by M. H. Mead
Andre settled down into his chair and mimed desk work. “I sincerely appreciate that.”
“My taut buttocks, you do.” She turned and walked out of the cubicle.
He watched her go and nodded his approval. “Nice.”
THE OFFICES OF THE MAYOR and the City Council gazed over the cityscape and across the glittering expanse of the Detroit River from the crowned spire of the New Building. Andre wondered what they would call it fifty years from now—the Old New Building, the Once-New building, the Building-Formerly-Considered-New?
Sofia Gao sat in the conference room with her back to the door. Taking a chair across the table seemed the safest bet, but he didn’t want to lock eyes with her, didn’t want to see her I-told-you-so smirk. He pulled out the chair next to hers and plopped into it, resting his arms on the glass-topped table. Neither of them said a word.
He looked out the floor-to-ceiling window at the sailboats bobbing on the river. Only a small green valance framed the late-afternoon view. Everything seemed light, from the glass table to the thin metal chairs to the delicate china cups on the coffee cart in the corner, as if they were all floating on top of the New Building. Even the air smelled fresh. No coffee, floor cleaner, sweat or tears. Nothing that smelled of work. He glanced at the closed door on the opposite wall. If the mayor’s conference room looked like this, he could only imagine the seat of power on the other side of that door.
Next to him, Sofia sighed and shifted in her chair. There were things he wanted to ask her. Who had she talked to? What did she say? Whose ear did she have? But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He’d rather go into the meeting—even a meeting with the mayor—completely blind.
The outer door opened behind them and they both turned. A chinless, rat-nosed man entered the room, puffing as if he’d walked up the twenty floors instead of taking the elevator. He gave an upward tilt of the head when he recognized Andre but did not offer to shake hands. Greer Kosmatka had worked Vice before moving into the Organized Crime Unit, and Andre had too much experience with him to trust him completely. Then again, the last time they’d spoken, Andre had been working Internal Affairs, so Kosmatka probably felt exactly the same about him.
Kosmatka took the seat on the other side of Sofia and introduced himself. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked her. “Because I don’t.”
Andre raised his eyebrows. Really?
Before Sofia could answer, the door opened again and Andre stiffened.
Jae Geoffrey Talic entered the room as if it were his own, bought and paid for. He shook hands down the line, starting with Kosmatka and introducing himself to Sofia, who seemed a bit too charmed by Talic’s smile. Hanging around politicians had taught him well.
Lieutenant Talic, one-time weapons instructor, one-time head of the Vice squad, now worked as the liaison between the city of Detroit and federal law enforcement. Andre didn’t know anyone who claimed to fully understand Talic’s role, but he seemed to associate more closely with the city manager’s office than any of the alphabet agencies. Talic hadn’t changed a bit in the three years since Andre had last seen him. He had one of those faces that looked middle-aged at puberty and stayed that way forever, but the gray hair that had crept into the sides of his crew cut put him in his mid-forties, with the muscle tone and posture of a much younger man.
He stood in front of Andre and held out a calloused hand in greeting. “Sergeant LaCroix. I’m glad you could join us. Guess you got a ride today.”
Andre let him hang, not caring how rude it would look to the others. He had too much history with Talic. “Shouldn’t you be carrying the mayor’s purse or something?”
Talic retrieved his hand with a frown. “Of course, you haven’t heard. We’re putting together a task force. We need grunts on the ground.”
“Outstanding,” Andre said. “I heard you like grunting.”
Sofia did a cover-cough. Andre continued to stare down Talic. No group could work together without a leader and the leader was never the weakest one in the room. He had to establish authority and establish it fast.
Then the mayor’s door opened, revealing the city manager, and Andre knew who was truly in control.
Madison Zuchek was a smiling, motherly woman with eyes like chips of ice-cold diamond. Andre had met her at a riverfront opening several months ago—exactly the kind of public function he’d been complaining to his brother about. Even so, he’d been impressed at the way Madison had orchestrated everyone and everything at the event to focus on Mayor Smith, especially as the opening itself had very little to do with the mayor’s office. He’d mentioned this to Oliver, who had murmured that keeping Madison happy was worth any price. “Don’t let ‘Mother Mad’ there fool you, she’s a razorback when she wants something for her candidate.”
Madison walked straight over to Andre, ignoring everyone else in the room. He was instantly on his feet as she took his hand in both of hers in a two-handed shake. “Sergeant LaCroix. I can’t thank you enough for your help in yesterday’s Overdrive malfunction. The city owes you a debt.”
Madison’s praise was a welcome warming flush. He knew it was just good politics, and Oliver had probably talked him up, no doubt highlighting his own role in the process. Still, Madison’s handshake felt safe, as if he could ask her anything and she’d grant it. “I was just doing my job,” he said as she released his hand. “I mean, that kind of accident, anyone would—”
“Malfunction, Sergeant,” Mother Mad corrected him. “Not accident. Everyone knows it was caused by computer error.”
“Right. Of course. I heard they had to reprogram everything.”
“Do you see the problem we have here?” Madison’s voice and body language now included the entire room. “The whole city is already skittish about the highways. We don’t need new problems.”
The door banged open behind him. Madison winced. Andre turned to see who it was, but mother Madison’s unguarded reaction had already told him everything he needed to know about the newcomer. A second later and Madison was greeting the giant man who had walked in the door, introducing him around. What looked like a Yeti in a bad suit turned out to be an economist named Iago Bernstein.
“The mayor has asked Mr. Bernstein to join us.” Madison gestured for Bernstein to sit next to her and finished making introductions.
Andre studied the man who had the ear of the mayor’s office, and by proxy, the entire city. Bernstein was not so much bearded as unshaven, in a style that was ten years out of date. His clothes looked like the kind of thing Andre had worn in college. Plaid pants flared around his ankles, screaming his allegiance to an earlier time. The kicker was the bow tie, a nod to academia which would impress no one in the room. However, the fact that Bernstein thought it would impress them spoke volumes.
Talic sat next to Kosmatka, on what Andre was already thinking of as the cop’s side of the table. The score was four police officers to two politicians, but Madison had the invisible hand of the mayor weighing down her side, and Talic could flip over to the politician’s side at any moment, so it was a fluid thing, and a stupid thing to keep track of anyway. Besides, Andre disliked all the cops here, with the possible exception of Sofia. He could at least trust her. So far, Sofia had only ever done exactly what she said she was going to do.
Madison Zuchek smiled her matronly smile into the room. “Thank you all for coming. As I’m sure you can understand, there are a great many pressures on the city government right now. Reports from Sergeants LaCroix and Gao about murdered fourths convinced the mayor that we needed to create a special investigative panel. A task force works best when it’s kept small, and anything said here today goes no further than this room.” Madison’s gaze seemed to linger on Bernstein.
“This task force,” Madison continued, “will report directly to the city manager’s office, specifically, to me. All of your present duties have been reassigned so that you may devote your fullest attention to this problem.”
Kosmatka raised a
hand. “What, exactly, is the problem?” And what am I doing here? his gestures asked.
In answer, Bernstein opened an old-style briefcase and pulled out a stack of paper, more paper than Andre had seen at one time since before he could drive. Bernstein passed two copies across the table and Andre found himself sharing one with Sofia. Bernstein produced a handful of ink styluses and skittered them across the polished surface of the table.
Nobody showed surprise at the paper and pens. Just last year the news spinners had broken several supposedly secure records caches and created statewide scandals relating to the governor’s office in Lansing. Obviously, Madison was worried about the spinners getting a line on these homicides. Paper was unhackable.
Everyone flipped through the stack of pages, skimming and scanning and deferring to their reading partners. Sofia made a few cryptic notes in the margins, but they didn’t help Andre understand what he was reading. The report was well-organized, factual, well-written, and told him absolutely nothing.
Madison Zuchek looked up from her own copy of the report and spoke into the silence. “Detroit is in a national spotlight thanks to the upcoming economic summit. If guests to our city can’t get around, then—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Bernstein said. “The police reports were alarmist enough.”
Andre lifted a stylus and scribbled a margin note, then pressed his elbow into Sofia’s arm in a subtle nudge and pointed to the paper. Why is an economist in this meeting?
She kept her head up while writing, maintaining a neutral look. Hired as a special consultant for the summit.
Only one? Not a pair?
Sofia’s response was a single mark of punctuation. ?
Who is he going to argue with? Andre wrote.
Sofia pressed her lips together, hiding a smile, and turned the page.
Madison still sat next to Bernstein, but had turned her shoulders away from him. “I’d prefer it if nobody in the city was killed, however when one segment of the population is targeted, especially fourths—”
“You’ve warned them, haven’t you?” Kosmatka said. “A general announcement of some kind—”
“Would have the exact effect we wish to avoid,” Madison said. “Panic.”
“It wouldn’t work anyway,” Bernstein said.
“Because of the NFA thing?” Kosmatka asked. “Sure, some fourths are NFA, but only a small percentage of them. Besides, they read—”
“It wouldn’t work because of the fourths themselves,” Bernstein sniffed. “You know what they’re like.”
“No, Mr. Bernstein,” Andre said evenly. “What are fourths like?”
Sofia sucked in a breath and Talic mumbled, “Here we go.”
“The Minimum Passenger Requirement Act was intended to encourage people toward public modes of transportation and away from personal-use automobile travel. It was a strategy that worked in every major American city, except Detroit.”
“What do you expect?” Sofia asked. “We’re the Motor City.”
“Yes,” Bernstein said. “The independent streak regarding modes of transport is now deeply rooted. One factor has allowed it to endure in Detroit, even flourish.”
“Fourths.” Heads turned to look at Andre, but when he didn’t elaborate, Bernstein continued.
“Just so. In the case of Detroit, the Minimum Passenger Requirement Act had the unfortunate side-effect of creating these so-called fourths.”
Unfortunate? Andre scribbled on his paper. He was so tired of pundits claiming that fourths were ruining the city, as if their presence was the cause of people commuting long distances in their own cars, instead of the effect of it. Carpools were great in theory, and most of the time, they worked fine. But there was always someone out sick or someone on vacation. Things happened. And when they did, fourths got everyone to work on time. Safely.
Bernstein ran his fingers over the tabletop, leaving streaks on the glass. “The number of registered badges fluctuates constantly. It’s rarely the same people from year to year. However, studies show that a four-person carpool lacks one of its members an average of once every twelve working days. With approximately a hundred thousand carpools using the Detroit highways, that means there are over eight thousand fourths plying their trade on a daily basis.”
Wrong, Andre wrote. He assumes every fourth rides every day.
Damn lies and statistics, Sofia wrote back.
“How could there be that many?” Talic eyed Andre. “No one can support themselves doing this.”
Bernstein spoke again. “For most, fourthing is a secondary source of income. Many jobs have flex time or telepresence capability, so fourths can spend their days in town, waiting to ride back out, and still hold down a job.”
“If you can call it that,” Talic mumbled.
“A job,” Bernstein said. “Not a career. Most are marginally employed, at best. Some are college students, some hold part-time jobs, most stop fourthing when they grow up a little.”
“Excuse me?” Andre cut in.
Sofia spoke up. “Isn’t there a connection between the presence of fourths and a city’s productivity, or even its whole attitude? They make us look better. After all, nobody would pick up a slovenly fourth. They’re encouraged to be—” Her eyes flicked over to Andre for a bare instant. “—presentable.”
“Don’t forget witty and charming,” he added.
“More to the point,” Sofia continued. “If these fourths are truly working for pocket change, and they learn that there’s a killer out there targeting fourths, they might stop riding.”
Bernstein leaned back in his chair. “Good.”
Bad! Andre’s stylus dug into the paper. Very, very bad.
“We license too many paid riders as it is. Economic models show that Detroit could lose up to half its fourths with no loss of productivity.” Bernstein leaned forward, leading with his double chin, as if to tell them a great secret. The others at the table angled toward him. “You know what I think? It’s a turf war. Fourths killing other fourths, eliminating the competition.”
“Bullshit!” Andre blurted. “Did you even check to see if any of them threw a FIT before they died?”
Bernstein blinked rapidly. “A what?”
“Like a tantrum?” Madison asked.
“It’s an acronym, Fourth In Trouble. If one fourth is in a bad situation, the others back him up. Are they in competition? Sure, technically. But nobody has a turf, nobody could hold one if they wanted to. Cars choose fourths, not the other way around.”
“I’m sorry,” Bernstein said. “You’re hardly an expert on—”
Andre stood, pulled out his fourthing badge, and tossed it on the table. “I’ve been a working fourth for three years. And I never go begging for a ride. Tell me, Mr. Bernstein, do you know the difference between first rush and second rush? The timing of exodus? Do you know why every ride-share app has failed?”
Talic and Kosmatka looked at each other and scoffed.
Andre thought maybe he’d ordered the table wrong. It wasn’t cops versus politicians. It was reasonable people versus idiots. He’d put himself and Sofia on one side. Perhaps Mother Mad too. Talic and Kosmatka could go sit with Iago Bernstein in his ivory tower where theory trumped reality.
He turned his back on them and helped himself to the taxpayer’s coffee, which was hidden in a thermal pot on the cart in the corner. As soon as he broke the seal, the smell of fresh-brewed wafted into the room. He gestured toward the pretty little cups. “Anyone else . . .? No?” He leaned against the wall and took a sip. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bernstein. You’re not from Detroit, are you?”
“Ah, no.”
“By the accent, I’d say not even Michigan.”
“My degree is from Stanford. I’ve lived—”
“Been here long?” Andre asked. “Do you like it here?”
“It’s fine. It’s pleasant.”
“Yes, but do you like it?”
“I said, it’s
fine.”
Mother Mad pursed her lips, getting ready to separate the unruly children. “It doesn’t matter where Mr. Bernstein is from.”
“I love this city,” Andre said softly. “I love walking along the riverfront, watching the boats. I love buying my dinner ingredients from the markets in the vertical farms. I love new deco architecture, the way the skyline seems to roll instead of cut. I love apple pie at Autumnland and curry hoagies at Satler’s and the way we open doors for each other and say ‘bless you’ when strangers sneeze.”
He took a sip of coffee. “All fourths love this city. Those carpools don’t just need us. They want us. Of course there are more of us trying for rides than will ever get one. That’s the beauty. Every fourth wants to improve. Every fourth has to improve. No carpool ever picks up an undesirable rider just to fill the car. Do you honestly think the city would be better off without us? Forget half. If even a quarter of us quit, there won’t be the critical mass of fourths you need to get the carpools onto the highways. There would be unimaginable gridlock on surface streets. Lose half of us and you might as well roll up the sidewalks and turn out the lights.”
“I resent the implication that I don’t—”
“Sergeant LaCroix is correct,” Madison said, rolling right over Bernstein. “We need fourths.”
“As I’ve indicated, preliminary data is still—”
“Thank you, Mr. Bernstein.” Madison’s arms were folded, her body turned away from him.
“—inconclusive as to the efficacy of these paid riders.”
“Yes. Thank you.” She shared a significant glance with Talic.
Bernstein opened his mouth to say more, but Talic was there first. “Mr. Bernstein.” He held Bernstein’s eye. “Stay or go, but keep your mouth shut.”
Bernstein’s jaw dropped in surprise. He blinked rapidly but no sound came out.
“Shut it,” Talic said.
“I just—”
“Out.”
Bernstein paled and gathered himself and the contents of his briefcase with a futile attempt at dignity. Andre enjoyed his discomfort, but didn’t like owing Talic for it. Bernstein was obviously struggling with his urge to have the final word, but the way Talic’s eyes never left him seemed to discourage him. He trundled to the door and was gone, leaving an awkward but welcome silence.
