Lupi 08 - Death Magic

joined the Shadow Unit, the chances were excellent that over half the lupi in the country would be dead within three months.

FIFTEEN
     

     
    DENNIS Parrott lived up to his name—lots of pretty feathers, and now and then something he said was actually pertinent. He was in his early fifties but looked younger—a slim man with a narrow face, perfect haircut, rimless glasses, pleasant voice, pleasant smile. Interviewing him was like talking to a magazine ad.
    Glossy, Rule had called him. So far Lily hadn’t gotten so much as a peek beneath the polish. “But you don’t know anything about any of those crank letters the senator received.”
    “I’m sorry, no. We never discussed that sort of thing. But you have copies, you said.”
    “Of those that were turned over to the Secret Service, yes. There could be more.”
    “You’d need to ask Nan about that. I’m afraid this is all the time I can give you today, but Nan will have passed on my request that the staff cooperate with you fully.”
    Nan was Nanette Beresford, the senator’s secretary, a handsome older woman with a thick drawl and the proverbial steel-trap mind. She was arranging for Lily and Mullins to use a small conference room to question staffers.
    “Just one more question.” Mullins smiled vacuously at the glossy Parrott. “Won’t take but a moment. I know you’re busy—very important job, and with the senator’s passing, you must be buried in work as well as grieving the loss of a friend. I really appreciate the time you’ve given us.”
    “Of course.” The pleasant smile made a brief appearance on Parrott’s thin face. “I’m very eager for you to catch whoever did this terrible thing. But we do have to make it quick.”
    Mullins had seriously surprised Lily. As they rode up in the elevator to see Parrott, he’d transformed into a snub-nosed Colombo with a whiff of Andy Griffith. The funny thing was, he was good at it. His bashful, bumbling version of a TV detective set Parrott at ease.
    “I just wondered . . . couldn’t help wondering, really, it’s the way this job gets you thinking, you pick up on any little discrepancy, even though it’s probably meaningless. When we were talking about the senator’s work, his campaign against the misuse of magic, you said you weren’t Gifted yourself. I wondered why you said that.”
    “Because I’m not.”
    Mullins looked confused. He glanced at Lily. “But you gave me the sign—when we all shook hands, you signaled that he . . . but he says he isn’t.”
    “A minor Gift, I think,” she said, “though the charm he’s wearing to conceal it does a pretty good job, so he might have more power than I think. A Water Gift, I believe. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parrott?”
    No smile now, and at last Lily got that peek beneath the surface. Way down deep in those pleasant brown eyes lurked a predator who was not happy with Lily. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    She shook her head sadly. “That’s not going to work. Sometimes people don’t know they have a touch of magic. When it’s not a strong Gift, it’s not that hard to suppress without knowing you’re doing it. But people who are unaware of their Gift don’t make or obtain a charm intended to hide it.”
    Mullins blinked, looking stupider than ever. “I didn’t know you could do that. Make a charm like that, I mean.”
    “I didn’t, either. It’s quite a remarkable thing for someone who opposes magic to possess.”
    The pleasant expression stayed stuck to Parrott’s face like gum to the sole of a shoe, but he ran a hand over the perfectly styled hair. One with a plain gold wedding ring, again like the one the ghost had worn. Did all men’s wedding rings look identical? “This could ruin me. I’m asking you not to say anything, anything at all, about it.”
    “I don’t out anyone unless I have to. Unless it’s essential to the investigation, whatever Gift or trace of the Blood people are concealing is their own—”
    “I am not of the Blood.” His lip curled in disgust. “As for my Gift . . . yes, it’s quite minor. But I am not a hypocrite, Special Agent. Magic is wrong, an essential weakening of the tie between humans and our Creator. I had the charm made years ago for religious reasons. I wanted to suppress my Gift. Not to hide it, but to suppress it.”
    That was . . . entirely possible. Maybe. When she’d shaken Parrott’s hand, she’d felt . . . not his magic, exactly, but the pressure of it, as if