I got on the phone and called Murphy.

"Who bought the evil beer?" Murphy asked.

"The beer isn't evil. It's a victim. And I don't recognize the name of the company. Worldclass Limited."

Keys clicked in the background as Murphy hit the Internet. "Caterers," Murphy said a moment later. "High end."

I thought of the havoc that might be about to ensue at some wedding or bar mitzvah and shuddered. "Hell's bells," I breathed. "We've got to find out where they went."

"Egad, Holmes," Murphy said in the same tone I would have said "duh."

"Yeah. Sorry. What did you get on Bassarid?"

"Next to nothing," Murphy said. "It'll take me a few more hours to get the information behind her credit card."

"No time," I said. "She isn't worried about the cops. Whoever she is, she planned this whole thing to keep her tracks covered from the likes of me."

"Aren't we full of ourselves?" Murphy grumped. "Call you right back."

She did.

"The caterers aren't available," she said. "They're working the private boxes at the Bulls game."

I rushed to the United Center.

Murphy could have blown the whistle and called in the artillery, but she hadn't. Uniformed cops already at the arena would have been the first to intervene, and if they did, they were likely to cross Bassarid. Whatever she was, she would be more than they could handle. She'd scamper or, worse, one of the cops could get killed. So Murphy and I both rushed to get there and find the bad guy before she could pull the trigger, so to speak, on the Chicago PD.

It was half an hour before the game, and the streets were packed. I parked in front of a hydrant and ran half a mile to the United Center, where thousands of people were packing themselves into the building for the game. I picked up a ticket from a scalper for a ridiculous amount of money on the way, emptying my pockets, and earned about a million glares from Bulls fans as I juked and ducked through the crowd to get through the entrances as quickly as I possibly could.

Once inside, I ran for the lowest level, the bottommost ring of concessions stands and restrooms circling entrances to the arena—the most crowded level, currently—where the entrances to the most expensive ring of private boxes were. I started at the first box I came to, knocking on the locked doors. No one answered at the first several, and at the next the door was opened by a blonde in an expensive business outfit showing a lot of décolletage who had clearly been expecting someone else.

"Who are you?" she stammered.

I flashed her my laminated consultant's ID, too quickly to be seen. "Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, ma'am," I said in my official's voice, which is like my voice only deeper and more pompous. I've heard it from all kinds of government types. "We've had a report of tainted beer. I need to check your bar, see if the bad batch is in there."

"Oh," she said, backing up, her body language immediately cooperative. I pegged her as somebody's receptionist, maybe. "Of course."

I padded into the room and went to the bar, rifling bottles and opening cabinets until I found eleven dark-brown bottles with a simple cap with an M stamped into the metal. Mac's mark.

I turned to find the blonde holding out the half-empty bottle number twelve in a shaking hand. Her eyes were a little wide. "Um. Am I in trouble?"

I might be. I took the beer bottle from her, moving gingerly, and set it down with the others. "Have you been feeling, uh, sick or anything?" I asked as I edged toward the door, just in case she came at me with a baseball bat.

She shook her head, breathing more heavily. Her manicured fingernails trailed along the V-neck of her blouse. "I… I mean, you know." Her face flushed. "Just looking forward to… the game."

"Uh-huh," I said warily.

Her eyes suddenly became warmer and very direct. I don't know what it was exactly, but she was suddenly filled with that energy women have that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with creating it. The temperature in the room felt like it went up about ten degrees. "Maybe you should examine me, sir."

I suddenly had a very different idea of what Mac had been defending himself from with that baseball bat.

And it had turned ugly on him.

Hell's bells, I thought I knew what we were dealing with.

"Fantastic idea," I told her. "You stay right here and get comfortable. I'm going to grab something sweet. I'll be back in two shakes."

"All right," she cooed. Her suit jacket slid off her shoulders to the floor. "Don't be long."

I smiled at her in what I hoped was a suitably sultry fashion and backed out. Then I shut the door, checked its frame, and focused my will into the palm of my right hand. I directed my attention to one edge of the door and whispered, "Forzare."

Metal squealed as the door bent in its frame. With any luck, it would take a couple of guys with crowbars an hour or two to get it open again—and hopefully Bubbles would pitch over into a stupor before she did herself any harm.

It took me three more doors to find one of the staff of Worldclass Limited—a young man in dark slacks, a white shirt, and a black bow tie, who asked if he could help me.

I flashed the ID again. "We've received a report that a custom microbrew your company purchased for this event has been tainted. Chicago PD is on the way, but meanwhile I need your company to round up the bottles before anyone else gets poisoned drinking them."

The young man frowned. "Isn't it the Bureau?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. It's a Bureau."

Hell's bells, why did I get someone who could think now?

"Can I see that ID again?" he asked.

"Look, buddy," I said. "You've gotten a bad batch of beer. If you don't round it up, people are going to get sick. Okay? The cops are on the way, but if people start guzzling it now, it isn't going to do anybody any good."

He frowned at me.

"Better safe than sorry, right?" I asked him.

Evidently, his ability to think did not extend to areas beyond asking stupid questions of well-meaning wizards. "Look, uh, really you should take this up with my boss."

"Then get me to him," I said. "Now."

The caterer might have been uncertain, but he wasn't slow. We hurried through the growing crowds to one of the workrooms that his company was using as a staging area. A lot of people in white shirts were hurrying all over the place with carts and armloads of everything from crackers to cheese to bottles of wine—and a dozen of Mac's empty wooden boxes were stacked up to one side of the room.

My guide led me to a harried-looking woman in catering wear, who listened to him impatiently and cut him off halfway through. "I know, I know," she snapped. "Look, I'll tell you what I told Sergeant Murphy. A city health inspector is already here, and they're already checking things out, and I am not losing my contract with the arena over some pointless scare."

"You already talked to Murphy?" I said.

"Maybe five minutes ago. Sent her to the woman from the city, over at midcourt."

"Tall woman?" I asked, feeling my stomach drop. "Blue-black hair? Uh, sort of busty?"

"Know her, do you?" The head caterer shook her head. "Look, I'm busy."

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks."

I ran back into the corridor and sprinted for the boxes at midcourt, drawing out my blasting rod as I went and hoping I would be in time to do Murphy any good.

A few years ago, I'd given Murphy a key to my apartment, in a sense. It was a small amulet that would let her past the magical wards that defend the place. I hadn't bothered to tell her that the thing had a second purpose—I'd wanted her to have one of my personal possessions, something I could, if necessary, use to find her if I needed to do it. She would have been insulted at the very idea.