Part 42 (1/2)
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, prost.i.tution, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 trespa.s.sers,” 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 trespa.s.sing 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 h.e.l.l.” 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. 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. Caterers 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 b.i.t.c.h. 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 gra.s.s 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sa.s.sinate 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 c.o.c.ky b.a.s.t.a.r.d'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 pa.s.sed 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 compet.i.tors 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. h.e.l.l, 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?”