by B. K. Bass
“Not out of habit,” I said with a shrug.
Halsing shot up and slammed his fists onto the desk. “That’s not what your file says, Jacobson. There’s over a dozen reports of excessive force. If he were just another junkie, we could file this with the others. But Mayor Tomlison is out for blood on this one.”
“Maybe she should spend more time with her kids and less time with the mob,” I retorted.
Halsing pointed a stubby finger at me, leaning as far over the desk as he could. “You listen here, detective joker. Your mouth is going to get you into hot water one day. We’re not just talking about losing your job. We’re talking about prison time.” He shifted the meaty appendage towards Frank. “For both of you!”
“There’s got to be something we can do,” Frank pleaded. Sweat glistened on his brow and he was fidgeting with his fingers. I’d seen the man keep his cool in everything from a back-alley tossup to an all-out gunfight, but he always melted when confronted by the captain’s fury.
Halsing sat down. The vein in his forehead still throbbed, but the redness in his face was settling back to its usual hue. “Actually, there is. The mayor wants to know where Kristoff got the drugs from, what he was taking, and who is in charge. She doesn’t want his pusher, or the supplier; she wants the boss.”
“We’re homicide detectives, not NARCs,” I said.
“You are whatever the city damn well wants you to be, you smart-ass slacker.” There was the redness again, and the throbbing. “You two will deal with your current casework, and you will find out who is spreading the junk around that got the mayor’s kid so messed up you felt like you had to give him a sound beating. And you will do both by the end of the week.”
I rubbed my forehead so hard, I risked rubbing off some skin. It was Wednesday.
With Frank muttering assurances we would get the job done, we took our leave from the captain’s office. We walked back to our desks in silence, the eyes of the entire bullpen upon us. The office was private from prying eyes, but the glass walls did little to muffle the captain’s voice.
I sat back in front of the computer and pulled the baggie from my pocket. Holding it up over a scanner built into the desk, I tapped a few commands on the inlaid touchpad to get a chemical analysis.
“Well,” Frank asked, “what now?”
“Wait.” Figures scrolled up the side of the screen, next to the image of the street. It looked like I had been right about the paint; it was going to be our best lead.
“Why are you so fascinated with the paint chip?”
“Because, how many kinds of paint do you think are heavy enough to resist being washed down the storm drains with the weather we’re having?”
Frank’s mouth opened to answer, but again nothing came out. I loved asking him these questions just to watch him fail.
After savoring the moment, I answered for him. “Titanium.”
“What?”
“Titanium paint. Heaviest stuff I’ve ever seen. Adds an extra layer of protection to a car, mostly from bullets. How many people do you think are driving around in bullet-proof cars with titanium paint?”
Flies could have set up shop in Frank’s open maw if I asked him many more questions.
“Not many,” I answered for him again.
“Okay,” he said, “so we just shake down everybody with one of those cars. Where do we start?”
“Well, I only know one person off the top of my head who has just such a car.”
“Okay...” Frank made a show of cracking his knuckles. “Who’s that?”
“Mayor Tomlison.”
Frank pinched the bridge of his nose again.
It was going to be a long three days.
Chapter Three
“Have you lost your mind?” Frank asked as he climbed into the car.
“Depends,” I said. “Sanity is all a matter of perspective.”
He shook his head as I backed out and cruised through the garage. “You aren’t seriously going to shake down the mayor, are you?”
“We.”
“What?”
“We are going to shake her down.”
“That’s it.” Frank reached into his rumpled brown coat. “You have lost your mind.” He drew his hand back with a small, metal flask. The lid screeched in the silence as he opened it, the pitch of the scratching metal doing little to ease the tension in the car. He took a long swallow as I pulled out into the street and hit the accelerator.
The electric motor hummed as we picked up speed. The steel and glass towers of downtown soared by over us, slender fingers reaching into the smog-choked sky. The orange glow of dawn spread through the cloudy pollution, doing little to shed light on the dark city.
“Oh shit,” Frank mumbled as he stifled a yawn and rubbed his face. “I need to get some sleep.”
As I shook the fogginess from my head, I knew he was right. We had little time on our hands, but the next stop on my agenda wouldn’t be open until the evening. Now was as good a time as any to get some rest. “All right, but I’m picking you up at four.”
“Shit, Jacobson. I need more time than that.”
“We have three days,” I reminded him.
He took another swallow from the flask. “Yeah, you’re right.”
I stopped and let him off in front of a high-rise tenement close to downtown. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and quiet. Frank had a family, so he managed a decent residential assignment from the city.
My place was further out, in the middle of what they had once called Santa Clarita. When the big one hit, everything there was wrecked. The remains were scraped clear, and clusters of multi-use buildings went up. The street level was lined with shops, restaurants, offices, and bars. Above these were a dozen floors of cramped apartments.
It sounded nice in theory, but once you drove into Sanrita, you had a different impression. I passed squads of gang members on their usual patrol of the streets, shaking down the local business owners and residents alike for protection money. The bars never closed, and even at this hour of the morning there were drunks stumbling out onto the litter-strewn sidewalks. The food served in the bars was better than most restaurants, but I still passed by them to get to my favorite spot. It also happened to be in the same building as my apartment.
I pulled up and parked in the street in front of Rosie’s. A truck driver honked as I got out of the car. It looked like I had blocked his way, and with the morning rush, he couldn’t get into the other lane. I gave him the universal sign for ‘get over it’ and pulled my coat back to flash the badge and gun at my belt. The honking stopped.
A bell chimed as I pushed open the door to the cafe. Rosie’s sat on the corner of the building with glass windows looking out over a busy intersection. A few eyes turned as I walked in. The crowd was mostly regulars, and they turned back to their meals without a second glance when they recognized me. There was a pair of rough-looking youngsters in a booth near the door. Decked out in spiked leather and packing heat, these two were testament to the value of paying off the gangs. If anybody started trouble, these two would finish it.
I nodded to the gangbangers. I knew them as Stitch and Razor.
“Morning, Detective,” Stitch said with a wry grin. He knew we were on different sides of the game as much as I did, but Rosie’s was neutral territory. As long as I didn’t get in the way of their business, they wouldn’t put any new holes in me for being a cop.
“Morning boys. All quiet?”
“Yup,” Razor said, twirling a small knife between two fingers. The purple-haired, mohawked youth had a fetish for blades, hence the name. I didn’t know how stitch earned his name, and I wasn’t asking.
My usual seat at the counter was empty and waiting for me. It was down at the far end, against the wall. I sat and leaned back, holding up one side of the building and affording myself a view of the entire cafe. Despite the cozy atmosphere, I still didn’t like surprises.
Rosie herself sauntered over seductively, or
at least tried to. Her hips swayed like a ship rolling on the waves, then caught and twitched with a metallic grinding. She staggered a step, and suddenly her left eye blinked rapidly. She leaned against the counter, her low-cut shirt and tiny apron doing little to hide cleavage as deep as the Grand Canyon. With one eye still blinking out of control, she said, “So, sexy, what can I do you for?”
“You look rough, Rosie.”
She slammed her palm into her face, and the eye stopped blinking. But her wrist got stuck, and she had to yank it straight with the sound of cracking plastic and scraping metal. “Business hasn’t been great lately. Know a cheap mechanic?”
“Wish I did, babe.”
“Well...” Her eye was twitching. “Maybe I can show you a good time later? You can get a law enforcement discount.”
She pulled her shirt down more, running a finger of bare metal laced with wires between her breasts. Synthflesh covered that hand just yesterday, but now it was almost completely bare.
I nodded at her hand. “What happened there?”
She frowned as she looked down at the skeletal appendage and the tangle of scorched wires. “Had a problem in the kitchen last night, with the fryer.” As she said this, she shot a glance over to the booth by the door.
I followed her gaze as Stitch smiled and waved emphatically. He was obviously mocking Rosie’s newest sign of wear, and probably the cause of it.
“Want me to—”
“No, it’s fine,” Rosie cut me off.
“Okay. But if you need help, you can ask me.”
“You’re sweet, Harold,” she said, sliding back into the lover bot programming that made her such a great counter girl for the cafe. Her former owner retired her long ago, and the owner of the building Rosie’s Diner now occupied got her for a heavy discount. Besides his personal use, she was the face of the restaurant. It looked like he hadn’t been taking particularly good care of her, though. Maintaining a twenty-year-old bot was expensive, especially for a synth model. Before long, he was probably going to have to sell her for scrap, then either hire an actual person to run the place or buy a new bot. I dreaded that day like the rising of the sun.
I finished my coffee and ate something that passed for food. But I didn’t come here for the cuisine. The coffee was always excellent, and I enjoyed my banter with Rosie. The punks who’d fried her hand nodded to me as I walked out the door. I made a mental note to have words with them next time I ran into them on the street. I wouldn’t violate the truce and bring war to Rosie’s, but I wouldn’t let what they did go unpunished either.
The next door over lead to a foyer. There was a single elevator and a set of stairs leading up to the apartments. I hit the button for the elevator and picked bacon from my teeth with a finger as I waited. After a brief ride, I made it to the fifth floor and stepped out. The hallway was littered with cigarette butts, bottles, and other assorted detritus; signs humanity had given up on caring. The dimly lit corridor may have been bright and welcoming in the distant past, but now most of the lights didn’t work. Those that did either hummed with electric noise or flickered like they belonged in a nightclub.
I stopped in front of the door to my apartment and held my wrist up to the scanner on the wall. The laser eye read the barcode on my wrist and chimed in recognition. The door slid aside with a well-oiled whisper, and I stepped in. Lights flickered on of their own accord as the door closed behind me. My apartment was probably the cleanest place in the entire building, and it was still a mess. There were data slates strewn over the coffee table, the kitchen bar, and even the couch. The one-room apartment offered little in the way of space to organize, so bringing work home with me led to a degree of organized chaos.
After clearing off the couch, I pulled off the cushions and hit a button on the side. Decades-old pneumatics and gears cried out in complaint as they crept the sleeper hidden inside the couch into place. Ready to get some sleep, I hit a panel on the wall to shut off most of the lights. I would have pulled the curtains as well if the place had a window. Nestled into the center of the building, other apartments surrounded it. I didn’t know how many residences the building housed, but given the four-digit unit numbers, it was most likely over a hundred per floor. Packed like sardines in a can. I was lucky enough to have a job with the city, so at least I didn’t have to pay rent. If it weren’t for that, I couldn’t even afford this place.
Believe it or not, there were worse places to live in New Angeles.
Chapter Four
The alarm went off sooner than I would have liked. After a quick shower, I put on a fresh suit. This one was more modern; slick black that shone a hue of green in the right light. No tie this time, since the white shirt had a Mandarin collar. I preferred a more traditional style, but considering where I was planning for us to go tonight, this would be more appropriate.
I left the dirty tenements and roving gangs of Sanrita behind and headed back towards downtown. Traffic was heavy in the opposite direction as the office drones fled the steel towers, but my path was clear. Frank surprised me by waiting in front of his building. As he climbed into the car, I asked, “How was the nap?”
“What nap?” he retorted.
I noticed he had a fresh bruise on his cheek in the shape of a small fist. I gave him a minute to simmer down as I pulled back into traffic. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Yeah, you could say that. Carol losing her shit again about me being out all night.”
“We work the night shift.”
“Yeah? Tell her that. She thinks we’re out drinking and whoring every night.”
I grunted as I drove up a ramp to the expressway. Easing the accelerator down, we quickly gained speed and merged into the river of commuter traffic. “She doesn’t appreciate the cushy apartment or the steady paycheck?”
“Oh, sure. She appreciates it so much she spends most of it on crap. Then she complains we’re broke.”
We came to the exit ramp I was looking for. I pulled the car off and slowed it down. A garish neon sign stretched over the ramp. In flickering blue, green, and yellow, it said Welcome to Berdino. “So,” I said, “she bitches about you working all night, then bitches about not having enough money?” I didn’t care about his problems, but the conversation helped to pass the time.
“Exactly. Speaking of which, you’re buying the coffee tonight, right?”
I sighed and pulled up to one of the corner javamats that were sprinkled across the city. I punched in our usual order on the holo-pad projected from the side of the booth and let it scan my wrist to deduct the funds from my account. There was a whirl and buzz of activity as the robotic barista prepared our drinks. With a chime and an inhuman “Thank you, see you again soon”, a door opened, revealing the two steaming cups.
Caffeine in hand, we were finally ready to get to work. Fortunately, we weren’t far from our destination as the sun slid below the skyline to the West.
Frank was still muttering, even though I’d been ignoring him for several minutes. “...can’t believe she thinks we’re going out to bars and brothels. Speaking of which, what are we doing in Berdino?”
“We’re going to a brothel,” I said.
Frank rubbed a hand across his face, but had nothing more to say.
Few called them brothels anymore, at least not the place we were going to. The more common term would be flesh bar or skin club. Ironic names, considering there was no actual flesh involved.
Our Jane Doe had a cyberjack in the back of her skull. That narrowed her potential professions down to heavy bot operator for the military or police, or sex drone. Unless she was really letting loose during a furlough, the latter seemed the most likely option. Unfortunately, there were over two dozen flesh bars spread out across the city. Since somebody seemed to have dumped her body, she could have come from any of them.
Our only other clue was the titanium paint chip. Somebody could have been cruising through Monterey Park in a bullet-proof car—and I wouldn’t blame them—but most p
eople with that kind of money had better places to be. Considering the paint chip wasn’t what I’d expect to find in such a seedy part of town, combined with its proximity to the body, I was sure someone carried her there in that vehicle. Dead hookers were a dime a dozen in Monterey Park, so they probably thought she’d be another page of paperwork in a tall stack. If it had been up to Frank, that’s how it would have gone down. But they weren’t counting on me. A cop who cares was rarer than a priest who didn’t diddle with the choirboys.
With that in mind, I decided it was best to hit one of the swankier joints in town. Berdino was known for hosting the same assortment of businesses that were found in Monterey Park, but they catered to a higher-end clientele. The bright green lights over the entrance to the place I had in mind spelled out Dreamworks. A valet met us by the door and offered to take the car down to the basement garage. I informed the young man the car was fine where it was, and a flash of my badge halted any argument. Frank gave the kid the bad-cop-rub, almost pushing him over as he shouldered by just to drive the point home.
As we entered the main lobby, soft red lighting, velvet lined couches, and a glass bar tended by two buxom blonds greeted us. Behind them was an array of bottles with foreign labels. Just from that, I could tell I couldn’t afford a drink in this place, let alone their more exclusive services.
I wove my way through the maze of couches occupied by men in business suits. Most likely, they were all bankers and lawyers. I recognized one judge among the crowd. It wouldn’t surprise me to find half the city council here on a Saturday night.
As I walked up to the bar, one blond gave me a smile and a wink. After pouring a drink for another patron, she sidled over to ask what I wanted. From the way her hips swayed, I doubted she was a skin job like Rosie. If she was, she was one hell of a good synthetic.
I was about to lay the charm on thick until Frank interrupted me. He set his badge on the counter like a bronze-plated calling card and said, “We need to talk to the boss, sugar tits.”
