She shook her head as they both approached the door to the teleporter. "Nothing new on him, but as we were finishing up, Spectacular Man showed up at the scene."
Again, MacAvoy stared at her from over his glasses. "What the hell is Spectacular Douche doing there?"
"Dunno, but look on the bright side—at least that means we don't have to deal with him."
"Oh, I know we're not," MacAvoy said as the room's glow increased. Once it dimmed again, he continued: "Iron-hair at the desk who can't tell the difference between officers and detectives said that we'd be talking to Kimono Dragon." He shook his head. "Why would a dragon wear a Japanese bathrobe, anyhow?"
Milewksi opened the door to the blimp's fancier reception area. She noticed that one of the screens had footage of the Six's battle against the Brute Squad at the post office yesterday which, considering the subject of their visit, was kind of ironic. "First of all, a kimono isn't a bathrobe."
MacAvoy shrugged. "It looks like a bathrobe."
"Second of all," Milewski went on, letting that pass, "her name's not Kimono Dragon, it's Komodo Dragon, which is a type of lizard."
"Wait, there's an actual dragon in the world?"
Before Milewski could answer, a harsh, electronically filtered voice came from the other side of the reception area. "No, it is merely called a dragon. You might be surprised, Detective, how many misnomers run through the animal kingdom."
Both detectives turned to look at a small woman who wore a greenish-gray, scaly suit of armor, similar in texture to that of the komodo dragons that Milewski had seen in the Super Zoo. It was topped off by a helmet in the shape of that animal's head: beady eyes on the sides, separated by a snout that jutted out with two nostrils and a mouth in a perpetual frown.
Where Spectacular Man looked far more intimidating in person after looking silly in photos and video footage, Komodo Dragon was the opposite. Milewski had always found her lizard-style body armor to look impressive from afar, but standing next to her, she looked somewhat ridiculous.
She put her gloved hands to the sides of her head. A second later, Milewski heard a pneumatic hiss, and then the hero lifted the helmet up, revealing a woman with Asian features and a really unfortunate case of hat hair.
"The blindworm, for example, is neither blind nor a worm." Without the helmet the woman's voice was gentler and softer. "And guinea pigs are not pigs and are not from Guinea."
"Much as I'd love to keep watching Animal Planet," MacAvoy said, holding up the evidence bag, "we need to talk to you about something."
She squinted at the bag while running a hand over her tousled hair in a failed attempt to flatten it. "Is that one of the Brute Squad's AC-50s?"
"Jesus, I didn't realize that ray guns had makes and models." MacAvoy shook his head. "But yeah, it's from the Brute Squad."
Komodo Dragon stared at it with open-mouthed fascination. "We have been attempting to acquire one of those for years. I assume that you are donating it?"
MacAvoy actually sputtered at that. Milewski came to his rescue. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's an evidence bag."
"Oh." Komodo Dragon looked visibly crestfallen. "Well, then, I am afraid I do not comprehend the purpose of your bringing it here."
Milewski stepped forward, interpolating herself between her partner and the costume. "We need confirmation that it does belong to the Brute Squad, and that it was used against your team yesterday at the post office."
Nodding, Komodo Dragon said, "I cannot confirm for sure. However, one of the members of the Squad we captured had two AC-50s during the fight, but only one when we brought her in."
"Waitasec," MacAvoy said, "why're you so hot for this one if you've got one already?"
"Whenever one of the Brute Squad is captured, he or she always makes sure to activate a self-destruct switch that destroys the interior workings of whatever equipment or armaments they are carrying, rendering it useless—and also impossible to study. Brute #6 did so with her AC-50." She stared at the weapon again. "Was this found at the post office?"
"Not exactly." MacAvoy's tone was even snottier than usual, and again Milewski felt the need to jump in.
"I'm afraid it was found at a crime scene, ma'am. Specifically a murder scene." And then she outlined the Bajrami case.
Komodo Dragon's face went from fascination to horror in very short order.
"That—that is simply awful." She turned away. "I do not understand how this could have happened."
"Really?" MacAvoy asked. "'Cause, honestly? It ain't that hard."
Turning back to MacAvoy, Milewski now saw a fury in Komodo Dragon's eyes. "What is it you wish of the Superior Six, Detective?"
"Two things, actually." MacAvoy started enumerating points on his fingers. "One you gave us—confirming that this murder weapon was misplaced during a fight you guys had with the Brute Squad. The second is to tell you that we requested all your files on the Claw, and we're here to request them again."
"And," Milewski added, "if you actually talked to us every once in a while, and cooperated with us, we might be able to avoid things like Edon Bajrami in the future. Sharing your files on the Claw would be a good start."
Now Komodo Dragon was looking down at the floor. When she looked back up at the detectives, Milewski could practically feel the guilt oozing out of the scales on her body armor. "I am sorry, but—it is not for me to make such decisions."
"Whaddaya mean?" MacAvoy asked.
She went back to studying the floor. "Only a founding member of the Six may release such files to someone outside the Six, as per our bylaws. Of our current roster, that would be Spectacular Man, the Bengal, or the Starling—and none of them are present." When she looked up at MacAvoy, Milewski noticed tears welling in the hero's eyes. She ran her armored wrist across those eyes as she said, "But rest assured, I will take this up with whichever one of them returns first."
"Thank you," Milewski said with a genuine smile. She didn't want to antagonize the woman.
Of course, her partner had no such compunctions. "You'd better. Look, lady, this is your mess, and like usual, we're stuck cleaning it up. All's we want is you to share some fucking files with us."
Milewski grabbed MacAvoy's arm and started pulling him toward the door to the teleporter. However, Mac had six inches of height and twenty pounds of weight on her, so he didn't budge. "Mac, come on."
"FBI, DEA, ICE—any'a them need files, or we need files from them, we get 'em. And that's for cases with body counts a lot smaller'n this one. For serial cases like this, we usually get cooperation out the ass. Except from you people. We come up here, make a polite request, and you blow us off and play patty-cake with the Brute Squad. End result? We still can't find the Claw, and a man's dead with his wife in jail because you can't keep track of your toys."
"Mac…" Milewski was now pulling with all her strength on MacAvoy's arm, but her partner refused to move.
Komodo Dragon's gauntleted fists clenched, and Milewski found herself reminded of the fact that the body armor she wore may have looked silly, but it enhanced both her strength and agility to the point where a particularly strong punch could probably have taken Mac's head off. That option's looking real good right now, actually, she thought.
Unfortunately, Mac was on a roll. "But, wait—those are actual legitimate law-enforcement agencies. They have rules and regulations and laws and all that good stuff. You guys just have some rich bastard bankrolling you, good PR, and not a single goddamn law on your side. Only a matter'a time before something happens you can't fix. Hope you can live with that—'cause Edon Bajrami sure as shit can't, and neither can the Claw's victims."
"Be very careful, Detective," Komodo Dragon said, stepping forward slowly.
"Or what?" Mac asked. "You'll kill us? That'll do wonders for your rep."
Having given up on dragging him out, Milewski instead stood in front of her partner. "That's enough, Mac! We've ID'd the ray-gun, we've renewed our request. Let's go." She put her hands on his c
hest and started pushing him toward the door.
This time, he got the hint, turning his back on Komodo Dragon. Milewski looked at the hero and said, "Thank you again."
She said nothing in response, simply glowering at MacAvoy as the pair of them entered the closet-sized teleporter.
The door closed, the light brightened, and when it dimmed back down again, Milewski threw the door open.
She stormed toward the exit, MacAvoy walking after her saying, "What the hell, rook?"
But she refused to respond on the entire elevator ride down, nor the walk across the lobby. When she went through the revolving door, the morning breeze slicing through her open leather jacket, then she whirled on her partner as he came out behind her. "What is wrong with you?"
Holding up one hand in a "who, me?" gesture—he only didn't hold up both because his left hand still had the evidence bag—MacAvoy said, "Nothing's wrong with me, I just needed to tell that little costumed bitch what for."
"Oh, you did, did you? Well, congratulations, Detective, you've managed to completely fuck any chance of us getting any files from these assholes."
"What're you talking about, she said she'd talk to the three founders, so—"
"Yeah, she said that, and then you decided to rip her a new one. Did you even look at her face? We had her as soon as I told her about Bajrami, and then you cheesed her off so much I doubt she'll even mention the files to anyone. What, you thought chewing out three armed unis wasn't enough, you had to find someone who can bench press a Mack truck to piss off?"
To Milewski's abject shock, MacAvoy actually looked contrite. He mumbled, "You're right."
Milewski blinked. "What was that?"
MacAvoy's face modulated into a snarl. "I said you were right, okay? The law of averages was bound to catch up." He started stomping off toward 74th Street. "C'mon, I got a car around the corner."
At first, Milewski just watched her partner's form walking down Claremont Road's sidewalk, practically bowling over pedestrians who got in his way.
I guess it beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, she though as she jogged to catch up with him, though she suspected that her actually getting him to admit to being wrong once was just going to make her life even more of a living hell than it already was.
"Can we stop and get some breakfast?" she called out to him as she fished her Zap out of her purse so she could get an update from Mara.
8.15am
Several years ago, Paul Fiorello met a woman at Manny's. She was one of many women he met at that particular bar. That was where he'd met Sheila or Gia or whoever it was he spent Monday with. It was a cop hangout, and there were always Blue Birds—women who had the hots for police.
The one Fiorello was thinking about right now as he was well into his eighth hour of being duct-taped to a radiator was named Randi. Or maybe it was Candy? In any case, she had told him that she was drawn to cops because they had handcuffs and she wanted him to secure her to the bedpost.
Unfortunately, when he actually got her up to his apartment and cuffed her to the bed, she started complaining that her arms hurt after only a few minutes.
The night didn't last much longer, and when she and Fiorello saw each other at Manny's, they pretty much ignored each other.
If Fiorello lived through this, and saw her again at Manny's, he would walk right up to her and apologize. Donewitz had taped Fiorello's wrists to the radiator in a very similar position to how he'd cuffed Randi (or Candy) to his bedpost, and he got uncomfortable even more quickly than she did.
He also had a splitting headache, his ribs were throbbing, and his left leg had fallen asleep. It had been eight and a half hours since he finished the cup of coffee in the squad car, and his bladder was about to explode. Only the knowledge that he'd never hear the end of it from the guys if he pissed his pants while held hostage kept him from doing so. For now.
Besides, it gave him something to focus on. His head was pounding mercilessly, and dimly remembered safety lectures he'd received at the Academy were burbling to the surface reminding him that, with a head injury, it was a bad idea to fall asleep. Already exhausted from working two-and-a-half shifts and being bored shitless in the squad car for hours before Donewitz blew up the blue-and-white and set the tap-dancing troupe going in his skull, it took all Fiorello's strength not to doze off.
At first, he kept his focus by taking in every detail of the apartment in the hopes of figuring a way out, but that only occupied the first five minutes or so. The place was abandoned, so there was no furniture, no wall hangings, not even any interior doors, as the frames just had empty hinges. The interior walls were cheap plaster pockmarked with dents and small holes, the floor was cheap linoleum that was cracked and split, and the only other signs of habitation were the occasional cockroach that wandered through. One of the walls had faded soot stains that indicated a fire sometime in the past—that might have even been why the place was still abandoned.
To make matters worse, he was also starving and dying of thirst. His throat was so raw, he couldn't talk. Not that Donewitz was much of a conversationalist. Mostly he just checked newsfeeds on his fancy-ass phone and cursed a few times. And whenever he did talk to Fiorello, he kept calling him "pretty boy," which started out annoying and moved on to a killing offense.
Of course, at this point, the microsecond Fiorello had a weapon again, he planned to empty it into Donewitz's skull.
Since dawn, the only time Donewitz did talk was several times when the phone rang, and he'd say, "No chance, cop," and tap ignore.
When it happened again, Fiorello tried to say something along the lines of, "Answer the damn phone, willya please?" But it just came out as a croak.
Donewitz turned to look at him. "You have something to say, pretty boy? Huh? Do you?"
Fiorello tried to clear his throat, and wound up in a coughing fit that managed to, all at the same time, make his headache worse, graduate the throbbing in his ribs to outright pain, make his throat even more raw, and nearly dislocate his shoulder, as the spasms from coughing caused him to tug against his secured wrists.
Shaking his head, Donewitz laughed. "Nice one, pretty boy."
"Fuck you," Fiorello managed to croak out.
"Sorry, pretty boy, you ain't my type."
Two cockroaches chose that moment to wander out into the middle of the floor.
"Jesus Christ," Donewitz said, looking down at them. "What a dump."
You chose it, asshole, Fiorello thought, trying to hold it in. The coughing fit had almost made him release his bladder.
Suddenly, the crack of shattered glass from one of the front windows echoed throughout the apartment.
Donewitz whirled around and shot out one of his ray-beams from his hand. It flew wide into the ceiling. Bits of plaster dust fell to the floor, frightening the two cockroaches enough for them to skitter into the kitchen.
Then Spectacular Man strode into the room.
Oh man, the captain must be having a shit-fit. After the mess at the MooreBuilding last year, Garcia had sworn never to let a costume near a hostage situation.
"Stay back, hero!" Donewitz fired another shot from his hand. This one hit its intended target, but Spectacular Man's chest just absorbed it, and the costume didn't even budge.
"You know I can't do that, Bolt. Your powers don't affect me."
Donewitz pointed at Fiorello. "Yeah, but they affect pretty boy here just fine. Take another step, and he's toast."
"Christ," Fiorello croaked, "do it already, just so I don't have to listen to this hump."
"Shut up, pretty boy!"
Spectacular Man stood his ground. "Bolt, you know there's no way out of this. Sooner or later you're going to need to eat or sleep. As soon as you let your guard down, the Emergency Action Team will storm this place and put their power-dampening restraints on you, and it'll all be over. The longer this goes on, the worse it will be for you."
"Hah!" Donewitz practically spit the word. "You really think
it's gonna be worse for me after what I did? They're gonna give me a goddamn lethal injection!"
Fiorello just stared at him. "You don't get the death penalty for a DUI, dickhead." That prompted another coughing fit.
Donewitz stared down at Fiorello as he hacked. "DUI? What're you talking about, pretty boy?"
"What did you do, Bolt?" Spectacular Man asked in a calm tone that was nonetheless very insistent.
"Cut the shit! You know what I did!"
"No, I don't." Spectacular Man put a hand to his chest. "I'm not a police officer, Bolt, and I'm not privy to their files."
Under other circumstances, Fiorello would have laughed at that, given what Mac and Krissie had been going through with this costume's team.
"I killed a woman! That's the end of it for me! I am not going back inside, and if they try to throw me in again, I'll blow out another goddamn wall!"
"If this is true," Spectacular Man said, and now he did take a step forward, which made it that much harder for Fiorello not to pee his pants, "then you need to answer for those crimes."
"Hell with that!" Donewitz was gesturing like crazy now and shouting at the top of his lungs. "I ain't answerin' for nothin'! I was drunk, okay, it was an accident! Ain't my fault she lived on the other side of my bedroom wall, okay?"
Fiorello swallowed, a painful process that just made him feel worse, but his mouth was actually producing spit again. "Listen to me, Donewitz—you got arrested on a DUI. That's it." He deliberately avoided adding that he had just confessed to murder to him. Not only that, but it was probably his next-door neighbor, which would make it easy to figure out who the victim was.
Donewitz looked down at Fiorello. "Seriously? That was why I got popped Sunday night?"
"You ran four red lights on Nantier—yeah, that's why you got popped."
"But—"
Before Donewitz could say anything else, Spectacular Man grabbed him. Fiorello didn't even see the costume move, but suddenly he was just there, grabbing Donewitz in a bear hug.
Donewitz tried to break loose, and he did fire one of ray-beams staight out of the top of his head, which just pulverized more plaster.
Case of the Claw Page 13
