"Really?" Knight Dude's voice went up an octave.
"Yes," Fontaine said, holding out a hand. "His victims all had DNA on their cuts, not cloth. Now put the lance down and let the kid go."
Knight Dude just stood there for a second. The armor didn't give him a great deal of range of motion, so for a moment, he looked like a statue.
Then, with a metallic squeak, he turned to look at the young man. "My apologies, citizen. You are free to go. Here are your gloves back."
"Keep 'em, motherfucker, I'm out!" the boy said as he ran down the sidewalk.
Baptiste slowly walked up to Knight Dude. "I am afraid we are going to have to arrest you again, Englebert."
"How did you get back on the street again, anyhow?" Fontaine asked. "And get your armor back?"
"I have many spare suits of armor, Officer Fontaine," Knight Dude said proudly, "and I was released on bail this very morning! The judge did not deem me a flight risk—for where else would I go but the city I love?"
While Baptiste was trying to recall how they got his gauntlets off two days ago in order to put on the handcuffs, Fontaine said, "Let's just let it go, Trevor."
Shooting his partner a look, Baptiste asked, "Excuse me?"
"What's the point? We have to process him, deal with all the bullshit, and for what? It's not like that kid's gonna press charges." She shook her head. "And what if we bump into MacAvoy? I may have to punch him."
Baptiste couldn't help but burst out a quick laugh at that one.
"About time," Fontaine said with a grin of her own. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to smile."
"I do wonder sometimes." He shook his head. "Go, Englebert. And be careful, please?"
Raising his lance, Knight Dude started to say, "Tha—" then clunked the tip of his lance against his helmet, causing him to stumble backward. He pinwheeled his arms, dropped the lance, and fell backward in a very loud, clattering heap. The lance struck the sidewalk and fired.
Baptiste ducked as the air sizzled and a beam shot out from the lance's tip and struck their blue-and-white right in the grille. The metalwork shattered, the radiator pulverized, and steam came exploding outward.
Fontaine turned to look at Baptiste. Baptiste looked at Fontaine. Then Fontaine thumbed her radio. "PCD, this is Unit 2205. We have a signal 62 and require assistance."
Staring at the tattered remains of the grille, Baptiste shook his head. "Sergeant Taylor is going to kill us." Then he walked over to Knight Dude, who was struggling, loudly, to get to his feet and having very little success.
Looks like I'm going to have to get those gauntlets off. "Englebert Valentine, you're under arrest for the destruction of police property. You have the right to remain silent…"
2.10pm
Javier Garcia didn't get to go out to lunch very often. He generally didn't have the time, so he would bring his own in. Garcia was an excellent cook—he had originally romanced Maria by making empanadas—so he'd usually put something together on Sunday that was large enough to feed a family of ten, eat a bit of it for dinner that night, then pack the rest into a giant Tupperware container. That huge container was the one and only piece from his and Maria's kitchen that he kept in the divorce, for precisely this purpose. Each day, he'd scoop a bit out and put it into a smaller Tupperware that he'd bought after the divorce and take it in to sit in the refrigerator in HQ's kitchen until midday, when he'd toss it in the microwave. He generally did likewise when he got home, scooping out some onto a plate and nuking it.
Aside from the two weeks when HQ's microwave was busted, this plan had served him well in the days since he and Maria split up. For one thing, cooking a huge meal was a pleasant way for him to spend a relaxing Sunday after a stressful week on the job. There was an order to cooking, but also an art—the right proportions, the proper cooking time, getting the vegetables browned just right, frying the meat for just long enough.
More to the point, it was something he could control. He was responsible for a police force that barely was able to hold the city together in the face of a crime rate that was highest of any large city in the nation, coupled with a conviction rate that was the lowest (thanks to the costumes not testifying or filling out statements or doing much of anything useful beyond excess property damage). His marriage had come completely apart despite doing everything he could to keep it together.
And he couldn't stop mami from calling him a dozen times an hour.
But he could control what he cooked. It was the only time in the world that Garcia was at any kind of peace.
Today, though, he stumbled out of bed after yet another sleepless night. He guzzled down two cups of undrinkable coffee from his cheap percolator, as opposed to his usual single cup, bought a slightly less undrinkable cup from the sidewalk stand on the corner of Robbins and Nantier, and poured some squadroom sludge down his gullet upon arrival at HQ.
The coffee did very little to keep him alert, as it wasn't until he walked into the kitchen that he realized that he completely forgot to bring in his lunch. He had made a nice steak-and-shrimp stew, with tomatoes, onions, several types of peppers, and a ton of spices. It had come out particularly well, and he had been eagerly looking forward to eating it at lunch, so to find himself standing in the HQ kitchen like a moron looking around for a plastic bag that he'd forgotten to bring in was exceedingly annoying. Even Wednesday, when Fiorello was taken hostage and Garcia drove straight to the scene instead of taking STT into the office, he remembered his lunch.
Today, though, he forgot.
After that, the morning gauntlet of Taylor, assorted people from Chief Prosecutor's office, Merkle, the inevitable phone calls from mami and Dellamonica's office, and the nothing-new-to-report reports from MacAvoy and Milewski simply did him in.
He had to leave the building, if only for an hour.
So for the first time in he-couldn't-remember-how-long, he went out to lunch.
Both when he arrived at seven and when he'd gone back out at one, he'd had the presence of mind to use the side entrance, which had the advantage of having no press gathered around waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting police dumb enough to wander in that way. Zimmerman had gone in the front—however, she'd planned that ahead of time with Regina Dent, with prepared answers ready to go.
But after treating himself to a delicious lunch at the Argonaut, a nice Greek place on the corner of Nantier and 57th that he hadn't been to in ages, he decided to take a short walk. It was a nice spring day, not a cloud in the sky, in the low sixties with a mild breeze. Garcia liked the fact that SuperCity had tremendous variety in its weather—and in fact it was supposed to rain either tonight or tomorrow—but weather like this was what he lived for. He decided to take some time to enjoy it for once.
So distracted was he that he walked on autopilot, and found himself meandering down 61st toward the main entrance to HQ instead of around to the side entrance on Fox Place.
He didn't really notice until the phalanx of reporters and camera operators descended upon him like flies on a broken jar of honey.
At first he couldn't make out a single coherent syllable from the babble of questions that were thrown at him.
Holding up his hands, he cried out, "One at a time! One at a time!" Even as he was talking, he saw four unis noticing his presence and walking over.
Matt Barnett from News 6 at 6 blurted out a question before anyone else could. "The Gazette has a source that says the FBI is going to take over the Claw case. Is this true?"
Garcia was about to say something that Barnett would have to seriously edit in order to use on News 6 at 6 when his Zap rang.
The captain grabbed for the phone in his jacket like a drowning man clutching at a life preserver. The display indicated that it was his mother.
Promising to never again be annoyed at mami for calling him so often—a promise that had the same shelf-life as yesterday's promise to give up coffee, but what the hell—Garcia said, "I'm sorry, but this is an important call that I
have to take."
He pressed talk, turned around and walked quickly in the other direction. By this time, the four unis had shown up and were keeping the reporters at bay.
"Hello, mami," Garcia said.
For the next several minutes, Garcia's mother talked into his ear and Garcia made assorted grunts and vocalizations, some of which cohered into actual words like "yes, mami." All the while he walked around to Fox and the side entrance, where the press was not allowed.
The side door led into the kitchen—ironic, given Garcia's forgetfulness this morning—and Zimmerman was there, pouring grounds into the filter for the coffeemaker. "Mami, I gotta go."
"Well, you be careful, Javy, okay? I worry."
"I know you worry, and I will be careful, I promise."
Zimmerman smiled at him as he put the phone away. "How is Marisol doing?"
Garcia stared at the lieutenant. "She's been my mother all my life, and she hasn't changed a damn bit that whole time. You really think there's been a difference since you saw her last month?"
Recoiling as if Garcia had slapped her, Zimmerman said, "Sorry, Javier. I didn't mean—"
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Garcia winced. "No, no, I should be apologizing. I got ambushed by the press outside."
Zimmerman frowned. "They were at the side?"
"No, I was an idiot and went to the front. Mami's call actually rescued me. That reminds me, I need to call the Gazette." He explained what Matt Barnett said.
"It had to be Charlie," Zimmerman said.
"Of course it was Charlie." Garcia rolled his eyes. "If it's real, anyhow. Nobody else on the Gazette has that kind of juice. I gotta call him."
Zimmerman finished putting the coffee together. "The four Brutes that the Six captured are in the supers wing of Ellis Island. Lazzeri and Katzenberg are finishing up the paperwork—once that's done, we can put 'em back in rotation."
Looking at the shorterLooking at the shorter"Bannon and Schiazza just got back from the M.E.'s," Zimmerman went on. "Donewitz's next-door neighbor—woman by the name of Adrienne Lashmar—was pretty ripe, but they were able to confirm that she was killed by something hot burning through her skin, which is consistent with the Bolt's MO."
"Good—maybe now he won't take out our drunk tank again." Garcia reached for one of the mugs in the cabinet over the coffeemaker. "The neighbor really was still next door?"
Zimmerman nodded. "Lashmar didn't have any family in town and she's unemployed and, according to Schiazza, her friends haven't heard much from her lately because she'd been depressed about not having any family in town and being unemployed."
"Yeah." The gurgles finished, and Garcia poured himself some coffee, then handed the pot to Zimmerman. "Where are we on the Claw?"
"Mac and Milewski haven't gotten back from the Cowan yet." The two detectives had gone back to the scene this morning to canvass the neighbors of the Claw's latest victim. To Garcia's annoyance, he couldn't remember the victim's name—which was the danger with multiples. One of the ways homicide cops dealt with more than one victim was to think of it, not as many murders, but one case. In those circumstances, however, it was easy to lose sight of the individuals.
Before Zimmerman could say anything further, a loud whoop and cry of "Hallelujah!" came from the entryway.
Turning, Garcia saw Bart Billinghurst and "King" Fischer walking into the kitchen. Fischer had his arms raised in triumph, and Billinghurst yelled out, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us, glory be, glory be!"
Unable to help himself, Garcia smiled. It felt good, and he resolved to try to do that more often.
Next to him, Zimmerman was out-and-out laughing. "What's going on?"
"Obviously," Garcia said, "King just saw a touchdown."
Putting his arms down quickly, Fischer said, "Sorry, Cap, but we're just in a good mood."
"You may ask," Billinghurst added, going to the refrigerator and opening it, "why we are in such a good mood, for we are murder police. By and large, we're a maudlin crew."
"Indeed," Fischer said. "We are prone to depression, gallows humor…"
"…smoking too much," Billinghurst added, liberating a Granny Smith apple from the bottom shelf of the fridge, "drinking too much."
"I don't smoke," Fischer said, "but I'll cop to the other one."
Billinghurst took a bite of his apple with verve and a very loud crunch. "Yet here we are—"
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Fischer said with a wince. "Let me do it. Here we are, triumphant and happy. And we are triumphant because—"
"And happy!" Billinghurst said through masticated apple.
"Yes, triumphant and happy," Fischer corrected himself with a nod to his partner, "because we just got word from Sergeant Taylor that the Clone Master has been sighted getting the shit kicked out of him by the Bruiser in Everett Square."
Having swallowed his bit of apple, Billinghurst added, "Which means he's alive which means there is little point in trying to solve his murder, which means we can go back to real police work!" He held up a hand, which Fischer obligingly high-fived.
Garcia's ZP500 chose that moment to ring. Pulling it out of his jacket pocket, the display told him that it was Dellamonica's office calling. He never calls me on my cell, Garcia thought as he hit talk. The commissioner acting in an unprecedented manner almost always meant bad news.
"Yes, Enzo?"
"Merkle said you were out to lunch," Dellamonica said without preamble. "Since when do you go out to lunch?"
"Since I forgot my lunch at home and wanted to get the hell out of my office." Garcia wandered away from the coffeemaker to the relative privacy of one of the corners of the kitchen. "What is it, Enzo?"
"Catch the Claw yet?"
"No, not yet. MacAvoy and Milewski are out interviewing—"
"I don't care. I want him caught, Javier."
"So do I, Enzo. I—"
Garcia stopped talking when he realized that Dellamonica had hung up on him.
Zimmerman was staring at him as he put the Zap back in his pocket. "That must've been the shortest conversation ever with the commissioner."
"If only they were all like that." Even as he spoke, the phone rang again. This time it was the trunk line for City Hall on the display.
"This is Captain Garcia," he said after hitting talk.
The voice of the mayor's assistant—Joan? Janet? something like that—came over the earpiece. "Hold for Mayor Sittler, please."
"Jesus," Garcia muttered, "did Merkle give everyone my damn cell number?"
"Captain Garcia," the mayor's voice said after a mercifully brief bit of bad hold music, "I'm calling in the hopes that you will have good news for me about the Claw."
"We're working on it, sir."
"Have the files from the Superior Six arrived yet?"
Garcia blinked. "I wasn't aware they would be arriving."
"I had a conversation with the Six on the subject," Sittler said in an annoyed tone, "and made it clear that not providing the files would have dire consequences. If they don't show up by end of business, call my assistant and let her know, will you please, Captain?"
"Of course, your honor."
"And if they do show up, call Jenny as well."
Jenny, that's it. "Absolutely, sir."
"Thank you, Captain. Good luck."
After again stowing his phone, Garcia looked over to see Fischer and Billinghurst still grinning, the former now with a mug of coffee of his own, the latter making short work of his apple.
"It's such a beautiful day, isn't it?" Fischer said.
Zimmerman said, "It's supposed to rain later."
Billinghurst snorted. "It will still be a beautiful day, because the Clone Master is alive—as he always was—and our long national nightmare is at last at an end!"
"Damn straight!" Fischer held up a hand this time, and it was Billinghurst who delivered the high-five.
"What the fuck are you two so happy about?"
Garc
ia turned to see MacAvoy and Milewski, looking haggard, coming into the kitchen from the Fox Place entrance.
Frowning at Milewski, Zimmerman asked, "Kristin—isn't that the same suit you wore yesterday?"
Looking at the shorter detective, Garcia noted that the red pantsuit she wore was sufficiently wrinkled that it almost looked like she'd put the wrong size suit on that morning.
And, now that he thought about it, that was the same suit she had on yesterday.
Milewski started to say, "It's—" when her own Zap rang. She pulled it out of her purse, looked at the display, let out a noise very much like the sound of a pipe bursting, then tapped what had to have been ignore and put it back in her purse.
"Who was that?" Zimmerman asked.
"Don't even ask," MacAvoy said. "Whoever it is has been calling all day, and she won't say who it is."
"Fuck you, Mac," Milewski said with a dirty look at her partner.
Garcia asked, "Where are we with the Claw?"
"Same as always, Javy," MacAvoy said.
Milewski went over to the coffeemaker, taking one of the Styrofoam cups from the pile next to it. "We talked to the vic's family and neighbors. Nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything."
Taylor walked in then, her glasses dangling off the chain around her neck. She held a small envelope in her hand. "Hey, Detectives! You got something from the SchwartzBuilding."
MacAvoy and Milewski looked at each other. "Us?" Milewski asked, then pointed at Billinghurst and Fischer. "Or them?
"You."
Walking toward Taylor, MacAvoy said, "If it's the SchwartzBuilding it better goddamn well be us." He took the envelope from the sergeant's hand and ripped it open, pulling out a small flash drive. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say this has the Stupid Six's files on the Claw."
Billinghurst grinned. "See? It's a beautiful beautiful day!"
Garcia chuckled and shook his head. "Get to work on 'em. I'll be in my office."
Walking with Taylor, Garcia exited the kitchen. The former said: "Heard from Kane Memorial—they're gonna release Fiorello today. O'Malley's still in critical, though, and Fiorello been spending all his time sittin' with him."
Case of the Claw Page 16
