We needed to know exactly when Carlos had been at the office. A quick question to the guards had proved fruitless—they hadn’t seen him—but querying the security system would reveal whether his access card had been used. That still wouldn’t prove anything unless he’d gone to one of the top floors, which required his thumbprint.

I sent two of the six-member team to the office to check that. A further two would search and then stake out Carlos’s apartment. The final two were to review the security tapes at my father’s house.

When I finished outlining their assignments, the men looked at one another.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No, sir,” the leader—Carpaccio—replied in a tone that belied his denial.

I pushed back a stab of impatience. “Two of my brothers are dead. The third is missing and may be in the same danger. If you have a better idea for finding him, please say so.”

The youngest—a half-demon named Pratt—spoke up. “Carlos—I mean, Mr. Cortez—”

“His given name is fine tonight, for clarity.” The Cabal tradition on referring to all men of the inner family as “Mr. Cortez” was a ridiculously confusing conceit that annoyed me at the best of times.

“Well, Carlos, sir, he’s never at the office past seven.”

“Yes, I know. My brother isn’t known for putting in overtime.”

I realized the men were wondering why I was sending them to check two places where Carlos shouldn’t be—the office and my father’s home.

Paige took over to explain that, with men already checking places Carlos was known to frequent, plus the indisputable evidence that he’d been at Hector’s earlier, it was not inconceivable that he’d also visited my father or gone to the office to see William. If he hadn’t, there was no harm in reviewing the tapes and access logs, as it would need to be done for the investigation anyway. The men seemed to accept that, and left.

When they were gone, Griffin said, “You think Carlos killed them, don’t you?”

I hesitated, then said, carefully, “I’m not ruling out the possibility.”

Griffin nodded, seeming neither shocked nor skeptical.

I continued. “I don’t want anyone except us to know that’s what I suspect, which, coupled with the fact that the staff is unaccustomed to taking orders from me, could make this difficult. I would appreciate any help you can give.”

“I’ll back you up, but I’m not sure how much good it will do. If it was Troy…” The words drifted off and he shrugged. “They listen to Troy because they like him. They listen to me because I scare them. Together, it works great. Separate…” Again he let the sentence fade, as if realizing that the situation might not be temporary. “I’ll do my best.”

I DECIDED, SOMEWHAT belatedly, that we ought to join the search of Carlos’s apartment. There might be clues to the crime, and the search team wouldn’t know to look for them.

We returned to the car, which was no longer our inconspicuous rental but, at my father’s insistence, a massive bulletproof, spell-proof, black SUV. On any covert mission, we’d have to park blocks from the destination and walk—which, to me, obliterated the safety value.

I was opening Paige’s door when my cell phone rang.

“Mr. Cortez, sir? It’s central security. Our switchboard just received a call from your brother.”

My mouth opened to say “which brother?” before I realized I’d never again have to ask that.

“Carlos called?”

“Yes, sir. He sounded in some distress. We lost the connection before he could convey his message, but we managed to track the location of the call. Should we dispatch a team there now?”

“No, Griffin and I will take it. Could you please send the GPS coordinates to—” I glanced through the divider at Griffin, who lifted four fingers, “—car four.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you have a tape of Carlos’s call?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll play that for you now.”

THE TAPE TOLD me little. Nothing, in fact, except that it did appear to be Carlos and not someone who’d found his phone and randomly hit speed-dial. He demanded to know why the network circuits were jammed and why a call to our father hadn’t gone through. And he wanted to speak to “whoever was in charge there.” Carlos wouldn’t know the names of anyone “in charge” of the security center.

The operator then made the mistake of asking “Is this Carlos Cortez?” Perhaps she was unable to believe the subject of the intense manhunt that was jamming the circuits was actually calling in. Or perhaps she was simply following protocol, confirming his identity before passing the call along.

Her reward was a string of profanity, and a threat that she’d be jobless if she didn’t transfer the call in five seconds. As for what happened next, I’m sure there would be an inquiry into the matter, and someone might indeed become jobless, because the line went dead. Carlos may have hung up. Or the flustered operator had made a mistake. Or the overloaded circuits disconnected the call.

The operator had called Carlos back, but only got his voice mail. Then she’d phoned me.

Had the call been a clumsy attempt to provide himself with an alibi? Pretend not to know why the circuits were jammed and our father unavailable, as if his ignorance would prove he hadn’t been responsible? Or in light of my father’s survival, might Carlos be trying to betray his comrades in the conspiracy to save himself? Or perhaps Carlos was not involved at all and was, this moment, at risk himself?

For my father’s sake, I hoped for the last explanation and I hoped we would arrive in time.

THE ADDRESS TOOK us into southern Little Haiti, to a street that seemed to be trying to edge into the adjacent Design District. The art community had claimed about one quarter of the storefronts, and the “cafes and coffees” trend consumed another. In the remaining half, family-run Haitian businesses struggled to hold on, resisting the move to gentrification.

It was a commercial area and, at this time of night, the sidewalks were empty, the stores lit only for security. Even the cafes had long since closed. We shared the road with a single sports car, cutting through on its way elsewhere.

“One block over,” Griffin said. “You want me to drive by?”