walking around and yelling her name really loud yet?”
“I’m getting there,” I said. “Look, does she know anything or not?”
Kincaid muffled the phone with something, probably his hand. I heard his low, buzzing voice as he asked a question. I might have heard a light soprano voice answering him.
Kincaid returned to the phone and said, “Ivy says she can’t get involved. That the business you’re on is deadly. She dares not unbalance it for fear of changing the outcome.”
I made a growling sound. “Goddammit, Kincaid. She owes me one. Remind her who came and took her away from those fucking Denarian lunatics.”
Kincaid’s voice became quieter, more sober. “Believe me, she remembers, Dresden. But she isn’t free to share her knowledge like you or me. When she says she can’t tell you, she’s being literal. She physically cannot let such information leave her head.”
I slammed the heel of my hand into a wall and leaned on it, closing my eyes. “Tell her,” I said, “that this is information I must have. If she can’t help me, I’ll be taking it up with other sources. The ones in my green notebook.”
Kincaid spoke with someone again. This time I definitely heard Ivy’s voice answering him.
“She can’t tell you where the girl is,” Kincaid said. There was a hint of steel in his voice, warning me not to push too hard. “But she says she can tell you someone who might.”
“Any help would be greatly appreciated,” I said, exhaling.
“She says to tell you that before you try the green book, there’s something else you might consider. The last man you want to see might have useful information.”
I understood what she was talking about at once and groaned. “Dammit,” I muttered. “Dammit.”
I dialed another number. A receptionist asked me how she could direct my call.
“This is Harry Dresden,” I said quietly. “Put me through to Mr. Marcone’s personal line, please.”
20
“I don’t like it,” Molly said, scowling. “You sure you don’t want me to go in there with you? He’s got people.”
“Definitely not,” I said calmly. “I don’t want you showing up on his radar.”
“I’d like to see him try something,” Molly said, clenching one hand into a fist and thumping the Blue Beetle’s steering wheel for emphasis. “I’d eat him for breakfast.”
“No, Molly,” I said in a firm tone of voice. “You wouldn’t. Marcone might be vanilla mortal, but he’s dangerous. Most men have limits. He doesn’t. Never forget that.”
“If he’s so dangerous, why are you talking to him?”
“Because he also has rules,” I said. “And besides. I just had to see him here. Keep your eyes open for a third party interfering. I’ll worry about Marcone. Okay?”
“Okay,” Molly said, nodding, her eyes intent. In a spectacular bid for the Do as I Say, Not as I Do Award, she took a long pull from an energy drink in a can the size of a milk carton. “Okay.”
I got out of the Blue Beetle and walked into my meeting with Gentleman Johnnie Marcone, the undisputed gang lord of Chicago.
Burger King had just opened its dining area, but it was already half-full. I ignored Marcone upon coming in and got in line. A sausage biscuit and cup of coffee later, I went to the back corner where Marcone sat and his retinue stood.
Hendricks was there, of course, in an extra-large suit and a red-haired buzz cut. Maybe he’d been working out, because he looked like he’d put on a few more pounds. If he got any bigger, he’d need a building permit. Miss Gard stood a little apart from Hendricks, covering the angles the big man couldn’t. She was just as blond and athletic and Amazonian as ever, her suit and tie muting her curves without reducing her appeal.
Marcone sat in the booth as if at a boardroom table. He wore a silk suit probably worth more than my car, and sat with his elbows on the table, his fingertips pressed together into a steeple. He looked like a man in his mature prime, neat and precise from his haircut to his polished leather shoes. He watched me come over to the table and slide my plastic tray into place before me. I dumped four or five packets of sugar into my coffee and stirred it with a little stick. “You’re not eating?”
He looked at his watch, and then at me. He had pale green eyes the color of old bills, but less personal. His stare was unsettling, and he met my eyes without concern. We