"Where are you going?" Susan asked.

"To talk to Anna Valmont. And after that, I'm going to call my client. On the off chance I survive, I want to look like I at least tried to be professional."

Charity kept a guest room that had slowly been engulfed in a jungle of fabric. Clear boxes full of the stuff in every imaginable color stood stacked against one wall, and a small sewing machine sat on a table, barely visible among neatly folded stacks of more. More boxes of fabric had been stacked into a rampart around a single bed, which was occupied by a lump buried underneath several quilts.

I turned on a small lamp on the sewing table and hoped that the room wouldn't burst into flame. "Anna. Wake up."

The lump made a mumbling sound and stirred before settling again.

I turned the phone on and let the dial tone sound in the room's silence. "I know you're awake, Miss Valmont. And you know that I saved your ass back at the Marriott. So if you don't sit up and talk to me right now, I'm calling the cops to come pick you up."

She didn't move. I punched in a number and let the phone start to ring.

"Bastard," she muttered. With the British accent, it came out bah-stuhd. She sat up, her expression wary, holding the covers to her front. Her shoulders were bare. "Very well. What do you want?"

"My coat, for starters," I said. "But since I doubt you're palming it, I'll settle for the name of your buyer."

She stared at me for a moment before she said, "If I tell you that, it could kill me."

"If you don't, I'm turning you over to the police."

She shrugged. "Which, while unpleasant, won't kill me. Besides, you intend to turn me over in any case."

I scowled at her. "I saved your life. Twice."

"I am aware of that," she said. She stared through me for a moment before she said, "It's so hard to believe. Even though it happened to me. It seems - mad. Like a dream."

"You aren't crazy," I said. "Or at least, you aren't hallucinating or anything."

She half laughed. "I know. Cisca is dead. Gaston is dead. It happened to them. My friends." Her voice broke, and she started blinking very quickly. "I just wanted to finish it. So that they didn't die for nothing at all. I owed it to them."

I sighed. "Look, I'll make this easy for you. Was it Marcone?"

She shrugged without focusing her eyes. "We went through an intermediary, so I can't be sure."

"But was it Marcone?"

Valmont nodded. "If I had to guess, I would say it was. The buyer was someone with a great deal of money and local influence."

"Does he know that you know?"

"One doesn't mention to the buyer that you know who he is when he is taking precautions to prevent it. It's impolite."

"If you know anything about Marcone, you know that he isn't going to pay you off and let you walk away without delivering," I said.

She rubbed at her eyes. "I'll offer to return it."

"Good idea. Assuming he doesn't kill you before you finish offering."

She glared at me for a second, angry and crying. "What do you want from me?"

I picked up a box of tissues from behind a bunch of yellow cotton on the table and offered it to her. "Information. I want to know everything. It's possible you've heard or seen something that might help me recover the Shroud. Help me out, and I might be able to buy you some time to leave town."

She took the box and blotted her eyes on a tissue. "How do I know you will deliver on that promise?"

"Earth to Larceny Spice, come in Larceny Spice. I've saved your life twice. I think you can safely assume goodwill."

She looked down, biting her lip. "I - I don't know."

"This is a limited-time offer."

She drew in a shaking breath. "All right. All right, let me clean up a little. Get dressed. I'll tell you what I know."

"Fine," I said. "Come on. There's a shower in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I'll get you towels and stuff."

"Is this your house?"

"Friends'. But I've stayed here before."

She nodded and fished around until she came up with the black shirt she'd been wearing the night before. She slipped into it and rose. She had long, pretty, and bruised legs, and as she stepped onto her right leg she let out a pained cry and fell forward. I caught her before she could hit the ground, and she leaned into me, lifting her right foot from the floor.

"Bloody hell," she wheezed. "I must have twisted my ankle last night." She shot me a hard-eyed glance. "Hands."

I jerked my hand off something pleasantly smooth and firm. "Sorry. Accident. Can you manage?"

She shook her head, balanced on one leg. "I don't think so. Lend me your arm a moment."

I helped her hobble down the hall and into the bathroom. I dug some more towels out of the linen closet, then passed them into her through a mostly closed door. She locked it behind her and started the shower.

I shook my head and went back down the hall, dialing Father Vincent's phone number. On the fifth ring, he answered, his voice sounding tired and strained. "Vincent."

"It's Harry Dresden," I said. "I know where the Shroud came into Chicago and who was buying. It got intercepted by a third party and they have it now."

"You're certain?" Vincent demanded.

"Yeah."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Not exactly, but I'm going to find out. I should know by this evening, maybe sooner."

"Why will it take until this evening?" Vincent asked.

"Well, uh. It's a little hard to explain," I said.

"Perhaps the police should handle the rest of the investigation."

"I'd advise against it."

"Why?"

"I have some information that indicates your mistrust may not have been misplaced."

"Oh," Vincent said. His voice sounded worried. "I think we should meet and talk, Mister Dresden. I'd rather not discuss this over the phone. Two o'clock, at the room we spoke in last?"

"I can probably do that," I said.

"Until then," said Vincent, and hung up.

I paced back into the living room and found Susan sitting and reading the morning paper with coffee and a doughnut. One of the sliding glass doors that had previously led to the back patio was open, and on the other side was a lot of bare wood and plastic-the addition Michael was building. The rasping of a saw came through the open door.

I stepped out and found Father Forthill at work. He'd taken off his coat and collar. He had a short-sleeved black shirt underneath. He wore leather work gloves and safety glasses. He finished sawing a beam, and blew dust off the cut before rising. "How is Father Vincent?"

Tags: Jim Butcher The Dresden Files Suspense
Source: readsnovelonline.net