Devona Tench ~ 3-17-2029 10:52 PM EST

Devona Tench is on her way out of the office. Her secretary has already left, as has most of the rest of the staff in her wing. She turns in her chair, stoops to gather her bag, and feels the sharp, cold ache of Pathos being burned behind her. Her jaw tightens.

“You’ve been given specific instructions regarding how to approach me,” she says.

A baritone chuckle rumbles through the darkness behind her. “Relax, Devona. No one notices me if I don’t want them to. Not even you…”

Devona whirls around, nearly summoning Logos, but she checks herself. She won’t give in to his insouciance.

Garibaldi is sitting in one of her chairs, in his absurd white suit, his white-gloved hands clutching the head of his equally absurd cane as he leans forward. “James Walsh is dead.”

Devona’s left eye narrows. “Who ordered it?”

“It would make you happy if I said Orlandic, wouldn’t it?” Garibaldi smiles, flashing his too-white, too-numerous teeth. “It wasn’t him, though. The senior officers met a few hours ago. Richard was unavoidably detained with personal matters, and you were with the President.”

Devona fumes silently. They should have at least consulted her, it’s what they hired her for, and now, to be informed by this slithering errand boy--

Garibaldi laughs. “You are so petty, Devona. So easy to get under your skin. Tell me, what do you know about Walsh’s legislative director?”

Devona frowns, caught off guard. “Her name’s Allen, I think. Fucking the boss. Why?”

“Some supposed reporter was sniffing around Walsh’s finances. She triggered this Allen woman, set her to hounding Walsh about the company. Harmon and Wendt got nervous. That’s why Walsh died with a mouthful of taipan venom tonight.”

Devona folds her arms, tapping her left elbow with her right forefinger. “‘Supposed’ reporter? Who’s she really with?”

“She wore a ring of the Knights of the Rose Cross. Carmella has pulled an image from metro surveillance. An obvious cloak, but the Knights are old fashioned about their jewelry.”

Devona grimaces. “Why do we even give a damn about a gang of crosswalk guards and burnt-out swamis? Fine. Get me a picture. If she sets foot in the District using the same cloak, I’ll set the dogs on her.”

“There’s another detail you might care to hear from me, before you talk to the officers.” Garibaldi’s smile is too predatory, too thoroughly self-satisfied, for her comfort.

“What?” Devona braces herself.

“Allen came to Walsh’s house. I saw her, just before I left. I put two Maelstrom soldiers in the house--just underthrowers, nothing fancy--to see to any loose ends, and I thought the matter was done.” Garibaldi leans back. “But I was wrong. The soldiers have reported that they heard Walsh and Allen having an argument. Then there was a substantial Logos pulse, and when they moved in for the kill, Allen was gone.”

Devona shakes her head. “There’s no possibility that she Threw. I know all the Lawyers in the District and no one is deep cover enough to impersonate a woman like that, not without raising all kinds of alarms.”

“So she had help.” Garibaldi nods. “The question is, who? The Knights? And, also, why did they care enough to blatantly violate the Armistice and pull her out?”

Devona exhales through her nostrils. “Get out. I have to think.”

“I imagined you would.” Garibaldi rises. “Have a pleasant evening, Devona.”

Devona clenches her teeth behind her lips and turns her desk lamp back on. Damn it all to hell. Now there’s cleanup to be done. But who first, and how?

Her glasses produce a short profile of Mae-Ying Allen at her demand. She reads, then mentally fans through the list of people in the District who know about Synesis, and who would be likely to talk to someone like Allen.

This has to be done quietly, and carefully. Too fast will attract the wrong kind of attention, as bodies often do.