Murphy went through it, frowning, and a few minutes later asked, “What’s this?”

“Warden case file,” I said. “Which you are not looking at.”

“The worm has turned,” she said bemusedly. “Why am I not looking at it?”

“Because it’s everything the Council has about LaFortier’s death,” I said. “I’m hoping something in here will point me toward the real bad guy. Two heads are better than one.”

“Got it,” she said. She took a pen and a notepad from her hip pocket and set them down within easy reach. “What should I be looking for?”

“Anything that stands out.”

She held up a page. “Here’s something,” she said in a dry tone. “The vic was two hundred and seventy-nine years old when he died.”

I sighed. “Just look for inconsistencies.”

“Ah,” she said wisely.

Then we both fell quiet and started reading the documents in the file.

Morgan had given it to me straight. A few days before, a Warden on duty in Edinburgh heard a commotion in LaFortier’s chambers. She summoned backup, and when they broke in, they found Morgan standing over LaFortier’s still-warm corpse holding the murder weapon. He professed confusion and claimed he did not know what had happened. The weapon had been matched to LaFortier’s wounds, and the blood had matched as well. Morgan was imprisoned and a rigorous investigation had turned up a hidden bank account that had just received a cash deposit of a hell of a lot of money. Once confronted with that fact, Morgan managed to escape, badly wounding three Wardens in the process.

“Can I ask you something?” Murphy said.

“Sure.”

“One of the things that make folks leery of pulling the trigger on a wizard is his death curse, right?”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “If you’re willing to kill yourself to do it, you can lay out some serious harm on your killer.”

She nodded. “Is it an instantaneous kind of thing?”

I pursed my lips. “Not really.”

“Then how long does it take? Minutes? Seconds?”

“About as long as it takes to pull a gun and plug somebody,” I said. “Some would be quicker than others.”

“A second or three, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Did Morgan get blasted by LaFortier’s death curse then?”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Um. It’s sort of hard to say. It isn’t always an immediate effect.”

“Best guess?”

I sipped at the last of the coffee. “LaFortier was a member of the Senior Council. You don’t get there without some serious chops. A violent death curse from someone like that could turn a city block to glass. So if I had to guess, I’d say no. LaFortier didn’t throw it.”

“Why not?”

I frowned some more.

“He had time enough,” Murphy said. “There was obviously a struggle. The vic has defensive wounds all over his arms—and he bled to death. That doesn’t take long, but it’s plenty of time to do the curse thing.”

“For that matter,” I mused, “why didn’t either of them use magic? This was a strictly physical struggle.”

“Could their powers have canceled each other out?”

“Technically, I guess,” I said. “But that sort of thing needs serious synchronization. It doesn’t often happen by accident.”

“Well. That’s something, then,” she said. “Both men either chose not to use magic or else were unable to use magic. Ditto the curse. Either LaFortier chose not to use it, or he was incapable of using it. The question is, why?”

I nodded. “Sound logic. So how does that help us get closer to the killer?”

She shrugged, unfazed. “No clue.”

That’s how investigation works, most of the time. Cops, detectives, and quixotic wizards hardly ever know which information is pertinent until we’ve actually got a pretty good handle on what’s happening. All you can do is accumulate whatever data you can, and hope that it falls into a recognizable pattern.

“Good thought, but it doesn’t help yet,” I said. “What else have we got?”

Murphy shook her head. “Nothing that I can see yet. But do you want a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

She held up the page with the details on the incriminating bank account. “Follow the money.”

“The money?”

“Witnesses can be mistaken—or bought. Theories and deductions can throw you completely off target.” She tossed the page back onto the coffee table. “But the money always tells you something. Assuming you can find it.”

I picked up the page and scanned it again. “A foreign bank. Amsterdam. Can you get them to show you where the payment came from?”

“You’re kidding,” Murphy said. “It would take me days, weeks, maybe months to go through channels and get that kind of information from an American bank, if I could get it at all. From a foreign bank specializing in confidentiality? I’ve got a better chance of winning a slam-dunk contest against Michael Jordan.”

I grunted. I got the disposable camera out of my duster pocket and passed it over to Murphy. “I snapped some shots of the scene—a lot more of them than are in the Wardens’ file. I’d like to get your take on them.”

She took the camera and nodded. “Okay. I can take them by a photo center and—”

My old rotary telephone rang, interrupting her. I held up a hand to her and answered it.

“Harry,” Thomas said, his voice tight. “We need you here. Now.”

I felt my body thrum into a state of tension. “What’s happening?”

“Hurry!” my brother snapped. “I can’t take them on by m—”

The line went dead.

Oh, God.

I looked up at Murphy, who took one look at my face and rose to her feet, car keys in hand, already moving toward the door. “Trouble?”

“Trouble.”

“Where?”

I rose, seizing my staff and blasting rod. “Storage rental park off Deerfield Square.”

“I know it,” Murphy said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Eighteen

The handy part about riding with a cop was that she has the cool toys to make it simpler to get places quickly, even on a busy Chicago morning. The car was still bouncing from sweeping into the street from the little parking lot next to my apartment when she slapped a whirling blue light on the roof and started a siren. That part was pretty neat.

The rest of the ride wasn’t nearly as fun. Moving “fast” through a crowded city is a relative term, and in Chicago it meant a lot of rapid acceleration and sudden braking. We went through half a dozen alleys, hopped one bad intersection by driving up over the curb through a parking lot, and swerved through traffic at such a rate that my freshly imbibed coffee and donuts started swirling and sloshing around in a distinctly unpleasant fashion.

“Kill the noise and light,” I said a couple of blocks from the storage park.

She did it, asking, “Why?”

“Because whatever is there, there are several of them and Thomas didn’t think he could handle them.” I drew my .44 out of my duster pocket and checked it. “Nothing’s on fire. So let’s hope that nothing’s gone down yet and we’ll be all sneaky-like until we know what’s happening.”

“Still with the revolvers,” Murphy said, shaking her head. She drove past the street leading to the storage units and went one block past it instead before she turned and parked. “When are you going to get a serious gun?”

“Look,” I said, “just because you’ve got twice as many bullets as me—”

“Three times as many,” Murphy said. “The SIG holds twenty.”

“Twenty!? Look the point is that—”

“And it reloads a lot faster. You’ve just got some loose rounds at the bottom of your pocket, right? No speed loader?”

I stuck the gun back in my pocket and tried to make sure none of the bullets fell out as we got out of the car. “That’s not the point.”

Murphy shook her head. “Damn, Dresden.”

“I know the revolver is going to work,” I said, starting toward the storage park. “I’ve seen automatics jam before.”