Fic: Dirty Dancing, Chapter Three
Title: Dirty Dancing, Chapter Three
Author: windfallswest
Fandom: Dresden Files
Pairing: Harry Dresden/John Marcone
Rating: PG (with a sharp spike in later chapters)
Disclaimer: <--
Notes: Also at AO3. Dirty Dancing's answer to the events of Proven Guilty.
Summary: Like all great romances, this story is best read after repeated viewings of Hitchcock's The Birds. Maggie is two and a half.
Chapter Two
I persuaded Georgia to sit in a chair while I went through the files. Murphy was right: there wasn't much there, but I went over them carefully, twice, before I had Georgia drive me over to the local FBI offices. The car behind us followed us as we turned off the main road, but kept on going towards the other end of the parking lot.
"Wait here," I told Georgia.
Georgia, who had always been better at following orders than Billy-or maybe it was just that Billy always preferred a frontal assault-pursed her lips on any objections. It turned out it was a good thing, at least for her, since as soon as I got past the front desk I found myself in an interrogation room. I sighed. I really hate breaking in new cops.
They left me in there to stew. I mulled over the facts, again. My next stop ought to be home to consult with Bob the Skull; maybe this jumble would mean more to him than it did to me. That was why I kept him around, after all. And I wanted to check on Maggie. Thomas was more than capable of protecting her, I knew; but someone was snatching children. As long as this sorcerer was running around out there somewhere, I wouldn't be easy in my own mind as long as Maggie was out of my sight.
I wasn't even properly appreciating the air-conditioning, because every time I started to enjoy it I remembered Lasciel and tensed up again. I ended up meditating a little just to interrupt the cycle. I considered getting up on the table and doing the full-lotus thing, just to be a bitch, but I reluctantly concluded that that probably wouldn't produce the results I was looking for. I wondered how well their recording equipment was holding up.
Some time later, I heard the door open and close. When I opened my eyes, Agent Rick and his magic eight ball tie were in the room with me.
"So am I a suspect, or are they painting your office?" I asked.
Rick pulled out a chair on the other side of the generic metal table and sat down. "I don't have an office; I have a desk. New guy."
"Digs are still a step up from, what was it? New Orleans police station?"
Rick waggled a hand back and forth. "Can't complain, though. Hey, what say we get down to business?"
"Okay. I want access to everything you've come up with on the missing kids," I said.
"And why should I do that?" Rick asked.
"Because you're not getting anywhere with this case. It's becoming a media disaster. You've probably got everyone from the mayor and the governor on down breathing down your neck. Do you have any idea how much tourist revenue the Taste generates? And now you've got the mob involved."
"I did grow up in Chicago, thanks," Rick said. "You still haven't told me what you can do that I can't. Have any luck with that crystal ball?"
I controlled a surge of irritation. "I've got ways of looking into things you don't. Contacts who won't speak to you, or vice-versa."
"Like Gentleman Johnny?"
"Johnny and I...know to walk softly around each other. It keeps the collateral damage down."
Well, sometimes. And boy, did I not want anyone examining my relationship with Marcone too closely. Not now, of all times. You see, the thing about operating outside the law was that you lost its protection. No one had elected Marcone. He didn't have notarised contracts or fancy titles for half the things he was into so he could sue you if you welched. In Marcone's business, what protects you is your reputation. It's all about face. I could sometimes get Marcone to act rationally so long as no one was looking; but he'd made it clear that if I ever faced off against him in public, he wouldn't be able to back down.
I didn't know what Marcone would do if the feds started asking him why he paid so much attention to me, which would undoubtedly prompt his associates to start wondering, too. I was pretty sure I wouldn't like it, though. And Marcone wouldn't like it if I stood up and contradicted him, and neither of us would like where things went from there.
Which brought me back here, to this room, painfully conscious of the fact that I suck at strategy. I was starting to hate Lisa Murphy a bit, too.
"Look," I tried. "I'm just a PI; I have a dingy office and everything. I bet there's even some gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I'm on the case anyway; you don't even have to hire me. If I strike out, no risk to the Bureau. If I turn something up-"
"-we look like idiots," Rick pointed out.
I snorted. "Please. No one ever believes me. And what am I, going to rush into wherever alone and haul out six kids single-handed?" I waved my gloved left hand, which when left to its own devices still curled a little, slightly claw-like. I'd left staff and blasting rod in Georgia's SUV so they wouldn't get confiscated. I didn't like running around unarmed, but I liked the idea of having to make new ones even less. And how likely was it that vampires were going to try to assassinate me in here anyway? "We all want those boys back."
Rick eyed me thoughtfully for a minute, then got up and disappeared through the door again with a noncommittal wait here. Thus, I waited.
Before I had a chance to get really good and bored again, Rick poked his head back in. "Follow me."
I beamed at Rick. He looked sour. "Any of this leaks to the press, I'll have you arrested for obstruction."
"I think I liked you better when you were the good cop," I quipped.
Rick glared me through a doorway into a bullpen. The desks were all either second-hand or original equipment. Rick's was near a wall of offices. I knew it was Rick's desk because there was a framed picture on it of him and Murphy's-baby-sister-Lisa. Or at least, it better have been Lisa, because if he was having his picture taken holding some other woman in what looked more like a collection of knotted strings than a bathing suit, Clan Murphy was going to ritually dismember him. She was, I have to admit, an extraordinarily good-looking woman.
There was also a computer with fish swimming around on the screen. I hoped Rick wasn't too attached to it.
Rick pushed a stack of files at me. I started leafing through them immediately.
"We don't have much. No witnesses, no signs of struggle, no bodies turning up..."
"No one selling meat pies," I muttered.
"Horror convention's out by O'Hare," said a large black woman who had just come out of an office a couple doors down. "Rick, Hailey wants to see you."
"I'll be right there," Rick told her, then turned to me. "You can look over the files, but nothing leaves the building."
"Yeah, yeah." I flopped into Rick's chair, just for the look on his face. If I'd had a camera, I'd have taken a picture for Murphy.
"Let me guess: you two used to date," the woman-she had a photo-ID lanyard, so I assumed she was another agent-said, sounding more amused than hostile.
"I'm friends with his ex-wife, the current sister-in-law."
"Solidarity."
"Something like that. Harry Dresden, by the way." I offered my good hand.
She came over to shake it. "Special Agent Peyton Tracey. I'm working with Keithly and Schnur on this one."
"Any staggering insights?" I asked hopefully.
"Read the files," Tracey told me.
I did. Overall, they said the same things as Murphy's police files only in more detail and with lots of incomprehensible lab reports. But then, you could pick up the basic facts by reading a newspaper. One kid kidnapped each day since the Taste opened. Different times, different places. All boys between the ages of six and eleven. But, as any investigator worth his salt will tell you, the devil is in the details.
Reading through the interrogation transcripts, a few things became apparent. As much as some of the parents tried to smoke it, the kids were all brats. A lot of the parents were real winners, too.
More birds, although it was probably less that they were birds specifically than that pigeons and seagulls-and to a lesser extent crows, ravens, and songbirds-are the only group animals really common in a city. I remembered the image of a bird startled into flight from the middle of the crowd, preserved perfectly by my Third Eye.
Of course, that didn't explain what a falcon had been doing in the middle of a crowd of people like that. On the ground. I couldn't believe I hadn't realised how strange it was before; blast Marcone for fogging my mind. Distractions like that could get me killed.
There had been something else... I paged back through the files-there. An eight-year-old girl who insisted an owl had flown at her head at about the same time the first boy's mother had noticed he was gone. You had to give it to the FBI, they were thorough. The attached notes said the girl had been carrying around a copy of Chamber of Secrets, though, so no one had taken her too seriously.
The FBI were hoping really hard that, because all the boys were problem children, and since no bodies had turned up anywhere, there was a good chance the kidnapper was some sort of insane disciplinarian and they were all still alive somewhere. Knowing what I did about the things that could happen to bodies and how they might end up places the law would never find them, I was less confident. Kids. Whoever this sorcerer was, whatever he was doing, he was using black magic. On kids.
I was going to find him and take him apart.
It took me a minute to notice that the flickering of the lights wasn't the same pattern you get with flame-it was the twitching of fluorescent bulbs about to give up the ghost. Stars and stones, I needed to calm down or I was going to blow out the whole building. And as many warm and fuzzy experiences as I've had with the FBI, it was probably better to have Keithly and company-Rick included-on the case than not.
I committed a couple of addresses to memory and closed the files. Having a fallen angel in the back of my head, as long as I was stuck with it, had its uses-for example, Lasciel had a photographic memory. But I preferred not to go there if there was any alternative. It was a slippery slope, after all.
The fish had stopped swimming on Rick's computer monitor. Maybe they'd gotten tired. According to the clock on the wall, it was getting late; I felt a twinge for Georgia, abandoned outside all this time. Oops.
Rick had been watching me, alternately chatting with the agent whose desk he was leaning against and talking to his cellphone. Stars, newly-weds everywhere I turned. Actually, I thought Murphy had said something about the wedding being last year. He came over when I stood up.
"Find everything you needed?"
"Well, I'm still short about six kids," I said.
"You really think you're funny, don't you?" Rick said.
"I'm just a barrel of laughs," I agreed flatly. "Ask anyone."
Rick tried to catch my eyes, but I've had lots of practice at avoiding eye-contact and eventually he gave up. "Well, you got your information. But word to the wise, I'd stay out from underfoot."
"Let you know if I find anything," I told him, smiling falsely, and brushed past.
It was dusk outside, dark enough the streetlights had come on. I handed in my visitor's pass at the front desk, keeping a careful eye out for suspicious movement in the parking lot on the other side of the airy glass window-wall. There was a dark, late-model sedan with tinted windows idling in front of the main entrance.
"I feel a headache coming on," I grumbled under my breath, shaking my shield bracelet out and feeling the lack of my blasting rod like a missing tooth, and went out anyway.
Yup. Definitely a headache. And it was me it had been waiting for, because as soon as I stepped outside, Hendricks climbed out of the car.
"I swear, I have no idea what happened to your snausage. My dog has a more refined palette." That was a blatant lie. Mouse was as much of a philistine as I was.
"Boss wants to see you," Hendricks grunted.
"Gee, really? I never would have guessed."
"Just get in the car."
"My dad always warned me never to get into cars with mafia hit-men," I said and started walking again.
Hendricks blocked my path.
"Out of my way, Cujo."
"He said to tell you he got what you asked for."
I narrowed my eyes and drew in my irritation. On the one hand, Marcone did have something I needed. He probably even thought he was being polite. On the other hand, he knew just as well as I did that there were cameras outside the FBI building, plus the agent-receptionist behind the desk in that big glass vestibule. I'd really rather they not see me hop into a mob-mobile.
"Hexus," I growled.
Hendricks tensed, but I wasn't aiming for him. I was aiming for his car. Its low rumble grew suddenly strained, then ground to a stop. It was probably pushing my luck: hand to hand, Hendricks could kick my ass; and while I could use magic to defend myself, I had to be really careful about it where vanilla mortals were concerned. For a bunch of hide-bound old curmudgeons, the White Council doesn't really have that many written rules. There are only seven, as a matter of fact. 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' tops the list. If I killed someone with magic, I'd be the one kneeling in that warehouse with a bag over my head. Again.
Engine blocks were fair game, though. Hendricks' slow scowl as he worked out what I'd just done gave me a warm, tingling glow. I watched serenely while he tried unsuccessfully to restart the car, then popped the hood. He looked wonderfully frustrated.
"Hey, what luck you're in the FBI lot. I'm sure you'll be really safe here." I didn't smile so much as bare my teeth. "Where did you say Marcone was?"
Georgia, more experienced in the vicissitudes of life around wizards, ended a call on her cellphone before I made it to where she'd parked. She was leaning against the SUV, and I realised she'd been watching our little dog-and-pony show, ready to jump in on my side, with fangs if need be.
"He's been waiting there for half an hour," Georgia said.
"He's going to be waiting a bit longer," I told her cheerfully.
__ __ __
We drove to a parking lot off the Lakefront Trail, not far from Grant Park. It was pretty good going until we got into the Taste traffic, but the lot was almost empty. It was fully dark now, as dark as it gets in the middle of a city, which is to say the sky was a weird purple-tinged umber and you could maybe see Venus at apogee. In the neighbourhood where my apartment was, you could see maybe a half-dozen stars on a clear night.
I caught glimpses of a white car behind us. I wasn't sure, but I thought it might have been the same one I'd seen earlier that evening. Oh, goody.
Whoever it was either wasn't very experienced or wasn't bothering to be subtle. I watched in the rear-view mirror; sure enough, my new friend exited behind us, although this time he didn't follow us into the parking lot.
"Do me a favour," I told Georgia before I got out. "I think someone's been following us, a white car."
"Yeah, I noticed him."
I blinked. "You did?"
Georgia gave me a pitying look. "I'm not new at this, Harry. You want I should draw him off?"
I shook my head. "I want you to be careful. Stay on the main roads. See if he follows you. Call in backup before you stop anywhere if he does; I don't want you getting hurt."
"And if he's following you?"
"Contrary to popular opinion, I can take care of myself. Go. I'll call you tomorrow."
Georgia frowned, but she nodded. I took my tools and watched her drive away. Then I turned my attention to the other car in the empty lot, another SUV. As I walked over, the passenger's side door opened and Marcone got out. He stared after Georgia, an expression of wry resignation on his face.
"Since you are here, I can only assume you received my invitation," he said in his. "I do hope you left Mister Hendricks in one piece."
"The only damage was to his ego. He's back at the FBI offices. Don't worry; he's broken down, not arrested. Well, probably," I hedged. "Depending on what you keep in your cars." And presumably the FBI had already restrained itself from arresting him earlier in the day.
"Dare I ask?"
"I didn't like his attitude."
The corners of Marcone's lips twitched fractionally. I glared at him.
"Don't you even start. You got something for me, Marcone?"
I regretted my choice of words almost immediately, when an alarming light flashed in Marcone's eyes. I held them levelly until Marcone turned to get something from the interior of the SUV.
He came out with a generic plastic comb in a plastic bag. I held it up to the light and saw several fine, dark hairs caught between the teeth.
"The kid's?" I asked.
"Yes."
I grunted, looked around, and leaned my staff against one of the side-mirrors. My blasting rod was jammed into my back pocket, so I had a hand free to dig out a tiny end of chalk.
Crouching down, I used it to draw a circle around myself. Then I removed a few hairs from the comb and handed the bag back to Marcone. I closed the circle around myself with a small effort of will.
This tracking spell was one I used a lot. I had used it only a few weeks ago, for example, to locate Georgia's Billy when he was abducted by faeries on his wedding day. I was hoping this time whatever we found on the other end would be less dramatic, though.
"Interessari, interressarium," I murmured, ignoring Marcone's intent presence and releasing my carefully-shaped will. Energy flowed between me and the short hairs I held to my forehead.
I scuffed the chalk line, breaking the circle. The spell leapt out, tugging at me to follow. It settled, a faint pressure above my right ear.
I opened my eyes and stood, turning to centre it. Something was wrong.
"Hey Marcone," I said. "You got a boat?"
"I have access to several. Why?"
I pointed out over Lake Michigan. "The kid's that way."
Chapter Four
Author: windfallswest
Fandom: Dresden Files
Pairing: Harry Dresden/John Marcone
Rating: PG (with a sharp spike in later chapters)
Disclaimer: <--
Notes: Also at AO3. Dirty Dancing's answer to the events of Proven Guilty.
Summary: Like all great romances, this story is best read after repeated viewings of Hitchcock's The Birds. Maggie is two and a half.
Chapter Two
I persuaded Georgia to sit in a chair while I went through the files. Murphy was right: there wasn't much there, but I went over them carefully, twice, before I had Georgia drive me over to the local FBI offices. The car behind us followed us as we turned off the main road, but kept on going towards the other end of the parking lot.
"Wait here," I told Georgia.
Georgia, who had always been better at following orders than Billy-or maybe it was just that Billy always preferred a frontal assault-pursed her lips on any objections. It turned out it was a good thing, at least for her, since as soon as I got past the front desk I found myself in an interrogation room. I sighed. I really hate breaking in new cops.
They left me in there to stew. I mulled over the facts, again. My next stop ought to be home to consult with Bob the Skull; maybe this jumble would mean more to him than it did to me. That was why I kept him around, after all. And I wanted to check on Maggie. Thomas was more than capable of protecting her, I knew; but someone was snatching children. As long as this sorcerer was running around out there somewhere, I wouldn't be easy in my own mind as long as Maggie was out of my sight.
I wasn't even properly appreciating the air-conditioning, because every time I started to enjoy it I remembered Lasciel and tensed up again. I ended up meditating a little just to interrupt the cycle. I considered getting up on the table and doing the full-lotus thing, just to be a bitch, but I reluctantly concluded that that probably wouldn't produce the results I was looking for. I wondered how well their recording equipment was holding up.
Some time later, I heard the door open and close. When I opened my eyes, Agent Rick and his magic eight ball tie were in the room with me.
"So am I a suspect, or are they painting your office?" I asked.
Rick pulled out a chair on the other side of the generic metal table and sat down. "I don't have an office; I have a desk. New guy."
"Digs are still a step up from, what was it? New Orleans police station?"
Rick waggled a hand back and forth. "Can't complain, though. Hey, what say we get down to business?"
"Okay. I want access to everything you've come up with on the missing kids," I said.
"And why should I do that?" Rick asked.
"Because you're not getting anywhere with this case. It's becoming a media disaster. You've probably got everyone from the mayor and the governor on down breathing down your neck. Do you have any idea how much tourist revenue the Taste generates? And now you've got the mob involved."
"I did grow up in Chicago, thanks," Rick said. "You still haven't told me what you can do that I can't. Have any luck with that crystal ball?"
I controlled a surge of irritation. "I've got ways of looking into things you don't. Contacts who won't speak to you, or vice-versa."
"Like Gentleman Johnny?"
"Johnny and I...know to walk softly around each other. It keeps the collateral damage down."
Well, sometimes. And boy, did I not want anyone examining my relationship with Marcone too closely. Not now, of all times. You see, the thing about operating outside the law was that you lost its protection. No one had elected Marcone. He didn't have notarised contracts or fancy titles for half the things he was into so he could sue you if you welched. In Marcone's business, what protects you is your reputation. It's all about face. I could sometimes get Marcone to act rationally so long as no one was looking; but he'd made it clear that if I ever faced off against him in public, he wouldn't be able to back down.
I didn't know what Marcone would do if the feds started asking him why he paid so much attention to me, which would undoubtedly prompt his associates to start wondering, too. I was pretty sure I wouldn't like it, though. And Marcone wouldn't like it if I stood up and contradicted him, and neither of us would like where things went from there.
Which brought me back here, to this room, painfully conscious of the fact that I suck at strategy. I was starting to hate Lisa Murphy a bit, too.
"Look," I tried. "I'm just a PI; I have a dingy office and everything. I bet there's even some gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I'm on the case anyway; you don't even have to hire me. If I strike out, no risk to the Bureau. If I turn something up-"
"-we look like idiots," Rick pointed out.
I snorted. "Please. No one ever believes me. And what am I, going to rush into wherever alone and haul out six kids single-handed?" I waved my gloved left hand, which when left to its own devices still curled a little, slightly claw-like. I'd left staff and blasting rod in Georgia's SUV so they wouldn't get confiscated. I didn't like running around unarmed, but I liked the idea of having to make new ones even less. And how likely was it that vampires were going to try to assassinate me in here anyway? "We all want those boys back."
Rick eyed me thoughtfully for a minute, then got up and disappeared through the door again with a noncommittal wait here. Thus, I waited.
Before I had a chance to get really good and bored again, Rick poked his head back in. "Follow me."
I beamed at Rick. He looked sour. "Any of this leaks to the press, I'll have you arrested for obstruction."
"I think I liked you better when you were the good cop," I quipped.
Rick glared me through a doorway into a bullpen. The desks were all either second-hand or original equipment. Rick's was near a wall of offices. I knew it was Rick's desk because there was a framed picture on it of him and Murphy's-baby-sister-Lisa. Or at least, it better have been Lisa, because if he was having his picture taken holding some other woman in what looked more like a collection of knotted strings than a bathing suit, Clan Murphy was going to ritually dismember him. She was, I have to admit, an extraordinarily good-looking woman.
There was also a computer with fish swimming around on the screen. I hoped Rick wasn't too attached to it.
Rick pushed a stack of files at me. I started leafing through them immediately.
"We don't have much. No witnesses, no signs of struggle, no bodies turning up..."
"No one selling meat pies," I muttered.
"Horror convention's out by O'Hare," said a large black woman who had just come out of an office a couple doors down. "Rick, Hailey wants to see you."
"I'll be right there," Rick told her, then turned to me. "You can look over the files, but nothing leaves the building."
"Yeah, yeah." I flopped into Rick's chair, just for the look on his face. If I'd had a camera, I'd have taken a picture for Murphy.
"Let me guess: you two used to date," the woman-she had a photo-ID lanyard, so I assumed she was another agent-said, sounding more amused than hostile.
"I'm friends with his ex-wife, the current sister-in-law."
"Solidarity."
"Something like that. Harry Dresden, by the way." I offered my good hand.
She came over to shake it. "Special Agent Peyton Tracey. I'm working with Keithly and Schnur on this one."
"Any staggering insights?" I asked hopefully.
"Read the files," Tracey told me.
I did. Overall, they said the same things as Murphy's police files only in more detail and with lots of incomprehensible lab reports. But then, you could pick up the basic facts by reading a newspaper. One kid kidnapped each day since the Taste opened. Different times, different places. All boys between the ages of six and eleven. But, as any investigator worth his salt will tell you, the devil is in the details.
Reading through the interrogation transcripts, a few things became apparent. As much as some of the parents tried to smoke it, the kids were all brats. A lot of the parents were real winners, too.
More birds, although it was probably less that they were birds specifically than that pigeons and seagulls-and to a lesser extent crows, ravens, and songbirds-are the only group animals really common in a city. I remembered the image of a bird startled into flight from the middle of the crowd, preserved perfectly by my Third Eye.
Of course, that didn't explain what a falcon had been doing in the middle of a crowd of people like that. On the ground. I couldn't believe I hadn't realised how strange it was before; blast Marcone for fogging my mind. Distractions like that could get me killed.
There had been something else... I paged back through the files-there. An eight-year-old girl who insisted an owl had flown at her head at about the same time the first boy's mother had noticed he was gone. You had to give it to the FBI, they were thorough. The attached notes said the girl had been carrying around a copy of Chamber of Secrets, though, so no one had taken her too seriously.
The FBI were hoping really hard that, because all the boys were problem children, and since no bodies had turned up anywhere, there was a good chance the kidnapper was some sort of insane disciplinarian and they were all still alive somewhere. Knowing what I did about the things that could happen to bodies and how they might end up places the law would never find them, I was less confident. Kids. Whoever this sorcerer was, whatever he was doing, he was using black magic. On kids.
I was going to find him and take him apart.
It took me a minute to notice that the flickering of the lights wasn't the same pattern you get with flame-it was the twitching of fluorescent bulbs about to give up the ghost. Stars and stones, I needed to calm down or I was going to blow out the whole building. And as many warm and fuzzy experiences as I've had with the FBI, it was probably better to have Keithly and company-Rick included-on the case than not.
I committed a couple of addresses to memory and closed the files. Having a fallen angel in the back of my head, as long as I was stuck with it, had its uses-for example, Lasciel had a photographic memory. But I preferred not to go there if there was any alternative. It was a slippery slope, after all.
The fish had stopped swimming on Rick's computer monitor. Maybe they'd gotten tired. According to the clock on the wall, it was getting late; I felt a twinge for Georgia, abandoned outside all this time. Oops.
Rick had been watching me, alternately chatting with the agent whose desk he was leaning against and talking to his cellphone. Stars, newly-weds everywhere I turned. Actually, I thought Murphy had said something about the wedding being last year. He came over when I stood up.
"Find everything you needed?"
"Well, I'm still short about six kids," I said.
"You really think you're funny, don't you?" Rick said.
"I'm just a barrel of laughs," I agreed flatly. "Ask anyone."
Rick tried to catch my eyes, but I've had lots of practice at avoiding eye-contact and eventually he gave up. "Well, you got your information. But word to the wise, I'd stay out from underfoot."
"Let you know if I find anything," I told him, smiling falsely, and brushed past.
It was dusk outside, dark enough the streetlights had come on. I handed in my visitor's pass at the front desk, keeping a careful eye out for suspicious movement in the parking lot on the other side of the airy glass window-wall. There was a dark, late-model sedan with tinted windows idling in front of the main entrance.
"I feel a headache coming on," I grumbled under my breath, shaking my shield bracelet out and feeling the lack of my blasting rod like a missing tooth, and went out anyway.
Yup. Definitely a headache. And it was me it had been waiting for, because as soon as I stepped outside, Hendricks climbed out of the car.
"I swear, I have no idea what happened to your snausage. My dog has a more refined palette." That was a blatant lie. Mouse was as much of a philistine as I was.
"Boss wants to see you," Hendricks grunted.
"Gee, really? I never would have guessed."
"Just get in the car."
"My dad always warned me never to get into cars with mafia hit-men," I said and started walking again.
Hendricks blocked my path.
"Out of my way, Cujo."
"He said to tell you he got what you asked for."
I narrowed my eyes and drew in my irritation. On the one hand, Marcone did have something I needed. He probably even thought he was being polite. On the other hand, he knew just as well as I did that there were cameras outside the FBI building, plus the agent-receptionist behind the desk in that big glass vestibule. I'd really rather they not see me hop into a mob-mobile.
"Hexus," I growled.
Hendricks tensed, but I wasn't aiming for him. I was aiming for his car. Its low rumble grew suddenly strained, then ground to a stop. It was probably pushing my luck: hand to hand, Hendricks could kick my ass; and while I could use magic to defend myself, I had to be really careful about it where vanilla mortals were concerned. For a bunch of hide-bound old curmudgeons, the White Council doesn't really have that many written rules. There are only seven, as a matter of fact. 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' tops the list. If I killed someone with magic, I'd be the one kneeling in that warehouse with a bag over my head. Again.
Engine blocks were fair game, though. Hendricks' slow scowl as he worked out what I'd just done gave me a warm, tingling glow. I watched serenely while he tried unsuccessfully to restart the car, then popped the hood. He looked wonderfully frustrated.
"Hey, what luck you're in the FBI lot. I'm sure you'll be really safe here." I didn't smile so much as bare my teeth. "Where did you say Marcone was?"
Georgia, more experienced in the vicissitudes of life around wizards, ended a call on her cellphone before I made it to where she'd parked. She was leaning against the SUV, and I realised she'd been watching our little dog-and-pony show, ready to jump in on my side, with fangs if need be.
"He's been waiting there for half an hour," Georgia said.
"He's going to be waiting a bit longer," I told her cheerfully.
__ __ __
We drove to a parking lot off the Lakefront Trail, not far from Grant Park. It was pretty good going until we got into the Taste traffic, but the lot was almost empty. It was fully dark now, as dark as it gets in the middle of a city, which is to say the sky was a weird purple-tinged umber and you could maybe see Venus at apogee. In the neighbourhood where my apartment was, you could see maybe a half-dozen stars on a clear night.
I caught glimpses of a white car behind us. I wasn't sure, but I thought it might have been the same one I'd seen earlier that evening. Oh, goody.
Whoever it was either wasn't very experienced or wasn't bothering to be subtle. I watched in the rear-view mirror; sure enough, my new friend exited behind us, although this time he didn't follow us into the parking lot.
"Do me a favour," I told Georgia before I got out. "I think someone's been following us, a white car."
"Yeah, I noticed him."
I blinked. "You did?"
Georgia gave me a pitying look. "I'm not new at this, Harry. You want I should draw him off?"
I shook my head. "I want you to be careful. Stay on the main roads. See if he follows you. Call in backup before you stop anywhere if he does; I don't want you getting hurt."
"And if he's following you?"
"Contrary to popular opinion, I can take care of myself. Go. I'll call you tomorrow."
Georgia frowned, but she nodded. I took my tools and watched her drive away. Then I turned my attention to the other car in the empty lot, another SUV. As I walked over, the passenger's side door opened and Marcone got out. He stared after Georgia, an expression of wry resignation on his face.
"Since you are here, I can only assume you received my invitation," he said in his. "I do hope you left Mister Hendricks in one piece."
"The only damage was to his ego. He's back at the FBI offices. Don't worry; he's broken down, not arrested. Well, probably," I hedged. "Depending on what you keep in your cars." And presumably the FBI had already restrained itself from arresting him earlier in the day.
"Dare I ask?"
"I didn't like his attitude."
The corners of Marcone's lips twitched fractionally. I glared at him.
"Don't you even start. You got something for me, Marcone?"
I regretted my choice of words almost immediately, when an alarming light flashed in Marcone's eyes. I held them levelly until Marcone turned to get something from the interior of the SUV.
He came out with a generic plastic comb in a plastic bag. I held it up to the light and saw several fine, dark hairs caught between the teeth.
"The kid's?" I asked.
"Yes."
I grunted, looked around, and leaned my staff against one of the side-mirrors. My blasting rod was jammed into my back pocket, so I had a hand free to dig out a tiny end of chalk.
Crouching down, I used it to draw a circle around myself. Then I removed a few hairs from the comb and handed the bag back to Marcone. I closed the circle around myself with a small effort of will.
This tracking spell was one I used a lot. I had used it only a few weeks ago, for example, to locate Georgia's Billy when he was abducted by faeries on his wedding day. I was hoping this time whatever we found on the other end would be less dramatic, though.
"Interessari, interressarium," I murmured, ignoring Marcone's intent presence and releasing my carefully-shaped will. Energy flowed between me and the short hairs I held to my forehead.
I scuffed the chalk line, breaking the circle. The spell leapt out, tugging at me to follow. It settled, a faint pressure above my right ear.
I opened my eyes and stood, turning to centre it. Something was wrong.
"Hey Marcone," I said. "You got a boat?"
"I have access to several. Why?"
I pointed out over Lake Michigan. "The kid's that way."
Chapter Four