“Not if you were defending yourself,” Murphy grated.

“In a fair world, maybe,” I said. “As it is, if there’s no one but outfit goons there, two guys with records and a known association, both of them wounded, the cops are going to assume that they quarreled and shot each other. Two bad guys go away, you keep your job, and I don’t get pulled off of this case—which is the same thing as getting killed.” I glanced aside at her. “Who loses?”

Murphy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she said, “Everyone loses, Harry. The law is there to protect everyone. It’s supposed to apply equally to everyone.”

I sighed and paid attention to the road. I’d drive for a few minutes to be sure we were in the clear, and then circle back to Michael’s place. “That’s wishful thinking, Murph, and you know it. Pretty sure Marcone’s lawyers love that attitude.”

“The law isn’t perfect,” she replied quietly. “But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try to make it work.”

“Do me a favor,” I said.

“What?”

“Hold your nose shut, put on a Philadelphia accent, and say, ‘I am the law.’”

Murphy snorted and shook her head. I glanced aside at her. Her face was pale with pain, her eyes a little glassy. Her left arm was wrapped up in what looked like strips torn from Molly’s T-shirt.

I checked the rearview. My apprentice was, indeed, wearing nothing but a green lace bra under her winter coat. She was crouched down with both arms around Mouse, her face buried in his snow-frosted fur.

“Hey, back there,” I said. “Anyone hurt?”

Mouse yawned, but Molly checked him over anyway. “No. We’re both fine.”

“Cool,” I said. I looked over my shoulder for a second to give Molly a smile. “Nice veil back there. Fast as hell. You did good, grasshopper.”

Molly beamed at me. “Did my face look like that when you did that little ball-of-fire thing to me?”

“I prefer to think of it as a little ball of sunshine,” I said. “And you were stoic compared to that guy, grasshopper. You did a good job too, furface,” I told Mouse. “I owe you one.”

Mouse opened his mouth in a doggy grin and wagged his tail. It thumped against Molly, scattering a little snow against bare skin. She yelped and burst into a laugh.

Murphy and I traded a look. If the gunman had squeezed the trigger a hundredth of a second sooner or later, Murphy would be dead. The blast could have taken her in the head or neck, or torn into an artery. Without Mouse I’d probably be dead, too. And if they’d gotten me and Murphy, I doubted they’d have left Molly behind to testify against them.

That one had been close—no supernatural opposition necessary. Molly might not realize that yet, but Murphy and I did.

“How’s the arm, Murph?” I asked quietly.

“Just hit muscle,” she said, closing her eyes. “It hurts like hell, but it isn’t going to kill me.”