by Jim Butcher
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 know…” 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:”
His expression changed then, that cold sneer coming out of the background to twist his lips. “You wouldn’t dare reveal yourself to the world.”
I snorted at him and said, “Go read the yellow pages in your room. I’m in there. Under ‘Wizards.’ ”
Froggy gulped again.
“You’re insane,” Crane said.
“Wizards is the kway-zee-est people,” I confirmed. “And you don’t look very much like a Darby.”
Crane’s chin lifted, his eyes glittering with some sort of sudden approval. I had no idea why. Dammit, I hate it when someone knows more than me about exactly how deep a hole I’m digging under myself. “No? And what does a Darby look like?”
“I confess, the only one I ever saw was in that leprechaun movie with Sean Connery,” I said. “Call it an instinct.”
He pursed his lips and fell silent. We al
l enjoyed another two minutes of wordless, increasingly tense standoff.
Then Murphy said, deadpan, “Say, ten o’clock for that drink, Darby? The hotel’s lounge? We’d hate to keep you from your busy schedule.”
He glanced from Murphy to me and back, and then lowered his hand. He gave her a little bow of the head, then turned and walked away, back toward the crowd.
Froggy watched us for a three count, then turned and hurried after his boss, checking frequently over his shoulder.
I exhaled slowly, and leaned against the wall. Adrenaline without an outlet is a funny thing. The long muscles in my legs twitched and flexed without me telling them too, and the lights in the hallway suddenly seemed a little too bright. My bruised head twinged some more.
Murphy just stood there, not moving, but I could hear her consciously regulating her breathing, keeping it smooth.
Mouse sat down and looked bored, but his ears kept twitching in the direction the pair had vanished.
“Well,” Murphy said a second later, keeping her voice low. “What was that all about?”
“We almost started a fight,” I said.
“I noticed that,” Murphy said, her tone patient. “But why?”
“He’s spooky,” I murmured.
She frowned, looking over her shoulder and up at me. “What is he?”
“I told you. Spooky.” I shook my head. “Other than that I don’t know.”
She blinked. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something about him hit me wrong. When he offered you his hand, it seemed… off. Dangerous.”
Murphy shook her head. “I figured he was going to go for the hold-and-caress routine,” she said. “It’s a little bit insulting, but it isn’t all that dangerous.”
“Unless maybe it is,” I said.
“You’re sure he’s from your side of things?” she asked.
“Yeah. He recognized me. He started pulling out the standard Old World reasons for avoiding public confrontation. And Mouse didn’t like him-or his lawyer, either.”
“Vampire?” she asked.
“Could be,” I said, chewing on my lip. “Could be a lot of things. Hell, could be human, for that matter. Without knowing more we shouldn’t make any assumptions.”
“Think he’s involved in the attacks?”
“I like him for it,” I said. “If I was making the call alone, he’d definitely be our asshole. He’s got all the earmarks.”
“If he’s the guy, he’s out of my reach,” she said. “He’s got a hair-trigger attorney and has already spoken to Greene and Rick. Any police pressure I brought against him would be harassment. Greene won’t act on my suspicions.”
“Well,” I said. “Good thing I’m not Greene.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Murphy and I walked around the hotel, and as we did I popped open a fresh can of blue Play-Doh. At the corners of major intersections and at the exterior exits, I pinched off bits and plunked them down on top of the molding over doorways, inside flowerpots, inside fire extinguisher cabinets, and anywhere else where they wouldn’t be easily or immediately noticed. I made sure to leave plenty of them in unnoticed little spots along the hallways chiefly in use for the convention, especially Dutside the rooms that the schedule designated as showing films as evening approached.
“What are we doing again?” Murphy asked.
“Setting up a spell,” I said.
“With Play-Doh.”
“Yes.”
She gave me a level look.
I shook out the can that still had most of the original material in it, and showed it to her. “The little pieces I’ve been leaving around are part of this piece. See?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“They used to be one piece. Even when they’re separated, they still have a thaumaturgical connection to the original,” I told her. “It means that I'll be able to use the big piece to reach out and connect to the little pieces.”
“That’s what you meant by a web?”
“Yes. I’ll be able to…” I twisted up my face, searching for the words to explain. “I can extend energy out to all the smaller pieces. I’ll set it up so that if one of the little pieces picks up on a disturbance of the energies, I’ll be able to feel it through the larger piece.”
“Like… seismographs, sort of,” Murphy said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And we use blue Play-Doh. Blue for defense.”
She arched a brow at me. “Does the color really matter?”
“Yes,” I said, then thought about it for a second. “Well, probably no. But yes, for me.”
“Huh?”
“A lot of the use of magic is all tied up with your emotions. With what you believe is real. When I was younger, I learned a lot of stuff, like the role of colors in the casting of spells. Green for fertility and prosperity, red for passion and energy, white for purity, black for vengeance, and so on. It could be that the color doesn’t matter at all-but if I expect the spell to work because of the color used, then that color is important. If I don’t believe in it, the spell won’t ever get off the ground.”
“Like Dumbo’s magic feather?” Murphy asked. “It was his confidence that was really important?”
“Yes,” I said. “The feather was just a symbol-but it was an important symbol.”
I gestured with the can. “So I use blue, because I don’t have to do too much introspection, and I don’t introduce new doubts in a crisis situation. And because it was cheap at Wal-Mart.”
Murphy laughed. “Wal-Mart, huh?”
“Wizarding doesn’t pay much,” I said. “You’d be surprised how much stuff I get from Wal-Mart.” I checked a clock on the wall. “We’ve got about two hours before the first movie starts showing.”
She nodded. “What do you need?”
“A quiet space to work in,” I told her. “At least six or seven feet across. The more private and secure, the better. I’ve got to assume that the bad guy knows I’m around here somewhere. I don’t want to get a machete in the back when I’m busy running the spell.”
“How long do you need to set it up?”
I shrugged. “Twenty minutes, give or take. What I’m really concerned about is-”
“Mister Dresden!” called a voice from across the crowded convention hallway. I looked up to see Sandra Marling hurrying through the crowd toward me. The convention’s chairwoman looked exhausted and too nervous to be awake, much less standing, much less politely pushing her way through a crowd, but she did it anyway. She still wore the same black T-shirt with the red SplatterCon!!! logo on it, presumably the same I’d seen her in the night before.
“Ms. Marling,” I said, nodding to her as she approached. “Good afternoon.”
She shook her head wearily. “I’m such… this is such an enormous amount of… but I don’t know who else I can turn to about this.” Her words failed her, and she started trembling with nerves and weariness.
I traded a frown with Murphy. “Sandra. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Molly,” she said.
I frowned. “What about her?”
“She came here from the hospital a couple of hours ago. The police came to talk to her and I don’t think she’s come out since then, and none of the officers I’ve spoken to know where she is. I think-”
“Sandra.” I told her, “Take a breath. Slow down. Do you know where Molly is?”
The woman closed her eyes and shook her head, bringing herself under control, lowering her voice several pitches. “They’re still… interrogating her, I think? Isn’t that what they say? When they try to scare you and ask questions?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “Was she arrested?”
Sandra shook her head jerkily. “I don’t think so. They didn’t handcuff her or read from that little card or anything. Can they do that? Just drag her into a room?”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Which room?”
“Other wing, second doo
r on the right,” she said.
I nodded, slung my pack off my back, and took out a small notebook. I scribbled some phone numbers and names on a page, and gave it to Sandra. “Call both of these people.”
She blinked at the paper. “What do I tell them?”
“The truth. Tell them what’s going on and that Harry Dresden said they need to get down here immediately.”
Sandra blinked down at the page. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, you know. The usual,” I said. “Get to that phone.”
“I’ll catch up in a minute,” Murphy said.
I nodded, slung the pack back on, jerked my head at Mouse, and started walking with purposeful strides toward the knot of reporters that had begun to dissolve at the conclusion of the official statements to the press. My dog fell in to pace at my side until I spotted Lydia Stern at the rear of the crowd.
Lydia Stern was a formidable woman, a reporter for the Midwestern Arcane, a yellow journal based out of Chicago that did its best to report on the supernatural. Sometimes they managed to get close to the truth, but more often they ran stories that had headlines like Lizard Baby Born in Trailer Park, or maybe Bigfoot and the Chupacabra, the Unholy Alliance. By and large, the stories were amusing and fairly harmless, but once in a while someone stumbled into something strange and it made it into the paper. Susan Rodriguez had been a lead reporter for the Arcane, until she’d run into exactly the wrong story. Now she lived her life somewhere in South America, fighting off the infection in her soul that wanted to turn her into one of the Red Court while she and her half-vampire buddies campaigned against their would-be recruiters.
When Lydia Stern took over Susan’s old job a couple of years back, her reporting had taken a different angle. She’d investigated strange events and then demanded to know why the appropriate institutions had been ignoring them. The woman had a scathing intellect and penetrating wit, and she employed both liberally and with considerable panache in her writing. She was unafraid to challenge anyone in her articles, from some smalltown animal control unit to the FBI.
It was a shame she was working at a rag like the Arcane instead of at a reputable paper in DC or New York. She’d have been a Pulitzer nominee inside of five years. City officials who had to deal with the cases I’d brushed up against had developed a nearly supernatural ability to vanish whenever she was around. None of them wanted to be the next person Lydia Stern eviscerated in print. She had a growing reputation as an investigative terror.