by Jim Butcher
Another man walking by with a white Styrofoam cooler on one shoulder noticed the men at the television and followed their gaze to me. He was in his mid-thirties and about an inch or two over average height. His brown hair was cut short, as was a neatly cropped goatee. He had the kind of build that dangerous men seem to develop—not enormous, pretty muscle, but the kind of lean sinew that indicated speed and endurance as well as strength. And he was a cop. Don’t ask me how I could tell—it was just something about the way he held himself, the way he kept track of his surroundings.
He promptly changed course, walked up to me, and said, “Hey, there.”
“Hey,” I said.
His tone was overtly friendly, but I could taste the suspicion in it. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”
I didn’t have time for this crap. “Yes.”
He dropped the fake friendliness. “Listen, buddy. This is a family get-together. Maybe you could find another part of the park to stand around looking forboding.”
“Free country,” I said. “Public park.”
“Which has been reserved by the Murphy family for the day,” he said. “Look, buddy, you’re scaring the kids. Walk.”
“Or you’ll call the cops?” I asked.
He set the cooler down and squared off facing me, just barely far enough away to avoid a sucker punch. He looked relaxed, too. He knew what he was doing. “I’ll do you a favor and call the ambulance first.”
By this time we were getting more attention from the football fans. I was frustrated enough to be tempted to push him a little bit more, but there was no sense in it. I assumed that the cops in the family were off today, but if I got beaten up someone might call in and find out about Emma’s death. That was a good way to get bogged down in a holding cell and dead.
The guy faced me with confidence, even though I had a head and shoulders on him and outweighed him by forty or fifty pounds. He knew if anything happened, he’d have a ton of help.
Must be a nice feeling.
I lifted a hand by way of capitulation. “I’ll go. I just need to speak to Karrin Murphy for a moment. Business.”
His expression flickered with surprise that was quickly hidden. “Oh.” He looked around. “Over there,” he said. “She’s reffing the soccer game.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure,” the man said. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more polite.”
“Why take chances,” I muttered, turning my back on him and heading over to the makeshift soccer field. There were a bunch of rugrats too big for playground equipment and too young for pimples playing with what could kindly be construed as abundant enthusiasm while a few motherly types looked on. But I didn’t see Murphy.
I began to turn around and start another sweep. At this rate I would have to ask someone for directions.
“Harry?” Murphy’s voice called from behind me.
I turned around. My jaw dropped open. I was lucky none of the kids kicked their soccer ball into my exposed uvula. It took me a minute to stammer, “You’re wearing a dress.”
She glowered up at me. Murphy wasn’t going to qualify under anyone’s definition of willowy or svelte, but she had the build of a gymnast—tough, flexible, and strong. Generally speaking, being five-nothing, a hundred and nothing, and female had made her professional life less than pleasant, including getting her landed in charge of Special Investigations—a post that was the career equivalent to being exiled to the Bastille, or maybe left out for the ants.
Murphy had excelled at her new job, much to the distress of the folks who had gotten her put there. Partly, to be sure, because she had engaged the services of the only professional wizard in Chicago. But also because she was damned good at her job. She’d been able to inspire loyalty, to judge and employ her detectives’ skills effectively, and to keep everyone together through some fairly terrifying times—both in my company and outside of it. She was smart, tough, dedicated, and everything else an ideal leader of a police division should be.
Except male. In a profession that was still very much a boys’ club.
As a result, Murphy had made a number of accommodations to the male ego. She was an award-winning marksman, she had taken more than her share of martial-arts tournaments, and she continued to train ferociously, most of it with, among, and around cops. There was no one in the department who had any questions about whether or not Murphy could introduce the baddest bad guys to new vistas of physical pain in hand-to-hand, and no one who had survived the battle with the loup-garou would ever doubt her skill with firearms or her courage again. But being Murphy, she went the extra mile. She wore her hair shorter than she liked it, and she went almost entirely without makeup or adornments. She dressed functionally—never scruffy, mind you, but almost always very subdued and practical—and never, ever wore a dress.
This one was long, full, and yellow. And it had flowers. It looked quite lovely and utterly . . . wrong. Just wrong. Murphy in a dress. My world felt askew.
“I hate these things,” she complained. She looked down, brushing at the skirt, and swished it back and forth a little. “I always did.”
“Wow. Uh, why are you wearing it, then?”
“My mom made it for me.” Murphy sighed. “So, I thought, you know, maybe it would make her happy to see me in it.” She took a whistle from around her neck, promoted one of the kids to referee, and started walking. I fell into pace beside her.
“You found them,” she said.
“Yeah. Our driver is here, and I called Kincaid about twenty minutes ago. He’ll have the hardware nearby and waiting for us.” I took a deep breath. “And we need to move in a hurry.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m pretty sure your brothers and sisters in law enforcement are going to want to sit me down for a long talk. I’d rather they didn’t until I’ve closed a couple of accounts.” I gave her a brief rundown of Emma’s murder.
“Christ,” she said. After a few steps she added, “At least this time around I heard it from you first. I’ve got a change of clothes in the car. What else do I need to know?”
“Tell you on the way,” I said.
“Right,” she said. “Look, I promised my mom I’d come see her before I left. My sister wanted to talk to me about something. Two minutes.”
“Sure,” I said, and we veered toward one of the pavilions. “You have a big family. How many?”
“Couple of hundred the last time I looked,” she said. “There, in the white blouse. That’s mother. The girl in the tight . . . everything is my baby sister, Lisa.”
“Baby sister has pretty legs,” I noted. “But those shorts must be a little binding.”
“The clothes keep the blood from reaching her brain,” Murphy said. “At least that’s my theory.” She stepped under the pavilion, smiling, and said, “Hi, Mom!”
Murphy’s mom was taller than her daughter, but she had that kind of matronly plumpness that comes with age, pasta, and a comfortable life. Her hair was dark blond, threaded through with grey that she had made no effort at all to conceal, and it was held back off her face with a jade comb. She was wearing a white blouse, a floral print skirt, and tinted sunglasses. She turned around to face Murphy as we walked up, and her face lit for a moment. “Karrin,” she said, her tone warm and wary.
Murphy held out her hands as she walked over to her mom, and the two clasped hands and hugged. There was a sort of stiffness to the gesture that suggested ritual, formality, and less-than-pleasant emotional undercurrents. They batted a few chatty words back and forth, and while they did I noted something odd. There had been at least a dozen people under the pavilion when we came in, but most of them had wandered away. In fact, there was a widening circle of open space clearing out around the pavilion.
Murphy didn’t miss it, either. She glanced back at me, and I quirked an eyebrow at her. She twitched one shoulder in a minimal shrug, and went back to talking with her mom.
A minute later only five pe
ople were within twenty or thirty feet: me, Murphy, her mom, little sister, Lisa, and the man whose lap she was draped across. The guy with the cooler. They were behind Murphy and me, and I turned my body halfway so that I could look at them without totally ignoring Murphy and her mom.
Lisa reminded me a lot of Murphy, had Murphy been an estrogen princess rather than a warrior princess. Blond hair, fair skin, a pert nose, and cornflower blue eyes. She wore a scarlet baby-doll T-shirt with the Chicago Bulls’ team logo stretched out over her chest. Her shorts had been blue jeans at some point, but they had come down with a bad case of spandex envy. She wore flip-flops and dangled them from her painted toes as she sat across the lap of the man I presumed to be the fiancé Murphy had mentioned.
He made quite a contrast with Lisa. He was a bit older than her, for one. Not double her age or anything, but definitely older. He was being careful not to let any expression show on his face, and it made me think that he was worried about something.
“Mom,” Murphy was saying. “This is my friend Harry. Harry, this is my mother, Marion.”
I put on my best smile for Mother Murphy and stepped forward, offering her my hand. “Charmed, ma’am.”
She shook my hand and gave me a calculating look. Her grip reminded me of Murphy’s—her hands were small, strong, and had been hardened by work. “Thank you, Harry.”
“And this is my baby sister, Lisa,” Murphy said, turning to face her for the first time. “Lisa, this is—” Murphy froze, her words dying into a choking gasp. “Rich,” she said after a second, her voice shaking with a tide of emotion. “What are you doing here?”
He murmured something to Lisa. The girl slipped off his lap, and he stood slowly up. “Hello, Karrin. You’re looking well.”
“You miserable son of a bitch,” Murphy spat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Karrin,” Murphy’s mom snapped. “There is no place for that kind of language here.”
“Oh, please!” Lisa cried.
“I don’t have to put up with that, Karrin,” Rich growled.
Murphy clenched her hands into fists.
“Whoa, whoa, people,” I said. I must have been feeling suicidal, because I took a step forward and placed myself in the middle of the circle of angry stares. “Come on, guys. At least let me get introduced to everyone before the fighting starts, so I’ll know who to duck.”
There was a second of heavy silence, and then Rich snorted out a quiet laugh and subsided back into his chair. Lisa folded her arms. Murphy tensed up a little, but with her it was a good sign. She always got that deadly relaxed look to her stance when she was about to kick someone’s ass.
“Thank you, Harry,” Mama Murphy said in a loud tone. She stepped forward with a paper plate laden with a hamburger and passed it to me. “It’s nice to know there is another adult present. Why don’t we get everyone introduced, Karrin.”
I checked the burger. It had everything on it but cheese. Just the way I liked it. I was favorably impressed with Mama Murphy. And I was starving, too. More bonus points.
Murphy stepped up beside me. “Right. Introductions. Harry, this is my baby sister, Lisa.” She glared daggers at the man. “And this is Rich. My second husband.”
Oh, dear Lord.
Murphy stared from her mom to her sister to Rich. “I know we haven’t talked in a while, Mother. So let’s get caught up. Why don’t we start with why Lisa is engaged to my ex-husband and none of you even bothered to tell me?”
Lisa lifted her chin. “It isn’t my fault if you’re too much of a bitch to get a man to stay with you. Rich wanted an actual woman, which is why you aren’t involved with him anymore. And I didn’t tell you because it was none of your damned business.”
“Lisa,” scolded Mama Murphy. “That is not the kind of language a lady uses.”
“And those aren’t the kind of clothes a lady wears,” Murphy said, her voice tart. “She might as well talk like a whore, too.”
“Karrin!” Mama Murphy protested, her voice shocked.
There wasn’t time for this, either. I stepped up next to Murphy and gave Rich a half-desperate look.
“Ohhhhh-kay,” Rich said. He stood up from his chair, slipping an arm around Lisa’s shoulders. “This is no good. Come on, baby. Time for a walk until you cool off. Let’s go find a beer.”
“Murph,” I said. I leaned down enough to mutter at her ear, “Remember. No time.”
Murphy folded her arms, her expression unrepentant, but at least she turned away from her sister. Rich and Murphy Spice walked off toward the other pavilion.
Mother Murphy waited until they were gone before she faced us, her frown speaking volumes of disapproval. “For goodness’ sake, Karrin. You aren’t children anymore.”
Explosion averted, at least for the moment. I seized the opportunity to eat the hamburger.
Oh. My. God. For food this good, I’d marry Murphy just for her mom’s cooking on holidays.
“I can’t believe it,” Murphy said. “Rich. I thought he was working in New Orleans.”
“He is,” Mama Murphy said. “Lisa went down for Mardi Gras. Apparently he had to arrest her.”
“Mother,” Murphy protested. “You let her go to Mardi Gras? I had to sneak out of the house to go to the prom.”
Mother Murphy sighed. “Karrin, you’re the oldest child. She’s the youngest. All parents get a little more relaxed along the way.”
“Apparently,” Murphy said, her voice bitter, “that includes tolerating felonies like providing alcohol to a minor. She’s underage for beer until next month.”
“It’s always about work, isn’t it,” Mama Murphy said.
“This has nothing to do with work,” Murphy shot back. “Mother, he’s twice her age. How could you?”
I partook of near-divine hamburger and kept my head down, and felt wise for doing so.
“In the first place, dear, it isn’t up to me. It’s your sister’s life. And he isn’t twice her age. Worse things have happened.” She sighed. “We all felt Lisa should be the one to talk to you, but you know how she hates confronting you.”
“She’s a gutless little harlot, you mean.”
“That will be enough, young lady,” Mama Murphy said, her voice crackling with heat and steel. “Your sister found a man who genuinely loves her. I might not be entirely confident about the notion, but she’s old enough to make her own choices. And besides, you know how much I always liked Rich.”
“Yes, I know,” Murphy growled. “Can we talk about something else?”
“All right.”
“Where are the boys?”
Mama Murphy rolled her eyes and nodded at the group around the big television out on the grass. “Somewhere in there. You can hear them yelling if you listen.”
Murphy snorted. “I’m surprised Rich isn’t watching the game, too.”
“Karrin, I know you’re still angry with him. But it’s hardly the man’s fault that he wanted to start a family.”
“That was just a rationalization, Mother,” Murphy said. “What he wanted was for me to stay home so that I wouldn’t make him look bad at work.”
“I’m sorry you still think that,” Mama Murphy replied. “But you’re cheapening him. It isn’t as though he could start a family by himself. He wanted a woman willing to do that with him. You made it clear that you didn’t.”
“Because I didn’t want to give up what I do.”
“There are other people in the family who have taken up your father’s duties,” Mother Murphy said, her voice bitter. “There’s no need for you to do it.”
“That isn’t why I became a cop.”
Mother Murphy shook her head and sighed. “Karrin. Your brothers are all serving. They’re taking their time in settling down. I don’t want to tell you what to do with your life—”
Murphy snorted.
“—but I do want to have the chance to hold my grandchildren while I’m still young enough and strong enough to do it. Rich wants to set
tle down, and your sister wants to be the woman he does it with. Is that such a bad thing?”
“I just can’t see you flying to New Orleans every month to visit them.”
“Of course not, dear,” Mama Murphy replied. “I don’t have that kind of money. That’s why they’ll be settling down here.”
Murphy’s mouth dropped open.
“Rich has already put in for his transfer and had it approved. He’ll be working for the FBI office here in Illinois.”
“I don’t believe this,” Murphy grated. “My own sister. Here. With Rich. And you’re just going to keep throwing this in my face.”
“Not everything is about you, Karrin,” her mother said, her voice prim. “I’m sure we can all be adults about this.”
“But he’s my ex-husband.”
“Whom you divorced,” Murphy’s mother replied. But the harsh words were delivered in a gentle tone. “For goodness’ sake, Karrin, you’ve already made it clear that you didn’t want him. Why should you care if someone else does?”
“I don’t,” Murphy protested. She waved a vague hand. “But Lisa isn’t just ‘someone.” ’
“Ah,” said Mama Murphy.
Just then Murphy’s cell phone chirped. She checked it, frowned, and said, “Excuse me.” Then she walked twenty or thirty feet away from me, out into the sunshine, head bent to the phone.
“That will be work, I assume,” Mama Murphy said to me. “You’re the private investigator, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I saw you on Larry Fowler.”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Is it true that he’s suing you for demolishing his studio?”
“Yeah. And his car. I had to get a lawyer and everything. The lawyer says that Fowler’s guy won’t have a case, even in civil court, but it’s expensive and it’s taking forever.”
“The legal system can be that way,” Mama Murphy agreed. “I’m sorry my daughter dragged you into our family squabble.”
