vs darby phone

He beat us to a comparatively empty side hallway that led back to ground-floor guest rooms and elevators. By the time we got into the clear, the elevator doors had opened. Murphy hurried forward and shot a glance over her shoulder at me, then jerked her chin at the elevators.
I grinned. There are times when I hate it that technology has such problems operating around wizards. And then there are the times when it's sort of fan.
I made a mild effort of will, focused my thoughts on the elevators, and murmured, "Hexus." Nebulous and unseen energy fluttered down the hallway, and when the hex hit the elevators there was a sudden hiss of sparks at one edge of the panel with the call button, and an oozing smoke dribbled out a moment later. The doors started to close, then a bell went bing. The doors sprang open again. That happened a couple of more times before Murphy closed to the elevator and caught up to Darby Crane.
I slowed my pace, holding on to Mouse, and lurked several feet away, trying to blend in by reading a wall full of flyers announcing various parties at the convention.
Crane was a surprisingly good-looking man-slender, stark cheekbones, and his demeanor was more like an actor's than that of someone on the production side. His dark hair was in a short, neat cut, dark eyes deep-set and opaque, and he carried himself in a posture that read nothing but relaxed nonaggression.
Before I'd finished looking him over, I was sure that the whole thing was a calculated lie. There was cruelty lurking below the calm of his features, contempt hiding within the modest posture of his body. As Murphy approached, he stepped out of the elevator, frowning at the smoke. His eyes snapped to her, and around the hallway at once. There were several other people standing not far away, outside of a guest room with an open door.
He judged them, then Murphy for a moment, and then turned to face her, his mouth settling into a polite, bland little perjury of a smile.
"So hard to rely upon technology these days," he said, his glance moving over me as part of the background scenery. I thought. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice. "May I help you, Officer?"
"Lieutenant, actually," she told him without rancor. "My name is Karrin Murphy. I'm with..."
"Chicago Police Department Special Investigations," Crane said. "I know."
Alarm bells went off in my head. I doubted Crane would recognize it, but Murphy's stance shifted subtly, becoming more wary. "Have we met, Mr. Crane?"
"In a way. I've seen secondhand copies of the film of you gunning down a madman and some sort of animal several years ago. Very impressive, Lieutenant. Have you ever considered work in film?"
She shook her head. "I've been told the camera adds ten pounds. I have problems enough. May I take a few moments of your time, Mister Crane?"
He grinned at her, then, a grin I'm sure he meant to be boyish and flirty. The weasel. "I suppose that depends on what you intend to do with them."
Murphy studied his face for just a moment, as though in wary amusement. "I had a few questions regarding the incident here, and I hope that you can help me out with them."
"I can't imagine what I know that would help you," Crane replied. He glanced at the unmoving elevator doors and sighed. "Bother." He drew a small black cell phone from his jacket pocket, hit a button without looking, and lifted it to his ear. Then he lowered it again and frowned down at it in silence.
Hah. Take that, weasel.


Proven Guilty Chapter 21, Page 147-148