Because sequels are always fun, but feedback is even better!
"Not tonight. I need to wash my hair."
"Emily, come on. At least make an effort to give me a real reason." A cold stare was all he got back. "Fine, fine. How about this weekend then?"
"I'm washing my hair again. In fact, I'm washing my hair forever."
The young man scowled, watching the retreating back of the blonde. Across the bar, a guy about his age, wearing the monochromatic suit of a guy who worked some place corporate smirked at witnessing the rejection.
"Hey, can I get a beer?" called over Corporate Suit.
"My shift's over," he retorted. Picking up a shot glass, he poured out a house whiskey and knocked it back. Lifting the lip of the bar, he ignored Corporate Suit who clearly stage whispered "jackass" in his direction.
The frigid Chicago air slapped him in the face as he stepped out. It was one in the morning and he felt every eight hours of his shift. The final, and might he add ruthless, rejection from the Emily girl at the end of his day did not help. He'd taken four steps toward his apartment when a voice called out.
"George!"
Spinning around, the young bartender squinted in the dimmed streetlights at the familiar face coming toward him.
"Ben? Is that you?" Closing the distance between them, George smiled. "What're you doing here, man?"
Ben returned the grin, clapping a hand down on a stunned George's outstretched palm. "I missed being able to freeze my fingers off. California's all warm weather and thin chicks in bikinis."
"Sounds like hell, you jerk," laughed George. "You back for a visit?"
"Yeah, saying hi to my sister and I thought I'd drop by. It's been ages."
"No kidding. I thought you'd never look back after hitting the west coast."
Ben shrugged. "Even I got homesick for this cold ass town. Sorry I didn't call, it's been a little crazy."
"No, no, it's fine. I just finished my shift, thank Christ."
"Well, you up for a drink? It's only one."
"Dude, I work at a bar. Of course I'm up for a drink. Just not at my bar."
" 'Course not," agreed Ben. "I know a good place cross town. We can take my car."
Agreeing, George trailed after his friend who led him toward a shining new rental car. "Looks like California's treating you well," commented George, feeling the slightest hint of jealousy.
Ben gave him a grin over his shoulder. "Not really."
The sun's brightness looked deceptive against the chilly temperatures that whipped through the city. Lieutenant Murphy was unwinding her scarf at her desk while attempting to take a sip of her coffee to warm up when a familiar suited arm came into view.
"Kirmani, do NOT tell me –"
" 'Fraid so."
The arm came attached with a hand that was currently holding a new manila folder, marked with a red tag for a new homicide. With a sigh, Murphy dropped her scarf and grabbed the folder. Flipping it open, she got a nice eyeful of a bloody crime scene photo.
"His name's George Pegg. The owner of the bar he works at found him early this morning when he was closing up shop," Kirmani supplied. "Head was knocked in, but his wallet was still on him. So was his cash."
Pulling the photograph out of the folder, Murphy held it next to four other photographs that were currently tacked on her cubicle wall. "Head trauma. Young, male, bartender," she listed. "Nothing matches up."
"Except what forensics will probably say," supplied Kirmani, cynically.
"Lucky us."
Using a piece of tape, Murphy stuck the photo of George Pegg's corpse as the fifth on her growing macabre wall, next to the strangled, gunshot, and stabbed victims from before. Technically, forensics hadn't told her yet that a sweep of the crime scene gave them nothing. But she was pretty sure it'd only be bad news for her, as it had been for the past few weeks.
"Let's see what Butters has to say," said Murphy, her lack of optimism clearly showing on her voice. "In the mean time, run a check on Pegg. Everything back to his birth if necessary." She could sense the same sense of already present defeat from Kirmani, but was grateful that he only nodded and left to make the calls.
Unbeknownst to him, for once in his life, Harry Dresden's week was going much better than anyone else's. Much of the wizard's cheer came from the recent lifting of his probation, which until last week, had meant even a simple scrying had required the filling out of a permission slip for approval. Before lifting the probation, Harry had been forced to sit through another lecture regarding what would happen should he misuse his powers. The wizard had bitten back a reply that he hadn't technically misused his powers. He'd just been duped by a trickster who'd managed to escape from the Council's grasp and was currently still evading the wardens, despite best efforts. After generously paying Harry's rent for damages done to his office, the trickster had all but vanished without a trace. But bringing all that up at the time hadn't seemed appropriate.
Returning to his office, the wizard celebrated his newly regained magical freedom by happily lighting piles of permission slips on fire with a gesture.
"You do realize you're rapidly running out of furniture, don't you?" asked Bob, eyeing the resulting scorched desk and chairs.
"They're still usable," Harry protested, wiping down the cinders.
"Hardly presentable," the ghost commented.
"Well, good thing you're the only one who has to look at them then," replied Harry, his happy mood undiminished.
"I'm simply saying that if you render all your furniture like this you'll end up having to sleep, eat and perform spells sitting on your bed."
"You know, now that you mention it, that doesn't sound half bad. I wouldn't even have to leave the loft."
Harry grinned at the put upon sigh that came from the ghost. These days anything from Bob that reminded him of the ghost's temperament made Harry smile. The passing of a year had put some distance between Bob's experience of being trapped on the Other Side for six weeks. And while Harry no longer felt the need to assess Bob's condition based on whether or not a ring or an ascot was missing from the ghost's wardrobe, the wizard found it hard to completely let go of his worry. Every once in awhile he would glance at the trapped spirit and think that Bob still didn't look as solid as he used to before.
Even now, there was the familiar set of clothing worn by the familiar ghost who wore the familiar expression of exasperation as he gazed at the damaged furniture. But still Harry felt as if somehow Bob was less present and in some ways more ghost-like than he had ever been before.
Looking up from his assessment of burnt table, Bob caught the intense stare.
"Would you please stop looking at me like that?" he asked, fighting not to roll his eyes.
"What? I wasn't," Harry protested.
"Harry."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll cut it out, I promise," assured Harry.
"Well, if you're done with the pyrotechnics and impolite staring, I have a few new defensive spells you might want to try."
Since sleep and relaxation were not avenues open to a dead spirit looking to take his mind off of the events of last year, Bob had more or less buried himself in constructing and fine tuning spells to remain distracted. There had been evenings when candles were rendered unnecessary as the place had been lit by the ghost's golden writings in the air, .
"Bring it on, Bob," stated Harry, gladly.
Moving toward his lab, there was nearly a bounce to the wizard's step. Whatever financial problems that were undoubtedly looming in the horizon all seemed pale worries compared to the feeling of freedom he had right now. Life, at this moment, felt good.
"The blow was to the side of his head," said Butters, a gloved hand indicating the indented section of the former George Pegg's skull. "It probably could've been done with a lead pipe or something like that. Nothing really unusual."
"And that's it?" asked Murphy.
"Well….yeah," Butters replied. "Blow to the head. It's pretty simple."
"Maybe for you," muttered Murphy. "Anyway, thanks Butters. Just hang onto everything for now. I'll let you know when you can release the body."
"Sure thing."
Murphy envied that from Butters' point of view, his portion of the investigation was over. Her look into George Pegg's death was far from over. Just like her look into all the other four homicides before his. And like the others, the Pegg investigation was not starting out well. The interview with Pegg's boss didn't turn up anything suspicious. Pegg was a 25 year old college drop out, tending bars until he could figure out what he wanted to do. He wasn't a hard worker, but he wasn't a bad one either and as far as the owner of the bar could tell, Pegg had no enemies. It seemed the worst thing Pegg ever did was try and score dates with women way beyond his league.
Like those before him, Pegg's death didn't make sense. He wasn't killed for money and he wasn't anyone who'd ever done anyone else any harm. But for some reason, someone had killed him with such precision that not a scrap of forensic evidence could be found.
Murphy lack of headway in the cases, despite the sheer number of hours she and Kirmani were putting in, was frustrating the lieutenant to the point where it was keeping her up at night. If it went on any longer the four murders, now potentially five, would become cold cases. While no one said it out loud, a cold case was evidence of blatant failure on the part of the investigating officer. And Murphy would be damned if she was going to get one of those on her record, let alone five.
When Murphy got back from her trip downstairs, she found Kirmani waiting for her.
"I compiled everything I found on Pegg," said the detective. His face looked decidedly unexcited.
"Nothing?"
"Well, five years ago he was picked up for public intoxication. He told the police that his girlfriend had dumped him and he'd gone out to 'drink himself into a coma,' " Kirmani read from the file.
"A 20 year old getting drunk after a bad break up. How unusual," said Murphy, dryly. Sitting down, she contemplated the five photos staring back at her for a few seconds and then picked up her phone.
"Calling Dresden?" asked Kirmani, casually.
"Yes."
When Kirmani didn't protest, Murphy knew they'd hit their wall.