city blues 01 - dome city blues

by Jeff Edwards

  If I went to the cops, they were going to wire me up to the Inquisitor. Dancer might have exaggerated the dangers of a session with the Inquisitor, but then again, maybe not. There had been rumors floating around the streets for years. From what I’d heard, even a relatively mild session could cause brain damage.

  Which led me to Option #2: I could try to dig the bullet out of Rieger’s skull and then give the place a clean sweep, eliminating all traces of my presence. Uh-uh. That might work in the vids, but not in real life.

  Option #3: Get rid of the body. Either dispose of it permanently, or hide it somewhere long enough to figure out a way to prove my innocence. Which could lead to a whole slew of additional felonies, not the least of which was tampering with a crime scene.

  Option #4: Leave the murder scene alone and get the hell out. With luck, I might be able to clear my name before the body was even discovered.

  Not one of my options was any damn good. Every one of them had the potential to get me brainlocked.

  I didn’t find the prospect of having my conscious mind electronically flatlined very attractive. I had no desire to spend the rest of my life chasing invisible fireflies and pissing in my pants.

  I finally decided on option #4.

  The front door opened into a large foyer shared by only one other apartment. I whistled silently. Half a floor. Not a bad spread for an up-and-coming executive.

  The only other doors in the foyer led to an elevator and a set of fire stairs. The foyer was empty. I took the stairs down eleven flights to the basement parking garage.

  There were six hover jobs down there, two Porches, a Dornier, a Jaguar, a BMW, and a Lexus sport coupe. The BMW was parked in slot 11-A. It was Rieger’s car, a metallic silver 925-I. The windows were tinted to a shade approaching black.

  The car’s alarm system buzzed once, to let me know that it was tracking me. I pulled the key chip out of my pocket and held it out so that the car could scan it. The alarm beeped softly, a friendly tone this time.

  I stepped up to the car and slid the chip through the door sensor. The powered gull-wing door opened quietly, folding itself up and out of the way.

  I slid behind the wheel and looked around. The interior of the car was rich with leather in sweeping ergonomic shapes.

  I searched it quickly, but thoroughly. Nothing at all out of the ordinary, unless you counted the panties in the glove compartment. They were mint green and, to my eye, quite a bit too small to belong to anyone over the age of twelve or thirteen. I put them back where I’d found them.

  I climbed out, and punched the button that closed the door.

  Just to be thorough, I went through the trunk. Nothing. I didn’t know what I’d been looking for, but I hadn’t found it. I closed the trunk.

  The pile of bodies in this case was still growing, I’d been set up for murder, and I was suddenly without a suspect again.

  I looked down at the BMW key chip in my hand. There was still time to return it to Rieger’s apartment, but some instinct told me not to.

  Bolted to the cement wall was a stainless steel cabinet with a glass door. Inside was a chemical foam fire extinguisher. I hid the key chip in the cabinet behind the extinguisher.

  When I got outside of Rieger’s apartment building, I discovered that the rain had stopped. The squall had probably passed over while I was laying unconscious on Rieger’s carpet, leaving only the sinking of the sun to darken the sky.

  I walked to the Venice Boulevard Lev station and caught the six p.m. to Dome 6.

  An old man sat at the rear of the Lev car with his feet tucked under him in the seat. It was that crazy old street preacher that everyone called Nostradamus. He scrutinized me with wild bloodshot eyes that seemed about to bulge from their sockets. His body swayed back and forth like one of those Indian snake charmers. “It’s nearly here,” he crooned. “The signs is all around us. More of ‘em comin’ ever day. The Convergence is comin’!”

  The man’s green flannel shirt was filthy. His stained brown jeans were at least three sizes too large. His trademark aroma of dried urine and old sweat permeated the Lev car.

  “I ain’t just jabberin’ to hear myself talk,” he croaked. “You runnin’ outta time, boy.”

  I looked up at the No Smoking sign and lit a cigarette. “You’re telling me,” I said. “You’re telling me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Lisa answered the door. She was dressed in a peach colored faux-satin blouse and black skirt with a slit that ran well up her plump left thigh. She’d made a valiant attempt at covering her bruises with makeup. The swelling in her face was receding nicely, but yellow and purple splotches peeked out from behind the camouflage. She opened the door wider and I stepped past her into the apartment.

  When she caught sight of me, Sonja crossed the room in three quick strides, slid her arms around me, and kissed me.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” I said.

  An impish grin came over Sonja’s face. “What does that mean? You just dropped by for a quickie?” She pretended to unbutton the top of her blouse. “Shall we just drop right here on the carpet?”

  Lisa prodded the carpet with her big toe. “This is my house, and nobody does the dirty deed on my carpet without my permission. Especially not before I get a chance to vacuum.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Something has happened. We need to talk. All of us.”

  Sonja backed up a half step and held me at arm’s length. “What happened to your face?”

  “Rieger is dead,” I said.

  “What?” Sonja’s voice nearly squeaked.

  Lisa didn’t say anything.

  “Somebody blew Rieger away,” I said. “And they used my gun to do it.”

  Sonja’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  “He was an asshole,” Lisa said.

  Sonja looked at Lisa like she was from another planet. “He’s dead,” Sonja said incredulously.

  Lisa shrugged. “He was a bastard. He used people. He used me. He used Mike. Face it, Sonja. He used you too.”

  She looked at me. “If you shot him, I’m sure as hell not going to cry over it.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” I said. “I was unconscious at the time.”

  I pulled my collar away from my neck and turned to show the bruising and blisters. “Somebody zapped me in the neck with a riot stunner. I woke up on Rieger’s floor with my gun in my hand. I found Rieger taped to a chair with a bullet in his head. I’m pretty sure it came from my gun.”

  Lisa shrugged again. “I don’t care if you did shoot him...”

  “I didn’t fucking shoot him!” I caught myself and lowered my voice. “I didn’t shoot him, Lisa. I swear I didn’t.”

  “I believe you,” said Lisa.

  Sonja looked at her left hand; there was blood on it. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, from the back of my head. I know. My head hit the sidewalk when she stunned me.”

  “When who stunned you?” Lisa asked.

  “Ms. X,” I said. “The mystery woman.”

  Lisa tilted her head slightly. “The killer is a woman?”

  “I don’t know if she’s the killer,” I said, “but there’s a woman wrapped up in this somehow.”

  I ticked the items off on my fingers. “It was a woman who zapped me. There was a woman with Michael when he was killed. And, there was a woman in the store when Michael bought the holo-camera.”

  Sonja walked over to Lisa’s computer desk and steered the chair out from behind it. “Don’t forget the woman on the Lev.”

  “Right,” I said. “A woman tried to kill me on the Lev a couple of days ago.”

  Lisa ran her fingers through her hair. “What does this mystery woman look like?”

  I shrugged, a move I immediately regretted. The muscles in my neck still hurt from the zapper. “Dark hair. Slender. Medium height. I never really got a good look at her.”

  “Not even when she zapped you?”

  “She hit me from b
ehind. I got a really good look at her boots, but that’s about it.”

  Sonja wheeled the chair across the room and positioned it directly under a light fixture. “Sit down,” she said. “I need to get a look at your head.”

  “I don’t have time. I just came by to check on you and Lisa, and to tell you that I’m dropping out of sight for a few days.”

  Sonja pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

  “Why the disappearing act?” asked Lisa.

  “I told you. I’m pretty sure that the killer used my gun to murder Rieger. She planted some other evidence too, a pretty tight frame. If I can’t catch her before the police figure out that Rieger is dead, I’m screwed.”

  Sonja stood with her hands on her hips. “At least let me clean it up. If this gets infected while you’re out there chasing bad guys, you’re going to get sick. If you get sick, you lose the edge. If you lose the edge, the bad guys eat your lunch.”

  “Bad girls,” Lisa said. “Or would the complement of guys be gals?”

  Sonja pointed to the chair again. “Sit, David. This is only going to take a minute.”

  I sat.

  Her fingers probed the back of my head. I knew she was using a gentle touch, but the contact triggered another wave of pain and nausea.

  Sonja whistled softly through her teeth. “Your hair is pretty matted with blood. I can’t really see anything. Lisa, can I ruin a couple of your face towels?”

  “No problem. Look in the linen closet at the end of the hall. Try to take the ones that don’t match.”

  Sonja walked out of sight down the hall.

  Lisa settled her weight carefully onto the couch. “You should eat something before you go off chasing bad gals. If you go out there on an empty stomach, the bad gals will eat your lunch.”

  “No,” I said. “No thank you.”

  The sound of running water came from the direction of the bathroom. A few seconds later, Sonja appeared at the end of the hall carrying three towels: two damp, one dry. The damp towels were hot enough to leave vapor trails.

  Sonja applied one gently to the back of my scalp.

  “Jesus! That’s hot.”

  She blotted it carefully to dissolve the dried blood. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I thought this wasn’t going to take long.”

  “If you sit still, it won’t.”

  “That towel is hot. And it hurts.”

  Lisa made a face. “If you’re going to play with the big gals, you’ve got to be prepared to take your lumps.”

  Sonja switched to the second damp towel. “What now, David? Do you just walk out the front door and disappear?”

  “I guess so. For a few days at least.”

  “Then what?”

  “By then, I’ll have either caught the killer, or the police will have caught me.”

  “Will you call me?”

  I thought about it. “The police will probably tap my phone,” I said. “But they wouldn’t have any reason to tap Lisa’s. It should be okay as long as I use a public phone. Yeah. I’ll call when I can.”

  Sonja exhaled slowly. “Good. I’m going to worry myself to death as it is.”

  She switched to the dry towel. “Actually, this doesn’t look too bad. You could use one or two staples, but I can fake it with a butterfly bandage. I’m going to have to shave a little patch back here, okay?”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Just hurry. I’ve got to get moving before the cops do.”

  Sonja looked up. “Lisa, have you got any scissors? I’m going to need a razor too.”

  “Scissors are somewhere in one of the kitchen drawers. You go after them; I’ll get the razor.”

  Sonja lifted my right hand to the back of my head. “Here. Hold this towel there until I get back. You’re scalp isn’t bleeding much, but I don’t want to have to clean it up again.”

  She and Lisa disappeared on their respective errands.

  Lisa returned first. She handed me a pink plastic disposable razor and leaned close to my ear. “I thought you said you two weren’t sleeping together.”

  “Oh. In the restaurant, when we had lunch? We weren’t. Not then.”

  Lisa snapped her fingers. “Damn! I knew I should have raped you when I had the chance.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I called House from a pay phone at the 52nd Street Lev Depot because it was closest to the barricade.

  He answered with his David can’t come to the phone routine.

  “House, this is David.”

  “Good evening, David.”

  “Evening, House. Listen, I just ran into my friend Roger. Everything is fine, but I won’t be coming home any time soon. I just wanted to let you know not to look for me. I’m not expecting any visitors, so don’t leave the light on, okay?”

  “Of course, David. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Goodnight, House.”

  I hung up.

  The entire conversation, following the words ‘my friend Roger’ was a dodge that Maggie and I had worked out years before. When one of us thought the phone might be bugged, we used the ‘Roger’ code.

  The meaning of everything after that phrase was inverted. We had included House in our little conspiracy, and it had paid off more than once.

  I had just told House that:

  A — Something was wrong.

  B — I would be home soon.

  C — I was expecting unwanted visitors.

  D — If anyone showed up, leave a light on to warn me.

  The police might not know about Rieger yet, but it wasn’t too early to start watching my back.

  I crossed through the barricade and circled two blocks out of my way to approach the house from the rear. The light in the loft was off, so my house was safe, for now at least.

  I headed straight for my bedroom. A shower sounded fantastic, but I decided to settle for clean clothes. I didn’t know how much time I had, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to get Sonja’s bandage wet anyway.

  I emptied the contents of my pockets on the bed, and dropped my dirty pants on the floor. I usually clean up after myself, but I was in a hurry. One of House’s remotes would have to take care of it.

  I was looking through my closet for clean clothes when it struck me that Lisa’s data chip hadn’t been in the little pile of articles I’d dropped on the bed.

  I turned back to the bed and poked through the junk from my pocket. The chip was definitely gone. It had either fallen out of my pocket, or the killer had searched me while I’d been unconscious. Either way, I’d lost Kurt Rieger’s itinerary and immigration records, and the news stories on the Osiris murders.

  With Lisa’s copy of the chip lost to Rieger’s goons, the data was completely gone. After what had happened to Lisa the first time, I couldn’t ask her to risk running another search. I would try to get by without the chip, and hope that it wasn’t costing me some crucial shred of information. I could always hire a jacker later, if I needed to.

  I pulled on a pair of dark blue pants and zipped them up. “House, how much cash do we have on hand?”

  “Eighteen hundred sixty-three Euro-marks. Will that be sufficient, or shall I arrange to withdraw more?”

  I tossed a purple nylon travel bag on the bed and started stuffing it with a couple of changes of clothes. “That should be plenty,” I said. “My accounts may be locked out by now anyway. Go ahead and bring me the money; I may have to leave in a hurry.”

  “Of course, David.”

  “While you’re at it, bring my night goggles.”

  “Of course,” House said.

  I drew the Blackhart and ejected the magazine. I hadn’t chambered a round, but I cycled the slide and checked anyway. The chamber was empty.

  The pistol and magazine went into the travel bag, between two layers of clothing.

  In the top of the closet was a black Kevlar box. I pulled it off the shelf, and pressed the ball of my right thumb to the lock sensor. The sensor strobed a red bar of light acro
ss my thumbprint and unlatched the lid of the box.

  I flipped it open and pulled out Maggie’s Blackhart. Funny, after four years, I still thought of it as Maggie’s.

  The box went back on the closet shelf.

  On the way to the kitchen, I stopped by the hall closet and grabbed the cleaning kit. Maggie’s Blackhart hadn’t been cleaned or fired in years. I field stripped it and oiled it over the kitchen table. If the police came before I was finished, I could abandon Maggie’s gun and slip out the side door with my travel bag. That way, I’d still have my own Blackhart.

  If it hadn’t begun already, sooner or later there was going to be an investigation into the death of Kurt Rieger. My Blackhart was a vital piece of evidence. I wanted to hand it over to the police in the same condition I’d found it in. If I fired it again, or even cleaned it, I’d be destroying evidence. I could still use it if I had to, but I wanted to avoid that if possible.

  Maggie’s pistol went back together without interruption. I loaded it with a fresh magazine and slid it into my shoulder holster. A spare magazine went in the pocket of my windbreaker, and another in my pants pocket.

  A drone rolled into the kitchen on yellow neoprene wheels. Its vid camera eyes locked on my position at the table. It glided silently to a spot a half-meter or so from my chair, clutching a fat envelope in one of its three-fingered manipulators and the gray molded-plastic case for my night goggles in another.

  I took the envelope, putting half of the cash in my pocket and the rest in the bag.

  I popped open the gray plastic case and checked the power cell for the night goggles. The readout was well into the green: plenty of power. They were good goggles, Weaver Night-Stalkers that had somehow followed me home when I’d left the Army.