He knew he had already fired twice. That meant his six-shooter only had four shots left. Better make them count.
He stood fast, not wasting anymore time, hoping to catch the woman off guard. He scanned the kitchen, finger tight on the trigger. He couldn't see her, which meant she was behind the table. He put a couple bullets into the surface, hoping they had enough power to penetrate three inches of solid hardwood.
There was a grunt from the other side of the table. Not really a grunt of pain, more like a sound of frustration or surprise. Oscar made a gamble; still standing in the open, he aimed toward the left end of the table, figuring she would pop out there for her turn to shoot. It was the furthest end from him, so it made a bit of sense.
His eye caught a flash of motion as she came sliding across the floor at the opposite end, bringing her gun to bear on his head.
Oscar ducked, and just in time. A quick and surgical series of shots drilled through the door of the cupboard behind him. From his squatting position, he admired the closeness of the shots. They had all landed in just about the same spot. A fine dust of pulverized ceramic drifted through the holes.
"Missed me," he called.
There was no answer. He heard a squeak and another grunt as the woman started moving back into her hiding spot. Her knee or something hit one of the legs and she cursed. She was probably caught up, exposed for a brief moment.
Oscar jutted his head around the corner of the island. He took aim and fired his last two shots. The first went wide, hitting the wall. The second seemed to catch a wisp of her hair, flinging it aside.
Before the echo of the shot died she was up and flying over the table. She came toward him like a freight train. For a moment, he was too stunned to do anything at all. And by the time that moment had passed she was already on him, crushing him to the floor with more strength than her skinny arms should have possessed.
Oscar wasn’t giving up without a fight. Breaking one arm free, he socked her across the jaw. She returned fire with a swinging elbow, making him see stars. She hit just as hard as he feared she would.
With all his strength, Oscar curled his legs upward and hooked his heels on her shoulders. He yanked her down, slamming her onto her back. Sitting up, he quickly threw himself on top of her, his right hand reaching for the spare gun hidden in the small of his back.
As the barrel of it dug into her gut, Oscar felt the cold sharpness of a blade at his throat. She grinned up at him.
"You can shoot me," she said. "But I'd still have time to cut your throat. Hitting me there wouldn't kill me instantly. Actually, it might not kill me at all."
Oscar surveyed her face. The punch he had given her would have knocked a two-hundred-pound man on his ass, but she barely showed any sign of being hit. There was also her strength, her speed, the way she controlled the recoil of her weapon.
"You're a synth," he said.
“Is that your excuse for getting your ass kicked by a woman?” the mysterious dame asked.
“It’s not an excuse, it’s the truth. You’re a synth,” Oscar said firmly. “And for the record, you did not kick my ass.”
"I wasn’t trying to. But I’ll admit that you did a good job holding me off," she replied. "In fact, I’m impressed. But, you know, I was holding back. I could have killed you a few different times, especially when you were standing there with your dumb head right in my sights."
"If you weren’t trying to kill me then what was all that shooting about?" Oscar growled. "You could have just announced yourself."
She shrugged. "A girl doesn't get this far in life by being civil, you know. I wanted to make sure that gun of yours was empty. Gotta stay safe, right? I guess I wasn't counting on you having a spare. Not bad, old man."
“Bull shit,” Oscar scoffed. “What’s your deal lady? Do you know how much trouble you’d be in if anyone saw you with that gun?”
"You first, old man," she said. "What are you, some kind of hit man? Sent here to make sure Hoffman never talked.”
Oscar smiled. "Oh, he talked alright. Right before I blew his goddamn head off. I’m not here to protect any secrets. I'm just trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Catalea."
The dame stared at him for several seconds. She seemed to be thinking hard, considering how much she could trust him.
"Maybe we're after the same thing," she said. "If I take my knife away, will you also remove that snub-nosed piece of shit from my stomach?"
Oscar shrugged. "Sure. As long as we go at the same time. On the count of three."
She smiled. "One."
"Two."
"Three."
They disentangled from each other and rolled in opposite directions across the kitchen floor. Coming up on their knees, they locked eyes and waited.
"You haven't shot me yet," the woman said. "So I guess I can trust you for now."
"Just as long as you don't try to stick that knife in me as soon as I turn my back," Oscar replied.
"I won't. As long as you really are trying to do what you claim.”
“You got a name?” Oscar asked.
“Carolynn Steele,” the dame replied. “But you can call me Lynn. And you?”
“Oscar Graves.”
“You’re Oscar Graves? The Grave Maker himself?” Lynn asked skeptically as she gave Oscar a funny, appraising sort of look.
"In the flesh," he grunted, using the counter to assist himself to his feet. "What do you know about Catalea?"
Lynn got to her feet as well, sliding her knife back in its sheath. "I know she isn't the first synth girl to either die or disappear mysteriously. It's been going on for years. My organization has dedicated itself to figuring out what's happening."
"Your organization?"
"It was formed after Maestro disappeared. A group that was established to protect synths in a world where no one else cares."
"I care," Oscar said. He turned to the counter, grabbed a cup off a rack and poured a cup of coffee. It must have been sitting around for a while; it tasted bitter and burnt, but it would do.
"How long have you been working these cases?" he asked, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temples.
There was no response. Oscar turned around and found the kitchen empty. The dame had vanished.
It was time to go. The police would be here soon. Oscar made a quick tour of the living room and kitchen, hurriedly staging a burglary and trying to excise any evidence that would point to him. Fingerprints, et cetera. Then he left in a hurry, climbing over the back wall of the property and taking the long way back to his car.
CHAPTER 8
◆◆◆
Oscar called Brooks and caught him just as he was leaving the office.
"Yeah, Oscar, what is it?" he asked. He sounded a bit flustered. Not unusual for a detective sergeant when weird shit started to happen.
"Any way we can meet for dinner?" Oscar asked. "I need to ask you a few questions."
"Is it about the synth girl?" Brooks asked, exasperated. "If you're in mourning, Oscar, maybe you should take some time off. We'll handle everything. As soon as we know something."
"You'll call me, I know. But time off isn't really my style. Can we meet, or what? Your place. I'll bring the grub."
Brooks hemmed and hawed for a bit, but eventually gave in. So, an hour later, Oscar was pulling up at the foot of a tall, grim apartment building. There was a parking lot around back, but he decided to park in the street. Easier to make a fast getaway. If the cops were able to connect him to what went down at the Hoffman residence, Brooks would have no choice but to turn him in.
He took the stairs up, carrying paper bags full of food in each hand. Brooks was already waiting in his open door, sipping a beer. He had already showered and changed into sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt. He stepped aside and let Oscar through.
"So, what's on the menu tonight?" Brooks asked.
"Chinese," Oscar replied. "Sweet and sour pork, right?”
“That’ll do,” Brooks said
as he accepted one of the bags of food from Oscar.
Oscar looked around. It had been a while since he was in Brooks' apartment, but it was still exactly the same. For a bachelor pad it was fairly tidy. No empty pizza boxes or dirty socks on the floor. Though it was obvious Brooks either had never heard of dusting or just didn't care. He was also a voracious reader, a fact reflected in the many stacks of books scattered randomly around the front room.
"We can eat in the living room," Brooks offered.
"Better make it your office," said Oscar.
Brooks shrugged and led the way down a narrow hall, into a back room. It was the only extra room in the place, other than the bathroom, but Brooks hadn't put his bed in here. He slept on the couch instead. Like any good detective, he put more emphasis on work than sleep.
Brooks was smart. A savvy guy. So he didn't ask any questions. He just sat, turned his computer on, and turned to Oscar expectantly.
Oscar tore open his paper bag and dug into his food. Brooks soon followed suit and they both ate straight from the carton as they talked.
"I need info on a guy named Carver," Oscar said, taking a bite of sauce-drowned broccoli. "First name’s Grant."
Brooks logged in through his VPN, entered his credentials into the police database, and finally ran a search on the guy's name. There were a few Grant Carvers in the city. But it wasn't hard to pick out the right one.
"I need to know who he works for," Oscar explained. "He'll either be employed by ProStar Solutions or the Greyson Corporation. I need to know how close he is beneath the big guy. So I can figure out just how deep this thing goes… and how potentially fucked I am."
Brooks brought up Carver's file and scanned through to his current employments.
"He's an executive for the Greyson Corp. Oscar, if you're digging into this guy, I recommend backing off. I know you're a pro, but you're getting in way over your head with this."
Oscar took another bite of food, though he no longer felt very hungry.
"What do you know about Greyson," he asked.
"DeAndre Greyson?" Brooks sat back, taking another swig of beer. "Probably the biggest son of a bitch in the world. At least in the country.”
“Dirty?” Oscar asked.
“As dirty as they come, if you ask me, but the son of a bitch is too goddamn smart,” Brooks admitted. “It's a well-kept secret that he built his business empire from the ill-gotten gains of his father."
"His father?" Oscar asked.
"Andre Greyson," Brooks replied.
"Andre Greyson, the merc? I thought he died."
"More like Andre Greyson the pirate. Son of a bitch was the captain of the Phantom's Paradise. Word is he faked his own death, all those years ago. Supposedly died for real a couple decades ago though."
"How'd he die?"
"Believe it or not, that’s actually classified.”
“Really?” Oscar asked in bewilderment.
“Yeah,” Brooks confirmed. “Shocked the hell out of me too.”
“Well that’s interesting,” Oscar said.
“Whatever the case, apparently piracy paid off big time for Andre Greyson. Son of a bitch was rich like you wouldn’t believe. Not a lot of cash though. Mostly pilfered resources. My guess is he left it all to his boy, and someone as smart as DeAndre Greyson could easily turn resources into cash without leaving a paper trail."
"And now the bastard is the second richest man on the planet," Oscar grunted. "Great."
"Right behind our Lord and Savior Tucker Berg," Brooks grinned.
“Lord and Savior,” Oscar chuckled. “That’s rich.”
“Hey, he created the synths. Seems pretty god-like to me,” Brooks remarked.
“So when are you guys gonna do anything about Greyson? Son-of-a-bitch basically operates in your back yard,” Oscar said.
“Not much we can do right now. But now that I know that son of a bitch’s weakness it’s only a matter of time before he slips up again.”
“What do you mean?”
"You didn't hear this from me," Brooks said, taking a hushed tone as a wave of seriousness washed across his face. "But I was working with a synth who had dirt on Greyson. Evidence that could lead to a 'cruelty to entities' charge if it was filed in California. Turns out, DeAndre has quite the fetish for synth women."
"No shit," Oscar said, surprised.
"No shit, my friend. He throws these huge underground parties full of synths and organics alike. Thing is, some of the synth sex workers that attend don't always make it back out. Turns out the only thing Greyson likes more than boning synths is experimenting on them. My synth witness was going to testify, provide her memories as evidence against the bastard."
"What happened?" Oscar asked, though he already knew the answer.
"My witness disappeared. Greyson must have gotten to her. Killed her, or paid her off. Who knows. My case fell flat on its face. I knew if I pursued it further I'd just make myself look like a jackass and paint a target on my back. So I let it go."
"Don't you still have the memories? Can't you still use them?"
Brooks shook his head. "Inadmissible. The courts require both the synth's memories and the synth themselves. You have to be able to tie the memories to a concrete witness. Without the witness I had nothing."
Oscar and Sergeant Brooks ate slowly, without speaking for a little while, staring into space.
Finally, Oscar broke the silence, "So DeAndre Greyson just happens to have some fucked up, Jack The Ripper’esque fetish for synth women and Catalea just happens to be killed by a robot that was manufactured by one of his companies? That can’t be a coincidence."
“What do you think?” Brooks inquired.
"Catalea was a sex worker. Maybe she also attended one of Greyson's parties. Saw something she shouldn't have. Something that got her ghosted."
Oscar set his food aside. He felt sick.
"So, you think DeAndre Greyson is personally behind her death?” Brooks asked.
"Just a gut feeling right now, but once you tie what little evidence we have together, it all seems to point in that direction."
"I know that look Oscar,” Brooks said as he narrowed his eyes and studied Oscar’s stone-cold expression. “Tell me you’re not thinking about going after the most dangerous man in the country.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Oscar said flatly.
Brooks sat upright, shaking his head. "Don't be a dumbass, Graves. You'll get yourself killed. That's all you can hope to achieve. Even if you get close enough to Greyson to do anything, his bodyguard will shred you to bits."
"I think I can handle a goddamn bodyguard," Oscar grunted.
"I’m not talking about some muscle-bound meathead, Oscar. I’m talking about ‘the Unit’.”
“What the fuck is a unit?”
“That’s what they call Greyson’s main bodyguard. It's an android. A goddamn meat grinder… I’m telling you this because I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. It is not a good idea to tango with that thing.”
"So I’m supposed to just let Greyson keep killing synths and running the world," Oscar scoffed. "Fuck that. I'm willing to take the chance. What the hell have I got to lose, anyway? My acid reflux? My goddamn creaky knees?"
Brooks sighed and shook his head. “You need a drink Oscar. Something to slow you down a bit. Why don’t we go out and grab a few rounds?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve gotta run. Another time maybe,” Oscar said as he stood and prepared to leave.
“Wait,” Brooks called after Oscar, causing his old friend to pause in his tracks. “I don't want to get your hopes up, but I thought you should know that our specialist discovered some abnormalities with the bodies we found in the synth girl’s room.”
"Catalea’s body? What kind of abnormalities?" Oscar asked.
"That’s the thing. We don’t know if that’s actually Catalea’s body. We think it may have been a decoy."
“Are you telling me she may s
till be alive?”
“No way to know for sure. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. And don’t take this the wrong way Oscar but have you considered the possibility that she could have staged the whole thing as a means to escape her life as a prostitute?”
“No… she wouldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure of that, Oscar? What makes you so sure that this girl didn’t just run off?”
“Because I know her. She wouldn’t just disappear like that. Greyson has her. That’s the only logical explanation.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Oscar. For her sake, I hope to god you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“All the girls we suspect Greyson disappeared have completely vanished without a trace. If he really does have your Catalea, chances are you’ll never see her again.”
"We'll see about that," Oscar said darkly, his heart racing with anticipation as he turned and trudged towards the exit.
CHAPTER 9
◆◆◆
Greyson Corp. executive Grant Carver was working a late night.
Oscar stood on the street, ignoring his urge for a cigarette as he stared up at the single illuminated office on the top floor. He waited a while, crouched to adjust his shoe, then walked on. Twenty feet down he moved into a dark alley and hid himself away behind a garbage bin. When he came out, he seemed to blend into the shadows. The mask on his face covered most of his distinguishing features, and a pair of smart goggles on his eyes would let him past whatever retinal scanners the building contained.
He had already established that a security guard was in residence in the lobby. The guy seemed half asleep, more interested in his coffee and box of donuts than the sanctity of the building. But Oscar wasn't going to take any chances. Behind a larger garbage bin, he worked to unfold the rotors on a one-man drone. Shoving himself in the small cockpit, he shut the small door and used his smart watch to guide the drone at a slow, quiet speed up onto the roof. He was rusty at flying the thing, hadn't used it in years, and it took him a few painful minutes to guide it into a soft landing.
Grave Makers (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 2) Page 6
