"Show me both your hands," he ordered.
Hoffman frowned and lifted his other hand into view. It was holding a phone, and he had been two numbers away from getting hold of emergency services.
"Toss it," Oscar snapped, gesturing with his gun hand.
Hoffman switched off the phone screen and gave it a calculated underhand toss so that it landed gently upon the countertop, five feet away from him.
"What's your name?" Oscar asked.
Hoffman looked stunned. "You don't know who I am? Then why are you here? Why choose this house? It might be large, but I assure you there's not much worth stealing here."
"I doubt that, but that’s not what I’m here for.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Information. Now answer the goddamn question," Oscar growled.
"My name's Esbert Hoffman. But you can call me Bert,” Hoffman said with a genial smile.
"Sure, why not?" Oscar replied. "Might as well be efficient with our words in what might be the last moments of your life. Wouldn't want to waste any of those precious minutes.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Hoffman asked. “This is a joke, isn’t it? Just look at that gun. Is that thing even real? Has anyone even used a revolver in the last one-hundred years? Who put you up to this?” Hoffman continued as he grabbed his arm rests and prepared to stand.
“Sit the fuck down or I will blow your head right off your goddamn shoulders,” Oscar warned. “If you think I’m fucking around then just try me you son of a bitch.”
“Alright! Just take it easy, okay?” Hoffman replied, as he realized that Oscar meant business. “I guess this is the part where I ask you to promise that you won't hurt me if I go along with whatever the hell this is."
Oscar barely heard the guy. He was scoping out the rest of the kitchen, taking things in.
"Don't move," he said.
Oscar moved around the table, keeping the gun trained in the general direction of Hoffman as he pulled the shades on the big bay window and blocked their view of the outside world. And the outside world's view of them.
Oscar moved back to where he had been standing. "Is there anyone else in the house?"
Hoffman shook his head. "My wife, she'll be home in a few hours."
"We ought to be finished a long time before that," Oscar said firmly. "I’ll get straight to the point. A synth working girl was killed by a robot sock puppet and you’re the one who gave it to her. I want to know everything about it. Everything you know."
Hoffman stared back at him, his eyes wide and a look of mock confusion on his face. He was a bad actor in every sense of the phrase.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said.
"Is that right?" Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Well, maybe I can jog your memory..."
He walked over and cracked the butt of the handgun against Hoffman's cheekbone. The silver fox reeled to the side, slumping across the chair beside him. He came up wincing, his eyes watering and a fresh welt swelling on his face, but surprisingly he still maintained a certain level of calmness. It was likely the alcohol. Who knows how many he had already drank before Oscar arrived.
"Ow," Hoffman, sarcastically replied while reaching out for his beer can.
Oscar sent the can flying with another swing of his hand. It crashed to the floor, spilling a fan of frothy beer across the tiles.
"I was going to drink that," Hoffman said. "Well, you certainly are a rude one, aren't you?"
Oscar shook his head. The guy hadn't learned his lesson, so it was time to take him through it again.
This time, he slammed the gun against Hoffman's nose. There was an audible wet crack. Hoffman's head flung back, knocking noisily against the chair, and fresh blood flowed onto his expensive shirt.
"I told you I’m not fucking around here, Bert, I want answers!" Oscar barked.
"You motherfucker," Hoffman growled, lurching out of his seat with fire in his eyes. He came toward Oscar, reaching for the gun.
Oscar thrust his left foot forward in a seamless motion and kicked Hoffman hard in the chest, sending him crashing hard to the floor. He wheezed and coughed, the wind knocked out of him.
"Get up, douchebag," Oscar said. "And you’d better stop wasting my time, or maybe I'll wait around a few hours for your wife to get home, too. How's that sound?"
Hoffman glared at Oscar over his shoulder as he gripped the edge of the table and hauled himself to his feet.
"Sit," Oscar ordered.
Hoffman sat, breathing heavily.
"You’re some piece of work, you know that?” Hoffman groaned. “You’re doing all this over some mechanical whore?” he continued, now trembling with anger and fear.
"She had a name. And if you call her a whore again, I’m gonna put two slugs in your goddamn ball sack, you worthless piece of shit," Oscar snarled as he aimed his powerful revolver at Hoffman’s groin.
Hoffman’s eyes were now wide with surprise, and he remained silent and much more obedient as he stared in horror at Oscar’s determined expression.
“Start talking," Oscar barked.
"Fine. But you have to promise not to harm my wife,” Hoffman pleaded.
Oscar had no intention of touching the guys wife, or of ever even meeting her. But he played cool, pretending to think hard for a moment.
"I'll see what I can do," he said at last. "It all depends on the quality of the intel you give me, so you'd better make it good."
Hoffman nodded quickly. "Alright, alright... It all started with that goddamn whore house."
“Watch it, Bert,” Oscar cautioned.
“Hey! I’m talking about the business, man. Take it easy!”
“The pleasure house. What about it?” Oscar demanded.
"Long story short… I’m a regular there. My wife doesn't know it but—"
"Of course, she doesn't,” Oscar interrupted. “You fucking hypocrite. So, you work for one of the most outspoken anti-synth people in the world. And one of the most powerful. Yet you can't help but get a little of that synthetic nookie on the side. Why?"
Hoffman stared at the floor, perhaps watching the drops of blood that fell from the tip of his nose.
"My wife," he said. "She's had... health problems. Suffice it to say, our sex life is essentially dead. I love her though. I have no intention of leaving. But..."
"A man has needs, right?"
Hoffman nodded.
"Especially a horny rich bastard who thinks he owns the world. So, what's with Catalea? Was she your regular girl?"
"No." Hoffman grabbed some napkins from the middle of the table and pressed them to his nose. "I only saw her a few times here and there."
"Okay. So what gives?"
Hoffman sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving. "One of the higher ups at the corporate office contacted me. A guy named Grant Carver. It was the end of the day, and I was just about to leave the office. Carver claimed to know about my visits to the pleasure house. I thought I was about to be blackmailed, but he only gave me a simple request; deliver the robot boy to Catalea, and convince her to take him in."
"And you said yes, of course," Oscar scoffed.
"Actually, no. Not at first. I work for the company, but I'm nobody's bitch. I wasn't about to run some strange errand, especially when the legality and purpose of it were obviously suspect. But the son of a bitch threatened me. 'We have video,' he said. And they even paid my regular girl for copies of her memory banks. I was able to confirm that the latter, at least, was true. Those memories would have ruined me, you have to understand that. My career would be gone, and so would my marriage.”
“What was it all about?"
Hoffman looked surprised. "What was what about?"
"Why did Carver ask you to deliver the boy to Catalea? Why did they want her dead?”
"I... I don't know. It’s not like they let me in on whatever the plan was. They just ordered me to give her the boy. I didn’t have a choice, you have to understand that,” Hoffman p
leaded.
Oscar believed him, but he wasn’t done with him just yet.
“You did have a choice,” Oscar scolded.
“Really, what was I supposed to do? Go to the cops?!” Hoffman scoffed. “This is the Greyson Corporation. It’s essentially a fortune 500 street gang! Those bastards would have killed me!”
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” Oscar said darkly, as he tightened his grip on the revolver in his right hand.
Before Hoffman could scream or protest, Oscar squeezed the trigger and painted the wall with the silver fox’s brains.
As the now mostly headless body flopped backward and toppled to the floor, Oscar turn to leave the kitchen.
Someone was there. He wasn't alone. The hair on the back of his neck went up as he stared toward the hallway, waiting. Perhaps a slight sound had tipped him off. Or maybe he had caught a hint of motion. Could also have just been paranoia but in his former life Oscar had learned to trust his gut with this sort of thing.
Suddenly, he remembered spotting a mirror on the wall at the end of the hall. Moving casually, as though he had no idea anyone else was here, he crossed the kitchen and cursed softly to himself as he "accidentally" kicked the beer bottle across the floor. He chased after it, and as he bent to pick it up he turned his head to the right. His eyes caught the left half of the mirror around the kitchen door and he saw a woman standing there on the other side.
The quick glimpse didn't tell him much. He could see that she was tall, with legs for days. She seemed to be wearing yoga pants, garishly colored running shoes, a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. Either she was one of those typical suburban housewives who likes to power-walk around the neighborhood, or she was just wearing a disguise. Oscar figured the latter, since she was holding a small silenced pistol in her hand.
She was young. Trim. Pretty. And she looked worried.
She was watching him. As soon as he bent down, and made himself vulnerable, she lunged for the kitchen door and came through like a bat out of hell, her running shoes squeaking on the floor.
Oscar didn't intend to hit her with his first shot. It would take too long to line up, and by then he'd probably have a few new holes in his abdomen. He just popped one off to suppress her fire as he wheeled backward and shoved himself up against the backside of the kitchen island.
He heard the solid wood table being flipped onto its side and dragged across the floor for a makeshift shield.
Damn, this chick must be strong, Oscar thought as his mind scrambled for a plan of action.
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.
Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series Page 26
