Side Jobs

by Jim Butcher

“To me. Yes.” His mouth turned up in a heartless smile. “Which are you here for? Work or revenge?”

  “Why would I want revenge on such a pillar of the community?”

  “Dresden,” he said simply. “I assume you’re here because you think me responsible.”

  “What if I am?” I asked.

  “Then I would advise you to leave. You wouldn’t live long enough to take your gun from your coat.”

  “And besides,” I said, “you didn’t do it. Right? And you have a perfectly rational reason to explain why you didn’t even want him dead.”

  He shrugged, a motion he managed to infuse with elegance. “No more than any other day, at any rate,” he said. “I had no need to assassinate Dresden. He’d been working diligently to get himself killed for several years—as I pointed out to him a few days ago.”

  I kept my heart on lockdown. The cocky bastard’s tone made me want to scream and tear out his eyes. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled me. “I’m here for another reason.”

  “Oh?” he asked politely.

  Too politely. He knew. He’d known why I was coming since before I came through the door. I stopped and played the past several hours back in my imagination, before I spotted where I’d contacted his net.

  “Maria,” I said. “She was one of yours.”

  Hendricks eyed Gard.

  She rolled her eyes and withdrew a twenty-dollar bill from her jacket pocket. She passed it to the big man.

  Hendricks pocketed it with a small, complacent smile.

  Marcone took no evident note of the interaction. “Yes. The superintendent you met had been providing the means for some of my competitors to operate. Maria was observing his business partners, so that we could track them back to their source and encourage them to operate elsewhere.”

  I stared at him, hard. “She just let Ray treat her like that?”

  “And was well paid to do it,” Marcone replied. “Admittedly, she was looking forward to closing the contract.”

  Maria hadn’t been a broken little mouse. Hell, she was one of Marcone’s troubleshooters. It was a widely used euphemism for hitters in Marcone’s outfit. Everyone knew it was the troubleshooter’s job to identify trouble within the organization—and shoot it.

  “And you’re just standing there, sharing all this with me?” I asked.

  His expression turned bland. “It isn’t as though I’m confessing to a police officer, is it, Ms. Murphy?”

  I clenched my teeth. I swear. Scratch out his goddamn eyes. “That was why Maria came running out after me—she took enough time to call in, report, and ask you for instructions.”

  Marcone nodded his head, very slightly.

  “And she was also why Hendricks showed up,” I continued. “Maria saw or heard something and reported in.”

  Marcone spread his hands. “You apprehend the situation.”

  I clenched a fist again to let out some of the anger his deliberate choice of words had inspired.

  “Why?” Will demanded suddenly, stepping forward to stand beside me. I noted that both Will and I were under average height. We stood staring up at Marcone on the raised stage. It was hard not to feel like an extra in the cast of Oliver—Please, sir, may I have some more?

  “Why?” he repeated. “Why did you send your man to my apartment?”

  Marcone tilted his head slightly to regard Will. “What are you willing to pay for such information, young man?”

  Will’s upper lip lifted away from his teeth. “How about I don’t tear you and your goons into hamburger?”

  Marcone regarded Will for maybe three seconds, his face blank. Then he made a single, swift motion. I barely saw the gleam of metal as the small knife flickered across the space between them, and buried itself two inches deep in Will’s right biceps. Will let out a cry and staggered.

  My own hands went toward my coat, but Gard had lifted a shotgun from behind a cabinet, and leveled it on me as my fingers touched the handle of my Sig. Hendricks had produced a heavy-caliber pistol from his suit, though he hadn’t aimed at anyone. I stopped, then moved my fingers slowly from my gun.

  Will ripped the knife out of his arm, then turned to Marcone, his teeth bared.

  “Don’t confuse yourself with Dresden, Mr. Borden,” Marcone said, his voice level and cold. His eyes were something frightening, pitiless. “You don’t have the power to threaten me. The instant you begin to change, Ms. Gard here will fire on Ms. Murphy—and then upon you.” His voice dropped to a barely audible murmur. “The next time you offer me a threat, I will kill you.”

  Will’s breaths came in pained gasps, each exhalation tinged with a growl. But he didn’t answer. The room had become completely quiet. The men who were eating lunch had stopped moving, as if frozen in place. No one looked directly at the confrontation, but all of them were watching from the corners of their eyes. A lot of hands were out of sight.

  “He means it, Will,” I said quietly. “This won’t help her.”

  Marcone left it like that for a moment, staring at Will, before he settled back into his chair again, his eyes becoming hooded and calm once more. “Have you given thought to your next career move, Ms. Murphy? I’m always looking for competent help. When I find it, I pay a premium for it.”

  I wondered where he’d heard about my suspension, but I supposed it wasn’t important. He had more access to the CPD than most cops. I asked him, calmly, “Does the job involve beating you unconscious and throwing you into a cell forever?”

  “No,” Marcone said, “although it offers an excellent dental plan. And combined with your pension check, it would make you a moderately wealthy woman.”

  “Not interested,” I said. “I will never work for you.”

  “Never is a very long time, Ms. Murphy.” Marcone blinked slowly and then sighed. “Clearly, the atmosphere has become unproductive,” he said. “Ms. Gard, please escort them both from the premises. Give them the information they want.“

  “Yes, sir,” Gard said. She lowered the shotgun slowly. Then she returned it to its place behind the desk, picked up a file folder from it, and walked out to Will and me. I stooped and picked up the dropped, bloodstained knife before she could reach it. Then I wiped it clean on a pocket handkerchief, taking the blood from it, before offering the handle to Ms. Gard. I was more or less ignorant about magic, but I knew that Gard knew more about it than I, and that blood could be used in spells or incantations or whatever, to the great detriment of the bleeder. By wiping the blood from the blade, I’d prevented them from having an easy way to get to Will.

  Gard smiled at me very slightly and nodded her head in what looked like approval. She took the knife, slipped it into a pocket, and then said, “This way, please.”

  We followed her back out of the room. Will walked with his left hand pressed to his right biceps, his expression furious. There was blood, but not much of it. His shirt was soaking it up, and he’d clamped his hand hard over the wound. The knife hadn’t hit any major blood vessels, or he’d have been on the floor by now. We’d clean it up once we were out of here.

  “You may know,” Ms. Gard said, as we walked, “that Mr. Marcone’s business interests are varied. Some of them have fierce competitors.”

  “Drugs,” I said. “Extortion. Prostitution. Those are the money-makers. There’s always competition for territory.”

  Gard continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “Competition has increased rather dramatically of late, and it has consisted of increasingly competent personnel. We’ve also had a number of issues with involuntary employee dereliction.”

  Will let out a snort. “Does she mean what I think she means?”

  “Hitters,” I said quietly. “Marcone’s been losing people.” I frowned. “But there hasn’t been any particular increase in the number of homicides.”

  “They haven’t been killed,” Gard said, frowning. “They’ve vanished. Quickly. Quietly. Sometimes with minimal signs of a struggle.”

  Wi
ll inhaled sharply. “Georgia.”

  Gard passed me the folder. I opened it and found a simple printout of a Web browser document. “‘Craigslist,’” I read, for Will’s benefit. “‘Talent search, Chicago. Standard compensation for new talent. Contact for delivery dates.’ And there’s an e-mail address.”

  “I know some of the business Dresden was involved in yesterday,” she said quietly. “In the past twenty-four hours, announcements like this have appeared in London, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, Berlin. . . .”

  “I get the point,” I said. “Something big is happening.”

  “Exactly,” Gard said. She glanced at Will and said, “Someone is rounding up those mortals possessed of modest supernatural gifts.”

  “Talent search,” I said.

  “Yes,” Gard said. “I don’t know who or what is behind it. We haven’t been able to get close. Whoever they are, they’re quite well-informed, and they know our personnel.”

  “Why was Hendricks at my apartment?” Will asked.

  “Maria saw someone force your wife and another young woman out of the building and into a car. We know about your gifts, obviously. Marcone sent Hendricks to case the scene to look for any evidence of our opponent’s identity. He found nothing.” She shook her head. “From here on, I have only conjecture,” Gard said. “I’ll give it to you if you want it.”

  “You don’t need to,” I told her. “Someone started picking on the little guys in town within a few hours of Dresden’s shooting. He never would have stood for something like that. So whoever is responsible for these disappearances might well be behind the shooting, too.”

  “Excellent,” Gard said, nodding in approval. “We don’t really specialize in finding people.” She glanced down at me. “But you do.”

  “I am not doing this for Marcone,” I snarled.

  We reached the building’s entrance, and Ms. Gard looked at me thoughtfully. “A word of advice: Be cautious what official channels you use for assistance. We aren’t the only ones who have compromised the local authorities.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know how it works.”

  Gard frowned at me and then nodded her head a little more deeply than was usual. “Of course. My apologies.”

  I frowned at her, trying to figure out what she meant. There wasn’t any trace of sarcasm or irony in her words or her body language. Damn. I wasn’t used to confronting non-Martians. “Nothing to apologize for,” I said, after a hesitation. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  She studied me for a moment. “I can’t tell if what I’m seeing in you is courage or despair. I’d ask, but I’m almost sure you wouldn’t know the answer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Gard nodded. “Exactly.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. About Dresden. He was a brave man.”

  I suddenly felt furious that she had spoken of Harry in the past tense. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t done in my thoughts—but I hadn’t spoken the words aloud, either. “They haven’t found a body,” I told her, and I heard a fierceness in my voice I had not intended. “Don’t write him off just yet.”

  The Valkyrie gave me a smile that bared her canine teeth. “Good hunting,” she bade us, and then went back inside the building.

  I turned to Will and said, “Let’s take care of your arm.”

  “It’s fine,” Will said.

  “Don’t play tough guy with me,” I said. “Let me see.”

  Will sighed. Then he took his hand away from the wound. There was a slit in his shirtsleeve, where the knife had gone in. It was too high up on his arm to make rolling the sleeve up practical, so I tore it a little wider and examined the wound.

  It wasn’t bleeding. There was an angry, swollen purple line over the puncture mark. It wasn’t a scab, either. It was just . . . healing, albeit into a damn ugly scar.

  I whistled softly. “How?”

  “We’ve been experimenting,” Will said quietly. “Closing an injury isn’t really much different from shifting back into human form. My arm still hurts like hell, but I can stop bleeding—probably. If it isn’t too bad. We’re not sure about the limits. Leaves a hell of a mark, though.” His stomach gurgled. “And the energy for it has to come from somewhere. I’m starving.”

  “Neat trick.”

  “I thought so.” Will kept pace beside me as we headed back to the car. “What do we do next?”

  “Food,” I said. “Then we contact the bad guys.”

  He frowned. “Won’t that just, you know . . . warn them that we’re on to them?”

  “No,” I said. “They’ll want to meet me.”

  “Why?”

  I looked up at him. “Because I’m going to be selling them some new talent.”

  WE WENT TO my place.

  There wasn’t much point in setting the dogs on the owner of the e-mail address. It would prove to be anonymous, and given what I had for hard evidence, even if I could get someone to pay attention to me, by the time it went through channels and peeled away all the red tape and got a judge somewhere to move, I was sure the address would be old news, and anyone connected to it would long since have departed.

  I might have gotten some help from a friend at the Bureau, except that in the wake of the Red Court attack on their headquarters building, they would be going crazy looking for the “terrorists” responsible. They, too, were long since departed. Dresden had seen to that.

  The TV news was all about the bombing, the attack, while everyone speculated about who had done what and used the occasion to put forward their own social and political agendas.

  People suck. But they’re the only ones around who can keep the lights on.

  I turned Will loose on my fridge and then sent him out to make a few discreet inquiries of the local supernatural scene. I heard his car door close when he returned, about the time the daylight was turning golden orange. It looked like it would be another cold night.

  There was the sound of a second car door closing.

  Will knocked at the front door, and I answered it with my gun held low and against my leg. There proved to be a girl with him. She was a little taller than I, which still put her below average, and I had pencils bigger around than she was. Her glasses were oversized, her hair thin, straight, and the same brown of a house mouse’s fur. Still, there was something in the way she held herself that put up the hairs on the back of my neck. The young woman might be a lightweight, but so were rats—and you didn’t want to trap one of them in a corner if you could avoid it. She contained a measure of danger that demanded respect.

  Her eyes flickered to my face and then down to my gun hand in the same first half second of recognition. She stopped slightly behind Will, her body language wary.

  “Murphy,” Will said, nodding—but he didn’t try to come in or make any other movement that might force me to react. “Uh, maybe you remember Marcy? We were all at Marcone’s place, stuck down in that muddy pit? Drugged?”

  “Good times?” the young woman asked hopefully.

  “My partner died the day before, when the loup-garou gutted him. Not so much,” I said. I looked at Will. “You trust her?”

  “Sure,” Will said without a second’s hesitation.

  Maybe I’m getting cynical as I age. I stared at Marcy hard for a second before I said, “I don’t.”

  No one said anything for a minute. Then Will said, “I’m vouching for her.”

  “You’re emotionally involved, Will,” I said. “It’s compromising your judgment. Marcone could have put a bullet through your head instead of tossing that little knife at you. If Dresden was standing here telling you to be suspicious, what would you do?”

  Will’s expression darkened. But I saw him get ahold of himself and take a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I’ve known Marcy for years.”

  “You knew her years ago,” I corrected him with gentle emphasis.

  Marcy rubbed one foot against the other calf, and stood looking down, her eyes on h
er feet. It looked like a habitual stance, social camouflage. “She’s right, Will,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Will frowned at her. “How?”

  “She should be suspicious of me, given the circumstances. I’ve been back in town for what? Two weeks? And something like this happens? I’d be worried, too.” She looked up at me, her expression uncertain. “I want to help, Sergeant Murphy,” she said. “What do we do?”

  I stared at them both, thinking. Dammit, this was another one of those Dresden things. He could have pinched his nose for a second, then swept his gaze over them and reported whether or not they were who they said they were. Supernatural creatures are big on shapeshifting. They use it to get in close to their prey. In an attack like that, a mortal has the next-best thing to zero probability of escaping.

  I knew. It had been done to me. The sense of chagrin and helplessness is terrible.

  “To start with,” I said, “let me see if you can come in.”

  Marcy frowned at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you’re a shapeshifter or something, you might not have an easy time coming over the threshold.”

  “Christ, Sergeant,” Will began. “Of course she’s a shapeshifter. So am I.”

  I glowered at them both. “If she’s who she says she is, she won’t have a problem,” I said.

  Will sighed and looked at Marcy. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine,” the young woman said. “It’s smart to be careful.”

  Marcy held her hands out to her sides, in plain sight, and stepped

  into the house. “Good enough?”

  Houses are surrounded by a barrier of energy. Dresden always called it the threshold. It’s all murky magic stuff to me, but the general guideline is that anything that’s too hideously supernatural can’t come in without being invited. A threshold will stop spirits, ghosts, some vampires (but not others), and will generally ward away things that intend to eat your face.

  Not everything. Not hardly. But a lot of things.

  “No,” I said, and put my gun away. “But it’s a start.” I nodded to a chair in the living room. “Sit down.”

  She did, and she sat looking down at her hands, which were folded in her lap.