by Peter Hartog
“Show me.”
Moonbeam pointed at the window facing Peck Slip, opposite the stage where a few recliners and small tables rested. I realized there weren’t as many advertisements plastered to the glass on that side, offering a much cleaner view of the street.
“Did you see them leave?” I asked.
Moonbeam shook her head, handing some frothy concoction to a bearded young man dressed in baggy jeans. He glared at me, annoyed I’d taken so much of Moonbeam’s time. I flashed the badge, with the words “Fuck off” written plainly on my face. He scowled, took his coffee, and mumbled an apology. Deacon would’ve been proud.
“No,” she replied. “Once the first act was done, I got stuck behind the counter full-time.”
“Do you have security cameras in here?” I asked.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “We have two, and they’re shit. Except for the coffee makers, Armin would rather die than pay to get anything fixed around here. And, like, don’t get me started on salary!”
Moonbeam’s voice faded as I concentrated on the case. Who was our mystery friend with the ponytail? What was her relationship to Vanessa? Last night wasn’t a chance meeting. Did the murderer pick Vanessa up outside Armin’s? Did he follow her to the Metro station? Was he already on the mass transit pod when she stepped aboard? And where had Vanessa been going? Her Bay Ridge brownstone was nowhere near the Financial District.
I didn’t think there was anything more I would learn from Moonbeam. We needed to catch up with Deacon. I maneuvered through the crowded floor and stepped onto the stage with Armin and Besim.
“…and I’m thinking at least Friday and Saturday night for the next month and a half until Thanksgiving,” Armin was saying to Besim.
I coughed loudly, pushing past the little man.
“Time to go,” I said in a preemptory tone. Besim nodded and gathered up her coat.
“But we’re talking business here,” Armin harrumphed in indignation. “Let’s go back to my office and we can—"
“Showtime’s over,” I snapped at him, then steered Besim by the elbow and out the door.
Back in the pod, I instructed EVI to head over to Hughes, then collapsed into one of the command seats. Besim resumed her place with hands folded in her lap and a stoic expression on her face. It was like being observed by a cat.
“Care to explain that one?” I asked casually. “Or was that another distraction?”
I think she blushed, but I couldn’t tell because of the miles of makeup covering her cheeks.
“It was not my intention as such,” she replied, sounding abashed. “I have not produced any new music in quite some time. I had harbored hope no one would recognize me, given the hour of our visit. I presumed the coffeehouse would be lightly-attended, thus reducing the chances. I was…mistaken. It was a very foolish decision. I regret causing you any consternation.”
I was about to bite back with a scathing retort, annoyed at not knowing anything about Besim, why I was saddled with her, and wondering why the universe saw fit to make me a babysitter with a badge. But something clicked inside my head, and not because I had rammed it against an immovable object.
“The Nabira-Shas forbids you to pursue the arts or music or anything like that, doesn’t it?”
She nodded, head bowed.
“Is that the real reason why you colored your hair?” I asked, genuinely curious. “It’s more than just a ‘pursuit of inscrutable questions.’”
Besim raised her head to regard me.
“It is one among many, Detective Holliday,” she replied softly. “I have lived many cycles, beyond a normal human’s lifespan. I have experienced many…things…in my time on your world. I have discovered there is more to…life…than obeying the strictures of any caste.”
“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you’re in Empire City, and not back home, right?” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “This enclave is built on difference. Back in the day, Ellis Island took in thousands of immigrants from all over the world. The ‘land of opportunity.’”
Besim nodded again. “I have read the history of this country. It gladdens me such places exist, despite its violent past.”
“Well, we’re still a violent race,” I said dryly, slouching in the chair. “That hasn’t changed in thousands of years.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Besim smiled.
“For what?” I sat up in surprise.
“For your understanding,” she said.
“Well, the next time you’re worried about being recognized, please let me know before we arrive, okay?” I growled, but without heat. “The more information I have, the happier I’ll be.”
“Of course,” Besim replied. Her expression became business-like. “I shall endeavor to be more forthcoming in the future. What did you learn from the barista?”
I recapped Moonbeam’s recollection of Vanessa and Miss Ponytail (because Ponytailed Bitch seemed a bit much, and I was feeling magnanimous) from the night before.
“Perhaps it is her Aunt Jennifer?” Besim suggested.
“I thought of that, but Aunt Jenny’s image doesn’t jibe with Moonbeam’s description,” I said, shaking my head.
“Could you not have a sketch artist sit with the barista and obtain a likeness?”
“Moonbeam didn’t get a good look at Miss Ponytail,” I replied, then quickly added, “But it’s a good suggestion.”
See? I can be nice sometimes.
“There are many things I do not understand about this case,” Besim said, brow furrowed.
“You and me both, sister,” I muttered.
I left my chair to pour myself more coffee, offering Besim some in the process, then settled back in my seat.
“We don’t have enough information to make any kind of educated guesses at this point,” I stated. “However, there’s still Vanessa’s place. Hopefully, Deacon picked up something at Hughes to help us see the bigger picture.”
Besim held the coffee in both hands before her mouth, as if somehow testing the flavor before it touched her lips.
“Is this always how your investigations are handled?” she asked.
“It’s pretty typical,” I replied. “I spend a lot of time talking to people, reading the reports from the crime scene team, collating the data, and connecting the dots. It would’ve been nice to have a crime scene team do some of this bloody legwork for us, but the hands-on approach with witnesses and potential witnesses almost always falls to me.”
“William indicated to me the Special Crimes Unit would be short on funding at its inception,” Besim said. “It is my understanding he has also, how do you say, ‘cashed in a few favors.’ Apparently, the mayor and district attorney are skeptical of this unit’s efficacy and are unwilling to allocate additional funding until it is proven to be so.”
No surprise there. It doesn’t matter what century you’re in, or how advanced your society might be, so long as there’s red tape to deal with they’ll fuck you up every time, and twice on Tuesdays.
“Yeah, well that makes three of us, then. We’re technically off the books. We still have EVI, although that damn explosion is bad timing. What are the odds? Poor girl.” I patted the console fondly.
She glanced at me over the cup of coffee. “Would not using your ability assist in our endeavor?”
I flushed, narrowing my eyes. First Deacon and Mahoney, and now her. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it pissed me off all the same.
“Right now, it’s not necessary.”
“I do not mean to offend, Detective Holliday. But when will it be necessary?”
“When I’m damn well ready to use it, that’s when. None of you have any idea what using the Insight does to me. You look at me on a report, analyze my capabilities, and say ‘Hey, that’s a handy thing to have. He should use it all the time to fight crime and be a superhero!’ Well, this doesn’t work that way, okay? Some ‘gifts’ just have their own price.”
&
nbsp; Chapter 12
“Waste of time,” Deacon declared as we made our soggy way back to the pod. “I interviewed Vanessa’s boss and all of her co-workers. Vanessa clocked into work around eight. Ate lunch at her workstation. She was a diligent employee, well-liked, and never took a sick day. She was an artist. Loved animals. Just a bunch of shit we already know.”
Deacon’s heavy boots plodded through a large puddle, spraying two men in business suits. He returned their glares with an innocent smile.
“Her desk ain’t got no personal items ‘cause her employer don’t allow none,” he continued. “They said it ‘interferes with the creative process,’ whatever the fuck that means. Anyway, our vic never socialized outside the office with co-workers. Just kept to herself. Described her as pleasant, nice, and professional.”
As we entered the pod, Deacon noticed the uneasy silence between Besim and me.
“Who pissed in your grits, Holliday?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
I ignored him, instead murmuring instructions to EVI as I sat at the console.
Besim sat behind me, her face a neutral mask. Deacon took the other command chair and lit a cigarette.
“Armin’s a dead end?” He studied me, blowing smoke in my face.
I waved the smoke away in irritation and summarized what we’d learned, including Besim’s impromptu performance. It irked me still, and I didn’t bother hiding my annoyance. The former Protector’s demeanor shifted from mild amusement to sharp intensity.
“You found your voice, Saranda?” he asked.
“I did not,” she replied with a hint of melancholy.
The two stared at one another, and something unspoken passed between them. I’d never encountered telepathy before, but the hair on the back of my neck stood up all the same. When the moment passed, I sensed the break in whatever connection they had shared.
What the hell was the deal with the three of them, anyway?
I understood Mahoney’s motivations—a murdered family, and the stench of the supernatural at the heart of it. He needed to settle the score with the universe, so he chose the scumbags of Empire City as his punching bags, even if that meant doing it from the sidelines. But I still couldn’t figure out why these two were with him, despite what Besim had said earlier.
With EVI at half-mast, I couldn’t waste resources looking them up, either. I had taken the job to remind myself I could still do it, and because I was tired of being stuck in a rut. But there was something else, an indefinable feeling growing inside of me that I was meant to be a part of Special Crimes. I’d explore that later. For now, the murder investigation was my top priority. Regardless of their respective agendas, I had to get used to the idea of working with these two. The alternative was unemployment, and I wasn’t interested in looking for another job anytime soon.
“Vanessa has a friend,” Deacon proclaimed, breaking into my thoughts. “Natalie Bonner, from college. Holliday, once you pull your head out of your ass, have EVI bring up Natalie’s bio so we can get a look at her.”
“All right.” I bit back a snarky comment of my own. “EVI, get me whatever you have on Natalie Bonner, and put it on screen.”
“Accessing,” EVI replied. She sounded like she had just woken up from an all-night bender.
The display darkened as Natalie Bonner’s profile materialized before us. Attractive, with long brown hair and matching eyes, a dimple and full mouth. I scanned the information, noting her address and place of employment. I tried to picture Natalie in a ponytail, then recalled Moonbeam describing Vanessa’s companion as shorter. Natalie was five-foot-eight, which was two inches less than Vanessa. If Moonbeam thought two inches was a lot, it was possible Natalie might’ve been with Vanessa Sunday night. I looked forward to speaking with Miss Bonner.
But there was someone else I needed to see first.
“Hey Holliday, Empire City got its own street cameras?” Deacon asked, interrupting my thoughts again.
He was good at doing that.
“Yep,” I replied, suppressing a yawn.
I glanced at the time on the display. It was nearing noon. The morning had slipped by, the light creeping toward a murky, rain-filled afternoon.
“Then you got facial recognition programs. Think EVI could take a crack at that?”
I moved to the dispenser and refilled my mug.
“Facial recognition isn’t as effective as you might think,” I replied after a long swig, burying my irritation in favor of the case. “Sometimes those cameras don’t function very well. And then you’re talking about hundreds of unfiltered images within several blocks of the crime scene multiplied by the same amount surrounding Armin’s, Hughes, Vanessa’s place, you name it. Even with EVI collating and analyzing the images at her full capacity, there are just too many variables.”
“Such as?” Deacon asked, tapping out a cigarette and firing up a new one.
“Lighting, the weather, orientation and angle of the face,” Besim chimed in. “As well as debris on the camera lenses.”
“Right.” I nodded curtly at her, then sat down. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
Besim gave me a placid look but didn’t respond.
“Not to mention facial anomalies, cheek angles, cosmetic surgery, out-of-date or doctored enclave IDs, people wearing masks or hats, you name it.” I sipped at my coffee, then gestured toward Natalie’s information. “The Global Population Database is filled with false information. As for EVI, she’s good, but she’s not that good, and right now she’s not even close to mediocre. And don’t get me started on civil liberties and invasion of privacy issues. That shit is a bag full of cats.”
“Well, I don’t reckon Vanessa really gives a damn about her privacy, being dead and all,” Deacon remarked, flicking a tail of ash from the cigarette. “But I see your point. Still, y’all have it so much easier up here, Holliday. I tell you what, it’s a helluva lot different down in Birmingham, that’s for damn sure. Fuck your civil liberties, Citizen, ‘cause the Church don’t give two shits about them. They ain’t gonna save your eternal soul.”
“Never been to Birmingham,” I said.
“Oh, it ain’t so bad really, s’long as you don’t break no Church laws,” Deacon replied pleasantly.
“Sounds swell,” I chuckled.
“It’s just different, is all. Folks find their way to Birmingham, despite that. Called there, I reckon.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Nah,” Deacon drawled, tapping his foot against the bottom of the console. “Born and raised in Mercy, population one hundred and seventy-six. Or was it seventy-seven? Anyway, it’s about ninety-seven miles southwest of the capital. You might like it, Holliday. It’s got dirt roads, acres of farmland, and damn good fishing. I was a Protector there for eleven years. Spent the last seven after that abroad. Met Saranda when I did a couple jobs for Scotland Yard. She offered me work, and I’ve been on the payroll ever since.”
My eyes widened in surprise.
“I thought you worked for Mahoney?”
“Nope,” he laughed, amused at my reaction.
“I offered William the services of my personal head of security,” Besim answered. “I knew he would find Deacon’s particular skill set useful in the vetting process of potential Special Crimes candidates. Deacon is well-versed in the art of interrogation and information-gathering, as well as threat assessment and mitigation. I wished for William to be successful, and there are few better than Deacon in this regard.”
Now that was a twist. The color rose in my cheeks as my irritation went up a notch.
“I find myself apologizing to you for a great many things today, Detective Holliday,” Besim said, tilting her head to one side. “Everything that I have done has been to the benefit of William and the Special Crimes Unit. I assure you, my intentions are for the greater good.”
“Sure.” I stood up, glaring at the consultant. “Is there anything else you’ve neglected to mention?”
; Besim appeared troubled, as if she were going to respond, but Deacon interrupted her.
“Back off, Holliday. We’re here to help, that’s all. Simple as that.”
“Nothing is ever simple,” I muttered angrily.
Deacon shrugged again and turned away to gaze out the window. Besim sat in-between, separating us, yet separate herself.
As the pod whisked along the ‘way, I noted other pods along different tracks from ours. They bled through the shadows and fog, some of them remote blips heading toward destinations unknown. The misty city glowed brighter in response, pinpoints of scarlet and gold and blue and violet from windows and towers, holographic billboards, and other vehicles.
We arrived at our destination a half hour later. EVI’s garbled announcement came out as a halting series of squawks, squeals and vowels. I grabbed an umbrella and moved to the hatch. I didn’t offer one to either Deacon or Besim. I knew it was juvenile, but I didn’t care.
“Where are we?” Deacon asked.
“Little Odessa,” came my laconic reply. “Brighton Beach.”
The old neighborhood wasn’t pretty, even in good light. Thick metal support beams held the nearby mass transit pod tracks above the street. A multi-segmented pod surged past, its down-blast sweeping the air around us with a loud whoosh. Ground traffic was sparse. A few beat-up old patchwork automobiles, powered by a blend of volatile chemicals, chugged their way along the pitted paved roads. Nexus energy fueled the sleeker vehicles in the better parts of the enclave. Down here, though, one of those cars rolling by meant it had been stolen from somewhere else.
When a sharp explosion blew out of the rear exhaust of a passing car, I jumped, reaching for my gun. Deacon assumed a defensive stance, with Besim behind him. We exchanged a sheepish look.
“Nice place,” Deacon commented, raking the cars and neighborhood with a calculating glare. “You come here a lot?”
“Not as much as I should,” I replied without further explanation, and headed down the block.
