Witchblade: Talons

by John Dechancie

  Charming.

  Jake McCarthy had come and gone. He was upset and worried, but tried to cover up with smarmy cheer. She’d beat the rap. No problem. They’d get a good lawyer. He knew a woman who was a great trial performer. She’d get Sara off, if she didn’t get the case dismissed at the pretrial hearing.

  Sure, Jake. Sara had gone along, surfing on Jake’s wave of Pollyanna optimism. But as she had told Joe, she needed a fall guy. And the guy she had in mind was rather difficult to pin a conspiracy charge on. And just how does one go about making a measly state charge stick to a genuine international man of mystery?

  The lights went out. It must be ten o’clock. Ten o’clock. That means up at six. Ye gods.

  No, don’t say “gods,” please.

  She lay still until her eyes got used to the dark. When forms appeared in the shadows, she rolled over on her left side, plumped the thin pillow, and tried to get some rest.

  She was just about to doze off when she caught movement in her field of vision. Something skittered through the cell door and disappeared under her cot.

  She jumped up. She hadn’t got a good look at it. Spider, roach, mouse, rat, something like that. One of those critters. Well, jails had ’em in abundance. She got on her knees and peered under the bunk. She couldn’t see a thing. No matter. If it had been a spider, it probably wasn’t poisonous. A mouse she could live with. A rat? It hadn’t looked big enough. Likely it had been an oversized roach. So what.

  She got back on the cot and stretched out.

  Drifting out of sleep, she became aware of something nibbling at her right hand. She rolled out of the cot, hit the floor, rolled again, and brought her hand up to catch the light that had just come on out in the corridor.

  The Witchblade was hugging her wrist, throbbing urgently. This was what she had seen scurrying under her cot?

  “Sometimes you really blow my mind, kiddo,” she told it as she picked herself up and got back on the cot. “Glad to see you, though.”

  A guard appeared at the cell door and fumbled with keys. Sara sat up and looked at him.

  “What’s up?” she asked, squinting at the light.

  “You’re being transferred,” he replied. He was a big man with a short haircut. He looked like a typical turnkey.

  “Funny, nobody told me,” she said, wondering what the Blade was warning about. And then the obvious answer occurred to her.

  “There’s probably a good reason,” the guard said pleasantly. “Let’s go. Your new cell is in another cell block. Guess they want to keep moving you around for safety’s sake.”

  “Do we need the cuffs?” Sara asked, wanting to avoid his seeing the bracelet. She shouldn’t have it.

  “Don’t see why,” he said amiably. “I don’t think you’re going to try anything, Detective Pezzini. You probably want to get this thing cleared up real fast. Have a good lawyer?”

  “Haven’t met her yet. Will tomorrow at the arraignment.”

  “Well, good luck. Hey, I’m on your side. We cops have to stick together.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Let me get that,” the guard said, applying a key to the cell block door.

  “You kinda have to,” Sara said. “Don’t have my key on me.”

  The guard laughed and let her through the door.

  It was a long way, though door after door. Eventually Sara found herself walking through empty corridors that didn’t look like cell blocks at all.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Sara asked, turning her head.

  The so-called guard was aiming a silenced pistol at her.

  In the quiet of the night, the shot made a lot of noise, a sharp whack that echoed off cold concrete.

  The Witchblade jumped up to ward off the slug, which went whizzing off at an angle and thunked into the wall a few feet down the hallway.

  “What the hell?” the bogus guard said in shock. His eyes widened at the sight of Sara’s curlicue gauntlet shapeshifting on her arm. He aimed and fired again.

  Same result.

  Sara grabbed the gun off him and pocketed it. “Tell Strauss he’ll have to come up with better stuff,” she told him.

  The guy was backing off, eyes as round as manhole covers. “What the hell is that? What the hell are you?”

  “Oh, Strauss didn’t say? Good. You’ll never know. Give you something to think about in your old age. If you reach it. By the way, what’s your name?”

  Nonplused, the phony guard could only answer, “Sam.”

  “Say good night, Sam.”

  “Good night.”

  She sent a simple bolt of kinetic energy at his jaw. Just a tap. He flew about six feet and ended up a sprawl on the blue-painted floor.

  She found an emergency box, broke the glass, pulled the cord, and waited for the real guards to show up.

  After Sara’s arraignment, at which she pleaded not guilty to a charge of criminal conspiracy to commit murder, Joe Siry bailed her out, putting his own house up as security for the bond. Sara emptied her meager savings account and paid Joe what she could, and signed a promissory note for the rest. She had to borrow from the police credit union for legal expenses.

  Her lawyer, Cathy Greenwood, was a small woman with an attractive, elfin face. She looked young, very young, but said she was 35 years old. She just had that kind of face. Sara was not reassured.

  Siry was forced to suspend her without pay. He had no choice, of course. She could not continue to work while under indictment for a felony. Full back pay would be awarded if she beat the rap. To Sara, though, pay wasn’t an issue. It meant she could not do any further investigating on her own. Her badge would be temporarily inactive. She instructed Cathy to ask if she could be kept on active status with the police department.

  “We can’t have her investigating her own crimes,” Morrison, the assistant DA, said.

  “Alleged crimes,” Cathy Greenwood corrected.

  “Of course, alleged crimes.”

  “Nevertheless, you’d better plead your client. We have more than enough to bind her over for trial.”

  “We’ll see,” Cathy said. “Frankly, I don’t think you even have a case. I just might mount a defense at the hearing.”

  “Be a mistake,” Morrison said. “If you have a defense, you’ll want to save it for the trial. Don’t want to tip your hand.”

  “I’m always suspicious,” Cathy said, “when the prosecutor starts giving me courtroom advice. Usually means he doesn’t have anything to back up his case.”

  “We have forensic evidence, we have witnesses, we have the defendant’s own statements and official reports.”

  The DA was leaning forward in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “We wouldn’t go to trial if we didn’t think we had a case,” he said, more to Morrison than anyone else. “Would we?”

  “No way, Cap,” Morrison said.

  “I think what you have are surmises, assumptions, and just plain guesses. My client is a police officer. She’s investigating the very crimes you accuse her of committing. Of course you’re going to find evidence of her presence at the crime scene. The whole thing is ridiculous. An outrage.”

  “It’s not outrageous to prosecute crime,” the interim DA said. “That’s our job.”

  “Absolutely,” Morrison agreed, not at all thrilled by the DA’s insipidity.

  “My client has been attacked in custody. Clearly an assassination attempt. Doesn’t that throw doubt on the case?”

  “Who knows what mob rules she broke or what toes she stepped on?” Morrison said, his hands out. “I think it tends to bolster our case rather than the reverse. It’s clear she has mob affiliations.”

  “It’s also logical to assume that she’s a mob target because of her zeal in pursuing organized crime figures.”

  “That’s your interpretation,” Morrison countered.

  “It will be the jury’s interpretation as well,” Cathy said.

  “We’ll see at the trial.”

  “We won’t
even get to the hearing. I’m filing a motion for dismissal.”

  “On what grounds?” the DA asked.

  “Lack of evidence. Let’s face it, you didn’t investigate any other suspects. I wonder what tale the jail hit man has to tell. Who was bribed? How did he get in there? You haven’t even offered him immunity.”

  Morrison said, “We’re not obliged to. That’s another case entirely. Simply because your client was the intended victim has no bearing on this case.”

  “I should say it does,” Cathy said hotly. “Ridiculous to say it doesn’t!”

  “Not at all. I think you’re making a mistake taking that tack.”

  “Why so?”

  “Well, if you’re claiming that the real conspirators are trying to bump off your client, it could be a bid to hush her up in a plea bargain.”

  Cathy sat back. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I see.”

  “Kind of blindsided you,” Morrison said with some satisfaction. “That’s exactly what we’ll be countering if you bring up the hit attempt.”

  “But the whole thing rests on appearances,” Cathy said lamely.

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” the DA said in hopes of being relevant to the issue at hand.

  “True,” Morrison acknowledged diplomatically.

  Sara was sitting with her long legs crossed, following the exchange with interest.

  “You have the semblance of a case,” Cathy went on. “But you have no case. It’s all appearances.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” the DA blurted, then realized he had said the wrong thing. Morrison gave him a sidelong look of irritation.

  “Exactly my point,” Cathy went on. “My client looks guilty, and lacking any other line of investigation, you target her. She was strictly a target of opportunity, and that’s what the jury will think.”

  “Oh, we’re back to the trial again?” Morrison grinned impishly. “Counselor, you’d better plead your client.”

  Cathy looked at Sara before saying, “What are you offering?”

  The DA started to say something, but was preempted by Morrison.

  “Murder Two,” he said. “Twenty-five to life.”

  “For which murder?”

  “Any of them.”

  “That’s absurd. Sir, weren’t you about to say something?’

  “Yes, I was,” the DA said indignantly. “I was about to offer immunity in exchange for information about the new ethnic mobs.” The DA was suddenly all business. “I’m on a crusade,” he added, wanting to be helpful.

  Morrison was dismayed. “Uh, well, wait a minute . . .”

  “I’m the District Attorney.”

  “Hold it,” Cathy said. “Are there two offers on the table? One from the DA and one from the assistant DA?”

  “No, there’s one offer,” the DA said, satisfied to have put his foot down.

  “Immunity. Uh, in exchange for reliable information which could lead to a prosecution, which . . . well, which could lead to a conviction.”

  Cathy was incredulous. “Is the plea bargain going to be contingent on a desired verdict?”

  “No, no, not at all,” the DA said. “We can offer witness protection, too.”

  “But that’s a federal program,” Cathy said.

  “We are starting up our own program, funded by . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. My client is innocent of any con­spiracy charge.”

  “She’s the mistress of a Russian mobster!” Morrison exploded.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Sara said suddenly, getting to her feet. She towered over the DA.

  “Uh . . . yes?”

  “No plea bargain, no deal, no nothing,” Sara said. “There’s only so much nonsense I’m going to put up with.”

  “Counselor,” Morrison said, “tell your client she’s not helping her case with that attitude.”

  “Sara, sit down, please. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do. Trust me.”

  “Cathy, I trust you. File your motions, make a defense at the hearing, do anything you have to do, but don’t ever consider the possibility that I’ll cop a plea to something I didn’t do.”

  “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that in this office,” Morrison said, shaking his head. “Next day, they bargain.”

  “There won’t be any bargains, not today, not any day,” Sara said. “And you won’t get a nickel from me, Mr. Morrison.”

  She executed an about-face and walked out of the office.

  Albert the DA was impressed. “Your client has spunk, that I’ll say.”

  “Please,” Morrison said.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  To say that Joe Siry’s day had been rough would have been an understatement. Sara was out of jail, but had blown the interview with the DA, and Joe had gone to considerable lengths to soften Albert up for some kind of deal. Hell, she could have promised him anything. Information. She had information to trade. Didn’t she date that Russian mobster? Well, okay, once, but she could have given them details about him, stuff for their files. Stuff they wanted. Mostly trivial, but Albert would have gone for it.

  Promise them anything. That’s what he always did. Promise them anything and deliver what you got. Bupkis. Nada. The old bait and switch.

  But, no, she had to go and blow it, walk out in a huff. She didn’t know you saved that tactic for when they’re desperate to make a deal. That’s a last-resort ploy. It was a tricky maneuver. He’d pulled it off any number of times in his career.

  Sara was young and inexperienced. Hot-headed, impulsive. Most young cops were. She was dedicated, for sure. But she had a wild streak. And that . . . weird business she was always into. He still didn’t know what to make of all that.

  He left the office and walked to his favorite bar, Grogan’s, on West 34th Street. It was a nice little place. He knew the owner, Shamus Grogan, an old reprobate who had long lived on the peripheries of what was left of the ancient Irish mobs of New York. He was long in the tooth, Shamus was. In and out of the hospital for the last ten years. He must be in his nineties by now, but he still showed up at his own joint once in a while to have a glass of Guiness.

  There now. He, Joe Siry, was an old acquaintance of Shamus Grogan. Did that mean he had “organized crime affliations,” for pete’s sake? Don’t make him laugh. Same thing with Sara. So she took a fancy to some Albanian. Whatever. So what? Didn’t mean she was his mistress. Did it?

  Well, Joe didn’t really know everything about Sara’s love life. That was her business. Right? Right.

  He walked in the door. The place was empty, but it wasn’t even four-thirty yet. He’d knocked off early. Some days, you gotta knock off early.

  A man was standing behind the bar, washing glasses. Joe had never seen him before. “You the new bartender?”

  He was a thin and wiry guy with long hair. “Yeah, just got hired.”

  “What happened to Frank?”

  “He needed some time off. Family.”

  “Oh,” Joe said. “This your first day, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”

  “The usual. Oh, yeah, you don’t know my usual. Half and half.”

  “Yes, sir, coming right up.”

  “And some peanuts. Shamus always likes peanuts on the bar.”

  The new man looked at the clock. “I guess I should get them out. Happy hour coming up.”

  “Happy hour,” Joe said to himself. “I’m happy.”

  “Yeah?” the guy said, not getting the irony.

  “As a lark. When I’m here. When I’m drinking with my buddies. Then I’m happy. If only I didn’t have to go to work.”

  “Oh? What do you do?”

  “Police.”

  “Oh, you’re Joe Siry?”

  “Yeah. My reputation precedes me, I bet.”

  “Sure. I’ve heard of you. Just wanted to make sure.”

  “Wanted to make sure. What do you mean?”

  Suddenly, t
he front door slammed shut.

  Joe jerked his head around. Another guy had slammed it. Big guy. With a gun. “Hey, what the hell is going . . . ?”

  “Captain Siry?”

  Joe whirled on his barstool to find the voice. A slim, well-dressed man had come out from the back. His face was extraordinarily ugly. The man was a well-groomed toad.

  Joe scowled. “Who the hell are you?”

  The toad bowed. “Permit me. My name is Erwin Strauss.”

  Merlin was writing a program on one of his many laptop computers when he heard the cops knock. He always knew when cops knocked: a certain sharp, authoritarian rap, as unmistakable as Morse code.

  Muttering mild profanities, he went to the door and peered through the peephole. He saw a pretty face, a familiar one, distorted by the extreme wide-angle lens. It was pretty even with the distortion.

  Well, he couldn’t very well pretend he wasn’t home. That never worked. He opened the door. It was Pezzini and another guy, likely her partner. He looked like someone out of an old beach movie.

  “Merlin,” Pezzini said. “You are one elusive dude.”

  “I like it that way. Do come in.”

  Merlin led them into the living room.

  “This a bust?” he asked casually, knowing they would have said so immediately but wanting to set the tone of the visit.

  “Did you know you have about two dozen cell phone accounts?” Sara said. “All inactive?”

  “Oh, yeah. Never seem to get those cleaned up.”

  “And none with a real address. How did you manage that?”

  Merlin shrugged. “Talent?”

  “Wonder how many cloned cell phones we could find if we searched this sty?” the surfer dude said.

  “Plenty, but I get the feeling you guys want to know about something else.”

  “Yes, we do,” Sara said. “Your connection with Irons International Investments and Holdings.”

  “I’ve worked for them.”

  “Or for Kenneth Irons personally?”

  “Same thing, no?”

  “Not quite, but you have been working for him?”

  “Right.”

  “On what?”

  “Big computer.”

  “What kind?”

  “Supercomputer. Powerful one. New type.”