"Laura Anne Gilman - Staying Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)

building's owner and prime resident's deepest, ugliest fear.

It was a hacker's trick, showing how easy it would be to really harm the target, without doing anything
they could easily be prosecuted for. Only in this case, it wasn't all just show. Damage had been done, if
not anything you could explain on a police report, or an insurance waiver.

Their employer had two very simple questions: who did this, and how soon can you get it back? Right
now Wren was more concerned with how it had been done.

In her experience, once you found the tools, it was generally a simple matter to find the workman. And
once they'd found him, the fun part began.

Only problem was, this bastard didn't seem to have left any external traces at all. Wren
wasтАФgrudginglyтАФimpressed.

Clicking on the 'corder again, she continued making her comments, pacing down the sidewalk.

"The night watchman finished his rounds at 4:45 a.m. At that point, he claims not to have seen anything
out of the ordinaryтАФnothing that would have given him even an instant's pause at all." She hesitated,
continued. "Which raises the question, I guess, if the theft was done remotely, or if the guard was under
the influence of a spell himself."

A jogger went past her at a heavy-breathing clip, and she moved out of the way with the instinctive radar
that big-city residents evolve by instinct, but didn't pause in her recitation. Even if the jogger had been
inclined to listen inтАФselective deafness being another big-city survival traitтАФWren doubted that he would
have recalled itтАФor herтАФan instant later. Being invisible was one of the things she did very best. Part of
it was by design: her jeans, white button-down shirt and leather jacket were quality enough that she
would be categorized as "employed," and the temporary security badge that came with the reports was
now hung around her neck, giving her a reason to be in the building. Most people didn't look any further
than that. But the real secret to her success was a carefully cultivated result of the genetic lottery. Not a
winning ticket; more like a "sorry, try again" one. Her shoulder-length hair was the color that could only
be described as "brownish," and her features were unremarkably regular. Average height, average
weight, unremarkable measurementsтАФshe never warranted more than a swift once-over by anyone, male
or female. Her appearance was neither unpleasant nor remarkable. Forgettably average.

Sometimes she wondered if dying her hair bright screaming red, or bleaching it platinum blond would
make any difference to the way the world didn't see her. But it never seemed worth the bother to
experiment. And why screw with success? Besides, Sergei would kill her.

"The fact that there is no sign from the exterior of the building of digging, or any kind of disturbance at all,
confirms the suspicion that it was a purely magical theft."

Well, duh. But you checked everything anyway, just so it didn't come back later and bite you on the ass.

"A remote grab seems more and more probable." And narrowed her eventual list of suspects. Far easier
to steal line-of-sight, especially something this size.

Rafe appeared by her shoulder, holding out a water bottle glistening with fresh condensation. Wren shut
off the recorder and tucked it into the inside pocket of her bomber jacket, then took the bottle from him
and poured a stream of the water down her throat.