"Victimless crime?"
Murphy shrugged. "Cops never have as many resources as they need. In general, they don't waste them on an operation like this one. Vice personnel are needed badly in plenty of other places where there is a lot more at stake."
I grunted. "The fact that it's obviously a club for the stupidly wealthy doesn't make it any easier to bring the hammer down."
"No, it doesn't," Murphy said. "Too many people with too much influence in the city government have their reputations to protect. The place makes money hand over fist, and as long as they don't flaunt their business, cops tolerate what's going on except for the occasional token gesture. Marcone isn't going to jeopardize that by killing us here, when he can just as easily have it done tomorrow, in a less incriminating location."
"Depending on the size of the beehive," I said.
"Depending on that," Murphy agreed. "We might as well sit down."
We went into the office. It looked like any number of executive offices I'd seen before, somber, understated, and expensive. We sat down in comfortable leather chairs. Murphy kept an eye on the doorway. I watched the window. We waited.
Twenty minutes later, footsteps approached.
A large man came through the door. He was built like a bulldozer made out of slabs of raw, workingman muscle, thick bones, and heavy sinews. He had a neck as thick as Murphy's waist, short red hair, and beady eyes under a heavy brow. His expression looked like it had been permanently locked into place a few seconds after someone had kicked his puppy through a plate-glass window.
"Hendricks," I greeted Marcone's primary enforcer with convivial cheer. " 'Sup?"
Beady eyes settled on me for a second. Hendricks made a growling sound in his throat, checked the rest of the room, and said, over his shoulder, "Clear."
Marcone came in.
He wore a gunmetal grey Armani suit with Italian leather shoes, and his shirt was open one button at the throat. He was an inch or two above average height, and had looked like an extremely fit forty-year-old ever since I had known him. His haircut was perfect, his grooming immaculate, and his eyes were the color of worn dollar bills. He nodded pleasantly and walked around the large mahogany desk to sit down.
"Wow," I said. "Ms. Demeter, you look almost exactly like this criminal scumbag I met once."
Marcone rested his elbows on the desk, made a steeple out of his fingers, and regarded me with a cool and unruffled smile. "And good evening to you, too, Mister Dresden. It's somehow reassuring to see that time has not eroded your sophomoric sensibilities." His eyes flicked to Murphy. "Sergeant."
Murphy pressed her lips together and nodded once, her eyes narrowed. Hendricks loomed in the doorway, arms folded, eyes steady on Murphy.
"Where's Amazon Gard?" I asked him. "You lose the consultant?"
"Ms. Gard," he said, emphasizing the Ms., "is on assignment elsewhere at the moment. And our working relationship is quite secure."
"And maybe she wouldn't much care for this particular branch of your business?" I suggested.
He showed me his teeth. "I see you got your membership package."
"I'm fighting not to gush at you with gratitude," I told him. "But it's oh so hard."
His upturned mouth and glittering white teeth did not resemble a smile. "Actually, all of my places of business have instructions to so treat you, should you arrive."
I raised my eyebrows. "You can't seriously be trying to buy me."
"Hardly. I am under no illusions about your fondness for myself and my business. I regard it as a preventive measure. In my judgment, my buildings are considerably less likely to burn to the ground during one of your visits if you are disoriented from being treated like a sultan. I do, after all, recall the fate of the last Velvet Room."
Murphy snorted without taking her wary eyes from Marcone. "He's got a point, Dresden."
"That was one time," I muttered. Something in one of the envelopes dug at me through my duster pocket, and I reached down to take it out.
Hendricks may have been big, but he was not slow. He had a gun out before my fingers had closed on the envelope.
Murphy went for her gun, hand darting beneath the baggy shirt.
Marcone's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop. Everyone."
We all did it, a reflexive response to the complete authority in his tone.
There are reasons Marcone runs things in Chicago.
Marcone hadn't moved. Hell, he hadn't blinked. "Mister Hendricks," he said. "I appreciate your zeal, but if the wizard wished to harm me, he'd hardly need to draw a concealed weapon to do it. If you please."
Hendricks let out another rumbling growl and put the gun away.
"Thank you." Marcone turned to me. "I trust you will forgive Mister Hendricks's sensitivity. As my bodyguard, he is all too aware that whenever you get involved in my business, Dresden, matters tend to become a great deal more dangerous."
I scowled at them both and drew the folded materials from my duster pocket, tossing them down beside the discarded gym bag. "No harm, no foul. Right, Murph?"
Murphy remained motionless for a long moment, hand under her shirt—long enough to make a point that no one was ordering her to do it. Then she returned her hand to her lap.
"Thank you," Marcone said. "Now, shall we tilt at one another a few more times or just skip to the point of your visit, Dresden?"
"I want information about one of the women who worked here."
Marcone blinked once and said, "Go on."
"Her name was Jessica Blanche. Her body was found a few days ago. The ME couldn't find a cause of death. I did. I've got more bodies. I think the killings are related. I need to find the link between Jessica and the other victims so I can figure out what the hell is going on and put a stop to it."
"That information is specific," Marcone said. "My knowledge of operations here is merely general. My manager will be more familiar with such things than I."
"Ms. Demeter, I take it."
"Yes. She should be here momentarily."
"Or sooner," said a woman's voice.
I turned to the doorway.
A woman walked through it, dressed in a somber black skirt suit, a white blouse, black pumps, pearls. She walked calmly across the office to stand behind Marcone, her left hand coming to rest on his right shoulder.
"Well, Dresden," Helen Beckitt murmured. "It took you long enough."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I stared, momentarily silent. Marcone's teeth showed again.
"I don't believe it is polite to gloat," Helen murmured to him.
"If you knew the man, you would realize what a rare moment this is," he replied. "I'm savoring it."
Murphy glanced from Helen to me and back. "Harry…?"
"Shhh," I said, holding up a hand. I closed my eyes for a second, chasing furiously down dozens of twisty lanes of demented logic and motivation, trying to fit each of them to the facts.
The facts, man. Just the facts.
Fact one: Male operatives of House Skavis and House Malvora had been engaging in murders that attempted to frame the Wardens as the perpetrators.
Fact two: House Raith, their nominal superior, led by the White King (sort of), had pursued a policy of armistice with the White Council.
Fact three: That dippy twit Madrigal jumped into the deal on Malvora's side, pitching in a murder or two of his own, evidently to attract my attention.
Fact four: Thomas, though aware of the lethal intentions of his fellow White Court vampires, had shared nothing of it with me.
Fact five: The victims had been women of magical talent, universally.
Fact six: Vampires live for a long, long time.
Fact seven: In a whole graveyard full of the corpses of minor-league practitioners, one normal, pretty young girl named Jessica Blanche had been killed. Her only connection to the others was Helen Beckitt.