Salvi couldn’t see Mitch, so she moved over to the bar and flagged the blue mohawked barman.
“It’s me, Brentt, where’s Mitch?”
The barman shot her an empathetic look. “He’s back here.” He waved his wristband over a section of the bar and it retracted, opening up a space. He motioned her through. She followed him out back to a cool room, where he swiped his wristband again and unlocked it. The door slid back and he motioned her in. She paused a moment, then cautiously moved to peer inside. There was Mitch, sitting on the floor, leaning back against a stack of beer kegs, his eyes closed, passed out.
“What the hell is he doing in here?” she asked, feeling the cold permeating out the door.
“It was for his own good,” the barman said. “He was about to drink himself to death. I tried to cut him off, and he didn’t take too kindly to it, so I got Wattunga to put him in here.”
“Wattunga?”
“The doorman.”
Salvi nodded and looked back in at Mitch. “Who told you to call me?”
“He was drinking with some guys earlier. When they left they said if he caused any trouble to give you a call.”
“Did they,” Salvi muttered, picturing a laughing Beggs in her mind. She sighed again and nodded. “I’m sorry if he was a problem.”
“That’s alright,” the barman said. “As much as I like Mitch’s patronage, I hope he sorts his shit out. The guy’s getting messier by the day.”
“He’s a regular?”
The barman nodded. “Yeah, but these past couple of weeks he’s been drinking more heavily than usual. Something’s going on in his life.”
“Yeah,” Salvi said looking back at Mitch. “I guess it is.”
“You want Wattunga to give you a hand?” the barman asked.
“No,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”
“Alright.” He nodded. “Close the door on your way out.”
The barman left and Salvi stepped into the cool room. She walked up to Mitch and nudged his leg with her foot. He didn’t move. She nudged him harder. He stirred.
She bent down in front of him. “Mitch. Mitch, wake up.”
He didn’t stir.
“Mitch!” she said loudly. “Wake up!”
This time he stirred, his eyes opening slightly, but then he closed them again. Salvi stared at him a moment, then unleashed a hard slap across his face.
That woke him up.
“Fuu…” Face scrunched, hand rubbing his cheek, he looked at her like she was crazy.
“Get up, Detective!” she said, standing. “We’re going home.”
Mitch looked around the cool room quizzically, perhaps a little confused about how he got there. Then he began rubbing his hands over his arms.
“Whysssitt so friggen cold?”
Salvi stood over him with her hands on her hips. “Get up before you get hypothermia.”
Mitch moved to stand and she held her hand out to assist. She pulled him up and they stumbled a little. She suddenly realized just how unsteady he was on his feet, so she pulled his arm around her shoulder and supported him as they made their way to the front door.
They stumbled out into the car park, Salvi using all her strength to steer Mitch’s taller, bigger frame toward her Zenith. As they neared, she raised her iPort and swiped it over the door handle, while trying to hold Mitch steady at the same time. He tried to stand on his own, but staggered, falling and flattening her against the side of the car.
“Jesus,” she grunted, heaving him off. She swiped the handle again, it unlocked and the door opened of its own accord with the hiss of hydraulics.
Mitch peered in drunkenly. “It’s tiny. How am I supposed to fit in there?” he slurred.
“By shutting that mouth of yours,” she said, pushing his head down and ushering him inside like he was an arrested criminal. She locked him in, then moved around to the driver’s side and got in.
She set the Zenith in motion, glancing at him and wondering if he was going to vomit. He looked OK, but she sent the windows down a little just in case. Besides, the fresh air was good; she could smell the booze leaking out his pores.
“Where do you live?” she asked, shivering a little at the cold air that swam inside the vehicle. He didn’t respond, and she looked over to see his eyes closed again. She reached out and thumped his arm. “Mitch!”
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Where do you live?” she asked again.
He turned his eyes to the road ahead, looking around at their surroundings. She thumped his arm again. Harder.
“Damnit,” he said, rubbing his arm. He looked back at her again. “So violent tonight.” Then he gave a drunken grin. “I’ll put Internal Affairs onto you.”
Salvi slammed the brakes on and swerved the Zenith over to the side of the road. His eyes went wide and he threw his arm out against the car’s dash for support. The Zenith came to a stop as another car swerved around it honking their horn and the driver yelling expletives.
“You can tell me where you live, or you can get out right now and sleep on the street, Mitch. I don’t care. The choice is yours,” she seethed, “but it is almost 2am, and I’m tired.”
He looked back at her, even in his drunken state his eyes were curious. “The Folex Building downtown.”
“Thank you,” she said, then put her foot down and veered back into the traffic.
They pulled up directly out front of the Folex Building, named after some young whizz kid software billionaire. It had once been a co-op store that had been refurbished into what were known as “molecular apartments”: tiny studio apartments designed for maximum density and minimum cost. She got Mitch out of the car and moved to the entrance.
“Access key?” she said, holding out her hand.
Mitch began fishing in his pocket for it. His jeans were snug and his drunken fingers not cooperating, nor were his wavering legs.
“Goddamn it, Mitch,” she hissed, pushing him up against the wall and pressing her hand against his chest to keep him there. With her free hand she tugged his away from the pocket, and slid her smaller fingers in. While she fished her fingers around for the key, Mitch stared at her. His face just centimeters away, his dark green eyes watching her through the unkempt fringe falling in his eyes. Her fingers caught the edge of the key and she pulled it out. She pointed at him. “Stay!” she said, then moved over and swiped it over the entrance console. The doors slid back and she motioned him forward. He staggered toward her and she took his arm and steered him toward the elevators. She swiped his key over the console in the elevator and it automatically took them to the floor registered on the key.
She glanced at the time on her iPort and silently fumed. All the while he continued to stare at her.
“What?” she snapped.
His eyes shone with intrigue, albeit drunkenly. “Nothing … Detective Salvi Brentt,” he said, accentuating her name as he spoke it. She stared back at him, wondering what he meant by it. It was the second time he’d done that. The elevator chimed and the doors opened on level nine. They stepped out, and as he staggered again she grabbed his arm and threw it over her shoulders once more.
“Apartment?” she asked.
“Nine fourteen,” he slurred.
She found the apartment, unlocked the door and ushered him inside, flicking on the lights as she did. She heard a whirring sound and looked up to see a globe sheath pull back and a soft green BioLume glow spread across the room. She glanced around his apartment. It was molecular alright. The whole space was around the same size as Salvi’s bedroom in her lush apartment. A small kitchenette sat along the left wall of the entrance, a small lounge area to the right, and the bathroom and bed lay along the wall opposite. Styled in gray hues, the apartment was dark, yet another light pulsed in from a round window punched through the opposite wall; the lights from a club in an alleyway behind his apartment. She steered Mitch toward his bed as the pinks and blues and reds splashed across them both, cutt
ing through the soft green BioLume glow.
She tried to ease Mitch’s frame down on the bed, but he fell back heavily, pulling her down on top of him. She thrust her hand out against the bed and pushed herself off.
“Jesus, Mitch,” she muttered.
He looked up at her and smiled with humor, as she lifted his feet onto the bed. She walked over, poured a glass of water and placed it on the small cubed table beside the bed.
“Drink this,” she said.
“Yes, mom,” he smiled.
“Fuck you,” she said, and went to walk away but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” he slurred, blinking his eyes heavily. “Thank you.”
She stared at him, at the way the lights through the window flashed upon his cheekbone and stubbled jaw.
“It was tonight,” he slurred, still holding her wrist.
“What was tonight?” she asked
He slurred something and it took her a second to work out what he’d said.
“Anniversary?” she asked.
He nodded. “He killed her. Tonight.”
“Who killed who tonight?”
“Alison,” he said. “My girlfriend… Tonight was the night he killed her.”
Salvi felt the tension in her arm ease off. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. She probably should’ve known this, but she’d never asked him about it. She sat down on the side of his bed. “Mitch, why didn’t you tell me it was the anniversary of her death?”
He looked at her with intoxicated eyes. “You don’t like to talk about it.”
She stared back at him. “Because this is what it obviously does to you. I know it’s hard but… you need to accept that she’s gone and move on.”
He stared at her a moment. Then he nodded, pressing his lips together, as his eyes began to shine in the colored lights dancing across him. “You’re right,” he whispered.
Salvi suddenly felt bad. Who was she to tell him how to feel? Maybe she was a cold bitch after all. Any which way, now was not the time. She’d talk about it with him in the morning.
She went to get up but he tugged on the wrist he still held and pulled her back down.
“Life is precious, Salvi,” he slurred, the grip on her wrist tight. “You need to live it while you can.”
She stared back at him but said nothing. Wasn’t sure what to.
“Who knows how long we have left?” he said. “Don’t waste it.”
She furrowed her brow. “I’m not wasting it.”
He studied her another moment, then let go of her wrist. He raised his hand and cupped her cheek tightly, as though trying to get his point across. The touch of his skin on hers shocked her. “Don’t waste it, Salvi,” he slurred softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Don’t cut people off.” His intoxicated eyes lowered to her mouth and she felt his thumb brush slowly over her lips, parting them.
She froze briefly in surprise at the gesture, then grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “You’re drunk, Mitch. Sleep it off.” She placed his hand firmly across his chest, then stood and headed for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Ten
The Outpouring
Salvi sat in the hub and glanced at her iPort. Mitch hadn’t shown yet. She sighed and tapped her fingers against the desk in thought.
Kara from narcotics ducked her head around the doorway. Lean, with the bronzed skin of her Middle Eastern ancestors, her hair was coiffed up high and shaved at the sides which beautifully displayed her long intricate earrings – which no doubt hid the latest PD spyware.
“Hey Salvi,” she said in greeting, the diamond piercing in her nose sparkling in the light. “I heard you got another body in Bountiful.”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“That’s too bad. That’s some horrible shit right there.”
“Yeah, it is,” Salvi replied. “What’s the latest in narc town?”
“Word is there’s some new super-nasty on the streets. Bad shit. But we’ll stomp it out.”
“Good luck,” Salvi said. Kara gave a wave, then glanced at Caine and left. A few seconds later Caine casually stood and headed out the door. Salvi smiled to herself, wondering if something was going on between the two, although she’d heard he was seeing Bel from cyber. She shook her head. Pretty boy’s got his hands full.
Not long after Caine left, Beggs walked in with a coffee in hand.
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically, greeting him.
“For what?” he said walking over to her desk.
“For leaving my number with the barman last night.”
“What barman?” he asked, sipping his coffee, eyes twinkling with humor.
“The one you left my details with,” she said, lowering her voice.
“I didn’t leave your card with any barman,” he said, then looked over at Bronte as he approached, pulling on his jacket. “You leave Salv’s number with the barman last night?”
Bronte shook his head. “Must’ve been Hernandez,” he said.
“Hernandez?” she asked.
Bronte nodded. “I gotta go, got a lead to follow.”
Beggs nodded, watched as he walked out the door, then turned back to Salvi.
“I’m going to kill Hernandez,” Salvi said.
“Hey, look,” Beggs said, “this Mitch thing. Cut him some slack, alright? You know what yesterday was, right?”
She nodded.
“We see some shit in this job and that’s hard to deal with,” Beggs said, “but it ain’t anywhere near as hard as seeing it happen to someone close to you. Mitch is struggling a little, but I feel for the guy.” He shrugged. “So long as he does his job, what does it matter if he’s drinking a little? Whatever gets us through the day, right?” Beggs turned and walked off toward his desk.
As he did, a message sounded on her iPort. She rolled her wrist over to view the screen. It was from Mitch.
Running late. Meet you in Bountiful.
Salvi gave another sigh. She wondered whether he was really running late or whether he was avoiding her. Either way, she was actually grateful. She was glad not to have to sit in a confined car with her partner right now. She wondered if he remembered touching her face the previous night; touching her lips. She’d found it hard to get it out of her mind ever since. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her like that. And despite how drunk he was, she knew it wasn’t a drunken gesture. It had been intentional. Honest. Whether Mitch was just drunk and wanted sex, or whether he meant something else by it, she didn’t know. But it made her feel odd. And she didn’t know if that odd feeling was good or bad. He was her partner. It shouldn’t have felt good.
Again, she lamented the days of working with Stanlevski, an old married cop who’d kept things professional. It was always about the job with him. Nothing more, nothing less. Just the way she liked it.
She stood from her desk, checked the gun in her holster and moved for her black jacket. As she did Hernandez appeared and walked toward his desk.
“Hey,” she said, stopping him. He looked back at her. “You left my name with the barman last night?”
“Yeah, so?” He shrugged.
“Why didn’t you just take him home?” she asked.
He shrugged again. “Not my problem. Besides, you said you could handle things.” He turned and walked off. She couldn’t see the smug look on his face, but she knew it was there.
“Where’s Grenville at?” she heard Ford call from the doorway to her office.
Salvi turned to see her standing there with her arms folded. Salvi gave her a relaxed wave, wondering how much she’d heard. “He’s meeting me in Bountiful. I’m just on my way out now.” And with that she quickly exited the station.
As Salvi drove to Bountiful, she wondered why Hernandez had bothered to go to the bar the previous evening. It was pretty clear he wasn’t a fan of Mitch, so why he would want to go and drink with th
e man? Was Hernandez keeping an eye on him? Was Ford? What did that mean? Did Ford think she couldn’t handle herself? Didn’t trust her to watch Mitch?
With the Zenith’s autodrive on, cruising the straight stretch of road toward Bountiful, she sat back and let her mind endlessly tick over the case. She thought of Mitch’s odd behavior, of Hernandez’s mistrust, of what Beggs had said, wondered about Ford and Attis’ relationship, what influential ties Attis had, the brain tweaks the Subjugates had undergone, the bodies of Sharon Gleamer and Rebecca Carson, and the BioLume found at both scenes.
And as she gazed out the window in thought and the SlingShot raced past, she still had no answers.
She eventually pulled up in Bountiful a few blocks away from the Children of Christ church. It looked as though the whole of the town had turned up for Sharon Gleamer’s funeral. Sprinkled among them were the Serenes, like gaps of light breaking up the black of the crowd, dressed in their beige uniforms, their flattened silver halos pressed against their skulls. As she got out of her car, she recognized Serene-41 smiling and ushering her toward the church.
She walked toward the entry doors, blending into the crowd nicely with her black pants, boots, jacket and sunglasses. Her white button-up shirt the only thing providing contrast at the collar, aside from her trademark red lipstick, that is. Up by the road, she saw Bander talking to Subjugate-12, Fontan Pragge, directing him impatiently to do something. Not far from the two of them was Subjugate-52, Edward Moses, who stood scanning the crowd. He paused when his eyes fell on hers. As she stared back, he gave her a slight bow. There was something oddly intriguing about him. Fascinating. Even though he was almost a Serene, he seemed somehow different. Where the others blended blandly into the background, somehow Moses stood out. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as it made her skin crawl to think it, Moses was handsome. Striking. She wondered if that was how he’d drawn his victims in – like moths to the flame. He gave new meaning to the term “handsome devil”.
The Subjugate Page 18
