubes arranged in a tidy grid. No steel, no bars. But cages all the same.
The first cube in the first row was empty, as were most of the others. Riley’s cube was second from the end.
I found him pacing behind the glass wall. He wore pale gray scrubs and white socks, and the thin fabric somehow made him seem smaller. Behind him, the cube was empty but for a slab bed built into the wall, a sink, and a toilet. The ceiling was glass, but the other three walls were concrete, to provide a little privacy. And like most prisons, I guessed, it was depressing.
I waited until he lifted his gaze—and then saw hope flare and fade again. I was instantly sorry I’d put it there.
“Elisa. You come to stare at the animal in the cage?”
There were dark circles under his eyes and a bruise on his jaw, probably from fighting back against his arrest.
“I came to check on you. And ask you some questions.”
“I’ve already talked to the cops. The Pack.” His voice was dismissive, his words short. I couldn’t exactly blame him for being angry.
“I know. And I know you didn’t hurt him, Riley. I know you didn’t kill Tomas.”
His eyes widened, softened.
“Tell me what happened,” I said.