Turn Coat (The Dresden Files 11)

"And that's the only way to beat a tracking spell?"

"Nah," I said. "A good circle of power could probably screen you off, if you took the time and money to give it serious juice. Theoretically, you could also cross into the Nevernever. Thaumaturgy originating on the earth doesn't cross into the spirit world very efficiently-and before you ask, yeah, I tried it from the Nevernever side, too. It was failed spell number three."

Murphy frowned. "What about Justine?" she asked. "Justine was able to find him once before."

I grimaced. "She was able to give us a vague direction a few hours after Thomas had ripped most of the life out of her. It isn't the same this time."

"Why not?"

"Because she wasn't sensing Thomas so much as the missing part of her own life force. They haven't been together like that in years. Thomas-digested, I guess you could say-all of that energy a long time ago."

Murphy sighed. "I've seen you do some neat stuff, Harry. But I guess magic doesn't fix everything."

"Magic doesn't fix anything," I said. "That's what the person using it is for." I rubbed at my tired eyes.

"Speaking of," she said. "Any thoughts as to why these wizards didn't seem to be using magic?"

"Not yet," I said.

"Any thoughts as to the nature of our perpetrator?"

"A couple," I said. "There are all these disparate elements in play-Shagnasty, Binder, Madeline Raith. There is serious money moving around. And if we don't find this cockroach and drag him into the light, things are going to be bad for everyone. I don't know what that tells us about him."

"That he's really smart," Murphy said. "Or really desperate."

I arched an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"

"If he's superbrilliant, it's possible that we haven't even seen the shape of his plan yet. All of this could be one big boondoggle to set us up for the real punch."

"You don't sound like you think that's the case."

She gave me a faint smile. "Criminals aren't usually the crispiest crackers in the box. And you have to remember that even though we're flailing around looking for answers, the perp is in the same situation. He can't be sure where we are, what we know, or what we're doing next."

"Fog of war," I said thoughtfully.

She shrugged. "I think it's a much more likely explanation than that our perp is some kind of James Bond super-genius villain slowly unfolding his terrible design. They've shown too much confusion for that."

"Like what?"

"Shagnasty was following you a couple of nights ago, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, so was this PI you told me about. Why stick you with two tails? Maybe because the right hand didn't know what the left one was doing."

"Hngh," I agreed.

"From what you say, Shagnasty isn't exactly an errand boy."

"No, it isn't."

"But it's apparently coordinating with the perp, taking orders. It didn't absolutely need to deliver its demand in person. I think it's pretty obvious that it smashed its way into the Château to provide a distraction so that Madeline could make her getaway."

I blinked. Once I'd alerted Lara to the probability of Madeline's treachery, she most certainly would have taken steps to detain her. Madeline must have known that. I tried to remember how long it had been between the time Luccio and I arrived, and when the naagloshii attacked. Time enough for Madeline to hear about our presence, assume that the worst had happened, and make a phone call for help?

Maybe.

Murphy peered at me. "I mean, it is obvious, right?"

"I got hit on the head, okay?"

She smirked at me.

"Hell's bells," I muttered. "Yes, it's obvious. But not necessarily stupid."

"Not stupid, but I don't think it would be unfair to call it a desperation move. I think Shagnasty was the perp's ace in the hole. I think that when Morgan escaped, the perp figured out where he was headed, the pressure got to him, and he played his hole card. Only when Shagnasty found you, you weren't actually with Morgan. He got spooked when you and the werewolves nearly pinned him down, and ran off."

"The perp grabs one of his other tools," I said, nodding. "Madeline. Tells her to find me and take me out, make me talk, whatever. Only Thomas beats her senseless instead."

"Makes sense," Murphy said.

"Doesn't mean that's how it happened."

"Had to happen some way," she said. "Say we're in the right ballpark. What does that tell us?"

"Not much," I said. "Some very bad people are in motion. They're tough. The one guy we've managed to grab won't tell us a damned thing. The only thing we're certain we know is that we've got nothing."

I was going to continue, but a thought hit me and I stopped talking.

I gave it a second to crystallize.

Then I started to smile.

Murphy tilted her head, watching, and prompted, "We've got nothing?"

I looked from Murphy to the door to the interrogation room.

"Forget it," she said. "He isn't going to put us on to anyone."

"Oh," I drawled. "I'm not so sure about that..."

Chapter Thirty-one

Murphy went back into the interrogation room. Twenty minutes later, I came in and shut the door behind me. The room was simple and small. I A table sat in the middle, with two chairs on each side. There was no long two-way mirror on the wall. Instead, a small security camera perched up high in one corner of the ceiling.

Binder sat on the far side of the table. His face had a couple of bruises on it, along with an assortment of small cuts with dark scabs. His odd green eyes were narrowed in annoyance. A foot-long hoagie sat on the table in front of him, its paper wrapper partially undone. He'd have been able to reach it easily-if he could have moved his arms. They were cuffed to the arms of the chair. A handcuff key rested centered on the edge of Murphy's side of the table, in front of her chair.

I had to suppress a smile.

"Bloody priceless," Binder said to Murphy as I entered. "Now you bring this wanker. It's police torture, is what it is. My solicitor will swallow you whole and spit out the bones."

Murphy sat down at the table across from Binder, folded her hands, and sat in complete silence, spearing him with an unfriendly stare.

Binder sneered at her, and then at me, presumably so I wouldn't feel left out. "Oh, I get this now," he said. "Good cop, bad cop, is it?" He looked at me. "Stone-cold bitch here makes me sit for bloody hours in this chair to soften me up. Then you come in here, polite and sympathetic as you please, and I buckle under the stress, yeah?" He settled more comfortably into the chair, somehow conveying an insult with the motion. "Fine, Dresden," he said. "Knock yourself out. Good cop me."