Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  “Yeah, okay,” she nodded, throwing her arms out to stretch. “I figure you wouldn’t want me to turn them into popsicles anyway.”

  I chuckled and exited the pod accompanied by Besim and Deacon.

  A solid breeze kicked up, blowing cold rain in my face. I raised the collar of my blazer. Other than the occasional passing car or the distant thrum of a pod, the neighborhood slumbered.

  A night doorman stood beneath the canopy leading into the building. He was younger than Phelps, looking a little rough around the edges, which I suppose wasn’t a bad thing. Although what kind of trouble you’d expect to find in a cozy neighborhood like this was anyone’s guess. Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

  “Can I help you?” the night doorman asked in a surly voice, eyeing us warily.

  “Police business, pal,” I answered, producing my silver badge. It gleamed with ghostly light, illuminating his nametag which read “Donovan.” “So, if you would please let us through, I’d appreciate it.”

  Donovan gave it a thought, grunted, and unlocked the door to let us inside. There was no sign of Romero or Stanley, other than an empty card table and two chairs. A half-eaten sandwich and chips cluttered one end. I frowned and looked back at Donovan. He had resumed his post.

  Something was off.

  “What is it?” Deacon asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied absently, then moved across the narrow foyer toward the open elevator.

  “Must be interesting, being a doorman and all,” Deacon commented as we piled inside. I tapped the holo-screen for Julie’s floor, and the elevator hummed. “Probably seen all kinds of shit coming in and out of this place.”

  A moment later, the door opened. I stepped out.

  The hallway was empty.

  I raised my hand in warning and drew the SMART gun with the other. Besim and Deacon held their position. The gun was lightweight and warm to the touch, and I felt the connection activate through the implant in my head.

  “Safety off,” I murmured. “Load standard rounds.”

  “Confirmed,” came the hollow reply in my ear.

  “What’s the play?” Deacon asked softly.

  “Hang on,” I replied. “EVI, give me the location and status for Stanley and Romero.”

  “Accessing,” she said.

  Half a heartbeat later, she confirmed the two men were in the building.

  “Detective Holliday, their vital signs no longer register.”

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Adrenaline surged through me as my heart rate accelerated, but I managed my breathing and remained cool and calm. I studied the thin carpeting on the floor. Faint scuff outlines in the material revealed something had been dragged away from the elevator. No sounds from a holo-vision, music, or voices from any of the apartments. Other than the buzzing from the antique torch lamps along the walls, and the occasional thrum of the elevator machinery, it was quiet.

  I crept down the hallway following the drag marks, glancing back to see Deacon a few feet behind blanketing Besim. She seemed distracted, and I realized Besim must be concentrating on her other senses. The marks led to the apartment two doors down from Julie’s. There was no welcome mat nor any other sign someone lived there.

  “Lemon, Nitroglycerin,” Besim stated succinctly, tilting her head with a meaningful glance at the door. “And something else.” She gave us a stricken look.

  I tested the door handle. It was unlocked. Deacon and Besim stood to the side as I turned the handle and pushed, gun at the ready.

  Stanley and Romero lay in a pool of dark crimson several feet inside the apartment. The fresh scent of lemon mingled with the sickeningly sweet metallic tang of blood.

  “They were both shot from behind at close range,” I noted with professional detachment, scanning the bodies with my eyes, then the darkened apartment.

  Other than the corpses, it was empty. I had a feeling the other apartments weren’t occupied, either.

  “Their guns are holstered,” I continued. “And judging from the wound splatter, they were led in here and shot.”

  “Tony?” Deacon supplied.

  “Maybe,” I replied, feeling uneasy.

  Just then, the elevator dinged out in the hallway. Somebody had arrived.

  “Get behind me,” I hissed, ushering Deacon and Besim into the apartment. I edged the door open enough to peer out, gun held close.

  I heard their approach before seeing them. Donovan crept in a half-crouch past the crack in the door armed with a .9mm capped by a suppressor. Three beats behind him stalked a bald, black man, tall and muscular, also carrying a .9mm. He wore a grey uniform with a patch on the back that read “Quality.” Each step they made was deliberate and wary. As the Quality man passed our door, I braced myself. He paused, head cocked to the side. I held my breath. He resumed moving.

  I shivered. A droplet of cold sweat seeped slowly down my spine. Taking short, shallow breaths, I gripped the gun tighter.

  “EVI, dispatch backup to my position ASAP,” I instructed through the neural communication we shared, describing the two men in quick detail.

  “Order confirmed, Detective,” EVI replied. “ETA is nine minutes.”

  I wasn’t sure if we’d still be around in five minutes, let alone nine, but played the odds anyway. I had no doubt these two were our cleaners, which meant they held answers I wanted. The trick was finding a way to incapacitate them without getting us all killed in the process. We were trapped inside the apartment, but we also possessed the element of surprise. And if I was right, the only innocent people remaining on this floor were behind me.

  Glancing at Deacon, I held up two fingers, then three. He nodded once.

  I whispered the count, then pushed out into the hallway.

  “ECPD, assholes,” I shouted and opened fire, not waiting for a reply. I figured they’d already waived their rights the moment they showed up armed.

  The bullet hit Donovan behind the knee, but I missed the other guy.

  Even worse, the recoil from the SMART gun’s discharge took me by surprise and knocked me against the wall. Somehow, I managed to keep my grip on it. Dazed, I watched Donovan collapse to the floor clutching at his leg, screaming in pain. He dropped his gun, but the other cleaner didn’t hesitate, drawing a bead on me with his as I blinked stupidly at my handiwork.

  “Gun!” Deacon warned.

  He leapt past me, grappling at the cleaner’s wrist. As they struggled, the gun went off several times, spraying bullets down the hallway. I ducked as bits of plaster rained on my head. Deacon drove the cleaner to the carpet, leveling punches to the man’s face. But the cleaner was tough and strong, absorbing the blows. He blocked Deacon’s next strike with a meaty forearm. Using his shoulder, he slammed the former Protector against the opposite wall, winding him. Deacon staggered, lifting his arms, but he was too slow. Quality struck him in the face, then punched him in the gut. Deacon collapsed to the floor.

  Finally, I came to my senses, ears echoing badly. I felt like I was moving through mud. Despite his wound, Donovan lurched to his gun and scooped it up. His partner brought his to bear, training it on me. I had to do something now, or we were all dead.

  “Don’t,” I threatened, raising the SMART gun.

  They didn’t listen.

  And I didn’t miss.

  It happened so fast. One moment they were in motion.

  And in the next, they were dead.

  I stared blindly at the bodies of the two men I’d killed. A cold weight settled in my stomach.

  “Nice shooting, Holliday,” Deacon wheezed as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Those fellas weren’t interested in getting caught, that’s for damn sure.”

  He shook his right hand out a few times, the knuckles scraped and bloody.

  “No, they weren’t,” I replied hoarsely, aware Besim had moved into the hallway with us.

  I passed a trembling hand over my face, ignoring the look of concern she gave me. The adrenaline rush faded. Sand wei
ghed down my arms and legs.

  For some people, killing was easy, but not for me. I understood it came with the job, and was necessary when the situation called for it, like it did just now.

  But I don’t like it.

  And I’ll never get used to it.

  Ever.

  “Had to be done,” Deacon said as he gingerly bent over each body, rifling through their pockets. “A damn shame, too, ‘cause we ain’t learning shit from these fake IDs they got.”

  He tossed me two enclave identification holo-cards, stood, and exchanged a glance with Besim. I studied the images.

  “Donovan Fleming and Cecil Darby,” I read, then pocketed the cards. “Well, when the uniforms get here, I’ll have an officer pull their prints. See if they show up in any of our databases.”

  “Where are the other tenants?” Besim asked, looking around.

  None of the doors opened during the fight, confirming my suspicion the floor was vacant.

  “Ain’t nobody living here, Saranda.” Deacon spat a gob of blood onto the floor in disgust. His eyes blazed with fury. “This whole fucking place is a trap. We’ve been had, Holliday.”

  I nodded mutely.

  “Officers have arrived, and are on their way to your position,” EVI announced. “Will you require medical assistance?”

  “No, we’re fine,” I instructed in a cold voice. “Call the coroner’s office. We need some bags.”

  I moved to Julie’s door. It was ajar, and an incongruent thought leapt into my muddled head of an old riddle involving a door that wasn’t a door. I pushed it open anyway, not bothering to announce my presence.

  The interior was dark. Holstering the gun, I strode into the apartment, Besim on my heels, and Deacon not far behind. The smell of gunshot, blood, piss, and shit greeted us as we entered the living room, but no lemon freshener.

  “Fuck me,” Deacon swore.

  Tony Marrazzo slumped in a chair.

  I crossed the room and lifted his head.

  A small hole had been blown into his skull.

  Chapter 19

  My earpiece buzzed as I pressed against one wall to let two men from the medical examiner’s office pass.

  “Doc are you okay?” Leyla’s tinny voice sounded nervous.

  “We’re fine,” I replied, heaving a heavy sigh. I kept my voice low and filled her in on what happened.

  “Jesus,” she breathed. “Things just got serious.”

  “They already were,” I stated grimly. “Sit tight. We’ll be out soon. Anything from the tracker?”

  “No, not yet,” Leyla said. “It’s going to be slow, though. The signal’s bounced a bunch of times already! I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  We hung up.

  I was at the center of a maelstrom. ECPD and PIS milled around poking at furniture, scanning for prints, and searching every cabinet and closet. It was surreal watching them, as if I weren’t the one handling the investigation. I guess in a way, I wasn’t. It’d been years since I was last involved in a gunfight, and it took several minutes for my body and brain to settle down. The splitting headache from the gun’s discharge dimmed to a dull throb.

  I stood outside Julie’s bedroom. The faint remnant of her pleasant-smelling perfume clung to the air. But where was she now? Had she left the apartment of her own free will? The apartment didn’t contain the scent of cleaning fluid which meant the cleaners never stepped foot inside here. And the bullet hole in Tony’s head suggested a small handgun, something that could’ve been kept in a purse. Had Julie killed him? This case was getting murkier by the hour.

  An honest-looking, plain-clothes detective from the Police Involved Shooting Unit named John Fredericks stepped up to me. I didn’t know him. He had a dark face and darker eyes. Fredericks asked me to go over what happened in the hallway. His eyes glittered with the tell-tale signs of EVI recording my statement.

  Mahoney had said SCU would be off the official books, but after my OK Corral lovefest with the cleaners, our unit’s clandestine status was out of the bag now. With the way this investigation had progressed so far, that was the least of my worries.

  “No sign of a struggle, nothing broken,” Fredericks observed as his eyes swept over Tony and the room. “GSW from a revolver, maybe a .38? And, to confirm, this relates to the Vanessa Mallery murder you’re investigating? I checked with EVI, and you’re not on record, Detective.”

  “Run it by Captain Bill Mahoney, then,” I said. “He’ll vouch for me.”

  Fredericks nodded, and after a silent moment of consulting with EVI, he regarded me with renewed interest. “You’ve been cleared. And I was told to let you do your job. You’ve got friends in high places, Detective. So, who were these two?”

  “Tony here and his missing girlfriend were the eyewitnesses.” I gave him the bare bones, enough to justify my role in things, but my mind was elsewhere.

  I studied Tony, slack-jawed and staring at nothing. Was that a look of shock on his face, or fear?

  “So, kidnapping is off the table?” Fredericks asked.

  “Hold that thought,” I replied.

  My eyes strayed over to the wine rack underneath the breakfast bar. A bottle was missing from the lowest rack, and I had a damn good idea which one.

  “EVI, please upload Julie DeGrassi’s image to Detective Fredericks here,” I said aloud. “Put out a BOLO and let everyone know she’s now a person of interest for both the Vanessa Mallery case and the murder of Tony Marrazzo.”

  Fredericks’ eyes glazed over as he received the data. Seconds later, he regained focus and nodded at me.

  “Thanks,” Fredericks said. He gestured at all the activity around us. “Must be a nice change from working a desk, eh, Detective?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I know who you are,” Fredericks replied. “Or, who you were. Heard you’re with the 98th, though. You get a transfer?”

  “Um, yeah, something like that,” I replied evasively.

  Fredericks chuckled, taking note of my discomfort.

  “I was a first-year at the Academy when all that shit went down about you,” he explained. “Back then, me and a bunch of the guys thought you were a modern-day cowboy, making collars and bustin’ heads. It’s kinda funny to say now, especially with you standing right here, but we looked up to you. Even followed your cases, figuring we could learn a thing or two. Maybe somehow make us better cops, y’know?”

  “Yeah, well, I never wanted to be a role model,” I mumbled. “I was just trying to do my job.”

  I stood there, bracing for the punchline. It never came.

  “You used to be a helluva cop,” Fredericks said with a scowl. “It was a damn shame what happened to you back then. We still think you got a bum rap. I’m glad to see you’re back on your feet and working cases again. I’ll let ‘em all know I ran into you.”

  A strange feeling swept over me, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  “Yeah, well, shit happens, right?” I replied with a half-smile, rubbing the back of my neck. “Look Fredericks, I appreciate what you said, I really do. But I’ve got a fugitive to find, and the trail is getting colder by the minute.”

  “I understand, but I’ve still got some more questions for you,” Fredericks said, all business again. “It’ll only take a few more minutes.”

  “Your people can handle this,” I said in an even tone. “In the meantime, we’re leaving.”

  Excusing myself, I pushed past him and stormed from the apartment beneath a dark cloud. Besim was on her holo-phone. Deacon thanked the paramedic attending him. The Confederate caught my look, then steered Besim by her elbow down the hallway toward the elevator. I watched two techs lift Romero’s corpse into a vinyl bag. Romero had been my friend. The cleaners might’ve killed him, but my credits were on Julie behind what went down here.

  A cold anger surged through me.

  I’m on to you now, bitch.

  Outside, uniforms secured the area a
mid the blinking lights from emergency and law enforcement. A small knot of curious neighbors formed on the opposite side of the street. The media would be here soon. I wanted us to be long gone before that happened. I showed the badge a few times before breaking free from the cordon ECPD had set up. As we made our way back to the pod, my eyes surveyed the parked vehicles on either side of the road.

  “There.” I pointed at a van across the street.

  I jogged to it, kicking up cold water from the multitude of puddles littering the ground.

  The decal on its side read Quality Commercial and Residential Cleaners, including a list of services as well as a phone number. I put my hand on the hood and found it warm to the touch.

  “The cleaners hadn’t been here long,” I stated, giving Deacon a pointed look.

  “I reckon something bad went down between them and Julie,” he said, then spat on the ground, rolled his tongue around in his mouth and grimaced. “But I don’t think killing Tony or the cops was part of the plan.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s too damn sloppy,” Deacon pointed out, his breath streaming out in front of him. “They’re both eyewitnesses, but instead of getting ganked by the vampire the same way Vanessa did, Julie’s nowhere, and Tony takes a bullet to the head. And why kill Stanley and Romero? They trying to make it look like a kidnapping? That’s bullshit. I’m thinking Julie snuffed Tony, snuck out the back, and was already gone before the cleaners got there. Those mercs arrive to clean Julie’s apartment, panic, kill the cops, and then we show up to really fuck things up for them.”

  “You might be right,” I said, nodding. “So why take the risk?”

  Deacon lit up a cigarette despite the falling rain. He took a long drag, then blew twin plumes of smoke from his nose like some disheveled dragon.

  “What if there’s more than one player involved?” Deacon offered, narrowing his eyes at me. “What if Vanessa was at the center of some corporate game, and Tony, Julie and the cleaners are just pieces on a damn board?”

  “Competition,” I mused, and considered the implication. “Maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong. What if the ‘vampire’ is a special wet-works operative employed by their closest competitor? You know, a different brand of cleaner. And what if that competitor figured out what was being done to Vanessa, and wanted it for themselves?”