Proven Guilty (The Dresden Files 8)

"Suit yourself," I said. "But we're in sight of the cop at the entry desk. He probably won't see who threw the first punch. You just got out on bail. You'll go back, probably for assault, committed within two minutes of being freed. There isn't a judge in town who would grant you bail again."

I saw him think about it furiously, which impressed me. A lot of men his age, when angry, wouldn't bother with actual thought. Then he shook his head. "You're bluffing. You'd be arrested too."

"Hell's bells, kid," I said. "When did you fall off the turnip truck? They'll interview me. I'll tell them you threw the first punch. Who do you think they're going to believe? I'll be out in an hour."

Nelson's knuckles popped as he clenched his fists. He stared at me, and then at the building behind him.

"Nelson," Molly urged quietly. "He's trying to help you."

"He's got a hell of a way of showing it," Nelson spat.

"Just balancing the scales a bit," I said, glancing at Molly. Then I sighed. Nelson was holding on to his pride. He didn't want to back down in front of Molly.

Insecurity, thy name is teenager.

It wouldn't kill me to help Nelson save face. "Come on, kid. Give me five minutes to talk to you and I'll pay your fare back to wherever you're heading. I'll throw in some fast food."

Nelson's stomach made a gurgling sound and he licked his lips, glancing aside at Molly. The wary focus slid out of his posture and he nodded, brushing his hand back through his hair. He let out a long exhale and said, "Sorry. Just... been a bad day."

"I had one of those once," I said. "So talk. How'd you wind up in jail?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure what actually happened. I was in the bathroom-"

I held up my hand, interrupting him with the gesture. Eat your heart out, Merlin. "What bathroom? Where?"

"At the convention," he said.

"Convention?" I asked.

"SplatterCon," Molly offered. She waved a hand at her button and at Nelson's shirt. "It's a horror movie convention."

"There's a convention for that?"

"There's a convention for everything," Nelson said. "This one screens horror movies, invites in directors, special-effects guys, actors. Authors, too. There are discussion panels. Costume contests. Vendors. Fans show up to the convention to get together and meet the industry guests, that kind of thing."

"Uh-huh. You're a fan, then?"

"Staff," he said. "I'm supposed to be in charge of security."

"Okay," I said. "Get back to the bathroom."

"Right," he said. "Well. I'd had a lot of coffee and potato chips and pretzels and stuff, so I was just sitting in there with the stall door closed."

"What happened?"

"I heard someone come in," Nelson said. "The door was really squeaky." He licked his lips nervously. "And then he started screaming."

I arched an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Clark Pell," he said. "He owns the old movie theater next to the hotel. We rented it out for the weekend so we could play our favorites on the big screen. Nice old guy. Always supports the convention."

"Why was he screaming?"

Nelson hesitated for a second, clearly uncomfortable. "He... you have to understand that I didn't actually see anything."

"Sure," I said.

"It sounded like a fight. Scuffling sounds. I heard him let out a noise, right? Like someone had startled him." He shook his head. "That's when he started screaming."

"What happened?"

"I jumped up to help him, but..." His cheeks turned red. "You know. I was kind of in the middle of something. It took me a second to get out of the stall."

"And?"

"And Mr. Pell was there," he said. "He was unconscious and bleeding. Not real bad. But he looked like he'd taken a real pounding. Broken nose. Maybe his jaw, too. They took him to the hospital."

I frowned. "Could someone have slipped in or out?"

"No," Nelson said, and his voice was confident on that point. "That damned door all but screams every time it swings."

"Could someone have come in at the same time as Pell?" I asked.

"Maybe," he said. "On the same opening of the door. But-"

"I know," I said. "But they would have had to open the door to leave." I rubbed at my chin. "Could someone have held the door open?"

"The hall was crowded. You could hear the people when the door was open," Nelson said. "And there was a cop standing right outside. He was the first one in, in fact."

I grunted. "And with no other obvious suspects, they blamed you."

Nelson nodded. "Yes."

I mused for a moment and then said, "What do you think happened?"

He shook his head, several times, and very firmly. "I don't know. Someone must have gotten in and out somehow. Maybe there's an air vent or something."

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe that's it."

Nelson checked his watch, and swallowed. "Oh, God, I've got to get to the airport. I'm supposed to meet Darby in thirty minutes and take him to the hotel."

"Darby?" I asked.

"Darby Crane," Molly supplied. "Producer and director of horror films. Guest of honor at SplatterCon."

"He do any work I might have seen?" I asked.

Molly nodded. "Maybe. Did you ever see Harvest? The one with the Scarecrow?"

"Uh," I said, thinking. "Where it smashes through the wall of the convent and eats the nuns? And the librarian sets it on fire and it burns down the library and himself with it?"

"That's the one."

"Heh," I said. "Not bad. But I'll take a Corman flick any day."

"Excuse me," Nelson said, "but I really need to get moving."

As he spoke, the cab I'd called pulled up to the curb. I checked, and found my shadowy tail still outside, patient and motionless.

Mouse let out another almost subaudible growl.

My shadow wasn't exactly going out of his way not to be noticed, which meant that he almost certainly wasn't a hit man. A hired gun would do everything he could to stay invisible, preferably until several hours after I was cold and dead. Of course, he could be trying reverse psychology, I supposed. But that kind of circular reasoning could trigger a paranoia-gasm and drive me loopy fast.

Odds were good he was just supposed to keep an eye on me, whoever he was. Better, then, to keep him in sight, rather than trying to shake him. I was happier knowing where he was than worrying about him being out of sight. I'd play it cool-give him a while to see if I could figure out what he was up to. I nodded to myself, and strode out to the curb, Mouse at my side.