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shrugged. “I opened the studio door. If I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have gotten away.”
    That was true, too.
    Isa sighed. “The fact remains that a circle cast inside the studio would have contained the dragon whether you’d opened the door or blown down the entire room. That’s the point of casting one. However, Mr. Solvang was already bleeding and incoherent when the marshals brought him in. We were out of time before they got him through my door. I forewent the circle in the hopes of saving him.”
    “So,” the agent said in a rippling tone that conveyed far too much satisfaction for Isa’s comfort. “Multiple procedural violations?”
    Gus shifted against Isa’s hold on him, tags jingling. He growled again.
    “Sure,” Isa said, using her free hand to press the dog’s haunches down. “Multiple procedural failures led to the dragon’s escape, but not to your witness’s death. In retrospect, nothing could have stopped that.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Mr. Solvang had bloody foam on his lips when he came in.”
    “Meaning?”
    Isa pinned her with what she hoped was a hard look. “He was already drowning in his own blood, Ms. Macquarie. How many procedural violations will you be racking up for the marshals who failed to recognize Ink Madness until it was too late?”
    “My source suggests that Mr. Solvang could have been saved,” Anne persisted, brushing off the question.
    “Who, precisely, is your source?” Isa demanded. “Daniel doesn’t bind Ink. He doesn’t know how.”
    “Could he?”
    Confirmation of Daniel’s meddling in the case.
    Gus whined a sharp complaint and twisted. The audible click of his teeth said her willful dog was losing patience with her hold on him. He tugged.
    Isa didn’t dare release him. She suspected he intended to herd Anne out the door.
    “Absolutely Daniel could do a bind,” Isa said, meeting the agent’s smug gaze, “right after he developed his own binding ink recipe, a ritual for binding, an inking method, and then pulled his ramrod definition of
artiste
out of his ass so he could do the work.”
    “You’re the only person in the world—” she began.
    Shoving her free hand in her pocket, Isa produced a handful of change and bit out, “Here’s a quarter.” She flipped the coin at the agent. It struck her gray lapel, rebounded, and hit the floor. “Make a phone call to the Live Ink Association. Ask them who in the US binds Live Ink. Come on back with questions about saving Mr. Solvang after you have that list of people who might actually be qualified to talk about what happened to your witness.”
    The woman glared for several seconds before turning on her heel and stomping out of the apartment.
    Isa expected her to slam the door.
    It closed with a civilized, pointed
click
.
    Isa let the still grumbling dog go.
    Gus eased out from under the table, hackles raised.
    Steve blew out a noisy breath. “You sure are a people person, aren’t you, Ice? Could you answer her questions without baiting her?”
    “That woman gets on every last nerve I have,” Isa said. Thing is, she couldn’t put a finger on why. Did the agent’s bad attitude and loaded questions justify Isa’s snide responses?
    “I gathered. She’s going to retaliate, you know. Hey, Gus. How are you, mutt?” Steve leaned over to scratch Augustus’s back when the dog, nose to the floor as if tracking Anne, wandered into range.
    Gus’s tail and ears came up. He grinned at Steve.
    Isa looked at him. “Retaliate how?”
    “Search warrant on your customer files.”
    She sat bolt upright and squeaked, “Based on what? She can’t take my computers, can she?”
    “It’s common practice, Ice. Where are you going?” he demanded as she levered herself out of her chair.
    “To hex my boxes.”
    “Isa . . .”
    “Those computers run my business, Steve,” she shrilled. “And there’s not a thing in them related to her case. If she takes them, she doesn’t get to keep her