Naia woke earlier than she would have liked to find the tip of her nose ice-cold. The heat was on the fritz again, apparently. With a soft groan, she rolled her face into her pillow, but her stirring had woken Dog, who yipped in displeasure and tried to dig under the covers to join her.
Guess we're awake.
She scratched affectionately behind Dog's ears, then pushed back the tangle of blankets, rolled out of bed, and flipped the light switch.
Naia's alienage apartment was a bare-bones one-bedroom on the third floor of a converted warehouse. It was more space for less money than shems would pay outside the alienage, but the tradeoff was that Naia's human landlord—who lived as far from the alienage district as he could get without actually leaving Denerim—often played fast and loose with niceties like working heat. Fortunately Naia was handy.
She sat cross-legged in front of the old metal radiator and opened her tool kit, swatting away Dog's curious paw. She'd taken to keeping it on the floor by the heater because this happened at least once a month; the radiator was old and various parts of it shook loose or tightened on their own as the metal expanded and contracted. A few tweaks, and Naia heard the reassuring hiss that meant it was working again.
Since she was up, Naia turned her water as hot as it would go and stood in the shower until she didn't feel half frozen any more. Then she dried her hair until it was hot to the touch, knowing that going out in the winter cold with wet hair would be an unpleasant experience.
She had just returned from taking Dog out for his morning bathroom break when her phone rang.
"It's me," Juliet said without preamble. "Did I wake you?"
"I wish," Naia said, grabbing for pen and paper. "Any luck?"
"Donnic was in. I've got some addresses for you."
Naia looked up at the building where Sean Harven had lived and took a deep breath, letting it out in a puff of steam, where it condensed into fog in the cold winter air. Her heart was beating just a little bit faster and she fought back an almost manic smile.
Damn, this feels good.
Years ago Varric had helped her see that a career in burglary, while quite a lot of fun, was also quite likely to land her in jail, and that was only if her propensity for burgling Denerim's criminal element didn't get her killed first. These days she tried to channel her thrill-seeking into more productive channels. She liked her work; she was a good investigator, and most days she thought she hit that nice sweet spot between playing with fire and playing it smart. But her spirits always lifted when she got to take her lockpicks along for the ride.
Sean Harven had lived in a squat three-story building made of yellow-orange brick, trimmed with rusted bars on the ground floor windows. Naia had a couple of opening gambits for getting into an apartment building; usually she pretended to be a one-night stand, or for bigger buildings where people were less likely to know all their neighbors, she fumbled for her keys as a real resident approached.
Her tricks weren't necessary today. On a hunch, Naia tried the knob to the outer door and gave it a gentle push. It yielded with a slight creak. The loose way the knob turned in her hand told her that the lock was broken and had been for quite some time. The linoleum-floored hallway that Naia entered was dimly lit. Half of the overhead lights were dead, and the other half flickered unpleasantly, casting a pale yellow hue over everything. She felt an unexpected pang of kinship with Sean Harven, whose landlord also obviously did not give a shit.
After surviving the trip through the unpleasant-smelling stairwell, Naia found herself at the door to Apartment 212, sliding her hands into the thin cotton gloves she used to conceal her fingerprints in situations like this. The cheap, brittle lock on the splintered wooden door did not even require lockpicks, to her disappointment; she only had to insert a thin metal strip between the door and the doorjamb to coax the deadbolt open.
The inside of the apartment proved surprising. Most criminals, in Naia's experience, were not careful people. Naia was used to finding piles of filthy laundry, dishes piled in the sink, and other messes that made her own slobbishness pale in comparison. But Harven's apartment was—to borrow her father's phrase—neat as a pin. It was a little studio with a bathroom to Naia's left, a tiny half-kitchen on the right, a narrow bed with tightly made sheets set in the back left corner, and a tiny table with two chairs shoved off to the right under the sole window. The second chair, the one in the corner, had a thin film of dust on the back.
Naia squinted into the room, frowning. If I kept a bank book, or cancelled checks, where would they be? Her eyes eventually settled on the bed—its frame hid two drawers beneath the mattress. The first drawer contained only clothing, but the second netted her underwear, socks, and a small pile of financial documents.
And then, underneath that, a pile of cash.
Naia caught her breath and fought the instinct to pack the cash away for her own use. You're not the Dark Wolf any more , she reminded herself. Then she sighed. Of course whoever had hired Harven had paid him in cash and not left a paper trail. It had been silly to hope otherwise, but Naia had always considered herself an optimist.
She pushed the cash aside to examine the rest of the drawer. Her eyes lit when she found two more sheets of paper. One turned out to be an unflattering photo of Alistair—a grainy printout that depicted him staring straight at the camera with a strained half-smile. The second page was a rundown of Alistair's usual activities—including his work and home addresses.
Naia's stomach twisted. Shit. I hope he can afford to break his lease. She doubted she would find anything else in the apartment, but for professionalism's sake, she put the items back neatly where she'd found them and resumed her search.
That search was aborted, however, when a quick glance out the window revealed some very unwelcome information. Detective Fenris Leto was climbing out of a black car parked in front of Harven's apartment.
Naia groaned softly. She had hoped it would take Fenris longer to get all of those pesky authorizations Guardsmen needed before searching someone's home. At least she'd gotten here before he taped the place off and put a padlock on the door. Guard padlocks took forever to pick open.
As quickly as she could, she slipped out of the room, turning the cheap lock on the doorknob as she left to give the illusion that the apartment had been undisturbed. Then she made a run for the stairwell—but climbed up instead of down.
She waited silently on the top landing, trying to breathe shallowly. There was a stain on the linoleum beneath her feet and she busied herself wondering what it was. Spilled coffee? Spilled wine? Blood? Vomit? Probably vomit.
Moments later, she heard someone enter below and cough at the unexpected stench. Light, quick footsteps ascended to the second floor; a door opened and slammed shut beneath her. For caution's sake, Naia counted to sixty before starting her own climb back down the stairs.
Good luck, Detective. Professional pride made her want to crack this first, but based on those papers Alistair could use all the help he could get.
"Mr. Potts. Please, have a seat."
Gorv Potts, failed robber and accomplice to the late and unlamented Sean Harven, glared at Fenris from narrowed eyes as he entered the interrogation room. He was a bony man who appeared about forty, but Fenris knew from his dossier that he was just a month shy of his thirtieth birthday—a lifetime of petty crime had not helped him age well. Despite his aggressively Ferelden name, Potts had more than a hint of Antivan about him. His olive skin and prominent, narrow nose reminded Fenris strongly of one of Danarius's trading partners, an unpleasantly oily man named Nuncio.
He pushed that memory back down and forced himself to focus on Potts. "The Guard was authorized to search your friend's apartment this morning. Can you guess what I found?"
Potts frowned, then sat down in the chair opposite Fenris's. "I dunno," he said with a shrug. His strong Ferelden accent helped Fenris banish the memory of Danarius's friend, for which the detective found himself oddly grateful. "You're probably gonna tell me, though."
Fenris inclined his head. "I found evidence that Mr. Harven was hired to kill the bartender. Money, along with a dossier of information on the man your partner tried to shoot. You may be interested to know that murder for hire is a capital crime in Denerim."
Potts shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but didn't answer. Fenris felt his hand twitch a bit. It would have been so easy to activate the power the lyrium gave him, to use it to enter that strange state in between solid and air, to reach inside Potts's chest and make him talk, as Danarius had had him do so many times.
But, again, he pushed the thought away. He is not worth that.
"So there are two possibilities." Fenris tapped one finger against the table, partly to ground himself, to prevent the magic in his body from flaring with his annoyance. "One is that Mr. Harven did not tell you about his contract when you agreed to rob the bar. Let me finish," he said sharply, raising a finger as Potts opened his mouth. "While that carries a lesser penalty, it also means you would not have any information of use to the Guard. If, however, you know more about who hired Sean Harven, the Guard-Captain assures me that we will be able to charge you with a lesser offense in exchange for that information. Say, standard robbery, with no accomplice charges for the shooting."
Potts's brow furrowed, creating wrinkles throughout his face. Then something seemed to occur to him. He paled and shook his head. "Nope. Sean didn't tell me nothing about the bartender. I thought we was just gonna rob him."
"If you fear reprisal—er, if you are afraid someone will come after you," Fenris amended, seeing the confusion on Potts's face, "I can offer protection."
Potts snorted. "What, you gonna come to jail with me, knife-ear?"
He smirked as he watched for Fenris's reaction to the racial slur, but Fenris had heard far worse from far scarier people. "I see. You think whoever hired Harven can reach you in jail, then?"
Potts's smug smile vanished. He swallowed visibly, his throat bobbing in his skinny neck. "I'm not saying anyfink."
"Would you like me to call your lawyer to advise you?" Fenris offered.
"Nah. I don't need a lawyer to tell me what I already know. I'm done talking."
Fenris stood. "That is, of course, your right. Goodbye, Mr. Potts."
He hoped, rather than expected, that Potts would have a change of heart before he left the room-but the robber stayed silent as he left.
On the way back to his desk, Fenris tried to untangle the strange knot he'd just been handed. Potts obviously knew something about why Alistair Guerrin had been targeted—but he was too afraid of whoever it was to trade that information to the Guard.
The list of intimidating people in Denerim who might have crossed paths with Sean Harven and Gorv Potts was, alas, not short. The list of people who might plausibly be able to reach Potts in prison, however, was shorter. Eamon Guerrin was on it, but Fenris did not think the Councilman bore Alistair any ill will.
He could think of only one group with any connection to Alistair Guerrin that might frighten silence out of a self-serving man like Gorv Potts.
I think it is time I visited the Templars.
That evening, Naia and Juliet made a full report to Alistair as he prepared to open the bar. After recounting Varric's conversation with Anora and Naia's own adventure in Sean Harven's apartment—minus almost getting caught by Fenris Leto—Naia finished with her trip to Gorv Potts's depressing home address.
"Potts has a room in a ratty boarding house," she said, watching as he cut a pile of lemons into neat wedges. "Actually, that's past tense. Had a room. The landlady boxed up his stuff when he got arrested and missed the week's rent. She let me take a look through it so she could go back to her soap opera and get rid of me. No cash and just the photo—no copy of your schedule. I think Harven was the brains of the operation, such as they were."
"Maybe the landlady pocketed the cash," Alistair suggested.
"Wouldn't surprise me." Naia took a sip from her glass of water. "But the point is that someone definitely hired Harven. Someone who knew your schedule. I think we should move you to a motel for a few weeks." She paused, not sure how he'd react to the next suggestion.
Juliet picked up on the thought. "Or move you out of Denerim."
Alistair was quiet for a moment; his handsome face was thoughtful. Finally, he shook his head. "No. I want to know what's behind this. I can't just run off to Highever and wait for them to find me there."
Naia nodded. "All right. Then here's our suggestion." She glanced at Juliet for confirmation; her friend gave a slight nod. They'd talked this out on the way over and the plan put far more on Juliet's shoulders. "We move you to a motel—a new one every couple of days. Juliet will stay there with you."
"Bodyguard duty," Juliet said easily, when Alistair's brow furrowed. "Don't worry, I've done this before, when I was with the Guard."
That was technically accurate, although it missed the real reason why Juliet and not Naia was the choice for personal bodyguard. Naia was good in a fight but she couldn't stop bullets or light things on fire with her mind. Hopefully Juliet wouldn't have to do either of those things, though. Much as they liked Alistair, Naia didn't want to let him in on Juliet's secret unless they absolutely had to.
"In the meantime," Naia said, as Alistair wrapped his head around going into hiding, "we'll have someone at the bar at every shift you work. My guess is they're going to try again. Probably not inside the bar this time. That would be way too obvious after the first robbery. When they realize your apartment's empty I think they'll try to follow you, make it look like a random mugging. So, we follow you too."
Alistair thought about that for a moment. "So you're telling me I'm bait."
Juliet winced. "Um. Yes. Sorry."
"No, no, don't apologize," Alistair assured her with a light chuckle, reaching for a new lemon. "I've always wanted to be bait. Dreamed of it, really. So glad I'm finally going to get my shot."
