by Jim Butcher
"More wiping out than they counted on," I said. "I'm going to find Beckitt and ask her nicely not to kill anyone else and to point me to the Skavis. Then I'll have a polite conversation with him. Then I'll settle up with Grey Cloak and Passenger Madrigal."
"How do you find Beckitt?"
"Um," I said, "I'm sure I'll figure out something. This entire mess is still way too nebulous for me."
"Yeah," Murphy said. "All these killings. It still doesn't make any sense."
"It makes sense," I said. "We just don't know how, yet." I grimaced. "We're missing something."
"Maybe not," Murphy said.
I arched an eyebrow at her.
"Remember our odd corpse out?"
"Jessica Blanche," I said. "The one Molly saw."
"Right," Murphy said. "I found out more about her."
"She some kind of cultist or something?"
"Or something," Murphy said. "According to a friend in 'Vice, she was an employee of the Velvet Room."
"The Velvet Room? I thought I burned that plac—uh, that is, I thought some as-yet-unidentified perpetrator burned that place to the ground."
"It's reopened," Murphy said. "Under new management."
Click. Now some pieces were falling into place. "Marcone?" I asked.
"Marcone."
Gentleman Johnnie Marcone was the biggest, scariest gangster in a city famous for its gangsters. Once the old famiglias had fallen to internal bickering, Marcone had done an impression of Alexander the Great and carved out one of the largest criminal empires in the world—assuming you didn't count governments. Chicago's violent crime rate had dropped as much because of Marcone's draco-nian rule of the city's rackets as because of the dedication of the city's police force. The criminal economy had more than doubled, and Marcone's power continued to steadily grow.
He was a smart, tough, dangerous man—and he was absolutely fearless. That is a deadly combination, and I avoided crossing paths with him whenever I could.
The way things were shaping up, though, this time I couldn't.
"You happen to know where the new Velvet Room is?" I asked Murphy.
She gave me a look.
"Right, right. Sorry." I blew out a breath. "Seems like it might be a good idea to speak to some of the girl's coworkers. I'll bet they'll be willing to do a little talking to avoid trouble with the law."
She showed me her teeth in a fierce grin. "They just might. And if not, Marcone might be willing to talk to you."
"Marcone doesn't like me," I said. "And it's mutual."
"Marcone doesn't like anybody," Murphy replied. "But he respects you."
"Like that says much for me."
Murphy shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Marcone's scum, but he's no fool, and he does what he says he'll do."
"I'll talk to Elaine once she's got everyone settled," I said. "Get her to stay here with Mouse and keep an eye on things."
Murphy nodded. "Elaine, huh? The ex."
"Yeah."
"The one working against you last time she was in town."
"Yeah."
"You trust her?"
I looked down at Murphy for a minute, then up at the hotel room. "I want to."
She exhaled slowly. "I have a feeling things are going to get hairy. You need someone who's got your back."
"Got that," I said, holding up my fist. "You."
Murphy rapped her knuckles gently against mine and snorted. "You're going syrupy on me, Dredsen."
"If it rains, I'll melt," I agreed.
"It's to be expected," she said. "What with how you're gay and all now."
"I'm wh…" I blinked. "Oh. Thomas's apartment. Hell's bells, you cops got a fast grapevine."
"Yeah. Rawlins heard it at the coffee machine and he just had to call me up and tell me all about you and your boyfriend being in a fight. He asked me if he should get you the sound track to Les Mis-erables or Phantom of the Opera for Christmas this year. Varetti and Farrel got a deal on track lighting from Malone's brother-in-law."
"Don't you people have lives?" I said. At her continued smile, I asked warily, "What are you getting me?"
She grinned, blue eyes sparkling. "Stallings and I found an autographed picture of Julie Newmar on eBay."
"You guys are never going to let go of this one, are you?" I sighed.
"We're cops," Murphy said. "Of course not."
We shared a smile that faded a moment later. Both of us turned to watch the street, alert for any unwanted company. We were silent for a while. Cars went by. City sounds of engine and horn. A car alarm a block over. Dark shadows where the streetlights didn't touch. Distant sirens. Rotating, attention-getting spotlights lancing up to the dark summer night from the front of a theater.
"Hell's bells," I said, after a time. "Marcone."
"Yeah," Murphy said. "It changes things."
Marcone was involved.
Matters had just become a great deal more dangerous.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The new Velvet Room looked nothing like the old Velvet Room. "A health club?" I asked Murphy. "You've got to be kidding me."
Murphy goosed her Harley right up next to the Beetle. There had been only one parking space open, but there was room for both of our rides in it, more or less. It wasn't like I was worried about collecting a few more dents and dings in addition to the dozens already there.
"It's progressive," Murphy said. "You can get in shape, generate testosterone, and find an outlet for it all under one roof."
I shook my head. A modest sign on the second floor over a row of smaller shops proclaimed, EXECUTIVE PRIORITY HEALTH. It lacked the wide-open, well-lit windows of most health clubs, and apparently occupied the whole of the second floor.
"Wait a minute," I said. "Isn't that the hotel where Tommy Tomm got murdered?"
"Mmmm," Murphy said, nodding. "The Madison. A corporation that has absolutely no visible connection to John Marcone recently bought it and is renovating it."
"You have to admit it was a little… overdone," I said.
"It looked like the set of a burlesque show about an opium lord's harem," Murphy said.
"And now… it is one," I said.
"But it won't look like it," Murphy said.
"They call that progress," I said. "Think this bunch will give us any trouble?"
"They'll be polite."
"Marcone is the kind of guy who apologizes for the necessity just before his minions put a bullet in you."
Murphy nodded. She'd rearranged her gun rig and put on a Kevlar vest before we left. The baggy man's shirt was now buttoned up over it. "Like I said. Polite."
"Seriously," I said. "Think anything will start up?"
"Depends how big a beehive we're about to kick," she replied.
I blew out a breath. "Right. Let's find out."
We went inside. The doors opened onto a foyer, which was closed away from what had been the hotel's lobby by a security door and a panel of buzzers. The buzzers on the lowest row were labeled with the names of the shops on the first floor. None of the others were marked.
Murphy flipped open her notepad, checked a page, and then punched a button in the middle of the top row. She held it down for a moment, then released it.
"Executive Priority," said a young woman's voice through a speaker beside the panel. "This is Bonnie. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to speak with your manager, please," Murphy said.
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," came the reply. "The management is only in the office during normal business hours, but I would be happy to leave a message for you."
"No," Murphy replied calmly. "I know that Ms. Demeter is in. I will speak to her, please."
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," came Bonnie's rather prim reply. "But you are not a member of the club, and you are on private property. I must ask you to leave immediately or I will inform building security of the problem and call the authorities."
"Well, that should be fun," I said. "Go ahead and call the cops."
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Murphy snorted. "I'm sure they'd love to have an excuse to come stomping around."
"I…" Bonnie said, floundering. Clearly, she hadn't been trained to deal with this kind of response. Or maybe she just wasn't all that bright to begin with.
I made a kind of do-you-mind gesture at Murphy. She shook her head and leaned to one side, so I could get closer to the intercom.
"Look, Bonnie," I said. "We aren't here for trouble. We just need to talk to your boss. If she likes, she can come talk over the intercom. Otherwise, I will come up there and talk to her in person. There's only one relevant issue here: Would you rather be reasonable and polite, or would you rather replace a bunch of doors, walls, and goons?"
"Um. Well."
"Just go tell your boss, Bonnie. It's not your' fault that we didn't fall for the business-hours-only line. Let her decide what to do, so you don't get in any trouble."
After a slight pause, Bonnie realized the professional value in passing the buck. "Very well, sir. May I ask who this is?"
"I'm with Sergeant Karrin Murphy, Chicago PD," I said. "My name is Harry Dresden."
"Oh!" Bonnie said. "Oh, Mister Dresden, please excuse me! I didn't know it was you, sir."
I blinked at the intercom.
"You're the last of our Platinum Club members to pay a visit, sir. By all means, sir, please accept my apologies. I'll have someone meet you and your guest at the elevator with your membership packet. I'll notify Ms. Demeter at once."
The door buzzed, clicked, and opened.
Murphy gave me a steady look. "What's that all about?"
"Don't ask me," I told her. "I'm gay now."
We went in. The first floor of the building looked like a miniature shopping mall, its walls completely lined with small shops that sold computer parts, books, video games, candles, bath stuff, jewelry, and clothes in a number of styles. All the shops were closed, their steel curtains drawn down. A row of small lights on either side of a strip of red carpet came to life, illuminating the way to the main bank of elevators. One of the elevators stood open and waiting.
We got in and I hit the button for the second floor. It began moving at once. "If there is a welcoming committee from the Lollipop Guild waiting for us when these doors open, I'm leaving. This is surreal."
"I noticed that too," Murphy said.
"Ms. Demeter," I said. "Think it's a pseudonym?"
One corner of Murphy's mouth quirked up. "I think we'll find all kinds of nongenuine modifications around here."
The elevator stopped and the door opened.
Three women were waiting outside of it. They were all dressed in… well, "workout clothes" wasn't quite accurate. Their outfits looked something like the ones the waitresses at Hooters wear, only tight. None of them could have been much over drinking age, and all of them had clearly passed some kind of intense qualification process certifying them to wear outfits like that. They were pretty, too, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, and they had nice… smiles.
"Welcome, sir," the redhead said. "May I take your coat and… and stick?"
"That's the closest I've come to being propositioned in years." I sighed. "But no, I'll hang onto them for now."
"Very good, sir."
The blonde held a round silver tray with two fluted glasses of orangey liquid. She beamed at us. The reflection of light from her teeth could have left scars on my retinas. "Mimosa, sir, ma'am?"
Murphy stared at all three of them with a blank expression. Then, without a word, she took one of the drinks, tossed it off, and put the glass back on the tray with a dark mutter.
"None for me," I said. "I'm driving."
The blonde stepped back, and the brunette—whose shirt bore a stencil of the word Bonnie —came forward carrying a customized black leather gym bag that probably cost as much as Murphy's Kevlar vest. Bonnie handed me the bag, and then offered me a manila folder and a big mustard-colored envelope. "These are complimentary, of course, sir, for all of our platinum members. There are several outfits for exercise on the inside, a set of athletic shoes in your size, a PDA to help you track your progress, and some basic toiletries." She tapped the envelope. "Here is a copy of your membership papers, as well as your membership card and your security access code."
If this was a trap, it was working. I tried to juggle all of my gear and the comp items, too. If I suddenly had to walk anywhere while doing it, I'd probably trip and break my neck.
"Uh," I said. "Thank you, Bonnie."
"Of course, sir," she chirped. "If you would please come with me, I'll show you to Ms. Demeter's office."
"That would be lovely," I said. The bag had a strap on it. I managed to get it over one shoulder, then folded the paperwork and stuffed it into one of my coat's roomy pockets.
Bonnie waited for me to get settled before taking my arm in a perfectly confident and familiar fashion and guiding me forward. She smelled nice, something like honeysuckle, and she had a friendly smile on her mouth. Her hands, though, felt cold and nervous.
Guided by Bonnie and her clammy hands, we walked through the building, past a long, open space filled with various exercise machines, weights, wealthy-looking men, and attractive young women. Bonnie started prattling about how new the machines were, and how the latest techniques and theories in fitness training were in use, and how Platinum Club members would each have their own personal fitness trainer assigned to them each and every visit.
"And, of course, our in-house spa offers any number of other services."
"Ah," I said. "Like massages, mud baths, pedicures, that kind of thing?"
"Yes, sir."
"And sex?"
Bonnie's smile didn't falter for a second, although it looked a little incongruous with her wary sideways glance at Murphy. She didn't answer the question. She stopped at an open doorway. "Here we are," she said, smiling. "If there is anything I can do for you, just pick up the phone on Ms. Demeter's desk and I'll answer right away."
"Thanks, Bonnie," I said.
"You are welcome, sir."
"Do you need a tip or anything?"
"Unnecessary, sir." She gave me another smile and a nod, and hurried away.
I watched her go down the hall, lips pursed thoughtfully, and decided that Bonnie was eminently qualified to hurry away. "We get left all alone here?" I asked Murphy. "Does this smell like a trap to you?"
"There's one hell of a lot of bait," she replied, glancing around, and then into the office. "But the fire stairs are right across the hall, and there's a fire escape just outside the office window. To say nothing of the fact that there are a dozen customers within a few yards who could hardly help but notice anything noisy."
"Yeah. But how many of them do you think would testify in court about what they heard or saw while they were at a ritzy brothel?"
Murphy shook her head. "Rawlins knows I'm here. If anything happens, they'll turn the place inside out. Marcone knows that."
"How come you all haven't done it already? I mean, this is illegal, right?"
"Sure it is," Murphy said. "And very tidy. In operations like this one, the women involved are generally willing employees, and generally very well paid. They're required to have regular medical examinations. There's a low incidence of drug use, and almost never any attempts to control them through addiction or terror."
"Victimless crime?"
Murphy shrugged. "Cops never have as many resources as they need. In general, they don't waste them on an operation like this one. Vice personnel are needed badly in plenty of other places where there is a lot more at stake."
I grunted. "The fact that it's obviously a club for the stupidly wealthy doesn't make it any easier to bring the hammer down."
"No, it doesn't," Murphy said. "Too many people with too much influence in the city government have their reputations to protect. The place makes money hand over fist, and as long as they don't flaunt their business, cops tolerate what's going on except for the occasional token gesture. Marcone isn't going to jeop
ardize that by killing us here, when he can just as easily have it done tomorrow, in a less incriminating location."
"Depending on the size of the beehive," I said.
"Depending on that," Murphy agreed. "We might as well sit down."
We went into the office. It looked like any number of executive offices I'd seen before, somber, understated, and expensive. We sat down in comfortable leather chairs. Murphy kept an eye on the doorway. I watched the window. We waited.
Twenty minutes later, footsteps approached.
A large man came through the door. He was built like a bulldozer made out of slabs of raw, workingman muscle, thick bones, and heavy sinews. He had a neck as thick as Murphy's waist, short red hair, and beady eyes under a heavy brow. His expression looked like it had been permanently locked into place a few seconds after someone had kicked his puppy through a plate-glass window.
"Hendricks," I greeted Marcone's primary enforcer with convivial cheer. " 'Sup?"
Beady eyes settled on me for a second. Hendricks made a growling sound in his throat, checked the rest of the room, and said, over his shoulder, "Clear."
Marcone came in.
He wore a gunmetal grey Armani suit with Italian leather shoes, and his shirt was open one button at the throat. He was an inch or two above average height, and had looked like an extremely fit forty-year-old ever since I had known him. His haircut was perfect, his grooming immaculate, and his eyes were the color of worn dollar bills. He nodded pleasantly and walked around the large mahogany desk to sit down.
"Wow," I said. "Ms. Demeter, you look almost exactly like this criminal scumbag I met once."
Marcone rested his elbows on the desk, made a steeple out of his fingers, and regarded me with a cool and unruffled smile. "And good evening to you, too, Mister Dresden. It's somehow reassuring to see that time has not eroded your sophomoric sensibilities." His eyes flicked to Murphy. "Sergeant."
Murphy pressed her lips together and nodded once, her eyes narrowed. Hendricks loomed in the doorway, arms folded, eyes steady on Murphy.
"Where's Amazon Gard?" I asked him. "You lose the consultant?"
"Ms. Gard," he said, emphasizing the Ms., "is on assignment elsewhere at the moment. And our working relationship is quite secure."
