Chapter Eleven
Tripp and I cleared the back door of the castle and I paused for a moment, scanning the alley behind it with my eyes first and my wizard’s senses second.
I didn’t pick up on any kind of malevolent presence, and I didn’t see anyone moving about the neighborhood, though I could hear a yard crew working with leaf blowers a few blocks away.
I led Tripp to a powder-blue Volkswagen Beetle and said, “Get in. You’re driving. ”
“Jesus,” Tripp said. “This relic?”
“Unless you want to be the one casting fire spells should we be attacked,” I told him.
“Fine, fine,” Tripp said. I tossed him the keys to the car; he caught them and got in the driver’s side.
I took the passenger door and had to wrestle my way into the passenger seat.
Older model Bugs technically had adjustable seats, but you had to unbolt them and then rebolt them into the new position, and while the driver seat had been set up for me, the passenger seat had been sized for someone about my brother’s height.
Since I was about six foot nine, that meant my knees pressed against the dashboard, pushing me into something vaguely resembling a fetal position.
“You gonna wear your seatbelt?” Tripp asked.
“Just drive,” I said irritably. “Dearborn.”
And he did.
We had to park in a garage a few blocks off and walk to the Kluczynski Federal Building for our meeting with Constance Abernathy.
It’s a giant rectangle made of black steel and glass, the windows tinted enough to reflect the buildings across from it, as well as a barn-red bit of arching statuary called the Flamingo.
To me it looked more like a giant plastic pinwheel that had melted in the sun reflected from the building’s windows and drooped over, but what do I know about art.
We went in, and Max Valerious was waiting for us in the lobby. We had to go through security to get through, like most government buildings, and my staff and blasting rod got some long looks from the security person on duty.
“They’re personal mobility aids,” I told him seriously.
“Aids?” asked the security guy, a balding, middle-aged Asian man, maybe Korean, since his name tag said KIM.
“Sure, aids,” I said.
He held up the blasting rod. “And this one?”
“Well. That’s more art.”
Kim looked at me without expression. “Art?”
“Hell, that thing out front is supposed to be a flamingo, for crying out loud. I’ll leave them here with you?”
“They can’t go in with you,” Officer Kim said. He passed them through the metal detector and said, “I’ll hold on to them and you can get them coming out.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I have to look at the thing every day. I don’t think it looks like a flamingo, either.”
I went through the metal detector, and it went off.
I sighed and went back and took off my belt.
It went off again. I took off my coat and it went off again.
Then I went through it one more time, after checking my pockets, and it made a weird wonking sound and all the lights started flashing intermittently.
“Damn thing,” Officer Kim said. “It’s been glitchy all year. I’ll have to pat you down.”
“Yeah, no problem, man.”
He did, found nothing, since I wasn’t carrying anything, and we finally went on through.
The elevator took longer than I liked to get going, as if it had to work up the will to start lifting us up, and I breathed slowly and tried to keep my head clear of emotions as we went up.
Elevators have been tricky for me in the past, what with the way magic and technology tend to disagree.
Metal detectors have been known to freak out around me.
Don’t even talk to me about cell phones.
The previous spring, I’d killed several hundred of them all at once. Just doing my part to reduce America’s screen time.
Abernathy had her own small office on one of the upper floors of the building, complete with a receptionist and three people sitting at computers, staring and fiddling with their keyboards and mice.
It didn’t look like any of them were playing video games, which was what I mostly knew computers were for, thanks to my daughter.
I tried to keep as much distance as possible between me and the computers.
“Maximillian Valerious for Ms. Abernathy,” Max said calmly to the receptionist, who looked like he might have been in the military, judging by his build and his haircut. “We have an appointment.”
“Sir,” the receptionist said. “She’s expecting you; please …” He trailed off, looked at me, and narrowed his eyes.
Oh, yeah. He wasn’t just a receptionist. He recognized that I was the sort of person who could mean trouble.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m not going to give anyone any problems today.”
“Good,” he said briskly. “Mr. Valerious?”
“He’s with me.”
The not-receptionist nodded. “You know where her office is.”
“Thank you, Roberts,” Max said. He gave me a half-exasperated look, hefted his briefcase, and strode back past the reception area, into a short hallway and thence to the office at its far end.
Constance Abernathy’s office looked like it had been decorated by Vulcans.
Particularly bland Vulcans. The walls were taupe, the carpet a low industrial grey-and-brown pattern that wouldn’t show any stains unless you cut someone’s throat on it, and the furniture was simple stainless steel with minimal grey cushioning—a desk, a few chairs, and filing cabinets.
The woman behind the desk matched the room.
Hair that was a mix of grey and brown, cut short and practical enough for a few flicks of a brush to settle.
Grey suit with a white shirt, brown eyes behind round, plain glasses and no makeup whatsoever.
She was in her late fifties, made no effort to pretend otherwise, and looked as if she might find municipal tax codes to be suitably entertaining reading.
Her eyes also went to me immediately, wary. Then to Tripp and narrowed. And finally settled on Max Valerious.
“Max,” she said, and her voice didn’t match the rest of her at all. It was smoother and warmer than cinnamon cider on a cold day. “I don’t usually see you working with scoundrels.”
“Connie,” Max said. He leaned across the desk to shake her hand. “This is my client, Harry Dresden. And this is his client, Tripp Gregory.”
“Hathaway’s villain,” Constance noted, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “The one who swindled Norman’s dear old mother out of her last few pennies, to hear him tell it.”
“Little over two hundred and thirty million pennies, ma’am,” Tripp said. “But there was no scam to it, apart from her being a nice, lonely old broad who wanted to help kids.”
Max blinked and looked at Tripp.
“What?” Tripp said. “Dresden told me to be honest.”
Max gave me a gimlet look. “I think it might be best if I did the speaking.”
Constance Abernathy smiled faintly at Tripp, the way the lions must have at the Christians in the Colosseum, her steady brown eyes unwavering. “Well,” she said. “This could be interesting.”
“I’d like this to be off the record, Connie,” Max said.
“Why should I agree to that?”
The old man’s eyes sparkled. “Because you’re right. It’s interesting. It might even be fun.”
She stared at Max for a moment and then exhaled briefly through her nose. She waved a hand and said, “All right. But I have a meeting with an Assistant Director in forty-five minutes. Please be succinct.”
Max laid out Tripp’s problems briefly and thoroughly, and as he did, Constance Abernathy’s eyebrows went higher and higher above her glasses.
“Allow me to test my understanding,” she said, after Max was finished. “This man, a felon …”
“Ex-felon,” Max said firmly. “He’s served his debt to society for his crimes.”
Abernathy conceded the point with a slight inclination of her head.
“A former felon convinced an elderly woman to donate two million dollars to his charitable organization, despite having no history of work in such an area and, in fact, having less than a year ago attempted to sue an actual such organization into bankruptcy. He then spends a great deal of money failing to raise very much money, then pays himself most of the balance remaining, which he then spends in an illegal gambling scheme. And now that the money is gone and he hasn’t received his ill-gotten winnings, and he’s quite likely about to have the original money ordered disgorged from him and returned to Mrs. Hathaway’s estate, you come to me seeking my help. ”
“That is perhaps phrased in the most uncharitable way possible,” Max said mildly.
“I wasn’t aware the Internal Revenue Service had a reputation for charity,” Abernathy replied archly. “Mostly, I am concerned with accuracy. Is what I said accurate?”
“No part of it is untrue,” Max said. “But I am hoping to come to an arrangement.”
Abernathy leaned back in her chair, sharp eyes skeptical. “Max, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve always considered you one of the most honorable attorneys in this town. Please don’t do anything to change that.”
“Connie, please,” Max said. “I’m not attempting to bribe you. I’m attempting to bribe the city of Chicago, Cook County, the State of Illinois, and the United States government as a whole.”
Abernathy let out a short, harsh laugh like the caw of a crow.
Max grinned at her. “Consider. If we follow the path of your immediate assessment, what happens?”
Abernathy mused for a moment. “Your client, if he manages to avoid catching charges for exploiting the elderly via Mr. Hathaway, likely catches them for misappropriation of charitable funds. Given his record, he probably serves more time.”
“At a cost to the government on the order of tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars, as well as the costs of his trial and other legal proceedings, as well as the time taken away from petitioners who probably require the assistance of the court system for their well-being far more than the esteemed young Norman Hathaway,” Max added.