Proven Guilty (The Dresden Files 8)

Sandra shook her head jerkily. "I don't think so. They didn't handcuff her or read from that little card or anything. Can they do that? Just drag her into a room?"

"We'll see," I said. "Which room?"

"Other wing, second door on the right," she said.

I nodded, slung my pack off my back, and took out a small notebook. I scribbled some phone numbers and names on a page, and gave it to Sandra. "Call both of these people."

She blinked at the paper. "What do I tell them?"

"The truth. Tell them what's going on and that Harry Dresden said they need to get down here immediately."

Sandra blinked down at the page. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, you know. The usual," I said. "Get to that phone."

"I'll catch up in a minute," Murphy said.

I nodded, slung the pack back on, jerked my head at Mouse, and started walking with purposeful strides toward the knot of reporters that had begun to dissolve at the conclusion of the official statements to the press. My dog fell in to pace at my side until I spotted Lydia Stern at the rear of the crowd.

Lydia Stern was a formidable woman, a reporter for the Midwestern Arcane, a yellow journal based out of Chicago that did its best to report on the supernatural. Sometimes they managed to get close to the truth, but more often they ran stories that had headlines like Lizard Baby Born in Trailer Park, or maybe Bigfoot and the Chupacabra, the Unholy Alliance. By and large, the stories were amusing and fairly harmless, but once in a while someone stumbled into something strange and it made it into the paper. Susan Rodriguez had been a lead reporter for the Arcane, until she'd run into exactly the wrong story. Now she lived her life somewhere in South America, fighting off the infection in her soul that wanted to turn her into one of the Red Court while she and her half-vampire buddies campaigned against their would-be recruiters.

When Lydia Stern took over Susan's old job a couple of years back, her reporting had taken a different angle. She'd investigated strange events and then demanded to know why the appropriate institutions had been ignoring them. The woman had a scathing intellect and penetrating wit, and she employed both liberally and with considerable panache in her writing. She was unafraid to challenge anyone in her articles, from some smalltown animal control unit to the FBI.

It was a shame she was working at a rag like the Arcane instead of at a reputable paper in DC or New York. She'd have been a Pulitzer nominee inside of five years. City officials who had to deal with the cases I'd brushed up against had developed a nearly supernatural ability to vanish whenever she was around. None of them wanted to be the next person Lydia Stern eviscerated in print. She had a growing reputation as an investigative terror.

"Ms. Stern," I said in a low, grave voice, extra emphasis on the "z" in "Ms."

"I wonder if you might have a few moments."

The terror of the Midwest Arcane whirled to face me, and her face broke into a cherubic grin. She was a little over five feet tall, pleasantly plump, and of Asian ancestry. She had a sparkling smile, thick glasses, curly black hair, and was wearing a pair of denim overalls over an old Queensryche T-shirt. Her tennis shoes had bright pink laces on them. "Harry Dresden," she said. She had a sort of breathless, bubbling voice, the kind that seemed like it could barely contain laughter beneath almost every word. "Hah. I knew this one smelled right."

"Could be," I said. I hadn't been real forthcoming with Lydia. It hadn't worked out well with reporters in the past. Whenever I spoke to her, little daggers of guilt stabbed at me, reminders that I could not afford to let careless words get her into too much trouble. Despite that, we'd gotten along, and I'd never lied to her. I hadn't bothered to try. "You busy?"

She gestured at the bag whose strap hung over her shoulder. "I've got recordings, and I'll want to jot down some notes shortly." She tilted her head to one side. "Why do you ask?"

"I need a thug to scare some guys for me," I said.

The dimples in her cheeks deepened. "Oh?"

"Yeah," I said. "Do this for me. I'll give you ten minutes on this." I waved my hand vaguely at the hotel around us. "As soon as I have some time free."

Her eyes brightened. "Done," she said. "What do I do?"

"Hang around outside a doorway and..." I grinned. "Just be yourself."

"Good. I can do that." She nodded once, curls bouncing, and followed me to the room where they were grilling my friend's daughter.

I opened the door like I owned the place and walked in.

The room wasn't a big one-maybe the size of a large elementary-school classroom. There was a raised platform about a foot high at one end, with chairs on it behind a long table. More chairs faced it in rows. A sign, now discarded on the floor behind the door, declared that the room was scheduled for something called "Filking" between noon and five o'clock today. "Filking" sounded suspiciously like it might be an activity somehow related to spawning salmon, or maybe some kind of bizarre mammalian discussion. I decided that it was probably one of those things I was happier not knowing.

Greene was in the room, standing on the platform with his arms folded, a sour frown on his face. Molly sat in the first row of chairs, still in the same clothes as the night before. She looked tired. She'd been crying.

Next to her was a man of medium build and unremarkable height, with brown hair just tousled enough to be fashionable. He wore a grey suit, its gravity somewhat offset by a black tie that featured Marvin the Martian. I recognized him. Rick, Murphy's ex. He stood over Molly, passing her a cup of water, the good cop of the usual interrogation equation. He was here in his official capacity, then. Agent Rick.

"Excuse me," Greene said, without looking over at me. "This room isn't open to the public."

"It isn't?" I said, overly ingenuous. "Man. I was really looking forward to a nice afternoon of filking, too."

Molly looked up, and her eyes widened in recognition and what looked like sudden hope. "Harry!"

"Heya, kid," I told her, and ambled in, Mouse in tow. The dog went right over to Molly, wagging his tail and subtly begging for affection by thrusting his broad muzzle underneath her folded hands. Molly let out a little laugh and leaned down, hugging the dog, talking baby talk to him like she did to her youngest siblings.

Greene turned to glower at me. After a moment, Agent Rick did too.

"Dresden," Greene said, his tone peremptory. "You are interfering in an investigation. Get out."