Downtown Metropolis was the nerve center of the city. I would never say the brain, because that implies intelligence. The city was not that and never would be; it was what controlled the brain. Its monolith towers were no bigger or taller than any other in the city, but they always looked different when I flew by in my vehicle. Some said it was its historic architecture of lighter colored paint for its exterior in contrast to the dark hues of the surrounding towers. But really, in the dark rainy skies, no one notices. It had to be a state of mind. You knew it was the center of power, so you intuitively saw that in its buildings when, in reality, it was the same as everywhere else.
While the City Clerk's office was in a prominent place in the main city towers, the Crime Information Center (CIC) of the Police Department was in what could only be called the basement levels. The Clerk's office had guards and other visible security; CIC had nothing.
Compstat Connie had to be in her late seventies, and she ran the multi-hundreds-of-millions-of-dollars division, but when I entered the subterranean offices, she was at the counter sorting through papers, like she was an entry level worker. It was the same with the Government Guy, who was at a counter doing his own work. It seemed in government, unlike the corporate world, you may get the title and the salary, but you did the same grunt work you did as when you were first hired.
It was still unbelievable, because it was such an important office for the police higher-ups. CompStat (Computer Statistics) was all the crime data collected in the city. That was her division, and it drove everything that the police did—deployment, budgets, resources, and personnel. The stats made it into every government press conference, including all the way to the mayor.
"Why do you look familiar?" she said, watching me from the counter. It seemed like there was no one else in the office, with row-after-row of shelves to the ceiling with file boxes.
We were now sitting in her tiny office. I handed her the "graduation" picture from the last day of my police internship—students and police personnel.
"Well, look at that," she said holding the picture. "Back when my hair had color, other than white. Cruz, isn't it?"
I was amazed. "There's absolutely no way you'd remember me from all those years ago." I laughed. "I wasn't memorable, and there were like fifty other interns running around."
"No, I remember you. I may be old, but I have a great memory. You hung around my division."
"I interned for you."
"And the uniformed officers, too."
"You do remember me."
"I told you. What can I do for you?"
"I want to become the male version of you."
She laughed. "Meaning what?"
"It was the talk you gave to us."
"I remember people, but I can't remember one of all those silly presentations I gave back then. I couldn't remember it, even if it were yesterday. It's always off the cuff, spur of the moment, when I give presentations."
"You told us how everything is connected, and your division looks at all the data, and after it absorbs every data point, it can see the connections, the trends, and patterns. That's the ultimate in crime-fighting tools—those connections."
"I said that?"
"You did."
"And you remember it?"
"I do."
"Why would a high school kid remember a speech like that? Were you going to be a cop?"
"No, but it helped me with other occupations. Seeing connections where other people didn't. That's why I'm visiting. I want to do that for one specific day."
"A specific day? What day?"
I knew the day and time like my own birthday.
Compstat Connie reached behind the counter for her mobile computer and started typing.
"What stands out to you about the day?" I asked.
There was a specific reason I asked the question, and if Compstat Connie was the same casual human computer she was before, she'd basically do my work for me—cutting off hours, maybe days, from me being in the "box."
She stared at her screen. "That was the night of the big shootout at Joe Blows." She read more. "And the kidnapping of a little girl at Alien Alley. All the rest of your standard car-jacks, armed robberies, rapes, office invasions, murders."
"But why did you mention those two specific incidents first?"
"They're anomalies. All the rest is normal fare in the city."
"That's what I mean," I said to her. "I need to be able to see anomalies and understand how your mind gets you there. How long will it take you to teach me?"
"Do you have five decades to spare?"
I laughed. "No, but I'll give the time I need to give. Think of me as your returning intern, two decades later."
"I thought you were some kind of hovercar guy."
"I have a new occupation, but don't tell the Clerk's Office."
She chuckled.
"I'm like a private detective."
"Now that intrigues me."
Chapter 35
Trash Boss
WHO WAS THE MOST POWERFUL of them all? One government agency to rule them all. It wasn't transportation, energy, health services, or even the police; it was garbage—Trash Services.
One reason I didn't mind the rain, like most people, was because the alternative would be far worse. Imagine this world as a smoky, humid hot-house. We'd all kill ourselves. People forgot that no matter how sophisticated and advanced we thought ourselves to be, any populated city has two things, no matter what: people and waste. Waste services was one of the many gray words people created for polite conversation. Wet, smelly, dirty, venal garbage. You could work yourself into a psychosis, simply imagining how much garbage flowed through a city of 50 million people on top of each other by the day, hour, or minute. Nasty! If the power ever went out, it wasn't the cessation of food to the markets that terrified me. If we ever had an Extinction Level Event, it would be that no toilets would flush, and there'd be no one to pick up the trash. My own borderline clinical germophobia would be unrestrained to a point beyond any ability to manage.
The filth is what I feared, and so did everyone else, which was why trashmen were treated with the respect they got. Everyone knew what would happen in mere hours if there were no City Trash and Waste Services. A reporter did an exposé and said the city could survive a few days without food, a week without water, without the Net for about ten days max, because of how many critical systems were manned by only machines. But the absence of trash and waste services would render the supercity unlivable within six hours. I once had to beat myself up to stop thinking about it, because a severe germophobic panic attack had gripped me and I felt my sanity slipping away. I think that was why people truncated their official name from Trash and Waste to just Trash Services.
One thing about being involved, even tangentially, with the hovercar racing scene, as I had been, was you saw places of the city no one else had seen. These secret thruways and back alleys no one ever went made you firmly aware of the secret underground world of trash. On the main streets, trash was picked up quickly, never being allowed to pile up for too long. In secluded lots and alleys, that was not so, as the many amateur (and illegal) hovercar street races had shown me.
It was at one of these secret, amateur races, a few years back I met the Surf Brothers. The brothers were also into classic hovercars, so we hit it off and talked for hours about the scene whenever we met. It was through them I met their boss, Mr. Pyle.
I had heard of him before, when I was a police intern kid. People didn't just throw garbage in the garbage. At Metro Police Central, I got an earful at one presentation about all the weapons, body parts, and full human bodies thrown into the trash. In fact, Trash Services and the Metro Police worked together on cases far more than anyone could imagine, which was why the Director of Trash Services had a dotted line report to the Chief of Police. If you're a criminal and want to get rid of the evidence, don't throw it in the trash. They'll find it.
I drove out to Nil Point early in t
he morning. The rain was coming down hard, but I paid it no mind. Rain or no rain, no matter what time of day, hovercar traffic would be awful.
Nil Point was where the official offices of Trash Services were located—way out, away from the real main city. It was where all the garbage hovertrucks were always flying to and from. The skies around their building headquarters were thick with their vehicles, almost like swarming bees.
I was surprised that I didn't smell much as I approached the public parking area. What did I expect, open rivers of sewage?
The public parking lot was huge. Trash Headquarters was the center, then a circle around it for government employee parking and the handicapped, then the outer rings for everyone else. There were public hovershuttles that also buzzed around the parking lot, small pods made for the driver, and one or two passengers. They were old, beat-up, and I didn't even want to know the condition of the public seats in the back. I smiled at the driver, who hovered near me, and waved him off. I pulled down my fedora, pulled up my collar, and buttoned my coat. I was used to walking, since I always parked my vehicle away from everyone else, like every owner of a classic vehicle did. The rain was bad, but then, it often was.
I was happy to arrive at the main building if only to get the hell out of the rain. There, I saw the metal detector arch with a policeman on either side.
"Oh," I said out loud. "I forgot my papers." I spun around and went back into the rain.
Was this the crap criminals had to go through?
I walked all the way back to my vehicle in the rain, got in, unloaded all my illegal weapons, got out, and trudged all way back through the even heavier downpour to walk back inside. The two police officers were standing there laughing hysterically at me. They weren't stupid.
As I walked to the arch, one of them said, "Sure you got all of them?" They burst out laughing again.
I ignored them and proceeded through. "Can you point me to Mr. Pyle's office?" I asked.
"Penthouse floor, of course," one of them answered.
Pyle knew he was an important man in the government; everyone knew it, and he made sure those who didn't, knew it too. I met him only once before hanging out with the Surf Brothers. I didn't like him then; I didn't like him now.
He was one man but had seven full-time secretaries, and though I had made an appointment and was early, I still waited fifteen minutes past the time. My rule is, if I'm late, cancel the appointment on my ass. But if I'm early or on time, I don't expect to be waiting. One of his secretaries led me into his office, and I walked in with an obviously annoyed look on my face.
"I hope I'm not inconveniencing your schedule," I said before I reached his desk.
He knew I was irritated, but didn't care as he shook with a vice grip handshake. All trashmen had biceps of steel. "I was on the phone with the Mayor."
I didn't believe him, but I let it go.
"Thanks for taking the time," I said as he gestured to take a seat in the very wide and plush chair in front of his desk. He sat, too.
"How can I help you, Mr. Cruz? I understand you're a detective?"
"Well, since my licensing is on the distant horizon, I'm a consultant."
He chuckled and my little admission—government non-compliance—seemed to be an asset in his eyes.
"How can I help, Mr. Cruz, the consultant?" Another man came from behind, rolling up another chair next to me. "This is my Chief of Staff."
The trash boss needed a chief of staff? That's silly, I thought.
"Mr. Cruz," he greeted me, too.
He sat and opened up a digital notepad with one hand as he held a stylus pen with the other.
"How can I help you, Mr. Cruz?" Trash Boss repeated. "The Surf Brothers told me you've known them for years."
"They have a couple of very nice classic vehicles. I helped restore them. Well, Mr. Pyle, to get right to it, I need access to some video tapes." I leaned forward in my chair. "Is this conversation subject to public record?"
"Listen to him," the Trash Boss said to his chief and then turned to me. "You sound like a lawyer. No, it's private. What video are you talking about?"
"Back in the day, when I was interning for the police in school, I learned a little known fact. I'd say secret. I learned that your office had a dotted line report to the Chief of Police. Something like that sticks in the mind of a kid. How is it that the trashman is partners with the policeman? I learned that one reason was that your people in the field often come across weapons, contraband, and bodies obviously of interest to the police. But the other reason is because all those garbage hovertrucks out there, every last one, like every police and fire vehicle, is also a flying camera and is always recording."
The two men watched me quietly.
"Who told you that?" the chief of staff man asked me. "Because it's not true. Some vehicles have surveillance for insurance and safety purposes, but they are not part of some city surveillance network as you seem to be saying."
I glanced at the chief with a look of annoyance and returned my focus to the Trash Boss. "Can you help me out, Mr. Pyle?" I reached into my pocket and placed a highlighted report on his desk. "It's obvious I can keep a secret. I've already demonstrated that for almost twenty years. I know your people don't even know their vehicles are rigged for public surveillance, and I'm not interested in them finding out. With so many involved in off-the-record, off-the-books salvage, you'd have a full-scale mutiny. But I'm sure you could get a video to me. The highlight on the report has to do with a woman, who had her daughter kidnapped."
The annoying chief of staff said, "There's a kidnapping every hour in the city."
I gave him another of my "shut up" looks, then returned my attention to Trash boss. "What do you say?"
"Mr. Cruz, unfortunately, the information you were given is completely incorrect. My fleet is not rigged for surveillance. The union would have my scalp if we ever did, especially secretly, as you're suggesting. I like my job and want to keep it. What makes this one kidnapping so important, anyway? My Chief of Staff is right; kidnappings happen every day. Think about the consequences of what you're asking, even if it were true."
"Yeah, it would be tied up in the courts forever on privacy grounds. I don't care about that. I have a specific range of times and specific areas I'm interested in. I'll sit through all the video myself."
"No such tapes exist, Mr. Cruz."
"Oh, did you hear about the reward being offered? I'll split it with you."
"Sorry, we can't help you."
"Oh, I'm sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Pyle. And your chief of staff. Umm. Who's Mr. Dyer?"
The men gave me dirty looks.
"You know exactly who the president of the Trash and Waste Services Union is, Mr. Cruz."
Chapter 36
Just Me
THE REVIEW FROM THE Corporate Guy was like gold in getting in front of other people in the corporate world. I had PJ print a ton of intro cards with their reviews prominently displayed on the back. None of them cared about me or my credentials. All that mattered was that I was referred by a fellow corporatist. The review for the Government Guy had the same effect within government circles. I wanted to make sure I established myself as a generalist detective, right from the start. The Guy Who Scratched My Vehicle and family were the icing on the cake in telling people I worked for the Average Joe too. I had the business trifecta—corporate, government, and the people.
Clients were fine, but in the end, could they pay me?
When I called PJ into my office, she had her normal Punch Judy swagger that said "whatcha want?" like I often did when I was in my moods. After I tossed her a wad of bills—her bionic hand made sure not to drop it—she couldn't stop smiling.
"How do you know what secretaries earn in salary?"
"I looked it up on the Net."
"Are you paying me below market or above market?"
"Above market. Liquid Cool is a classy joint with a reputation."
She stuffed the wad of cash i
nto her bra. I had told Phishy women don't do that in real life.
"I really didn't need to see that," I said.
The rest of the day would be her telling me, or talking to herself—I couldn't tell which, about all the shoes and new dresses and jewelry she was going to buy with her first official paycheck.
For me, I sat behind my desk, leaning back in the chair with my feet on my desk and hands interlaced, cradling the back of my head. I wasn't playing detective; I was one. I had an office, one employee, slick weapons, the business cards to prove I was real, and clients that paid me with checks that didn't bounce. As the saying went, Life was good, and even I had a hard time suppressing a smile.
But Wilford G.'s How to be a Great Detective with 100 Rules warned me. "The quickest way to go from being a working private eye to being a dead one was being content. Contentment was the devil. It makes you stupid and slow. If you caught yourself smiling, slap yourself. If you're feeling good, get off your butt and go get another client, because you clearly have too much free time. Never forget that the working detective is an endangered species. A wide variety of punks want to do bodily violence to you. They want to put you in the morgue meat market. You want contentment? Go be a monk on Xanadu Pleasure Colony. You want to be a working detective, never smile. There're a lot of grinning dead detectives in the morgue. Keep your hand on the trigger of your favorite piece, and your head always in the game. Be the hero, even if it hurts. Then maybe, possibly, a small chance, you'll live as long as me, with some cash to rub together."
I think that's what endeared me to Wilford G. immediately. He embraced the word, hero. He said forget all that anti-hero, psycho-babble, fake suave crap. Never buy into that "fight the System," "fight the Man," "fight the Power" nonsense. Stay away from the politics, leave the cosmic brooding behind, and stay away from the negative, victim mentality stuff. "A true detective cannot and can never be a victim. We fight the odds, the system, and bad guys. That's why we get hired." "People want a champion in their corner." "The societal scientist, Isaac Asimov, invented three laws for the robot that we still use today. I have three laws for the modern urban detective. What is your number one?
Liquid Cool (Liquid Cool, Book 1) Page 16
