Case of the Claw

by Keith DeCandido

  7.45am

  "You look horrible, Javier."

  Garcia let out a breath through his teeth as he climbed out of the driver's seat of his car, walking gingerly to keep his pants from touching his groin area as much as possible. He had taken his Corolla out of the garage for this—no way he was going to rely on STT with one of his officers in a life-or-death—and cut across town from Woodcrest to SimonValley on the Governor Ditko Parkway. He left the car in the middle of Jaffee Avenue just past the blue barricades that the unis had set up on the corner of 10th to keep civilians and especially the press away from the scene. An Emergency Action Team truck was parked just in front of him, and blue-and-whites were all over the two blocks between 10th and 12th.

  The comment came from Lieutenant Mike Singh, the commander of the "EATers," as Singh's predecessor had insisted on referring to them. Garcia hated it, Singh hated it, half the force hated it, but the name stuck anyhow.

  "Seriously, Javier, are you all right?" Singh, who was only five-foot-five, looked up at Garcia with his dark eyes from under his blue ballcap, which had letters scpd sewn into the front. He looked concerned.

  "I didn't sleep so hot last night. Kept expecting a phone call." He didn't add that this wasn't the one he was expecting.

  "Well, I'm sorry this happened." He looked down at Garcia's pants. "Did you have an accident?"

  "Spilled my coffee when I turned on the damn 15th Street exit off the Parkway." The impact of hot liquid on his crotch did more to wake him up than drinking the stuff had done, at least, but this pair of pants was pretty much ruined.

  Shaking his head, Singh said, "You shouldn't take that turn so fast."

  "Mike, stop sounding like my mother and tell me what's happening."

  Singh turned and squinted up toward the fourth floor of the apartment building on the corner of Jaffee and 11th. "We were able to evacuate everybody—except, obviously, for the target and Officer Fiorello. 'Everybody,' in this case, consisted of ten homeless people, four women sharing a needle, and a stray cat. I have sharpshooters on the adjoining buildings and across the street, I have eyes in the room, and I have the blueprints for the apartment." He let out a long breath, puffing his cheeks. "What I don't have is ears or a clear shot. We couldn't get a bug in there, and he's staying away from the windows."

  Garcia nodded. That wasn't surprising. Most buildings in SuperCity kept the windows small, since those were the first to get shattered when the costumes went at it. Sure, there were luxury high-rises in Eisnerville and office buildings downtown that paid extra for unbreakable glass—though more than one of those got themselves shattered in mid-fight anyhow—but nobody spent that kind of money on construction down in Simon Valley.

  The downside, of course, was the fact that Singh's sharpshooters could only get a good shot if the bad guy happened to stand near one of the windows, but Donewitz could avoid those with ease.

  "Where are they?"

  Pointing at a fourth-floor window, Singh said, "An interior room, one in from where that window opens onto. It's a very good position, actually, because it doesn't have any external walls, so a breach is not really feasible. He's been looking at his Zap the whole time—he's probably keeping up with the news reports on this. Officer Fiorello's been secured to one of the radiators with duct tape."

  "Is he okay?"

  Singh shrugged. "Well, he's duct-taped to a radiator."

  Garcia just glared at him. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for—?"

  "Right, right," Singh said quickly, holding up a hand. "He's got a couple of cuts and his uniform's a mess, but he seems to be all right. We've seen a couple of bloodstains, but they haven't grown any larger that we can see. And, for what it's worth, his hair still isn't mussed."

  As he spoke, a tall, lanky African American with broad shoulders approached. He was wearing a button-down shirt that was too small for him, a pair of khakis that was too big for him, and a tie that had several colors, none of which were found in nature. Not for the first time, Garcia was grateful that most negotiations were conducted over the phone. No hostage taker who could see Detective Khalil Ferguson's ties would take the negotiator in the least bit seriously.

  He was also surprised to see Ferguson, since Lake usually had days. Then he recalled that they'd switched shifts the week before.

  Ferguson looked at Garcia's pants. "Jesus, Javy, you piss yourself, or what?"

  Garcia didn't even bother answering. "Any luck getting through?"

  "Not really. First time, he answered the phone, told us to fuck off, and hung up. He hasn't answered since."

  That surprised Garcia. "What, no demands?"

  Shaking his head, Ferguson said, "Not a damn thing. I don't know what he's waiting for, be honest with you."

  Garcia sighed. "Keep at it."

  With a nod, Ferguson went back to the truck to take another shot at calling.

  A ring emitted from Garcia's jacket pocket. After shoving his hand into it to retrieve the ZP500, he hoped that it was someone from HQ with the news that the Claw had been captured.

  Instead, it was his mother.

  For half a second, Garcia debated sending it to voicemail, but he just knew that mami was watching the television, and he just knew that if he didn't answer, she'd assume the absolute worst and call the precinct and talk to Taylor. He liked and respected the sergeant too much to do that to her.

  Putting the phone to his ear after hitting talk, he turned away from Singh. "Mami, I can't really chat right now."

  "I know, Javy, I know, but I wanted to make sure you're okay. I'm watching the television, and it looks very bad."

  "It's fine, mami. I'm just supervising. And I have to go."

  "Well, you be careful, Javy, okay? I worry."

  "I know you worry, and I will be careful, I promise."

  Just as he ended the call, Regina Dent approached him and Singh. Her curly blond hair was perfect, her blue suit immaculate, her makeup perfectly applied.

  "What is wrong with you?" Garcia asked her.

  Showing perfect teeth, Regina smiled her second smile. Her first smile was the artificial one she used for the cameras when she gave statements that no sane person would smile while reading. Not smiling under those circumstances would cost the woman her job as SCPD spokeswoman, but that smile never reached her eyes.

  The second one, though, was much more mischievous, and she would only show when nobody had a recording device nearby. "What ever do you mean, Javier?"

  "You know damn well what I mean. You were woken out of the same sleepless night I was—I know this because you told me that when you called me. So how do you look so perfect?"

  "If I look like crap, SCPD looks like crap. You guys are doing that enough without my help." That last was added with a twinkle in her eye. Then she looked down at his pants. "Spill coffee?"

  "Yeah," Garcia said. "Part of our ongoing campaign to look like crap."

  They both chuckled. "Get your guys to solve this already, would you please, Javier? Bad enough you haven't captured the Claw—again—but adding this on top of it is gonna be a PR nightmare."

  "Y'know, Regina, I was gonna drag my ass on this, but because you asked? I'll get right to it."

  "Knew I could count on you." The second smile fell, and she put her game face on. "I'm gonna give the press a statement, can I give them anything useful?"

  Garcia shook his head. "Donewitz has his Zap glued to his hands, so I'd rather you didn't say anything to the press. It'll just piss him off." The ZP500s were too damned efficient, was the problem. The only way to keep Donewitz from getting a signal would be to black out the entire block, which would screw up Garcia's people's ability to communicate as well.

  She clucked sympathetically. "I wish I could do that, Javier, but no way I can just stand here and not say something. I'll keep it vague, okay?"

  With a heavy sigh, Garcia nodded. Regina turned on her heel and walked toward the gaggle of press that were lined up on the other side of the blue barrica
des.

  Looking to the heavens in supplication, Garcia reminded himself that Regina was very good at her job and had never once said or done anything to compromise a case. She wouldn't today, either.

  Then the heavens actually provided supplication—or at least something resembling it. A blue-and-red streak was heading right for Jaffee Avenue. The streak coalesced into the familiar form of Spectacular Man, who landed with unrealistic grace on the sidewalk, his blue-booted feet touching surprisingly lightly on the pavement.

  In a deep, stentorian voice, he declared, "Who's in charge here?"

  Christ, why didn't he just say, "Take me to your leader"? "I'm Captain Garcia."

  "I'm Spectacular Man," he said completely unnecessarily. Then he looked down at Garcia's groin. "What happened to your pants?"

  "None'a your damn business. Look, I'm sorry, but this is a crime scene, and—"

  "And I'm here to help."

  Garcia somehow managed to swallow down a laugh. He kept his distance from the hero—Spectacular Man was about a head taller than the captain, and Garcia found himself less intimidated by that frame wrapped in a bright blue and red suit if he stayed a few feet away. "That's very generous, but we have the situation in hand."

  "I've been monitoring the 'situation,' Captain," Spectacular Man said in an almost pitying tone, "and it's far from 'in hand.'" He actually used air quotes both times, which forced Garcia to quell another laugh.

  Singh walked right up to the hero despite being more than a foot shorter. "With respect, sir, I don't see how adding a gaudily dressed, super-strong man to an already tense situation will make it better."

  "In fact, past experience tells us it'll be worse," Garcia added.

  Spectacular Man actually winced at that. "With respect, Captain, I'm not the Cowboy. I'm aware of how he complicated that hostage crisis in the MooreBuilding last year."

  "Yeah, I guess 'complicated' is one word for it," Garcia said, bitterly making an air-quotes gesture of his own. "Another is 'reckless'. Thanks to him, the HT put two of my unis in the hospital." The hostage taker at the MooreBuilding had actually been somewhat calmed by the negotiator—that one was Lake. Then the Cowboy showed up, and all hell broke loose, getting both Amalfitano and Cortez shot. Both had medical'd out, to Garcia's annoyance; they were good police.

  "As I said, Captain," Spectacular Man said a bit more gently this time, "I'm not the Cowboy. You have an officer trapped in there. I assume you don't have any way of getting him out or you would have done so by now. You're at an impasse. As long as your officer is in danger, you can't do anything, and as long as your officer is alive, the Bolt is safe."

  Singh looked up at him again. "You believe you can break the impasse?"

  "Yes. I've faced the Bolt before, I know how he thinks."

  "Come on," Garcia said, "he's a skell. Half his sheet is DUIs. I know how he thinks, too, and so do most of the guys here. How he thinks isn't gonna get Paul Fiorello out of that apartment alive."

  "No, but I can get him out, if you'll let me."

  Those last four words brought Garcia up short. As if we can stop him.

  At first, Garcia had been prepared to reject the notion out of hand, as much due to what happened at the MooreBuilding as anything. But then he remembered Milewski and MacAvoy's trip to the Superior Six's dirigible. And he remembered Fontaine and Baptiste's domestic from yesterday afternoon. And he remembered why Mac and Milewski were going back to the blimp this morning.

  "Fine, you want to help, give it a shot."

  Singh shot him a look. "Are you serious, Javier?"

  Garcia glared down at Singh again. "I'm always serious when I've got hot coffee on my testicles, Mike."

  "Javier?"

  Turning around, Garcia saw Regina Dent had returned, and she had an expectant look on her face.

  "Hello, Ms. Dent," Spectacular Man said, with a nod of his head.

  Garcia got a good, if brief, look at the hero's blond hair as he nodded. He also was completely not surprised that the two of them knew each other.

  Regina asked, "Are you assisting in this hostage negotiation?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Feel free," Garcia put in, "to tell the press that Spectacular Man is collaborating with the EATers on this."

  Spectacular Man winced. "I'd prefer 'cooperating.'" This time he didn't use the air quotes.

  With a smile, Garcia said, "Well, you can tell your spokesperson to say that, but Regina works for us."

  Giving Spectacular Man the second smile, Regina said, "Cooperating is fine." With that, she turned and headed right back to the press.

  After counting to ten in Spanish, Garcia turned to Spectacular Man. "All right, here's what I want you to do. You need to coordinate with Lieutenant Singh here, as well as Detective Ferguson, and figure out the best approach to…"

  Garcia trailed off, as Spectacular Man rose off the ground and flew toward the fourth floor window that Singh had been pointing at earlier.

  "Or," Garcia said to nobody in particular, "you could just fly up to the window."

  He hoped that this was the right move.

  8.30am

  The minute Kristin Milewski got a signal after stepping out of the Platinum Line train at the 72nd Street stop, she dialed Mara Fontaine's number.

  Before Fontaine could even say, "Hello," Milewski asked, "Any word on Paulie?"

  "Not yet. Singh's guys can't get a shot on the Bolt, and the sonofabitch still won't answer Ferguson's calls."

  Milewski winced. "Ferguson? NotLake?"

  "They switched shifts last week."

  "Great." Milewski jumped up the staircase that led to street level two at a time. "Paulie's life's on the line and it's left to that jackass?"

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "He's totally incompetent! I worked with him in Narcotics, and he had no idea what the hell he was doing." She strode purposefully down Claremont Road toward 75th and the SchwartzBuilding, landsharking her way around the various people on the street, most of whom were commuters headed to their offices or one of the many delis and coffee shops in the ground floors of the office buildings on Claremont. Milewski was tempted to head for the latter, but she was barely on time as it was, and if she stopped for coffee, she'd never hear the end of it from MacAvoy.

  Not that she was ever likely to hear the end of it from him.

  "Kris, I thought you didn't even like Paulie."

  "I don't." Milewski bit her lip. "Exactly."

  "Uh huh."

  "Look, I know we broke up years ago, and I know he's an asshole, but he still…" She trailed off.

  Milewski could hear Fontaine's smile. "You don't want so fine a piece of ass to get killed by some lame super?"

  "I wouldn't have put it quite that crudely." Milewski glared at her Zap even though it was lost over the phone. "But yeah, pretty much. I mean, yeah, he's a total jackass, and I wouldn't go out with him again if my life depended on it, but still…"

  "I know. Personally, I wouldn't go near him without a can of Lysol and a full-body condom. But he's good police, y'know?"

  "Yeah." Milewski's opinion was mostly the opposite. He was fantastic to look at, but not her first choice to have her back when she kicked a door in. "Look, I gotta go meet with the costumes again."

  "By yourself?"

  Frowning, Milewski realized that she'd used "I" instead of "we." "No, sadly, I'm still saddled with Mac. Unless he woke up this morning and finally choked on his own bile."

  "Yeah, he's a piece of work, that one. I almost kicked him in the balls yesterday."

  "You should've. I totally would've alibi'd you." Milewski found herself visualizing Fontaine doing so while in the video room yesterday. The image gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. "I can't wait until he gets his thirty. Just another three months and I'm free of him."

  At this point, Milewski was jogging across 74th Street, avoiding being hit by a Lexus zooming through the yellow light before it turned red.

  "You're gonna nai
l them about the Bajramis, right?" Fontaine asked.

  "Absolutely. Mac said he'd pick up the zap gun from evidence on his way."

  "Which one of the Inferior Six are you talking to?"

  "Not sure. Christ, I hope it's not Spectacular Man again." Milewski shuddered. "He was intimidating as all hell."

  "They all are," Fontaine said with a big sigh. "In fact—holy shit!"

  Milewski pulled the phone away at Fontaine's exclamation. "What is it, Mara, what's wrong?"

  "Well, you don't have to worry about Spectacular Man being the one you talk to—he just showed up here."

  That got Milewski to briefly stop walking—a man in a three-piece suit almost crashed into her, and gave her a dirty look as he walked around her on the sidewalk. "What?"

  "He just came in for a landing, and he's talking to Garcia and Singh right now."

  "Jesus." She moved through the revolving door at the front of the SchwartzBuilding, her free hand pushing the tarnished brass handle that got the doors rotating.

  "I'd better go, Kris. Don't know what's gonna happen now."

  "Okay, Mara. My best to Trevor."

  "Will do. And you give 'em hell. Bye."

  Milewski dropped her Zap into her purse as she came out of the revolving door, showed her badge to the security guard sitting behind the small particle-board desk reading today's Super City Gazette (she noted that the fight between the Superior Six and the Brute Squad at the post office made the front page which, if nothing else, had pushed the Claw off it), and went to the elevator bank.

  Upon arrival at the dank office the Superior Six maintained on the fourth floor, the receptionist with the hair immediately said, "You officers can go right back."

  "Gee, thanks," MacAvoy said from the leather couch, tossing the ratty copy of Newsweek with the cover story about the 2008 Presidential election onto the coffee table and picking up an evidence bag off it. As he got up, he glared at Milewski from over the top of his glasses. "Nice of you to show up."

  Even though it wasn't the reason for her being late, she said, "I was talking with Mara Fontaine over on Jaffee."

  For what may have been the first time since they met, MacAvoy's face softened. "Any word on Paulie?"