The Dresden Files Collection 7-12

by Jim Butcher

  Inside, not only was the convention in full swing, but they had added a press conference to it to boot. The conference wing outside the room where the killer struck was packed with a half circle of reporters and photographers, while industrious satellite personnel held up lights and even a couple of boom microphones. From the door I could see three more uniformed officers. Between the cops, the conference, and the passersby, that whole section of the hotel was packed with a lot of noisy people. The air-conditioning had been pushed well beyond its limits, and it was stuffy and smelled like most crowded buildings.

  Mouse sneezed and looked mournful. I agreed with him.

  Murphy appeared out of the crowd and made her way to me. She gave me a tight nod, and knelt down to speak to Mouse and scratch behind his ears. “How’d your meeting go?” she asked.

  “Survived it. Storm clouds on the horizon.” I looked around the place a minute more and said, “For crying out loud, it’s a zoo.”

  “It gets better,” Murphy said. “I’ve been speaking with the convention staff, and they say that since the story hit the news and the radio stations at noon, they’ve almost doubled the number of attendees.”

  “Crap,” I sighed.

  “There’s more. Greene called in the Feds,” she said.

  I frowned. “Last time the Feds showed up was less than fun.”

  “Tell me about it.” She hesitated and then said, “Rick is with them.”

  I blinked at her for a second, and then remembered. “Oh, right. The ex.”

  “Ex-husband,” Murphy said, her tone sour. Her back was rigidly straight, and her eyes flickered with stormy emotions. “Current brother-in-law.”

  “Which is icky,” I said.

  “And I don’t like him being here,” Murphy said. “But it isn’t my call. And it’s possible that I have issues.”

  I snorted.

  She gave me a brief smile. “This has been splashy enough that they’ve got one of the major forensics units from the East Coast on the way.”

  I scowled. “Maybe he should have blown a few trumpets, too. Or brought in a marching band. I think if he hurries, he can probably rent some of those big swiveling spotlights before dark.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I get the point, Harry. You don’t like all the noise.”

  “I don’t like all the potential victims,” I said. “Fifty bucks says the extra attendees are mostly minors.”

  “No bet,” she replied. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe. In general, young people, especially adolescents, feel emotions much more intensely. The whole hormone thing. It can make them easier targets. Richer sources of energy.”

  “Then why did it hit an old geezer like Pell first?”

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. “Good point.”

  “Besides,” she continued, “isn’t it a good thing if more people are paying attention? From what you’ve told me, things from the spooky side of the street don’t like crowds.”

  “In general, no,” I said. “But the place wasn’t exactly a ghost town yesterday when the phobophage showed up.”

  “You think it will appear right in front of all these people?” she asked.

  “I think crowds aren’t going to deter it. I think that if something bad happens, the more people there are around, the more fear it’s going to generate and the more our killer gets to eat. And a panic with more people means even more people get hurt.”

  Murphy’s pale golden brows knitted into a frown. “So, what options can you give me?”

  “There’s no guarantee, but I think we’ll have until nightfall.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it will be stronger after dark.”

  Murphy frowned. “You think that’s why Pell survived his attack,” she murmured. “It was still daylight.”

  “Got it in one,” I said. “Assuming we have until sundown, it gives us a little time to work.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Setting up some wards,” I said.

  “Like at your place?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing that complex. There’s no time. I can’t build a moat around this place, but I think I can throw together a web that will let us know when and where something comes over from the Nevernever. I’ll need to walk around a lot of the building to cover it all.”

  She nodded. “That doesn’t address the crowd issue.”

  I grimaced. “You know anyone in the fire department?”

  “A cousin,” she said.

  “This place must be over maximum occupancy. Maybe if the fire marshal heard about how crowded it was, they’d clear at least some of these people out. We only need a crowd big enough to tempt the killer in.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  “And I know it’s a long shot, but has CPD turned up anything? Or the ME?”

  “Nothing on the autopsy. They didn’t give this one to Butters. Brioche handled it, and he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Naturally,” I sighed. “Greene?”

  “Theories. He had some vague notion that the attack might have been some kind of publicity stunt to attract attention to the convention.”

  “That’s a little cynical,” I said.

  “Greene isn’t a believer,” Murphy said. “And he’s a trained investigator looking for a solid motive. If he accepts that the killer was just some kind of lunatic, it means he’s got almost nothing to work with. So he’s grasping at straws and hoping he can find something familiar he can use to nail the killer fast.”

  I grunted. “Guess I can see that.”

  “I don’t envy him,” Murphy said. “I don’t like him much, but he’s a cop, and he’s in a tight spot. Chances are, there’s not a damned thing he could do about it. And he doesn’t even know it.”

  There was a little extra weight on the last phrase, something that contained personal pain.

  Murphy had faced the same situations as Greene, more or less. Something wild happened, and none of it made any sense. Murphy had her first face-off with the supernatural while she was still a beat cop on patrol. It gave her an advantage as a detective, because at least she knew how much she didn’t know. Greene didn’t even have that much going for him. I hated to see her like that, feeling helpless to do anything. Hurting. Even if only in memory.

  “How about you?” I asked. “You see anything that you think is worth mentioning?”

  “Not yet. Someone around here has got to know something useful—even if they don’t know that they do.” She tilted her head and frowned at me. “Wait. You’re asking me?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “Murph, you’ve seen as much weird as most wizards. I think you’re more capable than you know.”

  She studied my face for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

  I shrugged again. “I mean that you’ve been there a time or two. You know what it’s like when something is lurking around. There’s commonality to it. You’ll know it when you feel it.”

  “What? Am I supposed to be a wizard now?”

  I grinned. “Just a savvy cop chick, Murph.”

  “Cop chick?” she asked, menace in her voice.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Police chick.”

  She grunted. “That’s better.”

  “Just don’t ignore your instincts,” I said. “They’re there for a reason.”

  Murphy wasn’t listening to that last part, because she’d turned her head sharply to one side, blue eyes narrowing as she focused on a man who had emerged from a conference room doorway and was slipping down the hall.

  And Mouse let out a low growl.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Murphy.

  “Darby Crane,” Murphy said.

  “Ah,” I said. “The horror movie director.”

  Mouse growled again. Murphy and he started after Crane.

  Why fight the inevitable? I started walking before Mouse pulled my arms out of their sockets. “Hey, howsabout we go talk to him?”

  “You
think?” Murphy said.

  “Take him. I’ll back you up.”

  She nodded, without turning around. “Excuse me,” she told a gang of conventiongoers in front of her. “Coming through, please.”

  We tried to hurry through the crowd, but it was like trying to run in chest-deep water. The faster you try to move, the more resistance there is. Crane moved through them like an eel, a spare man of medium height in slacks and a dark blazer. Murphy forged ahead, making room for me to follow, while I put my height to good use to keep an eye on Crane.

  He beat us to a comparatively empty side hallway that led back to ground-floor guest rooms and elevators. By the time we got into the clear, the elevator doors had opened. Murphy hurried forward and shot a glance over her shoulder at me, then jerked her chin at the elevators.

  I grinned. There are times when I hate it that technology has such problems operating around wizards. And then there are the times when it’s sort of fun.

  I made a mild effort of will, focused my thoughts on the elevators, and murmured, “Hexus.” Nebulous and unseen energy fluttered down the hallway, and when the hex hit the elevators there was a sudden hiss of sparks at one edge of the panel with the call button, and an oozing smoke dribbled out a moment later. The doors started to close, then a bell went bing. The doors sprang open again. That happened a couple of more times before Murphy closed to the elevator and caught up to Darby Crane.

  I slowed my pace, holding on to Mouse, and lurked several feet away, trying to blend in by reading a wall full of flyers announcing various parties at the convention.

  Crane was a surprisingly good-looking man—slender, stark cheekbones, and his demeanor was more like an actor’s than that of someone on the production side. His dark hair was in a short, neat cut, dark eyes deep-set and opaque, and he carried himself in a posture that read nothing but relaxed nonaggression.

  Before I’d finished looking him over, I was sure that the whole thing was a calculated lie. There was cruelty lurking below the calm of his features, contempt hiding within the modest posture of his body. As Murphy approached, he stepped out of the elevator, frowning at the smoke. His eyes snapped to her, and around the hallway at once. There were several other people standing not far away, outside of a guest room with an open door.

  He judged them, then Murphy for a moment, and then turned to face her, his mouth settling into a polite, bland little perjury of a smile.

  “So hard to rely upon technology these days,” he said, his glance moving over me as part of the background scenery. I thought. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice. “May I help you, Officer?”

  “Lieutenant, actually,” she told him without rancor. “My name is Karrin Murphy. I’m with…”

  “Chicago Police Department Special Investigations,” Crane said. “I know.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. I doubted Crane would recognize it, but Murphy’s stance shifted subtly, becoming more wary. “Have we met, Mr. Crane?”

  “In a way. I’ve seen secondhand copies of the film of you gunning down a madman and some sort of animal several years ago. Very impressive, Lieutenant. Have you ever considered work in film?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been told the camera adds ten pounds. I have problems enough. May I take a few moments of your time, Mister Crane?”

  He grinned at her, then, a grin I’m sure he meant to be boyish and flirty. The weasel. “I suppose that depends on what you intend to do with them.”

  Murphy studied his face for just a moment, as though in wary amusement. “I had a few questions regarding the incident here, and I hope that you can help me out with them.”

  “I can’t imagine what I know that would help you,” Crane replied. He glanced at the unmoving elevator doors and sighed. “Bother.” He drew a small black cell phone from his jacket pocket, hit a button without looking, and lifted it to his ear. Then he lowered it again and frowned down at it in silence.

  Hah. Take that, weasel.

  “It won’t take much of your time,” Murphy said. “I’m sure that you can see how important it is for us to be thorough in this investigation. We would all hate for anyone else to be harmed.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know anything of any importance, Lieutenant,” Crane said, his voice turning a little impatient. “I was present during the blackout last night, but I was already in my room. I didn’t even come downstairs until this morning.”

  “I see. Did anyone see you at that time?”

  Crane let out a little laugh. “Am I a suspect, that I need an alibi?”

  “As a celebrity guest, it’s entirely possible that the person or persons responsible for this attack might have an unhealthy interest in you,” Murphy replied, matching his fake laugh with her politely professional smile. “I certainly don’t mean to imply any sort of accusation—only concern for your safety.”

  Someone shoved open a door that showed a set of stairs behind it, and a small man in an expensive grey suit emerged from it. He was sort of frog-faced—he had the mouth of someone much larger than he, almost grotesquely thick and wide. He had fine black hair, all limp and stringy, and someone had cut it with the ancient but trusty salad-bowl method. He had bulgy, watery eyes that required extra-large, wide-rimmed glasses to properly encircle.

  “Ah, Mr. Crane,” the newcomer said. He had a wheezy, nasal voice. “I received your call, but it was apparently cut off just as I answered.”

  Crane took out his phone again and tossed it underhand to the newcomer. “It seems to have died quite abruptly, Lucius. Like this elevator.”

  The man caught it and frowned at the phone, then at Murphy with equal amounts of disapproval. “I see.”

  “Lieutenant Murphy, may I present Lucius Glau, my personal advisor and legal counsel.”

  Mouse tensed as Glau turned to regard Murphy with his froggy eyes. The little lawyer made a swallowing sound in his throat, and then said, “Is my client under arrest?”

  “No,” she said. “Naturally n—”

  “Then I must insist that this conversation be cut short,” Glau said over her. For a pasty little guy, he had a lot of confidence. He squared off in front of Murphy, just to one side of Crane. Murphy’s arms relaxed to her sides and I saw her blue eyes flick down to the floor and back up, gauging distances. The tension level went higher.

  “We were just talking,” Murphy told Glau. I’d seen her wearing that look, right before she went for her gun, more than once. “In an amiable and cooperative fashion.”

  “As I informed both the FBI and the investigator in charge of the scene with Chicago’s police department, my client was in his rooms all night and neither witnessed what happened nor even knew of what had transpired until he came down to breakfast this morning.” Glau’s voice was clipped, his bulgy eyes impossible to read. I got the feeling it was the expression he used whenever he did anything, be it eating ice cream or drowning puppies. “Continued contact could well be construed as harassment.”

  “Lucius, Lucius,” Crane said, holding out his hand between them, his voice soothing. “Honestly, you react so strongly to the smallest things.” He turned that dazzling smile on Murphy and said, “I’m sorry. Lucius has worked for me for a very long time, and he’s seen a number of unreasonable people approach me. I certainly don’t think of the attentions of so striking a woman as harassment.”

  Murphy’s eyes left Glau for a second as she cocked a golden brow at Crane. “Really?”

  “Truly,” Crane said, the model of modern gallantry. “Lucius is doubtless concerned about my timetable for today, and I would hate to disappoint any of the fans here to meet me by falling behind my schedule.”

  He glanced at Froggy as he spoke, and Froggy took a very small step back from Murphy.

  Crane nodded at him, continuing to speak. “But if you would permit it, perhaps you would care to let me get you a drink of something later this evening, by way of apology?”

  Murphy hesitated, which wasn’t much like her. “I don’t kn
ow…” she said.

  Crane extended his hand to her to be shaken, still smiling. “If you still had questions, I’d be happy to answer them then. Please, as a token of my intentions, I insist. I would hate you to have the wrong impression of me.”

  Murphy gave him a look of wary amusement and lifted her hand.

  I’m not sure how I got across that much carpet that fast, but I put my hand on Murphy’s shoulder and gripped lightly just before she touched him. She froze, sensing the warning in the gesture, and drew her hand back.

  Crane’s eyes narrowed, studying me, his hand still sticking out. “And who is this?”

  “Harry Dresden,” I said.

  Crane went still. Not still like people go still, where you can see them blinking and swaying slightly and adjusting their balance. He went still like corpses and plastic dressing dummies, and said nothing.

  As I am a highly experienced investigator, I drew the conclusion that he recognized the name.

  Froggy made a gulping sound in his throat, bulging eyes switching to me. I thought he shrunk in on himself a little, as if suddenly losing an inch or two of height—or tensing to crouch.

  He recognized it, too. I felt famous.

  Mouse let out a relaxed ripsaw of a growl, so low that it could hardly be heard.

  Froggy’s eyes went to the dog and widened. He shot a look at Crane.

  Everyone froze like that for a moment. Crane and Murphy still smiled their professional smiles. Froggy looked froglike. I went for bored. But I felt my heart speed up as my instincts told me that violence was a hell of a lot closer to the surface than it looked.

  “There are witnesses here, Dresden,” Crane said. “You can’t move on me. It would be seen.”

  I tilted my head and pursed my lips thoughtfully. “You’re right. And you’re a public figure. Which means this is a great opportunity for advertising. I haven’t been on TV since the last time I was on the Larry Fowler Show.”