Jim Butcher - Side Jobs

“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.

“You may know,” Ms. Gard said, as we walked, “that Mr. Marcone’s business interests are varied. Some of them have fierce competitors.”

“Drugs,” I said. “Extortion. Prostitution. Those are the money-makers. There’s always competition for territory.”

Gard continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “Competition has increased rather dramatically of late, and it has consisted of increasingly competent personnel. We’ve also had a number of issues with involuntary employee dereliction.”

Will let out a snort. “Does she mean what I think she means?”

“Hitters,” I said quietly. “Marcone’s been losing people.” I frowned. “But there hasn’t been any particular increase in the number of homicides.”

“They haven’t been killed,” Gard said, frowning. “They’ve vanished. Quickly. Quietly. Sometimes with minimal signs of a struggle.”