Side Jobs df-13

by Jim Butcher

  We mostly stay quiet and keep plugging away at our jobs. Experience has taught us that hardly anyone ever cares what we think or have to say. They demand answers, but they don’t want to listen.

  I’m not saying that cops are a bunch of white knights. I’m just saying that the politicians can spin things all sorts of ways if it means that they’re guaranteed stacks of cash for their campaign chests—or that Marcone’s blackmailers won’t expose some dark secret from their pasts.

  I still had friends in the CPD. I called one who worked in the Organized Crime Division and asked him where I could find Marcone.

  “Aw, Murph,” Malone said. He sounded weary. “This ain’t the time.”

  “Since when have you been big on punctuality?” I asked. “I need this. It’s about Dresden.”

  Malone grunted. Dresden had saved his uncle from some kind of possession or (and I still have trouble with the concept when I say it), an evil enchantment. The elder Malone had been suffering to a degree I had never seen elsewhere. Cops and medics and so on couldn’t do a thing for the man. Dresden had walked in, shooed everyone else out of the room, and five minutes later Malone was sane again, if worse for wear. It had made an impression on Malone’s nephew.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give me a couple minutes. They got everyone with a star running around the city looking for bin Laden or Bigfoot or whoever else might have blown up that building. I ain’t slept in two days. And the FBI is coming down like a freaking cloud of angry mama birds, after what happened at their office.” He cleared his throat. “Um. I heard you might have been around there.”

  I grunted. Neutrally.

  “Weird stuff, huh?”

  I sighed. Internal Affairs or the FBI might still have my phone tapped, and I was reluctant to say much.

  On the other hand, what were they going to do? Take my career away?

  “Serious weirdness. The same flavor as the kind that hit the old Velvet Room.” That was where Dresden had fought a whole bunch of vampires and wound up burning down the entire house.

  Malone whistled. “Was it as bad as that guy down in the SI holding tank?”

  The kid meant the loup-garou. We were stupid enough to lock Harley MacFinn in a normal cell. He transformed into this hideous Ice Age-looking thing. It was half the size of an old Buick and it could only loosely be called a wolf. Brave men had died that night, fighting with weapons that were utterly useless against the loup-garou. Carmichael, my old partner, had died there, all but throwing himself into the thing’s jaws to buy me a few seconds.

  I feel nauseated when I think about it.

  “I don’t know, really. Things happened too fast. I rounded up some people, went down a stairway and out. SWAT went in, but by the time they did, there was nothing left but staff hiding in closets and under desks, and a lot of bodies.”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Malone, I need this,” I pressed firmly.

  “Call you back in a minute,” he said.

  I put my phone back into my coat pocket and looked at Will. We were both standing on the sidewalk in front of his apartment.

  “This is crazy,” Will said quietly. “Vampires hitting a government building? Blowing up buildings in a major city? They don’t do that.”

  “If they followed all the rules, they wouldn’t be bad guys,” I said.

  “It’s just . . .” He swallowed. “I really wish Harry was around. He’d have a take on it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Will shook his head. “I’ve been too crazy to even ask. . . . Where is he?”

  I glanced at him and away, keeping my face still.

  The color drained out of Will’s cheeks. “No. He’s not. . . . It doesn’t work like that.”

  “We don’t know where he is,” I said. “He was staying out on that ratty boat he uses until he could find somewhere else to sleep. We found blood. Bullet holes. Blood trail leading into the lake.”

  Will shook his head. “But . . . if he was hurt, he wouldn’t go to a hospital. He’d call Waldo Butters.” He took his cell phone from his pocket. “He’s in my contacts. We can call—”

  “I know about Butters, Will,” I interrupted gently. “I called him first thing after I saw the blood. He hasn’t heard from Harry.”

  “Oh my . . . Oh my God,” Will said, his voice a whisper.

  I felt like I’d just double-tapped Santa Claus.

  “Maybe he isn’t dead,” I said. “Maybe it was somebody else with the same blood type who got shot. Or maybe Dresden pulled one of his tricks and just vanished, whoosh, off to . . . a wizard hospital somewhere.”

  “Yeah,” Will said, nodding. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, he can do all kinds of things, right?”

  “All kinds of things,” I said.

  Including dying. But I didn’t say that.

  DETECTIVE MALONE WAS good to his word, and five minutes later we were heading for a building on the north edge of Bucktown, another renovation project Gentleman Johnnie’s mostly legitimate business interests had secured. He had purchased, refurbished, updated, and preserved more than a dozen buildings in the city over the past several years. He’d been feted and decorated and honored at various society functions, as a man who was preserving the native beauty of Chicago architecture, saving it from being destroyed and forgotten, et cetera.

  If you didn’t consider the drugs, gambling, prostitution, extortion, and other shadow franchises he ruled, I guess he was a real citizen hero.

  Contractors were hard at work on the building as we came in, and a security guard in a white shirt and black pants walked over to us with a frown as I entered the building. Will was at my back. I hoped that if things went nutty, I wouldn’t have to drag him with me when I shot my way out.

  I felt myself smile at that image, mostly because of its fantasy content. If blood was spilled in Marcone’s headquarters, I wouldn’t live long enough to drag anybody out.

  “No trespassers,” the guard said firmly. “This is a construction site. Dangerous. You’ll have to leave.”

  I eyed the man and said, “I’m here to see John Marcone.”

  The guard eyed me. Then he got on his little radio and spoke into it. A moment later, a voice squawked an answer. “Mr. Marcone is not available.”

  “Yes, he is,” I said. “Go tell him Karrin Murphy is here to see him.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “You’ll have to leave.”

  He had a gun, a 9mm Glock, I noted.

  I took out the little leather wallet with my police ID in it, and said, “If you make me open this, it gets official. There will be official questions, official paperwork, and lots of men in uniform trespassing all over your site.” I held the wallet out as if presenting a crucifix to a vampire, fingers poised as if to open it. “Do you want to be the one who gives your boss that kind of headache?”

  His eyes moved from me to Will. He looked quickly away. Then he took a few steps back toward the interior of the building and had a low, rather emphatic conversation with his radio.

  I folded my arms and tapped one foot impatiently.

  “Would you really do that?” Will asked me.

  “Can’t,” I said. “I’m getting fired. But they don’t know that.”

  Will made a choking sound.

  The guard came back and said, “Through that door. Two floors down. Then take your first left, and you’ll see it.” He coughed. “You’ll have to leave any weapons with me.”

  I snorted and said, “Like hell.” Then I brushed past him, nudging him slightly aside with my shoulder as though spoiling for a fight. Martian for It is inappropriate for you to screw with me in any way.

  He got the message. He didn’t try to stop us.

  Will’s quiet chuckle followed me down the stairs.

  MARCONE’S OFFICE WAS located in what appeared to be a dining hall. The room was huge and tiled, and several contractors—most of them brawnier and more heavily tattooed than the average laborer—sat at long tables, eating. C
aterers kept several serving tables of food stocked with the same attention and care that I would have expected in a high-society gala. It was brightly lit, and a raised stage at one end of the room, which would presumably host a full orchestral band if one were present, had instead been loaded with computers and office furniture.

  The portrait of a busy executive, Marcone sat at an enormous old desk, holding a phone to his ear with one shoulder, his business shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  Everything about him screamed “successful patriarch.” His suit jacket, hung over the back of his chair, was worth more than some small nations. His loosened tie, a simple silver number rather than a bright “power” tie, bespoke confidence and strength that needed no such sartorial declaration. His hands were broad and looked strong. There were scars on his knuckles. His short, conservatively cut hair was dark, except for just enough silver at his temples to announce a man in his physical and mental prime. He was well built and obviously kept himself in shape, and his features were regular and appealing. He was by no means beautiful, but his face projected strength and competence.

  He looked like a man others would willingly follow.

  Two other people stood on the stage, slightly behind him, testimony to his ability to lead. The first was a woman, a blond amazon more than six feet tall in a grey business suit. She had the legs that had been cruelly denied me at birth, the bitch. Her name was Gard, and Dresden had believed she was an actual, literal Valkyrie.

  The other was Hendricks. He wasn’t truly ugly, but he reminded me of a gargoyle, anyway, a slab-muscled being with a misshapen appearance and beady eyes, ready to leap into action on behalf of the man he watched over. His eyes tracked me as I approached. Gard’s blue eyes focused on me for a moment, then skipped past me to Will. She narrowed her eyes and murmured something toward Marcone.

  Chicago’s resident lord of the underworld gave no indication that he’d heard her, and I caught the last few lines of a conversation as I approached.

  “You’ll just have to do it yourself.” He paused, listening. Then he said, “I don’t have the proper resources for such a thing—and even if I did, I wouldn’t waste them by sending them there blind and unprepared. You’ll have to use your own people.” He paused again and then said, “Neither of us will ever be scratching each other’s back, mutually or otherwise. I will not send my people into danger without more information. Should you change your mind, you may feel free to contact me. Good day.”

  He hung up the phone and then turned toward me. He had eyes the color of several-days-old grass clippings. They were opaque, reptilian. He made a steeple of his fingertips and said, “Ms. Murphy.”

  “News travels fast,” I said.

  “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.