Proven Guilty (The Dresden Files 8)

"How about you?" I asked. "You see anything that you think is worth mentioning?"

"Not yet. Someone around here has got to know something useful- even if they don't know that they do." She tilted her head and frowned at me. "Wait. You're asking me?"

I shrugged a shoulder. "Murph, you've seen as much weird as most wizards. I think you're more capable than you know."

She studied my face for a long moment. "What do you mean?"

I shrugged again. "I mean that you've been there a time or two. You know what it's like when something is lurking around. There's commonality to it. You'll know it when you feel it."

"What? Am I supposed to be a wizard now?"

I grinned. "Just a savvy cop chick, Murph."

"Cop chick?" she asked, menace in her voice.

"Sorry," I said. "Police chick."

She grunted. "That's better."

"Just don't ignore your instincts," I said. "They're there for a reason."

Murphy wasn't listening to that last part, because she'd turned her head sharply to one side, blue eyes narrowing as she focused on a man who had emerged from a conference room doorway and was slipping down the hall.

And Mouse let out a low growl.

"Who's that?" I asked Murphy.

"Darby Crane," Murphy said.

"Ah," I said. "The horror movie director."

Mouse growled again. Murphy and he started after Crane.

Why fight the inevitable? I started walking before Mouse pulled my arms out of their sockets. "Hey, howsabout we go talk to him?"

"You think?" Murphy said.

"Take him. I'll back you up."

She nodded, without turning around. "Excuse me," she told a gang of conventiongoers in front of her. "Coming through, please."

We tried to hurry through the crowd, but it was like trying to run in chest-deep water. The faster you try to move, the more resistance there is. Crane moved through them like an eel, a spare man of medium height in slacks and a dark blazer. Murphy forged ahead, making room for me to follow, while I put my height to good use to keep an eye on Crane.

He beat us to a comparatively empty side hallway that led back to ground-floor guest rooms and elevators. By the time we got into the clear, the elevator doors had opened. Murphy hurried forward and shot a glance over her shoulder at me, then jerked her chin at the elevators.

I grinned. There are times when I hate it that technology has such problems operating around wizards. And then there are the times when it's sort of fan.

I made a mild effort of will, focused my thoughts on the elevators, and murmured, "Hexus." Nebulous and unseen energy fluttered down the hallway, and when the hex hit the elevators there was a sudden hiss of sparks at one edge of the panel with the call button, and an oozing smoke dribbled out a moment later. The doors started to close, then a bell went bing. The doors sprang open again. That happened a couple of more times before Murphy closed to the elevator and caught up to Darby Crane.

I slowed my pace, holding on to Mouse, and lurked several feet away, trying to blend in by reading a wall full of flyers announcing various parties at the convention.

Crane was a surprisingly good-looking man-slender, stark cheekbones, and his demeanor was more like an actor's than that of someone on the production side. His dark hair was in a short, neat cut, dark eyes deep-set and opaque, and he carried himself in a posture that read nothing but relaxed nonaggression.

Before I'd finished looking him over, I was sure that the whole thing was a calculated lie. There was cruelty lurking below the calm of his features, contempt hiding within the modest posture of his body. As Murphy approached, he stepped out of the elevator, frowning at the smoke. His eyes snapped to her, and around the hallway at once. There were several other people standing not far away, outside of a guest room with an open door.

He judged them, then Murphy for a moment, and then turned to face her, his mouth settling into a polite, bland little perjury of a smile.

"So hard to rely upon technology these days," he said, his glance moving over me as part of the background scenery. I thought. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice. "May I help you, Officer?"

"Lieutenant, actually," she told him without rancor. "My name is Karrin Murphy. I'm with..."

"Chicago Police Department Special Investigations," Crane said. "I know."

Alarm bells went off in my head. I doubted Crane would recognize it, but Murphy's stance shifted subtly, becoming more wary. "Have we met, Mr. Crane?"

"In a way. I've seen secondhand copies of the film of you gunning down a madman and some sort of animal several years ago. Very impressive, Lieutenant. Have you ever considered work in film?"

She shook her head. "I've been told the camera adds ten pounds. I have problems enough. May I take a few moments of your time, Mister Crane?"

He grinned at her, then, a grin I'm sure he meant to be boyish and flirty. The weasel. "I suppose that depends on what you intend to do with them."

Murphy studied his face for just a moment, as though in wary amusement. "I had a few questions regarding the incident here, and I hope that you can help me out with them."

"I can't imagine what I know that would help you," Crane replied. He glanced at the unmoving elevator doors and sighed. "Bother." He drew a small black cell phone from his jacket pocket, hit a button without looking, and lifted it to his ear. Then he lowered it again and frowned down at it in silence.

Hah. Take that, weasel.

"It won't take much of your time," Murphy said. "I'm sure that you can see how important it is for us to be thorough in this investigation. We would all hate for anyone else to be harmed."

"I'm sure I don't know anything of any importance, Lieutenant," Crane said, his voice turning a little impatient. "I was present during the blackout last night, but I was already in my room. I didn't even come downstairs until this morning."

"I see. Did anyone see you at that time?"

Crane let out a little laugh. "Am I a suspect, that I need an alibi?"

"As a celebrity guest, it's entirely possible that the person or persons responsible for this attack might have an unhealthy interest in you," Murphy replied, matching his fake laugh with her politely professional smile. "I certainly don't mean to imply any sort of accusation-only concern for your safety."

Someone shoved open a door that showed a set of stairs behind it, and a small man in an expensive grey suit emerged from it. He was sort of frog-faced-he had the mouth of someone much larger than he, almost grotesquely thick and wide. He had fine black hair, all limp and stringy, and someone had cut it with the ancient but trusty salad-bowl method. He had bulgy, watery eyes that required extra-large, wide-rimmed glasses to properly encircle.