My office isn't exactly prime real estate on the main drag of the Mag Mile, but one thing it does have to offer is the L station at the base of the building. On most every day, an enterprising, environmentally-conscious private investigator could feasibly hop aboard Chicago's iconic elevated train system and travel practically anywhere in the city, unburdened by traffic, weather, and the like . . . most days.

Today, you could smell the crowd through the cold December air before you even left the office building. My guess was holiday traffic at first - par for the course in downtown Chicago on New Years' Eve Eve. I was proven wrong when I got close enough to see the navy caps of Chicago's finest bobbing through the crowd, directing foot traffic.

I'm a pretty tall guy, so after a brief sigh of exasperation, it wasn't too hard to push through the crowd like a stagecoach fording a particularly intense river to get close to the cop-designated edge of the people stream. I knew the lady officer guarding this part of the crowd - a striking woman, a bit taller and a bit more muscular than most, with a mane of black hair tied back in an unruly ponytail. If the cold was starting to get to her, she didn't show it.

"Detective Sergeant Nelson," I said by way of greeting. "Central Investigations got you guys playing crowd control with a bunch of irritated tourists again? What'd you do this time?"

A smile that just about touched her eyes flicked over her face. "Harry Dresden. Honestly, the coffee machine was broken when I got there. I'm completely innocent."

"This time."

"Well, when you put it that way, Dresden. Next thing you know they'll be reassigning me to Special Investi . . . ga-"

"Special Investigations, Greer? Boy, wouldn't that just stink. Might as well be reassigned to Antarctica. After all, that's where the higher-ups shunt all the freaks, psychos, and wizards, right?"

Sgt. Nelson's lips parted for a moment, whatever she was about to say lost. She recovered quickly, to her credit.

"My bad. Habit from the home office. What I meant to say was, we're all in this together in the CPD, don't mind our interdepartmental popularity contests, office politics, yadda yadda, it takes all colors to make a rainbow. Better?"

I shrugged. "Just busting chops, Sgt. Nelson. SI's done just about as much for this city as you guys have, and someone's gotta hold the CPD accountable. Even if it's some eccentric wisebass private investigator from Iowa, so be it. Anyway, what's the hold-up?"

The modest grin Sgt. Nelson had been carefully cultivating fell off again. "Right, that. Harry, I'm only telling you this because, for all of your weirdness, you've done decent work for the department in the past, and I kind of think you're good for a laugh or a 'geez Louise' every now and again, so listen close."

"Oh, I'm listening."

"Some white-collar something-or-other took a lesson in defenestration, never learned to land on his feet. It's a mess, and he's all over the L track. Probably be closed all day."

I let loose another sigh. Guess I gotta hold them tighter or something. "Yeah?"

"Got somewhere to go fast, Dresden?"

"Just hoping to do a little sightseeing before the ball drops," I replied. "Roads any good?"

"Not if you're hoping to get anywhere in that rolling deathtrap of yours," she answered, referring to my mighty slapdash steed, the Blue Beetle.

It wasn't really blue anymore, and there were times I wondered if it was still a Volkswagen Beetle. Over the years, my old jalopy had been slashed, shaken, and stirred by so many monsters, riddled with bullet holes, and even car-bombed a few times. The only reason it was still roadworthy was dumb luck and the efforts of one really good mechanic, and the only part on it that was still original was the clock on the dashboard, which hasn't worked in years.

That's the Blue Beetle for you.

"Hey now. Respect the Bug. Besides, I couldn't take it for a spin even if I wanted to. It's too cold across the river, poor thing wouldn't start this morning. I had to take a taxi to work."

Greer frowned. "Looks like you'll have to take one to wherever you're headed, too. They're turning a decent business today, and the roads aren't too bad in the Loop."

"They could be a little busy today, New Years' and all. Any recommendations?"

"There's been a steady stream of taxis around the blockade, just down the street," she said, nodding. "Try there. With any luck, you might get a really good driver."

"I don't know, Sgt. Nelson . . ." I scrunched up my face and summoned my best Statham impression. "'Transportation is a precise business,' after all. I'll definitely try them out, though. Thanks, Detective."

"Happy to help a fellow film junkie, chief," she called back as I started for the Promised Queue. "Don't forget Rule One, now!"

"The deal is the deal," I recalled as I skimmed the edges of the crowd. "Never change the deal."

Looking back on what happened next, and everything that's happened since then, I should have stuck with Frank Martin's fourth rule above all.

Never make a promise you can't keep.

The ride to Navy Pier was like the marriage of a rich couple - short, uncomplicated, and businesslike. A professional transaction, nothing more. The cab smelled like cheap cologne over a long, deep history of tobacco smoke. Eau de cigarette. It was a smell familiar to most American cabs, the kind that lingers for hours but doesn't quite stink or cloy. Right away when I crammed my massive, lanky frame into the backseat, I knew that my duster would smell faintly of some seedy bar in the Wards for the better part of the day. Just city things, I suppose.

The closest my driver and I ever got to conversation was about halfway into the ride. We were stopped at a red light near DuSable Bridge, the better part of the trip over with, and I was getting antsy. Holiday traffic streamed across the river in a line that just didn't seem to end. I glanced at the clock on the cab's dash, doing multiplication tables in my head to cut down on any excess nerves. Seriously. I was getting all worked up for what would, in all seriousness, likely amount to nothing and a half.

The clock read 11:50 on its dimmed green display. If traffic continued like this, we'd make it, probably - but no matter how you slice it, it'd be tight.

The driver's blue eyes flicked into view in the rearview mirror. He was disheveled, slumped in his seat like a man who'd spent all day in it, had just a little more than a 5 o'clock shadow, but he had a nice trilby hat pulled low over his face, and his red hair was clean and well-kept underneath it, if a little too long.

"Got somewhere to be, kid?" he asked tersely. He sounded kind of familiar, but I couldn't place his clipped timbre.

"I'm meeting someone at Navy Pier. A client of sorts. You'd understand better than anyone, taxidriver." Guess I was showing more than I usually do, but the Kemmlerites were nasty business. If the tip was legit and it meant what I thought it could mean, I really wasn't looking forward to tangling with one of those psychotic deadheads again.

The driver nodded sagely. "Yep. I get it. You seem a bit nervous. Let me guess, private eye? Big job coming up?"

"Wizard," I corrected. "And I'm not entirely sure how big it's gonna be, after all. All we can do is adapt to what the universe throws at us and hope we come out on the top, you know?"

"Wise words, kid. Good advice. Hey, you mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead," I muttered absently. I wasn't a smoker, but there were bigger things on my mind that morning than secondhand lung disease. In my mind's eye, I began to narrow down the possibilities and reviewed my knowledge of Navy Pier's floorplan and setup. Not my usual style, but I prefer to have a barebones plan, at least, whilst flying by the seat of my pants.

Red took a long, thoughtful draw of his cigarette, then blew it partially out his open window. A blast of cold air hit me, followed by a cloud of smoke. I noticed something odd for the first time and raised my ungloved hand up to the vents in the backseat.

"Wizard, huh? Tall kid, black duster, six-foot oaken staff crammed diagonally in my car's trunk. You must be Harry Dresden, PI. 'Chicago's only professional wizard.' I've seen your ad in the Yellow Pages. Pleasure to meet you."

I blinked at that, and withdrew my hand from the vent, my suspicion confirmed. "Pleasure's mine. What do I call you?"

There was another pregnant pause, in which Red took another draw from his coffin nail. The light turned green, finally, and we once again began to creep in the Pier's general direction. "Names are powerful, kid, so I try not to give mine away so easily. Read the placard if you gotta."

I did. It read Z. Charles.

"Papers say you've done a lot of good for the city, kid."

"Larry Fowler would say otherwise. I'm sure you remember that fiasco? It was all over the Entertainment section for a week or so. I'm still getting angry letters from his attorney."

"Forget him," he growled, slashing his glowing cigarette through the smoky air in front. "Fowler's a two-bit late-night wannabe who couldn't make it in the Big Apple and couldn't swing with the big names in LA, so he defaulted to Chicago. The third best choice for idiots who're trying to make a name for themselves on the silver screen. Point is, Fowler says one thing, and everyone else says another when it comes to your illustrious career. Everything from rounding up missing kids in the nineties to shutting down the Wolfpack Murders five years ago. You've got quite the track record."

"Well, I do my part, Chuck. Always happy to meet one of my adoring fans in the wild," I said cautiously.

"Oh, I'm no fan, Dresden." His piercing eyes met mine again in the rearview mirror, and kept staring. "I think you're dangerous. I think an awful lot of cases connected to you and the CPD end too abruptly to be natural. I think you're hiding a lot more than you let on. Face it, kid, you've got as many skeletons in your closet as Dahmer did in his fridge. And if you're not careful, well . . . those skeletons are gonna come crawling out for vengeance of their own accord."

He let that delightful image linger in the air like his cigarette smoke. I was gobsmacked. I set my jaw and got ready to let Red have it. "Look, buddy-"

"But then again," he continued, "who doesn't have their own little secrets? I mean, no one's really fully transparent with anyone else, after all, especially in this Godforsaken city. Let me tell you, Dresden, my ex-wife was one of those kinds. Beautiful, smart as a whip - but she was hiding things too, and that came back to bite me in the end.

"She's dead now," he forced out through gritted teeth, "and she's still causing me trouble even after they put her in the ground. Funny, isn't it? The impacts the dead can leave on the living years after they're gone. She was a firecracker . . . an infuriating one at times, yeah, but believe me, kid . . . I'd give anything to have her back. Anything."

I didn't say anything more until we reached the Pier. The time read 12:01, but every minute with Red felt like an eternity.

This guy knew more than he let on, indeed.

And he knew who he was dealing with, too. The interior of his cab had been a comfortable room temperature, but in the middle of a Chicago winter, he hadn't been running his car's heat - usually the first thing to fail when a wizard of my caliber spends an amount of time around the systems.

I bailed out a little faster than what was strictly necessary, and wheeled around the back to grab my staff. I stopped at Red's window to pay the fare, but he just fixed me with that damned penetrating stare.

"What happened in Evanston last Halloween, Harry Dresden?" he asked. Demanded, more like. Stars and stones. That wasn't knowledge anyone should know about.

"OK, what's your deal, Chuck?" I snarled furiously, slamming a hand down on his window frame. "You get your kicks stalking random people in the papers? Think it's funny to drive off your customers with your pedantic psychoanalysis crap?"

He didn't flinch. Just stared.

Another realization occurred to me. "Christ . . . you're with that Zhou woman, aren't you?"

At that, Red smiled, just a twitch of a smirk. It was maddening. "I do my own research. And I'm very good at getting my scoop."

In a burst of rage, I kicked his door and stormed away. "Screw off, creep, you and your whole lousy organization! Last warning, and you can tell your friends the same: Leave me alone. Quit harassing me. If I ever see you or any of your groupies around me again, I'll make life so hard for you, you'll need a suit of bubble wrap and a bicycle helmet to go to the supermarket. You get me?"

Red shrugged. "Well, it was worth a try. See you around, Dresden."

And with that, my erstwhile stalker manually cranked up his window and peeled away in his crappy, tobacco-smelling taxicab, leaving me standing alone before the gates of Navy Pier. I stayed on the curb, glaring wizardly daggers at his taillights until he disappeared into Millennium Park. It was only after I lost sight of the cab that I realized the $7.15 that I'd taken out to pay for the ride was missing, and my scarred left hand was clenched impotently around nothing.

I screamed a curse - not the magical kind - into the cold winter afternoon.

Well. It's like the Man always said: "Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger." Me, subtle, not so much. But by God, was I feeling quick to anger now, and maybe a little scared, too. How deep did the rabbit hole at GBS go, anyway? How many "journalists" in the Mag Mile were micromanaging my casefile, scrutinizing my every move and digging into my personal history? Did I even have that much personal history out there, with the Interwebs and the surveillance cameras and my records with the CPD's Special Investigations and all that?

How long would it be before one of them started probing at someone I cared about?

Looks like that trip to GBS was getting more and more necessary.

And so, full of bottled-up fury, the wizard turned on his heel and stomped towards the Pier, his duster flapping in a westward wind off the Lake and his fist clenched tightly around his staff.

I was fairly certain that my natural magical field could blow out computers at fifty paces just by itself at this point. I didn't really care. Scared I may have been, and I still didn't know what to expect at the Pier, but a scared animal is at its most dangerous, and man, was I spoiling for a fight just then.

Just not the one that I got that day.