The Invisible Crown (Hazzard Pay Book 1)

by Charlie Cottrell

  “You see, detective, you are not in charge of anything here,” the Tuba continued, walking casually around the bar and coming toward me. “The Organization is in charge. I am in charge. You, detective, get the scraps of information I care to give you. If those scraps are occasionally misinformation—l” he gave an expansive shrug “—well, that is probably on account of your insufferable, less-than-deferential tone.” He grabbed me by the back of my coat and hauled me upright once more, then buried a fist in my stomach. I felt like I was going to retch, but managed to hold myself together. Tuba drew me in close, my face inches from his own, and growled, “This is my town, Hazzard. You’ve got no place in it.” He tossed me back over the bar, across a couple of stools, and back to the floor, where I thankfully landed on my thick dumb head.

  “Coming in here, acting like you can order me around? Big mistake, detective,” Tuba said, coming back around the bar again. “Probably your last one, from the look of it.”

  “What about your boss, Tuba?” I asked, coughing and trying to stand up again. Everything was swimming back and forth like I was two bottles into a bender.

  Tuba gave a basso laugh. “The Boss? He’s weak. He can’t control me. Especially not with what’s coming for him.” Tuba picked up a stool, swung it back and forth experimentally. “This is goodbye, Mr. Hazzard,” he said, raising the stool above his head.

  The pop caught him off-guard. The bubble that sprang to life around him caught the swing of the stool, which rebounded off the bubble and smashed into Tuba’s head instead of mine. He was knocked off his feet as I unsteadily regained my own. I holstered the popgun and staggered to Tuba, the world starting to focus properly again. I slapped the side of the bubble, which made a hollow gwong noise.

  “Now, Tuba,” I wheezed as casually as I could, “what say we discuss what sort of scraps you’ve got for me.”

  The fat man glared daggers at me. “You are making the worst mistake of your life, Hazzard,” he snarled.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I rubbed the back of my head; there was definitely a lump forming there from when I’d landed on it. “Look, Tuba, I think you’re taking all of this the wrong way. I mean, the bubble should dissolve in an hour or two. And there should be enough air in there to last you that long, if you don’t breathe too deep.” Okay, it was a lie: the damn bubbles are gas-permeable, as I think I mentioned earlier. He’d have plenty of air. But he didn’t need to know that. Hey, sometimes a detective needs all the advantages he can get. Life sure wasn’t going to hand them over freely.

  I took a seat on a stool and kicked lazily at the bubble. “But there may not be, so why don’t you tell me what you know about Wally Stewart’s kidnapping while you can still suck air into that fat head of yours, hmm? And maybe—just maybe—I’ll consider dissolving the damn bubble for you before I leave.”

  Tuba managed to look defiant for almost a whole minute, his cybernetic eye burning with the fury of a thousand suns, but you can’t beat a private detective when it comes to a bluff. Tuba sagged and grumbled, “Fine. It was Guido and Billy Sunshine.”

  I hopped off the stool and started rummaging through my pockets. “You mentioned those two losers earlier. They Organization, or freelancers?” I asked.

  “They’re Organization. Or were, anyway, when Stewart went missing,” Tuba replied.

  “They ‘were?’ Why the past tense, Tuba?” I asked.

  “Talk to Mackrel about it,” he replied sulkily; and let me tell you, no one sulks like a large mobster.

  “Is there something going on in the Organization? Trouble in the ranks?”

  Tuba chuckled. “You’re in way over your head, Hazzard. You don’t even know how deep in you are but you’ll find out soon enough. Though, by the time you figure it all out, it’ll be entirely too late.”

  I found what I was looking for in my right front pocket: a small metal case containing several small syringes. I removed one and poked it into the bubble.

  “Is that gonna dissolve the bubble?” Tuba asked.

  “This? No,” I replied with a grin. “This is gonna knock your fat ass out until the bubble dissolves on its own. Have a nice nap, Tuba.” I injected the contents of the syringe into the bubble. The knockout drug aerosoled as it hit the oxygenated air, forming a fine mist that Tuba—for all his vaunted efforts to the contrary—couldn’t help but inhale. His human eye rolled back in his head as he collapsed against the bottom of the bubble.

  “In over my head?” I muttered as I stalked out of the Speakeasy and past the still-bubbled guards outside. “When am I not?”

  VIII.

  I had some names now, but it was getting late and I doubted I’d be able to get much more done this evening. I dropped Miss Typewell’s car off back at the office and sent her home, then headed out to get a drink.

  My favorite bar is the Funeral Parlor, a joint over on Purgation Avenue, just a couple of blocks from the office. Its close proximity to work was only part of the reason I liked the place. It was run by a guy named Rex, an ex-cop who retired from the force and started up the bar as a hobby. The place catered to cops, private eyes, and anyone who had seen too much and wanted to try to drown their memories in alcohol. He ran generous tabs, didn’t ask too many questions, and there wasn’t any annoying music blaring through a sound system. It was quiet, dark, and filled with lots of alcohol: all the things I required from a bar.

  It was pretty empty as I stepped through the door. The place was usually like that in the middle of a shift. When the cops changed shifts at midnight, there’d be a lot more people in here, all of them trying to drink away whatever hell they’d just gone through.

  The Funeral Parlor used to be an actual funeral parlor, and Rex hadn’t done much to change the décor when he bought the building about ten years back. Lots of dark wood paneling, heavy curtains over the windows, and a smell of chemicals that he just couldn’t get to go away no matter what he tried. It was cozy, though, and it was my bar.

  I slid onto a stool at the bar and signaled Rex for a drink. He knew what I liked, and before too long, I had a tumbler of decent whiskey sitting in front of me. I downed the first glass without any thought; the second one was in front of me almost before I’d put the glass back on the wooden surface of the bar. “Thanks,” I said to Rex, who nodded in return.

  The second drink, I sipped slowly, turning the whiskey over in my mouth as I turned over the events of the day in my mind. Explosions, ninjas, mobsters with murder on their mind . . . it’d been a hell of a day.

  I finished off my second drink and felt nature calling. I slid off the stool and made for the bathroom at the back of the bar. “Toilet’s out of order back there,” Rex called. I waved recognition and went to the back door instead, propping it open with a crate of cheap beer left by the door for that very purpose, and stepping out into the alleyway behind the bar. I sidled up to the wall to do my business. My feet hit something solid but giving in the dark, and a quick glance down revealed what I’d kicked: a dead body.

  “Hey, Rex,” I called through the door back into the bar, “is there supposed to be a dead person in your alley?”

  * * *

  Flashing lights, digital crime scene tape, men in uniforms: brief snatches of images from that evening. I was sitting at the bar again, my fifth or sixth whiskey in my hand, answering questions with a uniformed officer named Higgins from the 4th Precinct. Higgins was a good guy, but very by-the-book. His uniform always looked recently-pressed, his shoes polished and his badged shined until you could nearly see your reflection in it. He was straight-laced and formally polite, and I could never pin down his age. He looked like he could have been a weathered twenty-five or a baby-faced forty-five, and I knew he’d been on the force for at least the past ten years.

  “So, do you know who the young woman is?” Higgins asked for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  “No,” I answered, again. “I have never seen her before in my life. She’s not a regular here. She’s not known to me. I have n
o idea how she ended up in the alley or who or what might’ve killed her.” I wouldn’t mind finding out, though. It wasn’t every day a dead body got dumped in the back alley of your favorite bar.

  “Okay,” Higgins said, closing the vid window he’d been taking notes in and nodding to me. “Don’t go anywhere. Captain O’Mally wants to speak with you.” I groaned inwardly. I’d known Captain Edison O’Mally for a long time—he’d been a lieutenant at the 4th when I’d been a rookie cop there over a decade ago—and he was a hardass.

  “Where is the captain?” I asked.

  “Out in the crime scene,” Higgins replied. I nodded my thanks and made my way back into the alley.

  Outside, either end of the alley had been cordoned off with digital crime scene tape that flashed red anytime an unauthorized person crossed it. Within the cordon, a number of uniformed officers and crime scene specialists were cataloging the scene, taking pictures and documenting the location of every cigarette butt, piece of trash, and dead body in the alley.

  Standing next to the body were two men, one in a captain’s uniform and one in a coroner’s white lab coat. The captain—O’Mally, as you’ve probably guessed—was a tall, broad man, heavily-built, with dark skin and a walrus gen-mod he’d had done when he was younger. The rumor when I’d been on the force was that O’Mally had run in a tough street gang as a kid and got the gen-mod while he was there. The gen-mod gave him the tusks, whiskers, and general jowliness of a walrus. He tended to quiver a bit when he got angry or otherwise emotional, which would send little ripples through the jowls and whiskers. The tusks were impressive as hell, though, and you could tell he’d cultivated them as they grew.

  The coroner was also known to me, a guy named Markus Franklin. He’d been with the force for years, and had moved up to Chief Coroner after I’d left the force several years ago. He was a nice guy with puffy eyes and a quick smile, given to laugh with little provocation, and never a harsh word for anyone. I liked him a lot, and always enjoyed working with him.

  Franklin caught sight of me as I approached, and he stepped toward me with a smile and an offered hand.

  “Eddie, how are ya?” Markus said, shaking my hand.

  “Better than this poor woman,” I said, gesturing to the dead body. She couldn’t have been more than 25, petite and pretty and well-dressed, especially for this neighborhood. “Do you have an ID for her yet?”

  Markus pulled up a vid window and referred to his case notes. “Fingerprints identify her as Carly Jennings. Works over at Struthers & Miles, an accounting firm Downtown.” My eyes narrowed. That was too convenient to just be a coincidence.

  “Let me guess, she’s the personal secretary for a guy named Wally Stewart?” I said.

  Markus’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, actually. How did you know that?”

  “Because I’m looking for Wally. His wife hired me earlier today,” I replied.

  “Yes, about that,” Captain O’Mally cut in, stepping into our conversation. “Eddie, do you have any idea what’s going on here? Why did this woman turn up dead outside the bar?”

  I shrugged. “Damned if I know. I tried to track her down earlier today, and they told me she was out of town.” I frowned down at the body. “That appears to have been a bit of a lie.”

  “Any idea why someone would want her dead?” O’Mally asked.

  “Damned if I know, captain,” I repeated. “I tried to find her today, but obviously didn’t have any luck until about half an hour ago.” Admittedly, the luck I’d had was all bad, what with the woman being dead, but what could you do?

  “What was the cause of death?” I asked Markus.

  “Gunshot wound to the chest. Close quarters, basically pulped the heart. The only consolation was that she probably died almost instantly, so there wouldn’t have been much pain.”

  I sighed. This threw a new wrinkle into the case. Whatever Jennings had been wrapped up in, it had turned nasty. I could go back and ask Tuba about it, see if it was a sanctioned hit, but I didn’t want to press my luck with the big guy. I’d probably be able to get the information I needed from Mackrel, who’d been at the top of my list to visit the next day anyway.

  “If you can give me any other information about the murder, I’d appreciate it,” I told Markus. “It could be helpful in my case.”

  “You’re not cleared for anything on this investigation,” O’Mally said.

  “Do you want me to file for access? Because I will,” I snapped at the big man. “This murder is directly related to a case I’ve taken on. I’m allowed access to the casefile on it, and you know it.”

  “I could get your P.I. license suspended,” O’Mally replied tersely.

  “For what?”

  “I’m sure there are any number of violations I could find, if I bothered to look.” His whiskers twitched. “You should just drop this.”

  I gave him a look. “Why? Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

  O’Mally’s face was impassive. “There are things you don’t know about. This case is bigger than just a missing accountant or his dead secretary. Want my advice? Drop the case and keep your head down for a few days.”

  I laughed drily. “Like hell. You know I won’t do that, O’Mally. Help me out here, so I can give Mrs. Stewart some peace of mind and maybe find out what happened to her husband. Maybe I can even help you figure out why Miss Jennings was killed.”

  O’Mally sighed. “Markus, send him the file after you’ve finished the autopsy.” Markus Franklin nodded. O’Mally turned back to me. “If you’re not going to listen to reason, at least be careful. There’s a lot going on you don’t know about.”

  “There usually is,” I replied.

  “I’m serious,” O’Mally said. “This case you’re working . . . it’s tied up with strange goings-on in the Organization. We didn’t touch Mrs. Stewart’s case because it’s connected to something bad. Something huge. Keep your head down, Eddie.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best. Thanks for the help.”

  O’Mally frowned. “I don’t feel like it’s really help,” he said. “You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. There’s a very real chance you won’t make it through this case alive.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.

  “It’s not about confidence, it’s about the reality of the situation,” O’Mally said. “Seriously, Eddie, be careful. You could die trying to solve this case.”

  IX.

  Dawn broke the next morning like . . . well, let’s be honest, I was not awake at dawn, so I have no idea how it broke. After O’Mally and the cops left the Funeral Parlor the night before, I went back inside and drank myself into a stupor. I managed to stumble into the office around 10:00, bleary-eyed and wondering why someone was pounding on my temples with bricks.

  “You don’t look so great, boss,” Miss Typewell said as I came through the door. She fixed me a cup of coffee—Miss Typewell’s coffee is the sort of thing that could bring you back from death—and I filled her in on what had happened the night before.

  “So, what are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “Well, Franklin ought to have the coroner’s report to me soon, and I’ve got a couple of names from the Tuba. Any luck finding Mackrel?”

  “Yes,” she said, opening a vid window and turning it towards me. “He’s hanging out in Falone’s Restaurant over on 8th Street.” I nodded. Falone’s was a well-known front for the Organization.

  “Okay. I’ll check that out soon. When will Mrs. Stewart be in?”

  “In about half an hour,” Miss Typewell said. “You’ve got time to sober up, at least.”

  I took a gulp of coffee, felt it begin to work its magic. “Thank God for that.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Stewart arrived promptly at 10:30. Her hair and makeup were tastefully-done and immaculate, her dress was clearly worth more than every article of clothing I owned put together, and she was wearing heels that were more like stilts tha
n anything else.

  She was also bawling her eyes out and ruining her mascara.

  “You think he’s dead?” she sobbed.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good,” I said in what I hoped was a consoling tone. “His secretary turned up dead last night, and it looks like they might’ve been having an affair.”

  “What? My Wally?” Mrs. Stewart gasped, her eyes wide. “That’s not possible!” Miss Typewell, sitting in the anteroom, craned her neck around the doorway to arch an eyebrow at Mrs. Stewart’s back. Admittedly, Mrs. Stewart was laying it on a bit thick. At one point, she’d slumped over in the chair and almost fainted. It was an act, but I couldn’t figure out her reason yet.

  I withheld my own opinion on the possibility of Mr. Stewart’s involvement in something nefarious and said, “Well, regardless, I think it’s probably best to prepare for the worst. I can’t say for certain that your husband is dead, but it looks like he was mixed up in some bad business. I’ve still got a few leads to follow up on, so don’t give up hope just yet, but I can’t make any promises about being able to find him alive.”

  “I still don’t see how any of this could have happened,” Mrs. Stewart said.

  “It’s possible he was an accountant for the Organization,” I said. It was a theory I’d been kicking around in my head for a while. It was entirely within the realm of possibility that Wally Stewart, pencil-necked calculator jockey, had been working for the Organization for some time as one of their accountants. As big as the criminal syndicate was, they needed lots of personnel with legitimate business and accounting knowledge.

  “My Wally?” Mrs. Stewart cried, then fell into a wailing fit that caused Miss Typewell to roll her eyes in the other room and mime hanging herself.