I blinked. Father Forthill didn't see eye-to-eye with me on the whole religion thing, but he was a decent guy. A little stuffy, maybe, but I liked him-and I owed him for favors past. "You should have said that in the first place."

"You'll take the case?" Father Vincent asked, as we headed into the parking garage.

"I want to hear the details first, but if Forthill thinks I can help, I will." I added, hastily, "My standard fees apply."

"Naturally," Father Vincent said. He toyed with the crucifix at his throat. "May I assume that you will spare me the magician rigmarole?"

"Wizard," I said.

"There's a difference?"

"Magicians do stage magic. Wizards do real magic."

He sighed. "I don't need an entertainer, Mister Dresden. Just an investigator."

"And I don't need you to believe me, padre. Just to pay me. We'll get along fine."

He gave me an uncertain look and said, "Ah."

We reached my car, a battered old Volkswagen Bug named the Blue Beetle. It has what some people would call "character" and what I would call lots of mismatched replacement parts. The original car may have been blue, but now it had pieces of green, white, and red VWs grafted onto it in place of the originals as they got damaged in one way or another. The hood had to be held down with a piece of hanger wire to keep it from flipping up when the car jounced, and the front bumper was still smashed out of shape from last summer's attempt at vehicular monster slaughter. Maybe if Vincent's job paid well, I'd be able to get it fixed.

Father Vincent blinked at the Beetle and asked, "What happened?"

"I hit trees."

"You drove your car into a tree?"

"No. Trees, plural. And then a Dumpster." I glanced at him self-consciously and added, "They were little trees."

His uncertain look deepened to actual worry. "Ah."

I unlocked my door. Not that I was worried about anyone stealing my car. I once had a car thief offer to get me something better for a sweetheart rate. "I guess you want to give me the details somewhere a little more private?"

Father Vincent nodded. "Yes, of course. If you could take me to my hotel, I have some photographs and-"

I heard the scuff of shoes on concrete in time for me to catch the gunman in my peripheral vision as he rose from between a pair of parked cars one row over. Dim lights gleamed on the gun, and I threw myself across the hood of the Beetle, away from him. I crashed into Father Vincent, who let out a squeak of startled surprise, and the pair of us tumbled to the ground as the man started shooting.