“We really thinking a bag of salt, rocks, and a silver spoon is going to do anything to these guys?” She looked sidelong at it, tucked it into the pocket of her leather jacket hanging on the wall, and then picked up her boots from the floor.
“It’s worth trying,” Patrick answered, and shoved his own bag in the pocket of his jacket.
Joyce sat down on the edge of the couch and set the boots on the floor in front of her. They made little squelching sounds as she pulled them on, an annoyed expression on her face, and it was clear that they had dried marginally since their trudge through the tide the night before, but not enough.
“The offer to buy you another pair still stands,” Patrick said, zipping up his jacket. He clipped his holstered service weapon to his belt, and shoved his Recondito PD badge on its neck chain into his jacket pocket.
“Don’t sweat it, I’m just giving you a hard time.” She paused, and looked down at his hiking boots. “Besides, you could probably use the money to get yourself a nicer pair. Those kicks are looking a little ragged.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said, grabbing his keyring from the hook and pulling open the front door. “Let’s get going already.”
“Okay,” she said with a sly smile. “But if you ever need any fashion advice, I’ve got some ideas.”
Patrick’s place was near the corner of Almeria and Mission, in the southwest corner of Oceanview, and the warehouse that they’d visited the night before was in the northeast corner of Oceanview, just off of Bayfront Drive in an industrial area not far from the fish market.
Patrick had parked his car a few blocks away from the warehouse, over by the docks, and approached the rest of the way on foot. Later that night they’d left Joyce’s car parked on the street when they’d fled the warehouse. So unless anyone had made off with them in the hours since, they should both still be parked within a couple of blocks of each other.
The skies overhead were grey and cloudy as they walked east along Almeria toward the intersection with Mission. The Church of the Holy Saint Anthony had evidently just finished Saturday Mass services, as there was a steady stream of cars pulling out of the metered spaces on either side of the street.
“So have you lived your whole life in that house?” Joyce asked as they waited for the walk signal, glancing back the way that they’d come. “I mean, I’m not judging you or anything, but still . . .”
“Nah.” Patrick shook his head. “I moved out when I went to college, and then had my own place in the Kiev when I came back to town, a second story walkup up on Odessa Avenue. But I was down here all the time anyway, looking after my mom. When she died a few years ago, she left the place to me, and it didn’t make any sense to keep paying rent on my tiny apartment across town when I could live here for free.”
The light changed, and they crossed Mission heading east.
“I don’t blame you,” Joyce said. “And that was before the rents got so crazy too, I guess. If I hadn’t bought my place when I did, well . . . I’d never be able to afford it now, the way the housing market keeps going up.” She turned, and saw Patrick’s inquisitive glance. “I’ve got a condo in City Center, just a few blocks from work. If not for needing this thing—” she shook her cane “—I probably wouldn’t even have a car. But it would just take me too long to walk to work every morning, and my knee gives me enough trouble as it is.” She sighed, and shook her head ruefully.
Patrick nodded, a sympathetic expression on his face. He’d never asked Joyce why she needed the cane, but gathered it was something that she didn’t much enjoy talking about. He momentarily considered asking her now, but then she quickly moved to change the topic.
“Seriously, though,” she said, glancing over at him, “what’s the long-term plan here? I know that, as things stand, neither you nor Agent Lefevre want to take this to your superiors. And I’ll keep things vague in my reports as long as possible. But eventually you’re going to bring in backup on this, right? Are you hoping to build a solid enough case that they’ll listen to what you’ve got to say, and not just order psych evaluations for the both of you?”
Patrick thought about it a moment before answering. “I’m not sure, to be honest. That was the plan when I called Izzie in, definitely. I knew she would hear me out, wouldn’t dismiss my suspicions out of hand. But the deeper we dig into this, the bigger it gets.” He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “When I thought that it was just a matter of there being a connection between the Reaper murders and the Ink, that was one thing. But it’s so much more than that. I mean, whatever we’ve uncovered, it’s been going on in this town for a long, long time. Or else this kind of thing keeps happening, over and over again. Somebody must have tried to take this to the authorities before, right? So why wasn’t anything ever done about it?”
“What, are you saying there have been cover-ups? Conspiracies, that kind of thing?”
Patrick turned to meet her gaze before answering. “What other explanation could there be? I mean, Izzie thinks that the Guildhall fire back in the forties was part of all this, and those guys practically ran the town back then. So sure, if there was something hinky going on, they could probably keep it out of the newspapers and the courts for a long time. Maybe somebody found out about what they were doing and got fed up trying to get it through the system without any luck, and took matters in their own hands.”
“Wait.” Joyce reached over and took hold of his elbow, stopping him. He turned to look in her direction, and saw a worried expression on her face. “Is that what you’re planning to do?”
Patrick let out a ragged sigh before answering. “Like I said, I’m not sure. But with someone like Martin Zotovic mixed up in this, I’m not ruling out the possibility that he might be gaming the system. Ever since Zotovic got the mayor reelected, the city has been cutting all sorts of sweetheart deals, both to Parasol and to his real estate outfit, Znth. He even managed to buy the Undersight mineshaft out from under Ross University, and the Ivory Point lighthouse, too.” He rubbed his eyes, exasperated. “So let’s say I manage to convince my captain that this is a real case we’re working. And say that he is able to convince the Deputy Commissioner. All it would take would be one word from Zotovic to the mayor, and the whole case could be thrown out and I’ll be busted back down to issuing parking tickets.”
“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes, Patrick.” Joyce’s tone was supportive, but there was a harder edge underneath. “And it sounds like you’ve already talked yourself into taking matters into your own hands.”
“No, I haven’t. Seriously.” He reached forward and took hold of her shoulders, locking eyes with her. “I honestly haven’t decided anything yet.”
“But it’s still on the table.” She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening.
“I just . . .” He lowered his hands from her shoulders, looking away from her hard gaze. “I’m just not dismissing the possibility that we might have to work outside the system, is all.”
Joyce stood looking at him for a long moment, without speaking, and then turned and continued walking up the sidewalk, her cane tick-tacking on the pavement with each step.
They walked in silence for the next few blocks. Aside from a few places that were open for brunch, the majority of the restaurants and bars that this part of the Oceanview was known for weren’t yet open for the day, and so there were few people out on the streets. The occasional jogger braving the chill air, or people out walking their dogs, but not the sorts of crowds that spilled out onto the sidewalks in the evening hours. Which, Patrick felt, made the silence that stretched between them that much more awkward. He knew that Joyce was disappointed in him, and to be honest he was a little disappointed in himself. He hadn’t joined the police force to work outside the law; he’d joined up to be a good cop. But what they were facing was nothing that they’d covered at the academy.
When they were crossing Delaney, he became acutely conscious of the fact that they were now outside the “Littl
e Kovoko” corner of the Oceanview neighborhood, and that the nearest of his Uncle Alf’s protective markings were some distance behind them. Whatever defense was offered by those spiral whorls with the sea-salt embedded within, they were outside that sphere of protection now.
As each new person came into view, rounding a corner with a dog on a leash, or carrying recycling out to the curb, he studied their faces for any sign that they might be under the influence of Ink. Was the man stepping out of that taqueria up ahead one of the Ridden? Was that woman putting coins in a parking meter being controlled by an intelligence from another dimension?
When they reached Bayfront Drive without incident, Patrick realized that he was probably being paranoid. But if a little paranoia served to keep him observant and alert enough that he was ready for an attack when it did come, then it would have been worth it.
A few minutes later they reached the block where the warehouse stood, and parked a short distance up the street was Joyce’s vintage Volkswagen Beetle. It was still sitting where she had left it the night before, and appeared to be untouched.
“Thank god,” Joyce said, her keyring jangling as she pulled it out of her purse. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to handle losing my boots and Buggy in the same day.”
“Buggy?” Patrick raised an eyebrow as Joyce unlocked the driver’s side door.
“What?” Joyce looked back over her shoulder at him. “Doesn’t your car have a name?”
Patrick shrugged. “‘Car,’ I guess.”
“Yeesh.” She threw her purse into the passenger seat, rolling her eyes. “I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Straightening up, Joyce leaned in close and gave Patrick a quick peck on the lips. Then she pulled back and poked her index finger hard against his chest.
“Do not do anything stupid without talking to me first, you understand?”
Patrick knew that he had a silly grin plastered to his face, but he didn’t care.
“I promise,” he said, mooning. And then, in a more serious tone, repeated, “I promise.”
She gave him an appraising glance for a second, and then tossed her cane into the floorboards on the passenger side and folded herself down into the driver’s seat. “I’m going to go home and grab some things, and then head into work to take care of Officer Carlson’s remains. I’ll meet you guys back at your place later?”
“Copy that.” He nodded. “And be careful, okay?”
As soon as she turned the key in the ignition, the Dead Milkmen’s “Punk Rock Girl” started blaring from the car stereo’s speakers. Without turning the music down, she looked out the window at him, a grin on her face, and winked. “See ya, cutie.”
Then the Beetle pulled away from the curb and sped up the street, tires screeching, kicking up gravel in its wake.
Patrick shook his head, grinning.
And then his grin fell as he glanced back at the warehouse down the street. There had been a point the night before when he hadn’t been sure he would ever leave that subbasement again.
He wasn’t going to do anything stupid, he told himself. That hadn’t been a lie. But he would do what he had to do, and try to be smart about it.
Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his quilted jacket, head down and shoulders hunched, he turned and continued walking down the street in the direction of the docks where his own car was parked. He had work to do.
Patrick drove with the window down, the chill air bracing him, keeping him alert. He drove west on Howard, skirting the northern edge of the Oceanview neighborhood, until he reached the 10th Precinct station house at the corner of Howard and Albion. Turning into the entrance to the underground parking garage, he swiped his access card against the reader, and when the barrier gate lifted, he eased his car down the ramp.
Moments later, when he stepped off the elevator on the second floor, he almost collided with another officer walking in the other direction.
“Hey, watch it!”
Patrick stepped back, starting to apologize, until he saw who it was. “Oh. Hey, Harrison.”
Detective Harrison was wearing the same rumpled suit from the day before, but his jawline and cheeks were freshly shaved and his mustache precisely trimmed. This was a man who’d gotten a full night’s rest.
“Damn, Tevake, you look like you got run over.”
Patrick rubbed the stubble on his chin and grimaced. His eyes had been bloodshot and raw when he’d last looked in a mirror, with dark circles underneath. He was tired, and he knew that it showed.
“What the hell happened out there?” Harrison crossed his arms over his chest. “You and Carlson found our guys?”
Patrick’s jaw tightened. “More like they found us.”
“I heard from the uniforms who found him that Carlson was messed up. Beaten to death, with his sidearm in reach. What was that about?”
“We had split up to search the subbasement, so I didn’t see the attack.” Which was true, as far as it went. “Carlson was already down by the time I reached him.”
“The duty officer said something about a pursuit?”
Patrick nodded. “I tried to radio for backup, but couldn’t get through.” He glanced around the squad room, which was pretty quiet for a day shift. “I lost them in the end, and wasn’t able to get in to file an after-action report before now.”
“Damn.” Harrison shook his head, whistling softly. “I’d like to get my hands on the sons of bitches who beat him down like that.” He paused for a moment, and a pained look flitted across his face. “It was my fault you guys were down there. I was the one handing out the search details. Maybe if I’d sent more uniforms with you . . .”
Patrick was a little surprised. He’d always considered Harrison to be something of an ass, and had found his police work to be mediocre at best, and so he would never have expected that sort of reaction from him.
“I don’t know that it would have made any difference,” Patrick said, somberly. “You made the call based on what we knew at the time. I wouldn’t have done it any differently myself.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Harrison looked uncharacteristically vulnerable for a brief moment, and Patrick found himself sympathetic to him. Then the moment ended as Harrison’s accustomed arrogant expression settled back into place and he reached up and smoothed his mustache with thumb and forefinger, his signature tic. “Well, at least I don’t have to be the one to write up all that paperwork.”
And just like that, Patrick’s newfound sympathy for Harrison quickly dissolved.
“Where do we stand with the surveillance?” Patrick said, redirecting the conversation.
“Chavez has a rotating crew of undercover officers in unmarked cars watching the suspects IDed from the Fayed kid’s computer,” Harrison answered, a little surly, “but so far all they’re coming up with is a whole bunch of long distance photos of a bunch of computer geeks doing regular old computer geek stuff.”
During the raid at Malcom Price’s house on Wednesday they had arrested two of his associates, Ibrahim Fayed and Marissa Keizer, both of them employees of the Parasol corporation, and both suspected to be involved in the manufacture and distribution of Ink. When they searched Fayed’s apartment, they found that he had left his personal laptop computer powered up and running, with a “Find Friends” application active. Cross referencing emails and contact information, Patrick and the others had been able to identify an additional half-dozen Parasol employees who were also believed to be involved in the Ink traffic, and had begun to monitor their movements. It was a pattern that was identified in the daily movements of all six that had led Patrick and Officer Carlson to the warehouse down near the docks the night before.
“Chavez wants to keep the surveillance in place, and is pushing to get the district judge to sign off on wiretap and pin register for each of them,” Harrison went on, “but the captain doesn’t think we’ve got enough on the table to justify a link between them and the goons that jumped Carlson yet. Even so, the cap
tain has called for a Monday morning all-hands-on-deck meeting of the different narcotics squads working the Ink trade. My guess is that he’s going to push for us to start making some arrests, starting with those six computer geeks, and see if we can’t lean on them to give up the names of the people higher up the ladder.”
“What would we charge them with, though?” Patrick asked. “All we’ve got on them is a few emails, but in those they only talk about the ‘product’ and the ‘launch’ and that kind of thing. Never any direct mention of Ink, and they don’t refer by name to any of the known dealers. That’s pretty flimsy stuff. I don’t see the judge buying any of it.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.” Harrison shrugged. “But if the captain wants arrests, we can bring them in. What happens after that is out of my hands.”
Patrick scowled. That kind of thinking wasn’t going to do them any favors, considering what they were really up against. And what would happen if the precinct lockup were to be filled with men and women with enough Ink in their systems to turn Ridden?
Before Patrick could follow that train of thought much farther than that, Harrison stepped past him, slugging him lightly on the arm as he went by.
“Anyway, see you on Monday, Tevake,” Harrison said, chuckling. “And good luck with the typing. Better you than me.”
Watching Harrison’s retreating back, Patrick shook his head, and then turned and headed for his desk. The sooner he was able to file his report and get back to his investigation, the better. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck here when the sun went down. There were too many things lurking out in the shadows of the city.
CHAPTER FIVE
The time that Izzie spent in the passenger seat as Daphne drove them across town from Oceanview to City Center had felt like a perfect little break from all of the strangeness that swirled around them. Just two colleagues who had quickly become friends, and seemed to be on their way to something more than that even quicker, talking about anything but what was really worrying them. They were playing songs on Daphne’s car stereo, talking about old sitcoms and their favorite movies, past loves and old heartbreaks, just as they had done the night before on the dusty old couch, and again that morning in Patrick’s kitchen over their first coffees of the day. With traffic it had taken them no more than fifteen minutes to reach their destination, but for that brief time it was as though the weight on Izzie’s shoulders had lifted.
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