by Brian Parker
I glanced around the diner. More than half the patrons were cops—and most of them nodded their heads in agreement with Tidewell. “I just do my job,” I said. “Unfortunately, I deal with the worst of the worst. All the time. You and your partner may run into a few bad apples in a month. My job is to examine the handiwork of those bad apples and go out to stop them from doing it again…and again. Without people like me hunting them down, your job would be a lot harder, Patrolman Tidewell.”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself, you self-righteous prick You’re not any better than the rest of us.”
“That’s enough, Tidewell,” Drake rumbled, pushing back from the table slightly. Even sitting down, the man was huge.
“You his nursemaid now too?” Tidewell asked.
“You ever wonder how he arrests so many people? Detective Forrest is a karate master. He’d wipe the floor with you and not even break a sweat.”
“Krav Maga, Drake,” I whispered, loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you it isn’t karate?”
Drake nodded. “I’ve seen him use that shit on guys bigger than me and he’s taken on five perps at the same time. Don’t let your mouth get your ass in trouble.”
Tidewell snorted. “I’d like to see him try.” He pushed back from the table, standing quickly. I tensed, feeling my injured leg already protesting underneath the table.
“Come on, Jake,” Tidewell said, slapping his arm against the credit chip reader on the table. “We’re done here. Let the son of a bitch rot.”
I eased my guard as he walked away.
“Sorry, Detective Forrest,” Jake Hannity groaned, passing by me and Drake. “He’s such a shit sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” I chuckled. “Every time I’m around the guy.”
“Jake!” his partner yelled across the restaurant.
Hannity looked at Tidewell, back at me, and then back to his partner. It had to be one of the funniest, unplanned things I’d seen in weeks.
“Just go, kid.”
“Right. See you, Detective!” He turned and walked quickly out of the restaurant.
When they were gone, I turned back to Drake, who had a big smile across his stupid face. “What?”
“That kid is practically in love with you,” he said.
“Infatuation is different than love.”
“Good point. Don’t end up kidnapped and tied up in his basement.”
“New Orleans doesn’t have basements, Drake.”
“You know what I mean,” he replied. “That kid’s got stars in his eyes and he’s gonna do something stupid to try to impress you.”
“Maybe he’ll survive long enough to see me fall from grace,” I offered. “That IA case seems to be moving forward, and now this assault charge bullshit.”
“You did knock a guy out after he’d already surrendered.”
“He stabbed me in the leg. I couldn’t put any weight on it. Knocking him out was the safest thing for me to do.”
“Mmm hmm. Seriously, what are we doing to fight Internal Affairs, Detective?”
I shrugged. “I’m trying to show that my value outweighs my drawbacks. Everyone knows that I’m not perfect, but I do a lot more good for the Crescent City than bad. We need more cops who are willing to step outside the barriers of our own regulations if it means the city will be safer because of it.”
“I agree with you—to a point. We have rules and regulations to keep cops in check so we don’t abuse the power that the city and state have given us. One guy like you is enough.”
I granted him his point. There was a lot of risk associated with going outside of the law. Besides the obvious aspect of the legality of some of my actions—whether they were all done with good intentions, or not—I also risked getting fired on several occasions. I didn’t know what I’d do if I weren’t a cop. Probably join the Army or something along those lines. I made a mental note to check the maximum age allowed for enlisting in the military. They were always getting in scrapes with the Chinese, so that might keep things exciting.
“I guess we’ll just have to deal with whatever the IA dicks’ recommendations are,” I said, trying to bring the conversation back to Drake’s question. “Investigations don’t always mean charges, maybe it’ll just go away like all the others have.”
“I don’t think so,” Drake replied. “They tried to entrap you with the old honey pot scheme for Pete’s sake. Someone wants you gone.”
“Who, though?”
“I don’t know. I’ll do some digging to see.”
We paused as a new girl took our order. I guess Amir decided not to buy a droid after all. When she was gone, I continued. “Thanks. Andi can’t find anything in the cyber realm about what they’re looking at. Everything is being done off the books or on private servers.”
“Which means they’re really pushing to sack you,” Drake grumbled.
“Maybe. Either way, the only thing I can do is try to be the best cop I can be and right now, that means working on the Dale Henderson case.”
“What’s our next step?”
“I’m going to meet with Tommy Voodoo tomorrow to find out what he knows about Karimov. The guy’s worked for him for ten years, he should know something.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we get Judge Hennessey to authorize surveillance and we track the guy.”
“I haven’t done a stakeout in years. Sounds like a nice night out.”
“Then you and Genevieve need a better social life,” I joked. “Sounds boring as hell to me.”
He shrugged. “That’s tomorrow. What do you have going on for the rest of the day?”
“Brubaker has me checking out chop shops. So after lunch, we’re gonna go visit a few of them that Corrigan gave me the names of before he died.”
Drake nodded. “You need me to go with you?”
“Nah. I’m just going to check them out. Not gonna get in a fight.”
“Famous last words,” he said. “I’m gonna head back to the precinct to finalize our report on the incident at The Trick And Treat last week.”
“Shit. I forgot that wasn’t done yet.”
“You’ve been busy, Detective. Don’t worry, I’ll turn it in today.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Ah… Thank you.”
Our completed, but not yet closed out case list was growing large enough that we could take two or three days of solid writing, ten hours a day, and not be finished with it all.
I smiled at the waitress as she placed my shawarma on the table in front of me and an identical plate in front of Drake.
The afternoon was starting to look up.
THIRTEEN: TUESDAY
“Is this— Are you sure this is the right place, Andi?”
The Jeep had pulled up to a relatively clean flower shop off of Fowler Avenue. The large windows, painted with old-time lettering that read “Solomon’s Flowers,” had the telltale sheen of visalum, which meant they’d be nearly impervious to most criminal activity—or police intrusion. Our riot shields were made of the same material. Clear, like Plexiglas, lightweight like aluminum, and as tough as a steel plate.
Through the visalum, I could see flowers of all shapes and sizes in vases of every color imaginable. This couldn’t be right.
“Yes, boss. This is the only legal business registered to a person with the surname ‘Solomon’ in the city of New Orleans. When strengthened by Branch Corrigan’s assertion that the chop shop is located off of Fowler Avenue, this is the location of the alleged chop shop.”
“Shit. This place looks like a legitimate business.” I hadn’t expected that. Truth be told, I was expecting the standard, run-down shithole that dominated everywhere in Easytown off The Lane.
“Good thing I’ve got a real backstory to cover my ass if questions start getting thrown around,” I stated.
I was worried about spooking this Terry Solomon guy and him making a run for it, so I’d gone home after lunch and changed out of my suit into a pair of
jeans, a nice t-shirt and a different rain jacket than the duster I always wore while at work. My prized fedora was also left at home, replaced by a water repellant Saints hat.
“I’ll transfer the address to the document section on your phone, so it will appear to be a note to yourself instead of an address that your AI assistant gave you.”
“Thanks, Andi. I’m gonna go in before anyone watching gets suspicious. Keep quiet.”
“Understood.”
I pretended to hang up my phone and made certain that I could be seen placing it into my pocket through the Jeep’s windows. Then, I opened the car door and stepped onto the concrete sidewalk. Most of the places that boasted any type of businesses off of Jubilee Lane used old wooden pallets as a way of elevating their customers above the mud. There wasn’t any money in the city’s budget for concrete or even crushed gravel to be used as sidewalks in the slums. It was rare that a place spent the money on real sidewalks, meaning this place was either a prosperous business or trying hard to appear that way.
The building itself was a one-story, brick-front structure with what appeared to be plastisteel siding running the length of the alley on the side I could see. Again, an expensive choice in construction that was durable as hell, and more than double what cheap, vinyl siding ran.
There were obvious security cameras in their little bubbles on both corners of the building. As I stepped under a reinforced rain awning, I saw another camera above the doorway. They wanted patrons—and criminals—to know that the place was under surveillance. The owner wasn’t interested in hiding them like some places chose to do. As a deterrent, I gave it about ten percent odds of success.
The door was visalum, like the painted windows, and I opened it up. The air reeked of fresh flowers and greenery, practically assaulting my nostrils with happiness. The flowers I’d seen through the windows were only a fraction of what was on display inside the shop. Tables exhibiting plants and different types of vases holding both real and synthetic flowers were scattered about the main lobby area. Wooden shelves held stuffed animals, candles, stationary and vials of different-colored liquids that I assumed were some type of air freshener or maybe a biological hazard, who knew?
“Hello, welcome to Terri’s!” a cheerful female voice called.
“Thanks,” I muttered, eyeing all the colors and fabrics covering every possible surface.
An older woman appeared down one of the narrow aisles and stuck out her hand. “I’m Terri. What are you looking for?”
I rolled with the revelation that ‘Terry’ was a woman. “Oh, just a plant for a friend at work. She’s getting a promotion, so I wanted to get her something nice.”
She led me through several options, steering me away from saddling my friend with the long-term commitment that a plant would impose upon her. Instead, she talked me into a simple flower arrangement as an alternative.
While she talked and walked me though the flower-buying process, I continued to scan the flower shop, trying to find the alleged chop shop entrance or the bodyguards that Corrigan said were here now. The door behind the counter appeared to go into a refrigerated area where they kept the flowers, not a nefarious operating room where street thugs came to bet their bodies permanently modified. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“This place sure isn’t what I was expecting,” I confessed.
“I try to keep it nice, even if it is in Easytown,” Terri stated. “Lots of flowers, plants, and knickknacks make it feel homey to me.” She chuckled. “How does a man get to be your age and never stepped foot inside a florist?”
“I—” I started to lie, then felt it was best to go with as close to the truth as possible. “I don’t know. Online ordering?”
“Ah. Electronics and enhanced communications are not always the godsend that people believe them to be.”
I pulled a generic credit square from my wallet. I couldn’t risk the chip in my arm being scanned, otherwise, she’d get my real name and could find my occupation from that.
“What I meant is, this shop isn’t what I expected,” I repeated. “A guy that comes into my office every once in a while recommended this shop as a good, safe place to get enhancements.”
Her hand froze in midair, hovering an inch from the card I held out for her. “We can augment your purchase with greenery or even some additional ribbons,” she replied guardedly, taking the card from me and placing it over the scanner. “Who is your acquaintance?”
“This giant guy named Branch. He delivers those big jugs of water to our office, says he likes the workout it gives him instead of using droids.”
She scooped up the card with her left hand as her right dropped below the counter. “How long has it been since you last saw this Branch fellow?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Couple of months. I know he quit the delivery job, but ever since he told me about it, I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come in here. He said that this shop could help with providing things that would make me bigger.”
“You can find dick enlargers on the cybersphere. They’re a dime a dozen,” she responded. All pretext of the sweet old lady seemed to drop away.
“Oh! No, I don’t need that.” I made myself sound embarrassed. “Well, we could all use a little more, if you know what I mean, but I’m not here for that. I’ve tried steroids and electroshocks, but my muscles just won’t get any bigger. Shitty genetics, y’know? Branch said there was nanotechnology out there that could boost the size of my muscles, really fill out my shirts… Maybe then, Katheryn would notice me,” I mumbled, pointing at the flowers I’d bought for her as part of the setup.
She tsked at me, and then said, “You would risk genetic manipulation just to impress a woman? Not very smart, young man.”
“It may not be smart, but it’s my last hope. I’ve been in love with her for four years, but she always dates big, bodybuilder-types. I don’t even have a shot with her until I can add some serious size.”
“I’ve read that those things can be acquired,” she remarked. “But they’re very expensive.”
She was still playing it cool, not admitting to being able to perform any type of modifications. As of right now, I didn’t have anything to base probable cause on and Judge Hennessey was unlikely to grant another search warrant so quickly after the utter failures of the two we’d executed earlier today. I needed to get her to say she that this place was just a front for the chop shop.
“Branch told me about the astronomical costs. But he was talking about getting a total arm replacement so he could go back into sports, surely something like nanotech would be less expensive. It’s not major surgery.”
“You’re right. I’d imagine it would be less expensive than replacing an entire appendage. I wouldn’t even know how much something cosmetic like that would cost, though.”
I put on a crestfallen appearance. “So you can’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that, Mr.—” She glanced at my credit square that she still held in her left hand. Her right hand was still worryingly below the tabletop out of my line of sight. “Wright. Cecil Wright. I could possibly find out about nanotech for you. When did you say you last spoke to Branch?”
“It’s been a while,” I admitted. “He usually comes around every two weeks to replace our empties with full jugs.” I frowned. “But it has been a few months. Last I talked to him he was going to try to get a spot on the Saints practice squad if the surgery was a success.”
“You haven’t seen him because he’s dead,” she stated. “He got himself arrested and died a couple of days ago on Sabatier Island.”
“Oh. I hadn’t… I hadn’t heard.”
“Not much information comes off that damn rock,” she said. “But, I have my ways of learning what I need to know.”
She handed me the card back. “How can I find you, Mr. Wright?”
“I have, uh, I have a phone number or an email address,” I offered.
“Good. Give them both to me, along wit
h your employer information.”
I told her the information that she needed, which she dutifully recorded in a flowing script on a notebook embossed with a bouquet of flowers.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.
“Wait. Does that mean that you can help me? Do you do that kind of work?”
She smiled. This time, the sweet old lady’s kind smile had disappeared and was replaced by a sinister sneer. “I can do whatever you want, as long as you check out and your money is good.”
“So, you did do the surgery on Branch? He was going to get a cybernetic arm that would allow him to clothesline five running backs at top speed without moving an inch.”
“Those things can be found and life-changers for athletes willing to take the risk,” she replied, frustratingly still not admitting to running a chop shop. “I take pride in my work and everything I do is top of the line. Let me check a few things and I’ll be in touch,” she repeated, more firmly this time.
“Okay, thank you. Ah, what about the flowers?”
“At this time of day, our delivery droids have already made their runs. Your best bet is to take them now and then hire a private delivery service. Or you can just give them to your friend yourself. From your neighborhood in Plum Orchard, you could have them delivered to anywhere in the city within forty-five minutes—faster if you spring the extra money for an aerial delivery service.”
Her flower shop lady demeanor had reappeared and I marveled at the way Terri Solomon was able to switch back and forth between being in character and her real personality. She should have gone into show business.
“Good advice. Thank you.” I said, picking up the vase. “Looking forward to working with you to see what we can do about this.” I pointed at my chest.
“We’ll see what we can do, Mr. Wright. Give me a few days and I’ll be in touch.”
I ducked my head and turned, weaving my way through the shop’s crowded interior until I was under the awning outside. I wasn’t surprised to see a man taking pictures of my Jeep and was thankful that I’d had Andi set up a temporary fake account for my car as well. Anyone searching the public records would see a vehicle registered to Mark Cecil Wright of Plum Orchard. It’s the little things like that which got undercover cops hemmed up.
