Dead to Rites by Ari Marmell

Author:Ari Marmell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I lost a big chunk of the day waitin’ around climbing my thumb, since I wasn’t about to grill Baskin about any of this in City Hall. Nah, this was gonna take privacy, and that meant doing squat until he got himself home. Well, it gave me time to check in with some folks elsewhere in the building who were kind enough to provide me the man’s home address—whether they meant to or not. (I’m sure it’ll shock you to learn that most of the lawyers workin’ for the city in a place like Chicago don’t publicize their addresses.)

Pete pointed out, correctly, that I had no way of guessin’ how the chat with Baskin was goin’ to go, if we’d be in any immediate danger afterward or if we’d have to go dashing off after some lead or other. I wasn’t real thrilled with the idea of takin’ my buddy’s car—a beatup old Ford—instead of the train, but I hadda admit it was the wise thing to do. I just spent the whole trip tryin’ to squeeze my head until it squished like a melon.

He, on the other hand, was even less thrilled about the notion of waiting in the car, down the block, when I went to confront Baskin. But he couldn’t exactly argue that he should go with me, not when the man could end his career with a word in the wrong ear. Better he stay back, outta sight, and ready to come bustin’ in if I yelled for help.

And yeah, I assured him I could yell so he’d hear me. He made some stupid joke about Fae sirens vs. police sirens. I said he was damn lucky I couldn’t drive myself outta here in a hurry if I accidentally tripped and beat him senseless with his own shoes.

Then, that important bit of wisdom exchanged, I ankled on over to Baskin’s doorstep.

The place was, uh… Well, it certainly consisted of a lot of bricks.

Yeah, Baskin had learned that much from the trouble boys he’d faced across the courtroom over the years. His place was big, real big, but not quite too big. Redbrick walls, white trim and shutters, neatly manicured lawn on a street where everyone else boasted the same. Nice enough to make you say, “Pretty fancy for a guy in his position,” not so nice that you’d start to wonder if he was supplementing his income.

Unless you were suspicious as me, in which case you damn well were wondering if he was supplementing his income.

And also wondering what the hell kinda magical dinguses he might have locked up in there. How potent where they? Did he know how to use ’em? What sorta trouble was I potentially walkin’ into?

Oh, and where in the house would I hide a millennia-old mummified body if I were an assistant state’s attorney?

I rapped a couple knuckles on the door. Gave it a minute. Rapped again.

Baskin was no bunny. He wasn’t just gonna throw the door open to any sap who came along.

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