“Three leaves,” George went on, “Oak, ash and thorn. All 507 of them. That’s thirteen times thirteen times three.”
“That’s significant?” Colby asked.
George and I both shrugged. “The number three,” George lectured, “Is obviously magical. You could probably name ten fairy tales where the number three is important, without even stopping to think about it. Thirteen is a potent number too. Very popular in Unseelie magic – evil magic. Maybe because it’s unlucky to us. It might not even be important to the magic that was used, really. But even when they don’t actually have to use them, the Fae are drawn to, to mystically significant numbers.”
George, I realized, was over-playing the professor thing and starting to lose them. I broke in, “In a way, it doesn’t matter whether the numbers were really part of the magic. They’re compulsive about numerology. I mean, you don’t have to believe in astrology to believe in the Zodiac killer, right?”
Colby started to speak, but stopped when George raised his hand.
“But Jenny Kim could have figured that out too, with a little time on Wikipedia? Sure, she could have. But there’s more. I’m not an expert, but these leaves don’t look like the oak, ash or thorn leaves we get around here to me. I’d bet good money that once we do some tests, we’ll find out that they’re variants that are only found in Britain, Ireland… and Fairyland.”
I smiled, and not just because we had Bradley on the ropes. I was sure that George was right, but the thought of him betting good money? Now that was funny.
Colby glanced at Bradley, and shrugged.
“Magic,” said Bradley, in the tone of voice that most people reserve for discussing the result of the less pleasant bodily functions.
“Yeah,” I said, “Magic. Look, your partner’s the one who quoted Occam’s Razor at us. Well, as of this moment, the simplest explanation is that this was a magical crime. Doesn’t that make a lot more sense than Jenny Kim trying to game the system with a precisely mystically significant number of leaves from another spurking country that she, what, bought on eBay? Come on, Detective.”
He chewed his lip, and for a moment I thought that he’d finally given up. I should have known better.
“But –”
“No,” I said, “No more buts. Seriously. Has it not occurred to you that if Jenny was capable of putting together a plan this ornate — the right kind of tree, the right number, leaves actually from Fairyland, even… that she’d have a better story ready? One that, say, didn’t fall apart the second you guys checked up on it?”
Bradley stared. Colby was, at long last, nodding.
“I know that a con can fall apart for all sorts of reasons, but do you really think someone would try running something that was this baroque and this half-assed at the same time? It doesn’t add up. But, just for a second, try another theory. Try Jenny being a patsy, not of Glenn Jackson, but of whatever miserable little Puck gave Jackson a suitcase full of what turned out to be Fairy funny money. Which is, by the way, one of the oldest Fae cons in the book.”
Colby looked at Bradley. George looked at Bradley. I looked at Bradley, and Bradley looked at me. He was chewing his lip again, kept chewing it for a full minute, and then…
“Oh, shit,” he said.
