Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  My fingers froze, so tempted to replay it, to savor her sound and drown myself in her voice again. To never, ever let her go.

  I licked dry lips. My throat grew raw. The memory of her lying in the tub replayed in my mind. The blood. The glass. The silence. The loneliness. The despair.

  The drip from one of nature’s greatest creations saved me from wandering down that dark road again. I sighed heavily, then returned to the kitchen to pour myself a much-needed cup of joe. Black, sugar, no cream, deliciousness. After downing the first cup in two swigs, I poured a second before wandering back to settle in one of the lawn chairs. I stretched out my legs and kicked off my wet shoes.

  “Helluva day, Holliday,” I muttered, sipping coffee.

  I didn’t own a holo-vision. My job was depressing enough without watching the news or other reality entertainments on the hundreds of channels from which to choose. Besides, I had plenty of worlds to dive into, right at my fingertips. Built-in bookshelves lined every wall of my apartment that didn’t include a door or window, and all of them filled with books. I’d subdivided them into sections, from various annotated works of Shakespeare, to the likes of Hemingway, Dickens, Woolf, Tolstoy, Austen, Asimov, Wilkie Collins, Harper Lee, James Joyce, and Rowling. And I’d read them all more than twice. Most had been collected with the help of Abner. We had scoured the enclave searching for these belletristic treasures. With much of the United States desolated by nukes, sickness and famine, a lot had been lost. Abner and I had done our small part in protecting humanity’s precious literary past.

  A muffled crash followed by two voices raised in anger shattered my brief moment of calm. The Slotnicks in 33b were at it again, their shouting match now an unfortunate nightly ritual. The thin apartment walls barely contained what they said, but I’d grown used to it. However, after today, my patience ran thin. I grimaced, then wiggled my fingers over the holo-rig’s control panel activating my music library. With a quick glance at the current selection, Chopin’s Piano Concerto Number 1 began, its dark and dramatic opening lending well to my mood while simultaneously drowning out 33b.

  Nothing was ever easy. I shrugged, then swallowed more coffee. My hand unconsciously waved to and fro in time to the piano’s beautiful rendering. Some of my calm returned, and I thought back to my first meeting with Deacon Kole.

  I’d surprised myself with how readily I had opened up to the former Protector. It was almost instinctual. I somehow knew I could trust him. Let’s face it. As a cop, I wasn’t what you’d call an open book. Hell, I had more walls than New Rikers prison! The job had a way of hardening you. And a corruption scandal wasn’t something that generated trust in your fellow man or woman, either. Still, there had been something about the character of his voice, or maybe it was his sheer presence, that had dragged the truth from me about my last night with Kate.

  As I considered the subsequent meeting with Deacon and Captain Mahoney, I realized how much I craved being back in the hunt again. I would’ve said yes to Special Crimes even if Mahoney had ordered me to parade around Manhattan in a clown suit! There was no question the 98th Precinct had sucked the life out of me. I had no future there. I didn’t think I had a future anywhere.

  “Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge.”

  Unlike Sebastian in The Tempest, I had no interest in a crown. I just wanted to be relevant again. Everything I once had got flushed down the shitter after the corruption probe and my turn in rehab. Like I’d said to Deacon, it was old news. But that didn’t stop me from reminiscing. Solving murders changed people’s lives, not always for the better, but those cases had given me direction. They’d given me a purpose, something I’d lost along the way. Well, maybe Special Crimes was my ticket back? I’d always believed in second chances. Maybe it was my turn?

  Or, maybe, that’s what the Insight was all about?

  The fickle clairvoyance was an enigma that I’d rolled around in my mind ever since I had started viewing the world in a much different light. It was no secret that every person carried hidden baggage. The Insight allowed me to see all of theirs, right down to the color, brand, and name on their bag tag. It had showed me things I never would have imagined. And the depth of its power frightened me. Only idiots weren’t scared of magic. Still, after all the shit I’d been through, I like to think I’d learned my lesson. The Insight could easily be abused. Yet, I’d never felt the urge. Instead, I dreaded the moment when my eyes burned with fire, and everything that followed. And I had little control over any of it.

  Oh, I’d considered its origin. Why I wielded the Insight. What made me special. Or cursed, depending on the day. Every answer I’d come up with sounded crazier than the previous one. Before I cut my wrists, I was about as normal as anyone else. But after I woke up in the hospital?

  Everything had changed.

  Before Deacon and Mahoney, only Abner and Leyla knew about the Insight. I didn’t want to freak Father Jack out, so I’d kept him in the dark. The fewer who knew about it, the better off everyone would be.

  After encountering the fetch and then meeting Deacon, I now felt different. As if this morning was the beginning of something. That the Insight had been waiting for the former Protector’s arrival, and by extension, I had as well. It was almost like an intervention, that perhaps I was finally on the right path.

  Chopin finished, but the Slotnicks hadn’t, so I let the rig randomly choose the next song. Suddenly, heavy rhythmical guitar riffs by the incomparable Jimmy Page followed by John Bonham’s powerful percussion billowed throughout my small apartment. My foot beat to the time. Someone pounded the wall. Probably Yuri Slotnick, although Miriam was no slouch. I became vaguely aware of someone yelling at me to turn down the music. Instead, I wiggled my fingers, increased the volume, leaned my head back, and touched the sky.

  Sleep overtook me, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmares were held at bay.

  Chapter 10

  No matter what you’ve read in holo-novels or seen in the movies, homicide investigations were never accomplished on empty stomachs.

  Mortie’s Kosher Delicatessen and Family Restaurant was located between Avenue U and East 28th Street in Brooklyn. It had been a pillar of the community for as long as I could remember. The handwritten signs adorning the two window fronts promised hot stuff, cold stuff, fresh stuff, homemade stuff, and pickles. The interior was cozy, big enough to accommodate ten tables and booths, and several refrigerated displays.

  My grandfather Harry used to take me to see Uncle Mortie on Sundays while my dad slept off his latest hangover. He introduced me to everything a nice half-Jewish kid from Little Odessa could want—noodle kugel with raisins, soup, black-and-white cookies, kreplach, whitefish, bagels, ten different flavors of cream cheese, and dozens of kosher cold cuts. Harry and I would nosh and kibbitz about life, the universe, and everything.

  As usual, the place was packed. We sat at a table near the back by the entrance to the bathroom.

  “Hey Doc,” Myrna called over the roar of the breakfast crowd, weaving her way through the bustling floor toward our table. “You want me to top you off?”

  Uncle Mortie’s wife carried a coffee pot in one hand and water pitcher in the other, pouring either libation at the request of her customers while carrying on three different conversations. She’d provide long-suffering commiseration and sage motherly advice, and never spilled a drop.

  “Please,” I yawned, leaning back in my chair.

  I was stuffed. Pumpernickel everything bagel with egg salad debris lay scattered across my plate.

  Deacon finished devouring his beef brisket, sopping up dark gravy with an egg roll. He made appreciative sounds, surprised a tiny place like this could crank out quality food like that.

  Besim stared at a rounded, yellowish-white, doughy dumpling parked in the middle of her plate. Her fork lurked above it, as if frozen in time.

  “And you are certain this is edible?” she asked dubiously, her brow furrowed wit
h uncertainty.

  “Bubbalah, it’s a potato knish,” Myrna chuckled as she refilled our cups. “We make the best in the enclave! You never seen one before?”

  Besim poked at the crusty exterior with her fork, tilting her head as if that angle might give her a better perspective of the food.

  “I have not.” She pursed her lips, considering the dumpling.

  Myrna laughed pleasantly, ambling away.

  “Just eat the damn thing,” Deacon grumbled between mouthfuls of food.

  Besim remained locked in indecision when EVI announced an incoming call from Stentstrom.

  “Good morning,” I chuckled warmly. “What’s up?”

  “Ah, Detective, I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” the medical examiner asked.

  I heard Beethoven’s Eroica in the background, his funereal second movement. Although Stentstrom’s voice was clear, an echo accompanied it, with each word repeated a half beat later.

  “We’re at breakfast discussing the case,” I replied.

  “Very good!” Stentstrom said. “I won’t take up too much of your mealtime. I wanted you to know I have completed a full review of Miss Mallery’s dental and health records. Her wisdom teeth, for example, grew in perfectly. Miss Mallery’s records do not list any instances of poor health, surgeries, or prescriptions other than a sleep aid.”

  I frowned at that.

  “Maybe she never bothered going to the doctor whenever she was sick? That’s unusual, but not impossible, right?”

  “Taken by itself, it is not impossible,” he stated. “However, when combined with my other findings, it is improbable. Miss Mallery had all of her immunizations, to be sure. But how many children do you know that have never been sick, or experienced a broken bone? How many who have never needed dental work, or never had a cavity once in their life? Couple that with no birthmarks, freckles or scarring of any kind, and that is highly unusual.”

  “What do you think it means?” I asked, troubled.

  “Well it certainly corroborates my observations from the initial examination,” Stentstrom chattered excitedly. “As to how or why, I still do not have any working theories, and I would rather not conjecture until I have run a few more tests. Unfortunately, I have two more examinations to perform later today, so that research will have to wait. One of them is a real humdinger of a corpse too! A young man was enjoying a noodle bowl at a Chinatown bistro when he was literally eaten from the inside out! Apparently, some of the noodles were infested with carnivorous tapeworms! It sounds absolutely fascinating!”

  “Uh, yeah, well you have fun with that,” I replied weakly. “Stay in touch.”

  We disconnected. I recapped the conversation to the others.

  “Perhaps the medical and dental records were falsified?” Besim mused.

  “Yeah, but why?” Deacon countered. “Everything we know about this girl don’t indicate nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Maybe that’s just it,” I pointed out. “Her only family lives in New Hollywood. I’ll contact her aunt and see if she can shed some light on her niece. Also, we need to talk to any friends and co-workers. Maybe someone knows her at that coffeehouse too.”

  “Reckon we can cover more ground if we split up,” Deacon suggested. “I’ll go to Hughes, while y’all head over to Armin’s.”

  “Okay.” I hesitated, looking askance at the Vellan. “Though it’d be better if Besim went with you. I work cases alone, this one being the exception, of course.”

  “Grow up, Holliday,” Deacon chuckled. “We’re a team now, so y’all can spend some quality time together.”

  During the ride to Hughes, I reached out to Vanessa’s aunt with no luck, and left her a message to call me back. Why would she ignore ECPD? Was she in trouble? When EVI was back online, I’d have her contact the European Polit Bureau to see if they could track the aunt down.

  We dropped Deacon off, then headed to Armin’s.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable, Detective Holliday?” Besim asked once we were underway.

  She took the other command chair, sitting with her back straight, and observed me with dispassionate eyes.

  “Not really,” I lied, assuming a casual tone. “Like I said before, I’m just used to working alone. I haven’t had a partner in a long time.”

  Besim considered that for a moment. “Yes, but I am not human. I suspect you have interacted with my people in the past, but it has never involved your work.”

  “I’ve met several Vellans over the years, even ate dinner with a few, in mixed company. But no, never in a work environment.”

  I stood up and began pacing the interior of the pod.

  “So, yeah, I guess this is a bit strange for me,” I continued, the words pouring out of me in a rush. “I’m investigating a murder for some new semi-clandestine unit of the ECPD. A unit, I might add, that may or may not be able to pay me. My professional record has been altered so no one knows what I’m really doing, and I’ve been given a shiny new badge, and a big gun to play with. Our victim is some girl with a perfect health record, the murderer is supposedly a bloodsucking vampire, and the two eyewitnesses were whacked out on goldjoy, so their memory of what happened is worthless.”

  I paused by the evidence table.

  “And to top it off, I’m saddled with a…civilian,” I said, some heat edging my voice. “No offense, Besim. It’s just a lot to digest in less than twenty-four hours.”

  I returned to the chair opposite the consultant.

  “Yet you chose to accept the position,” Besim pointed out. “You could have refused.”

  I offered a rueful smile. “Yeah, I’m like that sometimes.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Might I ask why?”

  “Maybe it’s because I saw a chance to turn my life around. Something I hadn’t considered since I came out of…since I joined the 98th,” I replied in a distant voice, tracing idle patterns with my fingers on the dashboard. “Or maybe it’s because there’s a dead girl who was murdered, and I have no idea why. And that kind of thing really pisses me off.”

  “I begin to understand you better, Detective Holliday.” Besim nodded. “I had doubts when William informed me of who you were, and your background. Perhaps there is wisdom in his choice after all.”

  “Gee, thanks. I think.”

  “Perhaps you should consider my feelings,” she said softly.

  I noted how still she remained with her hands folded in her lap, a neutral expression covering her face.

  “William is a good man,” Besim explained. “He sees darkness in Empire City and has chosen to stand against it. That is why I am here. Among my people, I am of the Nabira-Shas, the caste representing business and administration. It means I am more suited to a boardroom than a crime scene. I have never fired a gun or been involved in violence of any kind. I abhor violence, but I understand it is a necessity in your line of work. William approached me, asking for my assistance with the Special Crimes Unit he proposed. I did not want to at first, but he is my friend. I have very few to whom I would attach that word, but I count him among them.”

  Her eyes glistened with suppressed emotion.

  “I met William in Milan six months after he had left Empire City. What I found was a wounded soul, someone who had seen and experienced much pain and injustice. We spent the next year traveling together. While I find your race to be irrational, incorrigible and, at times, quite dangerous, I wanted to show him how the human spirit remains indomitable despite the horrors of your past. He needed to understand not all was lost to shadow, that there was still good in the world. From New London to Roma Indomita, and east into the hinterland of the Russian Conglomerates, we traveled to places where, even after all this time, humans struggle to endure. It changed him, and for the better, of that I am certain. And it changed my perspective of your race to some degree, as well.”

  She turned from me to stare out the window. The streaming lights from businesses and traffic signals blended with the stre
aking rain to accentuate her profile’s sharp features.

  “I have spent my life in search of answers to inscrutable questions,” Besim mused. “It was only recently, in the company of humans, that I have come to realize where I might find them. I have cut and colored my hair, hidden my heritage, and blasphemed my culture in this very pursuit. I have chosen to act against my caste and eschew the very foundations of my race by assisting your law enforcement in tracking down this murderer to bring them to justice.”

  As EVI announced our arrival, Besim turned back to me.

  “And, so, I find all of this,” she said with a sweeping gesture of her hand, “to be strange indeed.”

  “Well, then you’re in good company, sister,” I said with a half-smile.

  “May I freshen up before we depart, Detective Holliday?” she asked.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I watched in annoyed fascination as Besim spent the next ten minutes methodically transforming her face into something less alien. The Vellan replaced her soaked bandana with a fresh one. Her short hair was matted flat, and some of the dye she had used to darken it had bled out in spotty patches. Between the darkened clumps I caught glimpses of auburn and gold, like patches of sunlight after a thunderstorm. With her long, tapered fingers, she raked thin stragglers away from her ears and eyes to establish a semblance of order. Finally, she tied the new bandana into place and examined herself with critical care in the mirror.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Armin’s Coffee House perched on the corner of Front and Peck like a grumpy old owl in the nook of an ancient oak tree. Its storefront was a mishmash of chipped paint and loose bricks, giving it a crooked, disheveled appearance as if it had been rebuilt by a one-eyed stone mason whose hand had been tied behind his back. It anchored a series of two- and three-story buildings occupying most of the block, each separated by a fire wall, and all in equally rough condition. The businesses varied from ethnic eateries to nouveau art. There was even one of those little retail shrines dedicated to the stoned tree-huggers from the People’s Republic of Boulder.