Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

reservation that she was here to prevent, I thought. She wanted a quick execution—maybe Zee was supposed to hang himself and save everyone the publicity of a trial and the inconvenience of an investigation that put intruders’ noses into the reservation. She was here to make sure there were no screwups.
    Like me.
    I considered her and then turned to Tony. “Did you put Zee on a suicide watch? Fae don’t do well in iron cages.”
    He shook his head while Dr. Altman’s mouth tightened. “Dr. Altman said that as a gremlin, Mr. Adelbertsmiter would be fine with the metal. But if you think I ought to, I will.”
    â€œPlease,” I said. “I’m very concerned.” It wouldn’t be foolproof, but it would make it harder to kill him.
    Tony’s eyes were sharp as they looked from me to Dr. Altman. He was too good a cop not to notice the undercurrents between the two of us. He probably even knew it wasn’t suicide I was worried about.
    â€œDidn’t you tell me you had some questions to ask Mercedes, Dr. Altman?” he suggested with deceptive mildness.
    â€œOf course,” she said. “The police here seem to respect your opinion about the fae, but they don’t know what your credentials are—other than the fact you once worked with Mr. Adelbertsmiter.”
    Ah, an attempt to discredit me. If she’d expected to fluster me, she didn’t know me very well. Any female mechanic knows how to respond to that kind of attack.
    I gave her a genial smile. “I’ve a degree in history and I read, Dr. Altman. For instance, I know that there was no such thing as a gremlin until Zee decided to call himself one. If you’d excuse me, I’d better get back to work. I promised that this car would be finished today.” I turned to do just that and tripped on a stick that was lying on the ground.
    Tony was there with a hand under my elbow to help me back to my feet. “Did you twist an ankle?” he asked.
    â€œNo, I’m fine,” I told him, frowning at the fae walking stick that had appeared on the floor of my garage. “You’d better let go or you’ll get covered with grease.”
    â€œI’m fine. A little dirt just impresses the rookies.”
    â€œWhat happened?” Dr. Altman asked, as if her blindness was something that would keep her from knowing what was happening around her. Which I was certain it did not. I noticed that her dog was staring intently at the stick. Maybe she really did use it to help her see.
    â€œShe tripped on a walking stick.” Tony, who’d disengaged himself from Dr. Altman to catch me when I’d stumbled, bent down, picked it up, and put the stick down on my counter. “This is pretty cool workmanship, Mercy. What are you doing with an antique walking stick on the floor of your garage?”
    Darned if I knew.
    â€œIt’s not mine. Someone left it at the shop. I’ve been trying to give it back to its rightful owner.”
    Tony looked at it again. “It looks pretty old. The owner should be happy to get it back.” There was a question in his voice—I don’t think Dr. Altman heard it.
    I don’t know how sensitive Tony is to magic, but he was quick and his fingers lingered on the Celtic designs on the silver.
    I met his eyes and gave him a brief nod. Otherwise he’d pick at it until even the blind fae noticed he’d seen more than he ought.
    â€œYou’d think so,” I said ruefully. “But here it is.”
    He smiled thoughtfully. “If Dr. Altman is through, we’ll just get out of your way,” he said. “I’m sorry Zee is unhappy with the way you chose to defend him. But I’ll see to it he doesn’t get railroaded.”
    Or killed.
    â€œTake care,” I told him seriously. Don’t do anything stupid.
    He raised an eyebrow. “I’m as careful as you are.”
    I smiled at him and went back to work. No matter what I’d told its owner, this car wasn’t going to be done until tomorrow. I buttoned it up, then cleaned up and checked my phone. I’d actually missed two calls. The second one was from Tony, before he’d brought the department’s fae consultant. The first one was a number I didn’t know with a long-distance area code.
    When I dialed it, Zee’s son, Tad, answered the phone.
    Tad had been my first tool rustler, but then he’d gone on to college and