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 shirt 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 bitch. 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 grass 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 assume 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 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
“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.”
