I knew what he was getting at and I didn’t like it one bit. I had to stop myself from growling. “I earned this place fair and square. I owe nothing to anyone.”
“The way Mister Denaro looks at it, you owe him a great deal.”
“Bullshit,” I said more vehemently than I intended. “I did what Gabriella wanted. We both did good on the deal, and I’ve got the contracts to prove it.”
“Gabriella might have purchased this place in your name as thanks for helping her. But she paid for it using Mister Denaro’s money. Considering the nature of your investigation, I’m sure you can see why Mister Denaro feels you’re in his debt.”
“You can tell him to stick that imaginary debt right in his—”
“It would be a pity should anything happen to your lovely home…”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Only weak men make threats, Miller.” He smiled innocently. “Consider it a warning. I merely point out that you should remember why you have this place and that Mister Denaro would very much like you to meet him on Luna.”
I came out from behind the chair and squared up to Marco, our eyes level. I was pretty sure the guy could wreck me, but I wasn’t going to stand there and let him talk shit to me in my own home.
He didn’t move.
“I don’t take too kindly to threats.”
As I looked into his real eye, I realized why Cat was acting so strangely. Cat wasn’t excited as if for visitors. He was acting the way he did around other animals. Marco was a beast…a hunter…a hound willing to do anything for his master’s approval.
His real eye didn’t blink, but the cheek under his cybernetic implant twitched a little. A smile twisted the pitted scars on his cheeks. “You know, Mister Miller, we can look into what happened to your family. Get you information.”
It took everything I had not to draw my .44 and blow the asshole’s brains out. Instead, I poked him hard in the chest and snarled, “Get the hell out of my house.”
Marco remained where he stood, watching me like a hawk would a rabbit.
Sensing the change in the room, Cat returned to my side and barked. “Go! Go! Go!” His bark translator just had to choose that moment to work.
Onions jumped and pulled his energy discharge gun on Cat.
Next thing I knew, my revolver was on him and the other two had their weapons trained on me. Their EDG’s were some new make I hadn’t seen before.
“Wadda fuck,” Onions cried. “Damn dog talk!”
“It’s just a canine translator.” My voice remained surprisingly firm and even. “A prototype cooked up by some lab. They never made another one. Now, put the gun away.”
“Dog talk, brau,” Onions said, still pointing his gun.
I was starting to get the feeling he wasn’t all there and shot Marco a questioning look. I ran my thumb across the back of my customized Smith & Wesson 686, sliding open a small hatch behind the hammer. I rested my thumb on the tiny button. “Hurt the dog and none of us leave this cabin alive.”
Weasel laughed. “You’d be lucky to hit one of us with that antique before we put you and your mutt down.”
“This antique could probably punch holes straight through that armor at this range.”
Weasel squinted, his eyes dark under his sharp brow. “Probably.”
“That’s enough, Matteo,” Marco ordered, his expression never changing. “Lower your weapon.”
Weasel hesitated but complied.
Onions didn’t move an inch, his eyes still locked on a growling Cat. “Dog talk, brau! You hear?”
I half expected him to drool on himself.
“It’s just a damn mutt, Lucas.” Marcus finally lost some of his cool. “We came here to secure Miller’s cooperation. Not kill his dog.”
Onions’ eyes darted between Marco and Cat. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. His EDG shook in his hands.
Cat growled and crouched low, ready to pounce.
Marco put a hand on Cat’s head, calming him the way I usually did.
Finally, Onions lowered his weapon.
I closed the slide and did the same.
“Matteo, get Lucas out of here,” Marco ordered. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Weasel obliged and led Onions outside, the engine sound briefly filling the room when the door opened and closed.
“You’ll have to forgive Lucas,” Marco said. “The surgeons ballsed up his brain when they installed his tech. He can be a bit jumpy. Doesn’t like sudden movements. He may not be the brightest, but he means well.”
“Out,” I said.
He walked to the door and pulled it open. “I understand, Mister Miller. Maybe one day, you will too. Oh, I almost forgot.” He pulled a white envelope from his jacket faster than my eyes could follow. He tossed it and it glided across the floor to my feet. “You have forty-eight hours. Be ready!”
The door slammed shut before I could respond. The gunship’s engines spooled up to a shriek as it readied for takeoff.
I picked the envelope up off the floor. Curious, I tore the seal and pulled out the contents, my fingers shaking from anger, the adrenaline wearing off, or the lack of alcohol in my blood. It may even have been all three.
I opened the card to find three words scribbled in fine handwriting I recognized instantly as Gabriella’s.
Happy birthday, Miller!
2
Unresolved
Stars spattered across a black canvas. Through the void, I drifted toward them. My mouth opened for a scream but I made no sound. The starscape rippled and my reflection appeared, staring back at me from a ship’s shiny hull. I was holding onto a transport as it hurtled through space. The ship rolled, and a yellow-brown planet slid into view. Titan!
It was then I noticed the words, ISJ, in giant red letters. I was on Interstellar Journeys flight BT12-7HL.
Panic’s icy fingers gripped my throat, crushing my windpipe. Frozen sweat scraped down the small of my back. The taste of iron bubbled in the back of my mouth.
I held onto a maintenance rail with one hand and clawed at my throat with the other as Saturn’s largest moon drew closer.
I had to warn the passengers. The pilot. Anyone.
I summoned the strength to pull myself along the hull, my freezing fingertips finding narrow spaces between hull plates, maintenance handles, and jutting screw heads to a porthole. I recognized the people on the other side of the window. My heart skipped a beat and ringing hissed in my ears.
I had to get them off.
Holding onto the frame with one hand, I slowly forced the hardening fingers of my other hand into a fist. I hammered the transparent panel. They didn’t notice. I banged again. Still no reaction. Icicles formed in the corners of my eyes and a silent cry died in my throat. I mustered the last of my strength and banged on the window as hard as I could.
My frozen hand shattered like glass, shards streaming off into the void. My body stiffened, my movement slowed. Yellow lights pulsed inside the ship and a dull alarm sounded. The sound grew loud and discordant as it echoed off the moon and stars.
The phone shrieked. I woke with a start to find Cat licking the hand I’d shattered in my nightmare. Yes, we share a bed. So sue me.
It wasn’t the first time I’d had the nightmare, and it wouldn’t be the last. Denaro’s guys showing up unexpectedly the night before had obviously done a number on me. I vaguely recalled parts of the exchange, like it too had been part of some nightmare. The phone cried out again from the hallway beyond my bedroom door. It was the only phone I kept in the cabin, an old model for emergencies. I felt around for the clock on the bedside table and found it was 0402.
“People sure are picking the best times to call lately,” I muttered, though I was glad the phone woke me when it did. Cat gave a low empathetic cry.
The phone shrilled again. “I’m coming,” I grumbled. “I’m coming.”
I dug myself out of tangled sheets damp with sweat, rubbing brittle sleep out of my e
yes and stumbled through a pile of dirty laundry. When I snatched the receiver from the holder mid-ring, and pressed it to my ear, it was just in time to hear the person on the other end hang up.
“Anyone there?” I asked, just to be sure.
No answer.
“Fuck!”
I slammed the receiver back into its recess and rubbed the back of my neck. Not that I was overly keen to talk with anyone at such an ungodly hour after the night I’d had, but it might have been someone calling about a job. Then again, it could have been that bastard Marco again with his pointed statements and empty threats.
Marco had been right about one thing. The inside of the cabin had become a shithole. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d paid the cleaner, but I could remember I had less than three hundred dollars in my account; barely enough for a week’s worth of food for Cat and me.
I needed whatever work I could get. So long as it didn’t involve going to the fucking Moon. All the money on Earth wouldn’t get me into space.
I considered going back to bed, but I was too pissed off to sleep, and was afraid I’d have another nightmare, though I never would have admitted it to anyone. No, if I went back to bed, I’d waste the day lying there wallowing in self-pity.
This Sunday will be different, I lied to myself.
Whoever had tried to call would call again if it was important.
Cat scratched at the door and I let him out. I refilled his water bowl and scraped the remnants of the last can of dog food into his bowl. I preferred giving him fresh off-cuts when I could afford it. So did he. But, business had been tough lately. I just about managed to keep the sharks at bay with the odd case; it had been months since I’d landed a big job. The Midtown Precinct in Manhattan had grown tired of me after they’d brought that Harry Lancaster hotshot over from England. Word on the street was he was the best thing since sliced bread, breaking cases open like peanuts. That was probably why the precinct stopped paying my retainer when he came on board. No doubt, the new neural implant he was testing for the Cybercorp helped.
“Damn world is going mad over c-ware,” I said. “It’s got its pros, but the shit ain’t safe for mixing with law enforcement.”
Cat barked.
It was bad enough the military was up to its eyeballs in cyberware. Given what had happened during the last war, they should have known it was a recipe for disaster.
Thinking about sliced bread and recipes made me hungry. I grabbed the last slice from the counter and dropped it into toaster.
I put on a pot of joe and pulled the to-do notepad from the fridge. I tried putting everything that needed doing into a manageable list.
Out the kitchen window, under the half-garage across the yard Betty was still waiting. The 1969 Dodge Charger looked forlorn…depressed. I’d found new rust on her back panels and her transmission was playing up again. Not to mention the oil leak. She was a constant pain in the ass, but she was still miles better than the modern electric crap only specialists could repair. Besides, the old man had left her to me, though I had to rescue her from the impound center first and fix her up. Love her or hate her, that beautiful chunk of metal was my only ride, and she growled like a lioness on the straight.
My mechanic Jim loved working on her and he still owed me for a big job a few years back. But Jim’s shop didn’t open on Sundays.
Charlie, my accountant, had been hounding me for an update on my financials for weeks. That one was easy. Same as last time. Zero. But I didn’t want to use the phone in case I missed another call, and it was too early to call anyway.
Cat scratched at the door and I let him back in.
I set the list aside and dug a mug from the mountain of dirty dishes. On the way to the drinks cabinet, I caught sight of the empty Midleton bottle. That explained my grogginess. There was a white birthday card next to the bottle which I vaguely recalled Marco throwing at me before he left. It was from Gabriella. That explained my grumpiness.
I dug for a bottle of the cheap stuff in the back and added a heathy measure of Bell’s.
It didn’t help. Dirty still dishes overflowed from the sink, spreading to every free surface. Used tea towels on the floor amidst the crap spilling from the trash can. Half of the filing cabinet drawers were open and stacks of old case files covered the dining table. My saxophone was half-buried on the couch under a pile of unread books and unopened mail. I sniffed the air and caught a hint of something damp and rotting. I sniffed the cup to clear my nose and picked up the list.
I should probably start with tidying up this pigsty.
I gulped more fortified coffee and grunted, deciding I’d take it easy instead. It was Sunday after all.
Cat brought me his bowl and nudged my leg. “Dammit, Cat. Why do you eat so much?”
“Nom. Nom. Nom,” his collar translator said in tandem with his barks.
“Alright.” I took his bowl and scratched his head. “As soon as the sun’s up, we’ll head into Ellenville. A good excuse to leave this mess. And we’ll miss any more damn unexpected visitors and calls too.”
I looked into the coffee at the bottom of my mug. It was as black as Captain Marco Russo’s cybernetic eye-hole. It was almost enough to put me off. I drained the dregs anyway. The hot alcohol burned the edge off my bad mood, but it hadn’t drowned it entirely like I’d hoped.
I checked my wallet to see if I had anything for groceries. The flimsy faux leather was even flimsier on account of being mostly empty. Okay, completely empty. I’d have to draw what was left in the checking account.
The frayed corner got my attention.
I tentatively reached for the picture I kept behind the maxed-out credit cards and overdrawn checking cards. I pulled the tip of the picture out, my breath catching in my chest. It took everything I had to pull it out that much; a broken shard of an earlier life.
A lump caught in my throat. “To hell with it,” I muttered. “It’s my birthday.” I pinched the corner of the laminated picture and tried to pull it free. It was stuck.
RING.
The phone again.
I could count on one hand how many people I’d given my emergency number to. Most were work-related and knew not to bother me on weekends unless it was urgent. Part of me remembered Marco saying that he and his guys would pick me up within forty-eight hours. I thought it had been a joke, but he was making good on his word. The bastard must have somehow dug up my landline. An unwelcome visit at midnight wasn’t enough for the guy. He had to wake me up before sunrise too.
I snatched the receiver from the wall. “What the hell do you want now, asshole?”
“Uh, hi, Miller,” a surprised female voice said. “You know I only call on weekends when I don’t have any other choice.”
It was Detective Gerri Walsh from the Midtown Precinct. I felt like a bit of fool. “Sorry, Walsh. I thought you were someone else. What’s up?”
“I’m working a scene downtown, Miller.”
“At this time of the morning?”
“Mayor Quincey called me in an hour ago. I was supposed to visit my elderly mother this morning. Haven’t seen her in weeks.” She was knocking down objections I might come up with before we even tucked into what she wanted. That’s Walsh for you.
“That serious, huh?”
“Look, I know we haven’t called with a job in a while, but this is a strange one. You’ll want to have a look.”
Midtown Precinct only called when they hit a dead end on a homicide. But Quincey calling the shots meant this one must be high-profile. And that meant additional funds. The cogs in my head turned, and I decided to see how deep I could stick my arm.
“Sunday’s my day off, Walsh, and I’m snowed under with work. Plate’s full.”
Every inch of me wanted to jump at the very mention of a job, but I had to play it cool.
“Everyone’s got a plate, Miller. Like I said, I wouldn’t have called if I could have avoided it.” She sounded like she meant that too…like calling me was the las
t thing she wanted to do.
I couldn’t blame her.
“Okay.” I sighed. “Send the details on my secure vox channel, and I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning before forensics can mess the place up. But it means pushing other clients back in the queue. I’ll have to charge twice my usual fee and expenses plus anything that comes from lost business.”
“I need you to look right away, Miller. The forensics graveyard crew would have been here already if they weren’t tied up on the other side of town.”
That got my attention. “Must be something big for Lisa Quincey to light a candle under their asses too.”
I still struggled with the idea of Lisa Quincey being the Mayor. We had been close years back and hadn’t parted on the best of terms. When we were still friends, she had no interest in politics, let alone running for office.
“It’s the Wilder building,” Walsh said.
Suddenly, the hurry up and Quincey’s involvement made sense. The Wilders owned half the city and were responsible for much of the NYCPD funding, not to mention Quincey’s campaigns. The Wilders would want things taken care of swiftly and quietly, and they had the clout to make that happen. “Do you think Quincey will come around for a sniff?”
“Another reason I need you to get here right away. The mayor didn’t say, but I get the feeling she’ll make an appearance sooner rather than later. If you leave now, you might get in and out before she shows.”
“What about that limey everyone’s been cuming over?” I didn’t want to talk myself out of a job, but I was curious why they weren’t employing the magic of their new wunderkind. “Can’t he have a look?”
“Lancaster went back to England for a few weeks. Listen, Miller. Not only is it the Wilder building…” she gulped audibly. I wondered if she was trying to play me. “It’s a really bad one. We need you. Hell, I need you.”
That sounded surprisingly honest, but Walsh could pull strings better than any politician. I hated it when she played the pity card.
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