White Night (The Dresden Files #9) - Jim Butcher Page 0,91

forward. She smelled nice, something like honeysuckle, and she had a friendly smile on her mouth. Her hands, though, felt cold and nervous.

Guided by Bonnie and her clammy hands, we walked through the building, past a long, open space filled with various exercise machines, weights, wealthy-looking men, and attractive young women. Bonnie started prattling about how new the machines were, and how the latest techniques and theories in fitness training were in use, and how Platinum Club members would each have their own personal fitness trainer assigned to them each and every visit.

"And, of course, our in-house spa offers any number of other services."

"Ah," I said. "Like massages, mud baths, pedicures, that kind of thing?"

"Yes, sir."

"And sex?"

Bonnie's smile didn't falter for a second, although it looked a little incongruous with her wary sideways glance at Murphy. She didn't answer the question. She stopped at an open doorway. "Here we are," she said, smiling. "If there is anything I can do for you, just pick up the phone on Ms. Demeter's desk and I'll answer right away."

"Thanks, Bonnie," I said.

"You are welcome, sir."

"Do you need a tip or anything?"

"Unnecessary, sir." She gave me another smile and a nod, and hurried away.

I watched her go down the hall, lips pursed thoughtfully, and decided that Bonnie was eminently qualified to hurry away. "We get left all alone here?" I asked Murphy. "Does this smell like a trap to you?"

"There's one hell of a lot of bait," she replied, glancing around, and then into the office. "But the fire stairs are right across the hall, and there's a fire escape just outside the office window. To say nothing of the fact that there are a dozen customers within a few yards who could hardly help but notice anything noisy."

"Yeah. But how many of them do you think would testify in court about what they heard or saw while they were at a ritzy brothel?"

Murphy shook her head. "Rawlins knows I'm here. If anything happens, they'll turn the place inside out. Marcone knows that."

"How come you all haven't done it already? I mean, this is illegal, right?"

"Sure it is," Murphy said. "And very tidy. In operations like this one, the women involved are generally willing employees, and generally very well paid. They're required to have regular medical examinations. There's a low incidence of drug use, and almost never any attempts to control them through addiction or terror."

"Victimless crime?"

Murphy shrugged. "Cops never have as many resources as they need. In general, they don't waste them on an operation like this one. Vice personnel are needed badly in plenty of other places where there is a lot more at stake."

I grunted. "The fact that it's obviously a club for the stupidly wealthy doesn't make it any easier to bring the hammer down."

"No, it doesn't," Murphy said. "Too many people with too much influence in the city government have their reputations to protect. The place makes money hand over fist, and as long as they don't flaunt their business, cops tolerate what's going on except for the occasional token gesture. Marcone isn't going to jeopardize that by killing us here, when he can just as easily have it done tomorrow, in a less incriminating location."

"Depending on the size of the beehive," I said.

"Depending on that," Murphy agreed. "We might as well sit down."

We went into the office. It looked like any number of executive offices I'd seen before, somber, understated, and expensive. We sat down in comfortable leather chairs. Murphy kept an eye on the doorway. I watched the window. We waited.

Twenty minutes later, footsteps approached.

A large man came through the door. He was built like a bulldozer made out of slabs of raw, workingman muscle, thick bones, and heavy sinews. He had a neck as thick as Murphy's waist, short red hair, and beady eyes under a heavy brow. His expression looked like it had been permanently locked into place a few seconds after someone had kicked his puppy through a plate-glass window.

"Hendricks," I greeted Marcone's primary enforcer with convivial cheer. " 'Sup?"

Beady eyes settled on me for a second. Hendricks made a growling sound in his throat, checked the rest of the room, and said, over his shoulder, "Clear."

Marcone came in.

He wore a gunmetal grey Armani suit with Italian leather shoes, and his shirt was open one button at the throat. He was an inch or two above average height, and had looked like an extremely fit forty-year-old ever since I had known him. His haircut