Small Favor(44)

Luccio's head rocked back a little.
"No reason not to hedge our bets," I told her quietly. "These people don't play nice like the Unseelie fae, or the Red Court. I've seen them in action, Captain."
She pursed her lips, and her eyes never wavered from my face. "All right, Warden," she said, finally. "It's your city."
"I did not agree to this," Gard said, rising, her expression dark.
"Oh, deal with it, blondie," I told her. "Beggars and choosers. The White Council is backing you up on this one, but don't start thinking it's because we work for you. Or your boss."
"I'm going to be there too," Murphy said quietly, without looking up from her gun. "Not just somewhere nearby. There. In the room."
Pretty much everyone there said, "No," or some variant of it at that point, except for Hendricks, who didn't talk a lot, and me, who knew better.
Murphy put her gun back together during the protests and loaded it in the silence afterward.
"If you people want to have your plots and your shadowy wars in private," she said, "you should take them to Antarctica or somewhere. Or you could do this in New York, or Boise, and this isn't any of my business. But you aren't in any of those places. You're in Chicago. And when things get out of hand, it's the people I'm sworn to protect who are endangered." She rose, and though she was the shortest person in the room, she wasn't looking up at anyone. "I'm going to be there as a moderating influence with your cooperation. Or we can do it the other way. Your choice, but I know a lot of cops who are sick and tired of this supernatural bullshit sneaking up on us."
She directed a level gaze around the room. She hadn't put the gun away.
I smiled at her. Just a little.
Gard looked at me and said, "Dresden."
I shrugged and shook my head sadly. "What? Once we gave them the vote, it went totally out of control."
"You're a pig, Harry," Murphy growled.
"But a pig smart enough to bow to the inevitable," I said. I looked at Gard and said, "Far as I'm concerned, she's got a legitimate interest. I'll back it."
"Warden," Luccio said in a warning tone, "may I speak to you?"
I walked over to her.
"She can't possibly know," Luccio said quietly, "the kind of grief she could be letting herself in for."
"She can," I replied as quietly. "She's been through more than most Wardens, Captain. And she's sure as hell covered my back enough times to have earned the right to make up her own mind."
Luccio frowned at me for a moment, and then turned to face Murphy. "Sergeant," she said quietly. "This could expose you to a … considerable degree of risk. Are you sure?"
"If it were your town," Murphy said, "your job, your duty? Could you stand around with your fingers in your ears?"
Luccio nodded slowly and then inclined her head.
"Besides," Murphy said, half smiling as she put her gun in her shoulder holster, "it's not as if I'm leaving you people much choice."
"I like her," Sanya rumbled in his deep, half-swallowed accent. "She is so tiny and fierce. I don't suppose she knows how to-"
"Sanya," Michael said, his voice very firm. "We have talked about this."
The dark-skinned Russian sighed and shrugged. "It could not hurt to ask."
"Sanya."
He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender, grinning, and fell silent.
The door to the house banged shut, and running footsteps crunched through the snow. Molly opened the door to the workshop and said, "Harry, Kincaid's on the phone. He's got the location for the meeting."
"Kincaid?" Murphy said in a rather sharp voice.
"Yeah, didn't I mention that?" I asked her, my tone perfectly innocent as I headed for the door. "He showed up last night."
Her eyes narrowed. "We'll talk."
"Tiny," Sanya rumbled to Michael, clenching a demonstrative fist. "But fierce."

     
 

      Chapter Twenty-eight
P eople think that nothing can possibly happen in the middle of a big city-say, Chicago-without lots of witnesses seeing everything that happened. What most people don't really understand is that there are two reasons why that just ain't so-the first being that humans in general make lousy witnesses.
Take something fairly innocuous, like a minor traffic accident at a busy pedestrian intersection. Beep-beep, crunch, followed by a lot of shouting and arm waving. Line up everyone at that intersection and ask them what happened. Every single one of them will give you a slightly different story. Some of them will have seen the whole thing start to finish. Some of them will have seen only the aftermath. Some of them will have seen only one of the cars. Some of them will tell you, with perfect assurance, that they saw both cars from start to finish, including such details as the expressions on the drivers' faces and changes in vehicle acceleration, despite the fact that they would have to be performing simultaneous feats of bilocation, levitation, and telepathy to have done so.
Most people will be honest. And incorrect. Honest incorrectness isn't the same thing as lying, but it amounts to the same thing when you're talking about witnesses to a specific event. A relative minority will limit themselves to reporting what they actually saw, not things that they have filled in by assumption, or memories contaminated by too much exposure to other points of view. Of that relative minority, even fewer will be the kind of person who, by natural inclination or possibly training, has the capacity for noticing and retaining a large amount of detail in a limited amount of time.
The point being that once events pass into memory, they already have a tendency to begin to become muddled and cloudy. It can be more of an art form than a science to gain an accurate picture of what transpired based upon eyewitness descriptions-and that's for a matter of relative unimportance, purely a matter of fallible intellect, with no deep personal or emotional issues involved.
Throw emotions into the mix, and mild confusion turns into utter havoc. Take that same fender-bender, make it an accident between a carload of neoskinhead types and some gangbangers at a busy crosswalk in a South Side neighborhood, and you've got the kind of situation that kicks off riots. No matter what happens, you probably aren't going to be able to get a straight story out of anyone afterward. In fact, you might be hard-pressed to get any story out of anyone.
Once human emotions get tossed into the mix, everything is up for grabs.
The second reason things can go unnoticed in the middle of the big city is pretty simple: walls. Walls block line of sight.
Let me rephrase that: Walls block line of involvement.
The human animal is oriented around a sense of sight. Things aren't real until we see them: Seeing is believing, right? Which is also why there are illusionists-they can make us see things that aren't real, and it seems amazing.
If a human being actually sees something bad happening, there's a better chance that he or she will act and get involved than if the sense of sight isn't involved. History illustrates it. Oh, sure, Allied governments heard reports of Nazi death camps in World War II, but that was a far cry from when the first troops actually saw the imprisoned Jews as they liberated the camps. Hearst had known it before that: You furnish the pictures, and I'll furnish the war. And according to some, he did.
Conversely, if you don't see something happening, it isn't as real. You can hear reports of tragedies, but they don't hit you the way they would if you were standing there in the ruins.
Nowhere has as many walls as big cities do, and walls keep you from seeing things. They help make things less real. Sure, maybe you hear loud, sharp noises outside some nights. But it's easy to tell yourself that those aren't gunshots, that there's no need to call the police, no need to even worry. It's probably just a car backfiring. Sure. Or a kid with fireworks. There might be loud wailing or screams coming from the apartment upstairs, but you don't know that the drunken neighbor is beating his wife with a rolling pin again. It's not really any of your business, and they're always fighting, and the man is scary, besides. Yeah, you know that there are cars coming and going at all hours from your neighbor's place, and that the crowd there isn't exactly the most upright-looking bunch, but you haven't seen him dealing drugs. Not even to the kids you see going over there sometimes. It's easier and safer to shut the door, be quiet, and turn up the TV.
We're ostriches and the whole world is sand.
Newbies who are just learning about the world of wizards and the unpleasant side of the supernatural always think there's this huge conspiracy to hide it from everyone. There isn't. There's no need for one, beyond preventing actual parades down Main Street. Hell's bells, from where I'm standing, it's a miracle anyone ever notices.
Which is why I was fairly sure that our parley with the Archive and the Denarians in the Shedd Aquarium was going to go unremarked. Oh, sure, it was right in the middle of town, within a stone's throw of the Field Museum and within sight of Soldier Field, but given the weather there wasn't going to be a lot of foot traffic-and the Aquarium was in its off-season. There might be a handful of people there caring for the animals, but I felt confident that Kincaid would find a way to convince them to be somewhere else.
Murphy had rented a car, since hers was so busted-up. The past few days of snow had seen a load of accidents, and there weren't any compact cars left, so she'd wound up with a silver Caddy the size of a yacht, and I'd called shotgun. Hendricks and Gard rode in the backseat. Gard had gotten to the car under her own power, though she had been moving carefully. Luccio sat beside Gard with her slender staff and her silver rapier resting on the floorboards between her feet, though my own staff was a lot longer and had to slant back between the front seats and past Gard's head, up into the rear window well.