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Chapter Twenty-eight
What looked like a small army had invaded a portion of Wolf Lake Park and claimed it in the name of God and Clan Murphy. Cars filled the little parking lot nearby, and lined the nearest lane for a hundred yards in either direction. Summer had been generous with the rain for once, and all the trees in the park had put on glorious autumn colors so bright that if I scrunched up my eyes until my lashes blurred my vision they almost seemed to be afire.
In the park, a couple of gazebos had been stockpiled with tables and lots of food, and a pair of portable pavilions flanked them, giving shade to maybe a dozen people who had fired up their grills and were singeing meat. Music was playing from several different locations, the beats of the various songs stumbling into one another, and evidently someone had brought a generator, because there was an enormous TV set up out in the grass while a dozen men crowded around it, talking loudly, laughing, and arguing about what looked to be a college football game.
There were also a pair of volleyball nets and a badminton net, and enough Frisbees flying around to foul up radar at the local airports. A giant, inflatable castle wobbled dramatically as a dozen children bounced around on the inside of it, caroming off the walls and one another with equal amounts of enthusiasm. More kids ran in packs all over the place, and there must have been a dozen dogs gleefully racing one another and begging food from anyone who seemed to have some. The air smelled like charcoal, mesquite, and insect repellent, and buzzed with happy chatter.
I stood there for a minute, watching the festivities. Spotting Murphy in a crowd of a couple of hundred people wasn't easy. I tried to be methodical, sweeping the area with my gaze from left to right. I didn't spot Murphy, but as I stood there it occurred to me that a bruised and battered man better than six and a half feet tall in a black leather duster didn't exactly blend in with the crowd at the Murphy picnic. A couple of the men around the television had spotted me with the kind of attention that made me think that they were with the law.
Another man walking by with a white Styrofoam cooler on one shoulder noticed the men at the television and followed their gaze to me. He was in his mid-thirties and about an inch or two over average height. His brown hair was cut short, as was a neatly cropped goatee. He had the kind of build that dangerous men seem to develop-not enormous, pretty muscle, but the kind of lean sinew that indicated speed and endurance as well as strength. And he was a cop. Don't ask me how I could tell-it was just something about the way he held himself, the way he kept track of his surroundings.
He promptly changed course, walked up to me, and said, "Hey, there."
"Hey," I said.
His tone was overtly friendly, but I could taste the suspicion in it. "Mind if I ask what you're doing here?"
I didn't have time for this crap. "Yes."
He dropped the fake friendliness. "Listen, buddy. This is a family get-together. Maybe you could find another part of the park to stand around looking foreboding."
"Free country," I said. "Public park."
"Which has been reserved by the Murphy family for the day," he said. "Look, buddy, you're scaring the kids. Walk."
"Or you'll call the cops?" I asked.
He set the cooler down and squared off facing me, just barely far enough away to avoid a sucker punch. He looked relaxed, too. He knew what he was doing. "I'll do you a favor and call the ambulance first."
By this time we were getting more attention from the football fans. I was frustrated enough to be tempted to push him a little bit more, but there was no sense in it. I assumed that the cops in the family were off today, but if I got beaten up someone might call in and find out about Emma's death. That was a good way to get bogged down in a holding cell and dead.
The guy faced me with confidence, even though I had a head and shoulders on him and outweighed him by forty or fifty pounds. He knew if anything happened, he'd have a ton of help.
Must be a nice feeling.
I lifted a hand by way of capitulation. "I'll go. I just need to speak to Karrin Murphy for a moment. Business."
His expression flickered with surprise that was quickly hidden. "Oh." He looked around. "Over there," he said. "She's reffing the soccer game."
"Thanks."
"Sure," the man said. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to be a little more polite."
"Why take chances," I muttered, turning my back on him and heading over to the makeshift soccer field. There were a bunch of rugrats too big for playground equipment and too young for pimples playing with what could kindly be construed as abundant enthusiasm while a few motherly types looked on. But I didn't see Murphy.
I began to turn around and start another sweep. At this rate I would have to ask someone for directions.
"Harry?" Murphy's voice called from behind me.
I turned around. My jaw dropped open. I was lucky none of the kids kicked their soccer ball into my exposed uvula. It took me a minute to stammer, "You're wearing a dress."
She glowered up at me. Murphy wasn't going to qualify under anyone's definition of willowy or svelte, but she had the build of a gymnast-tough, flexible, and strong. Generally speaking, being five-nothing, a hundred and nothing, and female had made her professional life less than pleasant, including getting her landed in charge of Special Investigations-a post that was the career equivalent to being exiled to the Bastille, or maybe left out for the ants.
Murphy had excelled at her new job, much to the distress of the folks who had gotten her put there. Partly, to be sure, because she had engaged the services of the only professional wizard in Chicago. But also because she was damned good at her job. She'd been able to inspire loyalty, to judge and employ her detectives' skills effectively, and to keep everyone together through some fairly terrifying times-both in my company and outside of it. She was smart, tough, dedicated, and everything else an ideal leader of a police division should be.
Except male. In a profession that was still very much a boys' club.
As a result, Murphy had made a number of accommodations to the male ego. She was an award-winning marksman, she had taken more than her share of martial-arts tournaments, and she continued to train ferociously, most of it with, among, and around cops. There was no one in the department who had any questions about whether or not Murphy could introduce the baddest bad guys to new vistas of physical pain in hand-to-hand, and no one who had survived the battle with the loup-garou would ever doubt her skill with firearms or her courage again. But being Murphy, she went the extra mile. She wore her hair shorter than she liked it, and she went almost entirely without makeup or adornments. She dressed functionally-never scruffy, mind you, but almost always very subdued and practical-and never, ever wore a dress.
This one was long, full, and yellow. And it had flowers. It looked quite lovely and utterly... wrong. Just wrong. Murphy in a dress. My world felt askew.
"I hate these things," she complained. She looked down, brushing at the skirt, and swished it back and forth a little. "I always did."
"Wow. Uh, why are you wearing it, then?"
"My mom made it for me." Murphy sighed. "So, I thought, you know, maybe it would make her happy to see me in it." She took a whistle from around her neck, promoted one of the kids to referee, and started walking. I fell into pace beside her.
"You found them," she said.
"Yeah. Our driver is here, and I called Kincaid about twenty minutes ago. He'll have the hardware nearby and waiting for us." I took a deep breath. "And we need to move in a hurry."
"Why?" she asked.
"I'm pretty sure your brothers and sisters in law enforcement are going to want to sit me down for a long talk. I'd rather they didn't until I've closed a couple of accounts." I gave her a brief rundown of Emma's murder.
"Christ," she said. After a few steps she added, "At least this time around I heard it from you first. I've got a change of clothes in the car. What else do I need to know?"
"Tell you on the way," I said.
"Right," she said. "Look, I promised my mom I'd come see her before I left. My sister wanted to talk to me about something. Two minutes."
"Sure," I said, and we veered toward one of the pavilions. "You have a big family. How many?"
"Couple of hundred the last time I looked," she said. "There, in the white blouse. That's mother. The girl in the tight... everything is my baby sister, Lisa."
"Baby sister has pretty legs," I noted. "But those shorts must be a little binding."
