Free The Grendel Affair: A SPI Files Novel by Lisa Shearin Page A

see more of him than you ever wanted to.”
    I’d seen it once and I didn’t want to see it again.
    “About ten twenty’s when it got interesting.” Kenji’s eyes stayed on the counter. “There it is.”
    The camera was aimed at a darkened window. Someone opened the door, flipped on the lights, and closed the door behind them. My heart beat like a hammer in my chest. I hadn’t seen the man’s face before, but I’d seen most of the rest of him. It was definitely Ollie’s office. Who else would have a pair of shrunken heads tied by their hair and hanging on the back of the door? The soon-to-be corpse sat at Ollie’s desk and booted up his computer.
    Yasha was looking at the doughnut in my hand. “You going to eat that?”
    I handed it to him. “Not anymore.”
    “Ian, the question you asked? Here’s the answer.” Kenji indicated the two screens on either side of the one showing Ollie’s office. “That’s the front door of Ollie’s place, and that’s the back. I went through the tapes for the past twelve hours. Our man didn’t come in either one.”
    “The only way to Ollie’s office from inside the shop is the stairs we’d used,” I said. “From the outside, there’s just the fire escape.”
    “Does Ollie have a basement?” Ian asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “The bar at end of block was speakeasy in twenties,” Yasha said. “Trapdoor in basement leads to tunnels that go to East River. Great for smuggling illegal . . .”
    “Hooch,” Kenji said helpfully, never taking his eyes off the screen.
    Yasha grinned. “Hooch. Smuggling hooch. Likely Ollie has same.”
    Ian nodded, rolled a chair over, and sat. “Can you get more detail on his face before . . .”
    “He doesn’t have a head anymore? Probably.” The elf’s fingers sped over the keys, and the man’s face was magnified, the pixels increasing in size along with it. Then he did something too fast to follow with the mouse and a few clicks later, the resolution sharpened, and we had a clear image of the man’s face.
    Ian leaned in closer. “Got enough to run through facial recognition?”
    “Oh yeah.” Kenji dragged the image to the screen above and the software started doing its thing. It flew through what had to be thousands of photos—and surprisingly more than a few sketches.
    “Why are some of them only sketches?” I asked.
    “Not all of the beings in our files can be photographed.”
    That wasn’t a warm and fuzzy thought.
    A few minutes later the computer stopped on a photograph.
    “Lady and gentlemen,” Kenji murmured, “we have a match.”
    It looked like a passport photo. Blond, square-jawed, nice smile. Wherever his head was, I’d bet it wasn’t smiling now. Text rapidly filled in the other side of the screen.
Dr. Adam Falke, Ph.D.
Born: November 16, 1963, in Roskilde, Denmark
Education: University of Copenhagen—Bachelor of Arts, Nordic Mythology & History, 1984; Master of Arts, Archaeology, 1986; Ph.D., Archaeology & Antiquities, 1988
Conservator, Arnamagnaean Institute, University of Copenhagen, 1989–1991
Associate Professor of History, University of Copenhagen, Department of Scandinavian Studies, 1991–2002
Private antiquities broker, 2003–present
Last known place of residence: London, United Kingdom
    “Academic,” Yasha said. “A lot of good education in that head. Though that was before—” The Russian make a slashing motion across his throat.
    Oh yeah, that settled my stomach. I set my coffee down, too.
    “He hadn’t been an academic for nearly ten years,” Ian said. “He’d spent the time since then as a private broker. That could cover up a lot of shady dealings.”
    Kenji clicked more keys. “I’ll send it up to Bob and Rob in Research; if there’s dirt, they’ll dig it up.”
    “Better copy the boss lady,” Ian said.
    “Already done. I’m too pretty to be the breakfast special.”
    “Whoever sent her the letter that went poof would be way ahead of you on the menu,” I