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slightest glance at the photo of this Jonathan Martin when Minerva spread her dossiers on the conference table, and I recalled a fairly generic distinguished older businessman—the kind that would be a dime a dozen in a place like this.
    It was also hard to spot any one particular person in all the chaos. In addition to the pileup on the floor and the battling wizards and elves, there was a man standing on his chair and demanding that “it” be given to him, and there were several people sobbing their eyes out. The only people behaving somewhat normally were a somberly dressed older couple sitting in a far corner and watching the proceedings with a distinct air of being Not Amused. They’d probably file a complaint with the management and write a strongly worded letter to the Times after this meal. They must have been magically immune, but I decided against trying to recruit them; they didn’t look like they’d be much fun to work with.
    Then I saw the man sitting alone at a table against the wall, weeping uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking. He looked a lot like what I remembered of the photo, though he seemed frailer than I would have expected. I tapped Owen on the shoulder. “I think that’s our guy.”
    He turned to follow my gaze. “I believe you’re right.”
    “It looks like his fiancée bailed on him.”
    “But he might know where she’d go, and he can tell us who she is. I don’t want the elves getting to him, though—or the other wizards knowing what’s going on. I’ll create a diversion. You go talk to him.”
    “What kind of diversion?” I asked, getting an uneasy feeling. “You remember that you don’t have powers anymore, right? You can’t make it snow indoors, or anything crazy like that.”
    “I don’t need magic. All I need to do is be here.” He sighed. “These days, that’s enough to get plenty of attention. I’ll go in first. Wait until they notice me, then you go.”
    I was worried about how right he was. Although he’d done nothing to earn it, he was considered Public Enemy Number One by a lot of the magical world. I caught his arm before he crossed the threshold. “Be careful.”
    “I thought I was the one who was always saying that to you. And what is it you usually say to me? Oh yeah. ‘Actually, I was planning to be reckless.’”
    “But you usually are planning to be reckless.”
    Instead of responding, he straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and passed through the wards into the dining room. He neatly skirted the combatants still scrambling around on the floor and walked right up to the elves. When one of the wizards said, “Owen Palmer!” and all the elves and the wizards battling them momentarily stopped their fighting to turn to look, I figured that was my cue. I took a deep breath of my own and slipped through the doorway.
    I was immediately met by a waiter who was making a visible effort to keep himself under control in the midst of the madness. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said. “Do you have a reservation for lunch? I should warn you that things are a bit …unusual today. We might not be able to offer you our usual standard of service.”
    “That’s okay,” I told him. “I’m just here to meet someone.”
    “Very good, miss,” he said with a polite nod. “But I do hope you return and enjoy a meal with us.”
    Since he was neither sobbing nor fighting, I suspected that there was another magical immune and I was tempted to give him my card and tell him to call me, but I’d never seen a waiter that dedicated, and I’d hate to interfere with a true calling like that. Besides, working at a place like this, he probably earned more than he’d make at MSI in the verification department.
    I picked my way across the room, stepping around shards of glass and china. When I glanced over my shoulder to see how Owen was doing, I barely stopped myself from crying out a warning as the airplane dove at him. I remembered just in time that he was the