“Your Mom will be very proud of how brave you were against that bad Rabbit man. I’ll tell her all about it and how courageous you were when I rescued you. You know what courageous means?”
She nodded.
“That was you.”
“And when Mr. Cruz stays behind to tell your Mom how courageous you were when he rescued you, we’re going to be there, standing right beside him. He’s a very popular detective, and there are so many people who want to talk with him. We’re going to make sure he gets to see them all,” said Officer Break.
The officers grinned at me.
This was exactly the situation grown men who purported to be cool avoided at all costs. We arrived at the apartment tower of Carol Num, and if I thought the media reception at Red’s hideout was bad, this was like tenfold the rock star-like gathering. The cruiser set down right in front of the main entrance where Carol stood—I saw the eager anticipation in her face; her eyes were already tearing up. Run-Time was on one side and there, yes, the Mayor of Metropolis, himself, on the other.
Lutty couldn’t wait to get out of the police cruiser, and as soon as it popped open, she bolted from her seat into her mother’s outstretched arms.
It was one of those Hallmark card pictures you always thought was fake—staged by actors, but here was a real one, right in front of me and everyone else on the planet who would see it. The media madness was directed at the mother and daughter, but even they had the smarts to know you don’t interrupt a life moment, like this one. Carol’s arms were wrapped around her daughter’s shoulders, and the daughter had her arms wrapped around her mother’s waist. Both were balls of weeping energy.
I stood there as quietly as I could, with Officers Break and Caps standing next to me, and the other two officers in the cruiser behind us. Who would break the dignity of this beautiful moment? Even the rain had the decency to stop.
“Come on over here, Mr. Cruz,” the Mayor said, his hand beckoning.
There were moments in a person’s life when time really froze. I didn’t know what disturbed me more, the fact that the Mayor of the city knew exactly who I was and by name or that seemingly millions of camera crews turned to focus their attention to me in unison. My life, as the saying goes, was over as I knew it.
I felt a slight nudge to my back—it was Officer Break—and I slowly trudged over to the mother and daughter. Carol opened her weepy eyes to notice me and she smiled. Lutty lifted her head from her mother’s chest to look at me too. They pulled me in, and there I was, locked in their embrace. Exactly what I didn’t want to happen happened, as the emotions got me. Now, I was fighting my own facial muscles to keep from bawling like a little baby. The war of the tears was over and flowed down my face.
The media ate up the images.
Of course, the Mayor stepped to us and placed his hand on my shoulder. Why my shoulder? Why not the mother? Unhand me, man, and be off with you, I said to myself. This was Carol’s and Lutty’s moment. No one and no force could spoil it. The moment was theirs; I was just along for the ride.
Chapter 50
Deputy Doohickey
MAYOR LIKEGATE HAD been Metropolis’ mayor for five years and had just started his second term. The typical slickster-in-a-suit—black hair, clean-shaven—but he seemed popular. I didn’t know politics, care about it, or had any intention of caring about it ever, like most Metropolitans. But I recognized power, and the Mayor was every bit a power-player like any megacorp CEO.
I found myself being posed by his staff as he shook my hand for photos and stood next to me as Carol hugged me for photos. Now, we had entered the silly season. Carol was as uncomfortable by the whole thing as I was, but just like me, she went with it. Thank God for Run-Time, because after a few minutes, his people came in and whisked Carol and daughter away. Media tried to follow them, but Let It Ride security was already in place and stopped the reporters and their camera crews in their tracks.
The Mayor was in front of me, again, with his entourage of staffers and aides.
“Mr. Cruz, you’ve done the great city of Metropolis a great service by finding that little girl. The city won’t forget what you did,” he said to me as he shook my hand again.
Thank goodness politicians had a short attention span. The Mayor and his entourage were off, into their government hoverlimos and in the sky in mere minutes. The media was following his lead and scattered. Both parties got what they wanted—photos and video footage.
I looked around and realized all the police were already gone, even my “friends” Ebony and Ivory. Run-Time walked up to me, smiling, with another man following. Run-Time gave me a long handshake.
“You did it,” he said, smiling.
“I did.”
Run-Time kept nodding his head. “This is Mr. Frame. He’s one of the Mayor’s deputies. You two should get to know each other.”
The man stepped forward and shook my hand, too. For a slim man, he had the grip of a Mexican wrestler.
“Mr. Run-Time has been telling me about your progress. Looks like your Easy Chair Charlie case is all wrapped up.”
“Oh, you know about Easy Chair Charlie, too?” I said. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, whether voluntarily or not, this Easy Chair Charlie and the criminal Red were working together in the Sweet Street shootout. The little girl saw them together, or the criminal Red alone, and he kidnapped her.”
“Wow, that is a very snazzy encapsulation of the case,” I said.
“I try to,” the deputy said, smiling.
“Sounds like your case is wrapped up neatly and solved.”
“My case?” the deputy asked. “What do you mean my case? Your case is solved.”
“My case isn’t solved,” I answered. “The case of the missing little girl is solved. The case of the Red Rabbit is solved. But my case of Easy Chair Charlie is not solved.”
“How do you mean?” the deputy asked. “The criminal kidnapped the girl, and he was the one who got Easy Chair Charlie shot by the police.”
“You know what my problem is right now?”
“What, Mr. Cruz?”
“Why does the deputy of the largest supercity in the world know with such granular detail about the case of some newbie detective consultant? How many detectives must there be in this city? How many kidnap victims must there be who are little girls? But you know mine so intimately. Why is that? Don’t answer. The criminal Red didn’t get Easy Chair Charlie to shoot up Sweet Street. Red murdered Easy Chair Charlie. He just found a unique way to do it, using cops. But Red wasn’t acting on his own. He was hired. The thug who tried to kill me outside of my own place was hired. The thug who barged into my office to kill me was hired. Like I said, Mr. Frame, your case is solved. Mine is far from over.”
The deputy’s face looked like I had gut-kicked him. Yeah, Deputy Doohickey, as I called him, was not happy, which meant his boss would not be happy, which meant this whole mess was tied to the Mayor’s office, which meant that Run-Time knew much more, which meant some serious trouble was coming for me.
Chapter 51
Punch Judy
I WENT INTO MY OFFICE and saw her interior design handy work had turned the reception-waiting area into a shrine…to me. There were pictures, already framed, hanging on the wall of me with Carol, me with both Carol and her daughter, and me with the Mayor. My first reaction was not a positive one, but then, I looked at PJ with an approving nod. I could see many a future client waiting for an appointment and staring at those pictures. I had to be a legit detective, they’d say. I was shaking hands with the mayor of the damn city, no less.
“You’re faster than hyper-space,” I said, turning away from the pictures to glance back at her, smiling, behind her reception area.
“I downloaded those pictures while you were still on the TV screen.”
“You and Phishy are something. In fact, get Phishy in here. I need more ammo.”
“More shootouts with bad guys.�
�
“You can say that. Tell Phishy I don’t want replacement ammo. I want extra ammo.”
“And they say I have the criminal streak. Are you expecting more visitors?”
I pointed to her newly hung pictures on the wall. “What do you think?”
“Don’t want you shooting our potential clients. You’re going to have more clients than you can handle. Don’t shoot any of them!”
“I’m not going to shoot the clients, just the criminals. We haven’t seen all the bad guys involved in this case, yet. Not by a long shot.”
“Good, because I need to get paid. Okay, I’ll call Phishy.”
“That’s what I need.”
I walked into my office after I pushed open the door. I closed it immediately. At the desk, PJ had all my messages in priority order. The ones that would be the quickest to solve first and, therefore, the quickest potential payment. But those were always the most boring and of no interest to me. As I scanned the printed message from her electronic notepad, I realized something, and touched one of the messages. The message I touched wasn’t one message; it was a stack of messages, one under the other. I didn’t have five-by-five rows of messages. I had five stacks of messages by five stacks of messages. Not twenty-five, but much, much more. This was insane. I’d need to hire someone else just to read all these messages.
I got up from my desk, opened the door, and walked to PJ’s desk. Her silly French-language punk music was playing and there she was sitting, with her feet on her desk, waiting for me. She stood up and handed me three folders. I opened one and inside were more messages, and it was only one folder! I couldn’t believe it.
“They all came in within the last hour,” she said.
I shook my head.
“Don’t answer the phone anymore for today. Let the voice recorder catch them all.”
“The one we have doesn’t have the disk space.”
“Go out and buy one that we need then. Then come back here,” I said and threw the folder back on her desk, “and figure out a better way to prioritize.”
“That’s what I did.”
“Do you want me sitting at my desk going through messages all day or out solving cases? Which do want?”
“You need to hire another secretary.”
“No.”
“A part-time assistant.”
“No. You are my only employee. In fact, you’re making more than me.”
“Cruz, you’re a famous detective, now. I can’t man the front area, answer the phones, and prioritize messages. Impossible. How am I supposed to do all that? I need help!”
I covered my ears, so I couldn’t hear her voice anymore and said, “Call Phishy. Ammo.” Then I walked back into my office. “Front of the office is your job. That’s why I hired you. Detective work is my job. Your job allows me to do my job or no money.”
I reflexively dove for the floor as the hovercar outside my window beamed a bright light into my office.
Chapter 52
Phishy
IT COULD HAVE BEEN reporters, but I was taking no chances. I stood at my desk, loading the bullets into my magazine. PJ was sitting on one of my inner office lounge area chairs, loading up her two shotguns.
I may have had guns now and had a natural aptitude for shooting, but I was no gun person. And PJ was an ex-posh gang member, so she definitely wasn’t a gun person. You didn’t take good ammo out of your weapon and then load up new ammo, just because new boxes of ammo came in. But we did it anyway, because it’s “fresh” ammo straight out of the box, right?
Phishy glanced back and forth between us as if he were watching a tennis match.
“Why don’t you load up too, Phishy?” PJ said to him.
“Oh no. Phishy is a lover not a fighter.” He smiled at her.
“A dead lover or a live fighter. Hmm. What is better for me and my life?” PJ said as she cocked one of her rifles.
“Phishy, I want more ammo,” I said.
“Cruz, you’re getting a bit obsessive about the safety.”
“How many gun battles have I been in now? People trying to sucker shoot me all over the place. I had a major shootout before leaving to rescue the little girl and then another shootout trying to rescue the little girl. Phishy, this isn’t a matter of perspective. We need more boxes of ammo.”
“But isn’t a detective supposed to think his way out of battles?” Phishy sincerely asked.
PJ burst out laughing.
“You stupid man,” she snapped at him.
“More boxes of ammo, Phishy,” I said. “The hovercar was flying right outside my window with a spotlight.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll get more. But Cruz, this isn’t cheap stuff.”
I walked to my desk and opened the front drawer. His eyes opened wide as he saw the wad of cash.
“If you even think of hiding this cash the way you did the last time, I’ll ban you from my office.”
“Where’s my cash?” PJ said standing from the couch.
I ignored her. “Did you hear me?” I asked Phishy.
“I’ll do it outside.”
I threw the cash at him, and he caught it with ease. “Get out of here and bring me more ammo.”
Phishy ran out of my office, smiling. We heard the reception door close, and I just shook my head.
“Where’s my cash?”
“Why would I give you any cash when you can’t even prioritize my messages, so I know what cases to take on? Maybe I should waste my time talking to more ladies with the gators in their bathtubs.”
“That wouldn’t be a good use of your time. You need to go out there and solve cases and bring back the money. You’re famous now. How hard can that be?”
The voice of a man at my office doorway so startled us, I reflexively dropped my box of ammo to the ground to reach for my gun; the bullets bounced up and down on the hardwood floor. PJ had let go of her shotgun; it hit the rugged floor, and it discharged. The blast blew out my window (again) and sucked all the messages that were neatly stacked at the edge of my desk, out into the sky.
Chapter 53
The Mick
PJ RAN BACK OUT OF my office to her desk, and when she appeared an instant later, she literally flew out the window—100 stories up! We watched as Punch Judy went after every slip of paper fluttering down to the ground below. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to impress me to get money, or if each of those messages represented dollar signs to her, which again, meant getting money.
“Who are you?” I asked the man standing next to me, both of us watching the jetpacked PJ flying around outside, like a super heroine.
“I’m here to fetch you and bring you to a private cafe to meet a mutual friend.”
“Who’s the mutual friend?”
“I believe you call him The Mick.”
I actually never knew his name. Run-Time had three executive vice presidents—the two nice and female ones; one Lebanese and the other West Indian; and the one big Irish male, who wasn’t nice. If you dealt with the female ones, then you were in Run-Time’s good graces, which is why I never spoke two words to The Mick in all the many years I was friends with Run-Time. Since I didn’t know what I could possibly have done to warrant a meeting with The Mick, I was intrigued.
“Okay.”
“I hope you’re not as trigger happy in public places as your secretary.”
“How did you get in here, anyway?”
“I believe it’s called walking through the front door.”
“We’re still working out the kinks with our external security measures.”
“I see you have a ways to go. Shall we go?”
“Let my secretary fly back in here first.”
Just as I uttered the words, PJ flew into the office, almost hitting the ceiling, and landed. A wad of messages was clutched in her hand.
“I got all the messages,” she proclaimed.
“And you blew out my window.”
“So, we’re even now. You blew it out f
irst, and now I have. Even.”
“But I’m the one who has to pay the bill to fix it each time.”
She shook her hand holding the messages. “Get some clients in here. I’ll make the calls if you’re busy.”
“Your boss has a client call to go on now,” the man said.
“Oh,” PJ said. “Go on then,” she said. “I’ll take care of the window.”
“And,” I said, “show me how to do that super girl with the jetpack thing, because I hear, all the time, people doing that and splatting on the pavement.”
“Oh, because they’re stupid,” PJ said. “They jump out the window and then push the button on their jetpack. They watch too much fake television. We have hover technology, not anti-gravity. Anti-gravity is fantasy fake stuff. No jetpack can stop your fall after the fact. You never see base-jumpers do that or acrobats. No jetpack engine is more powerful than Earth’s gravity. You start your jetpack, while you’re standing still, and then you can fly. That’s how you do it.”
“Well, you can show me when I get back. And figure out why the door…”
“And I’ll figure out why the door was open for this man to walk in like that.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to walk into your place of business.”
“Let’s go,” I said to him.
The man took me to some hole-in-the-wall eatery I had never been to before. An awaiting hovercar with its own driver took us there. I never saw the name of the place, but I knew it was on the edges of the city of Neon Blues.
The man led me into a virtually empty, diner-style establishment. The Mick was at the furthest booth away from us, facing us with his back to the wall. As we approached, I could see he was sipping something from a coffee cup.
“Mr. Cruz, have a seat.” He motioned to the space opposite him.
The man, who led me in, nodded at the VP and walked back the way he came. I sat down.
“Want anything to drink, alcoholic or not, your choice,” he said.
“No thanks. I’m good. Well, are you here on Run-Time’s behalf or yours?” I asked The Mick. “‘Cause I don’t think we’ve ever talked before.”
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