Dead Beat(21)

"Only one patrol car still there," Billy reported. "Plus the guys with the wrecker."
"We shouldn't wait any longer," I said. "With cops around, any neighborhood monsters will lie low for a while to be careful. I want to be back there and gone before they get moving again."
"Eat in the car," Georgia suggested, and we all piled back into her SUV.
Georgia parked on the curb behind the Beetle and let me out. I had my keys in my hand, ready to get in and get gone. But when I saw the car, I stopped.
Someone had smashed out the remaining windows in the car. Glass littered the street and the car's interior. Parts of the windshield were missing, and the rest clung together in a mass of fracture lines that made the whole mess opaque. The back window had already been broken when I used my force ring on that zombie earlier in the evening. The doors and the hood were dented in dozens of places, and the door handles had been entirely smashed off. The tires sagged limply, and I could see long, neat slashes in them without difficulty.
I approached the car slowly.
The wooden handle of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat protruded from the gaping driver's-side window, the cardboard tag from the store still dangling from its string.
Billy leaned out the SUV window and let out a low whistle. "Wow."
"But on the upside," I said, "now all the windows match."
"What a mess," Georgia said.
I went around to the front of the car and opened the trunk. It hadn't been tampered with. My sawed-off shotgun was still in the backseat. Billy and Georgia got out and walked over to me.
"Gang?" Georgia asked.
"Gang wouldn't have left the gun," I said.
"The guys in the hoods?" Billy guessed.
"Didn't strike me as the baseball-bat type." I reached in and picked up the bat with just my forefinger and thumb, near the middle, where it wouldn't mar any fingerprints left on it. I showed it to them. "Cowl would have used his magic to smash the car up, not a club." I walked around to the back of the car and frowned down at the engine. It looked intact. I leaned in the window and tried my key. The engine turned over without any trouble.
"Huh," Billy said. "Who completely ruins a car but doesn't touch the engine?"
"Someone sending me a message," I said.
Billy pursed his lips. "What does it say?"
"That I need to rent a car, apparently," I said. I shook my head. "I don't have time for this."
Billy and Georgia traded a look, and Georgia nodded. She came over to me, took my car keys where I held them in my cupped left hand, and replaced them with her own.
"Oh, hell, no," I said. "Don't do that."
"It's not a big deal," she told me. "Look, you still take your car to Mike's Garage, right?"
"Well, yeah, but-"
"But nothing," Billy said. "We're only a couple of blocks from the apartment. We'll get your car towed to Mike's."
Georgia nodded firmly. "Just bring back the SUV whenever the Beetle is ready."
I thought it over. Seeing my car torn up was actually a hell of a lot more distressing than I thought it would be. It was only a machine. But it was my machine. Some part of me felt furious that someone had done this to my ride.
My first instinct was to refuse their offer, get the Beetle to the shop, and use cabs until then-but that was the anger talking. I forced myself to apply my brain to it, and figured that, given how much running around I might need to do in the near future, I couldn't afford it. I couldn't afford the time that public transportation would cost me, either, assuming I could use it at all. Damn, but I hate to swallow my pride.
"It's a new car. Something will blow out."
"It's still under warranty," Georgia said.
Billy gave me a thumbs-up. "Good hunting, Harry. Whatever you're after."
I nodded back to him and said, "Thanks."
I got into the SUV and headed out to speak to the only person in Chicago who knew as much about magic and death as I did.
Mortimer Lindquist had done pretty well for himself over the past couple of years, and he'd moved out of the little California-import stucco ranch house he'd been in the last time I'd gone to visit him. Now he was working out of a converted duplex in Bucktown. Mort leased both halves of the duplex, and ran his business on one side, with his home on the other. There were no cars in the business driveway, though he mostly operated at night. He must have already wrapped up for the evening. He had abandoned the faux-Gothic decor that had previously graced his place of business, which was a hopeful sign. I needed the help of someone with real skill, not a charlatan with a batch of gimmicks.
I parked the SUV in the business driveway, mowing down a patch of yellow pansies as I did. I wasn't used to driving something that big. The Beetle might be small and slow, but at least I knew exactly where its tires were going to go.
The lights were all out. I availed myself of the brass knocker hung on the residential door.
Fifteen minutes later, a bleary-looking little man answered. He was short, twenty or thirty pounds overweight, and had given up trying to conceal his receding hairline in favor of shaving his scalp completely bald. He was wrapped in a thick maroon bathrobe and wore grey slippers on his feet.
"It's three o'clock in the morning," Mort complained. "What the hell do you-" He saw my face and his eyes widened in panic. He hurried to shut the door.
I stabbed my oak staff into the doorway and stopped him from closing it. "Hi, Mort. Got a minute?"
"Go away, Dresden," the little man said. "Whatever it is you want, I don't have it."
I leaned on my staff and put on an affable smile. "Mort, after all we've been through together, I can't believe you'd speak to me like that."
Mort gestured furiously at a pale scar on his scalp. "The last time I had a conversation with you, I wound up with a concussion and fifteen stitches in my head."
"I need your help," I said.
"Ha," Mort said. "Thank you, but no. You might as well ask me to paint a target on my chest." He kicked at my staff, but not very hard. Those slippers wouldn't have protected his foot very well. "Get out, before something sees you here."
"Can't do that, Mort," I said. "There's black magic afoot. You know that, don't you?"
The little man stared at me in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Why do you think I want you gone? I don't want to be seen with you. I'm not involved."
"You are now," I said. I kept smiling, but all I really wanted to do was throw a jab at his nose. I guess my feelings must have leaked through into my expression, because Mort took one look at my face and blanched. "People are in trouble. I'm helping them. Now open this damned door and help me, or I swear to God I am going to come camp out on your lawn in my sleeping bag."
Mort's eyes widened, and he looked around outside the house, nervous energy making his eyes flick back and forth rapidly. "You son of a bitch," he said.
"Believe it."
He opened the door. I stepped inside and he shut it behind me, snapping several locks closed.
The interior of the house was clean, businesslike. The entry hall had been converted into a small waiting room, and beyond it lay the remainder of the first floor, a richly colored room lined with candles in sconces, now unlit, featuring a large table of dark polished wood surrounded by matching hand-carved chairs. Mort stalked into his seance room, picked up a box of kitchen matches, and started lighting a few candles.
"Well?" he asked. "Going to show me how all-powerful you are? Call up a gale in my study? Maybe slam a few doors for dramatic effect?"
"Would you like me to?"
He threw the matches down on the table and took a seat at its head. "Maybe I haven't been clear with you, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm not a wizard. I'm not with the Council. I have no interest in attracting their attention or that of their enemies. I am not a participant in your war with the vampires. I like my blood where it is."
"This isn't about the vampires," I said.
Mort frowned. "No? Are things dying down, then?"
I grimaced and took a seat a few chairs down. "There was a nasty fight in Mexico City three weeks ago, and the Wardens bloodied the Red Court 's nose pretty well. Seems to have thrown a wrench in their plans for some reason."
"Getting ready to hit back," Mort said.
"Everyone figures that," I said. "We just don't know where or when."
Mort exhaled and leaned his forehead on the heel of one hand. "Did you know I found someone they'd killed a couple of years ago? Young boy, maybe ten years old."
"A ghost?" I asked.
Mort nodded. "Little guy had no idea what was going on. He didn't even know he was dead. They cut his throat with a razor blade. You could barely see the mark unless he turned to look over his right shoulder."
"That's what they do," I said. "How can you see things like that and not want to fight them?"
"Bad things happen to people, Dresden," Mort said. "I'm sorry as hell about it, but I'm not you. I don't have the power to change it."
"Like hell you don't," I said. "You're an ectomancer. One of the strongest I've met. You've got access to all kinds of information. You could do a lot of good."
"Information doesn't stop fangs, Dresden. If I start using what I know against them, I'd be a threat. Five minutes after I get involved I'll be the one with his throat cut."