He tore the tape off his mouth. There was blood on his lips, either from ripping off the tape or from being struck earlier.
“Get … th-the fuck!”
“Jeremy, relax …” I placed my gun back in its holster. “Who did this to you?”
I didn’t get a verbal response. He leaped at me like a chimp, grappling, striking. I curled up, my shoulders and back shaking from the pain, unsuccessfully trying to fend him off. Allen grasped the kid and pulled him off, delivering a few quick jabs with its metal fist to get Jeremy to release his grip. The metal man took some abuse, but the kid only hurt himself struggling against the machine. He was frantic, mad even, his fingernails bending and chipping as he clawed against Allen’s grip.
I went over to the small mattress he’d been lying on and found a syringe and a small glass bottle, empty. Morphine? There was no blood in the syringe; it wasn’t even wet. The bottle was clean, too, nothing inside, no bitter smell. I tried to check the guy’s pockets, but his legs flung up to kick me. I pulled out my Diamondback, and with a quick backhanded hit to the temple, knocked him out cold.
“Perhaps we should avoid damaging the victim any further,” Allen suggested.
“Agreed, partner.”
I found something in the kid’s pocket and pulled it out. It looked like a small cigarette box, about half the size of my palm.
“What is it?”
“Looks like a dart box, though I don’t see any cigarettes.” I made sure by opening it up. Nope, nothing there. Smelling it, I was hit by a fishy scent that prompted me to close the box again and shove it into my pocket. “Well, once again, Allen, you were correct.”
“It seems to be a running theme,” it said smugly, still holding up the unconscious Jeremy.
“And it seems I need to get better at my job.” I smiled. “Let’s get him somewhere safe. Then we’re square.”
“For now.”
Sure, metal man. Whatever helps you sleep.
CHAPTER 2
FOUR TARGETS, NO MORE, NO LESS.
I’d been waiting a long time for my targets to gather together like this. In the end, they made the fatal mistake of being predictable.
Standing on a roof opposite the hotel, facing almost dead centre, I counted them:
First one on the sixth floor, the far left room. Hard to see from this height. I’d kill him first.
Second on the eighth floor. Near the centre line, a smidge to the left. He was preparing to play with his new toy. A slippery one, always careful. He’d closed the blinds. But I could see his silhouette, and that was enough.
Third on the twenty-second floor, right side. He clearly liked being near windows. He pushed his girl obnoxiously against the glass, already half-finished. Easy pickings.
Fourth was in the penthouse. Bit of an angle, but I didn’t need to be precise with the last shot. The prime target was up there, enjoying his night of luxury.
Stupid men, all of them.
My tripod was up and the iron sights set. I despised scopes; they were too finicky, and the light could give you away, especially under the Plate. The rifle had built-in iron sights — might as well use them.
Three barrels. I’d start with the centre barrel first. I just needed to wait for the perfect timing, for the city to cover my sound. The hardest shot would be the first one.
Police Rotorbird, 7th Precinct, heading back to the station from routine patrol, right on schedule at 11:38 p.m. The boys in blue were always punctual. The vehicle would fly between the building I was standing on and the hotel. Its rotors were powerful enough to drown out other sounds without causing too much shot interference.
The sixth-floor target moved to the window to close the blinds. The Rotorbird approached. Loud enough now. Centre trigger. Glass shattering. One down.
Finger on the front trigger, I rotated the barrel assembly clockwise.
Eighth-floor target on the bed, silhouetted against the blinds. Body shot. Shattered glass, an audible scream, now that the Rotorbird had passed. Two down.
I turned the rifle counter-clockwise, finger on the back trigger.
Twenty-second-floor target was still pressed against the glass. His hands on the girl’s hips, his body behind hers. No clear shot.
Sorry, love.
The window shattered, the girl screamed. She had a hole in her thigh, but she’d live. He wouldn’t. Three down.
Releasing the lever, I turned the barrel assembly 180 degrees. Penthouse target, entwined with his girl, was none the wiser, despite the screaming below.
The girl wouldn’t have made it out, anyway.
I pulled the centre trigger. Explosion.
The last three rounds had only made holes, but this round destroyed all of the windows of the penthouse. The detonation showered the street in wood and plaster. Cars screeched to a halt. The screaming of the three surviving girls was audible.
Four down.
Tripod up, rifle snapped, I easily stored the two pieces of the weapon and gathered the shells.
And now, to wait.
CHAPTER 3
WE HELPED THE POOR KID TO A hospital and dropped a few bills beside him. The nurses swore to me they’d have him shipshape in no time. I was just relieved that I had fulfilled my end of the bargain and completed a civilian call so the metal man wouldn’t make a fuss for a while. As we drove back to my apartment, the installed police radio installed in my “rental” car began to chatter away under the dash.
“10-33, get someone on the horn at the 7th or 11th. Explosion at the Edison Hotel. Five dead, I repeat, five dead at the Edison.”
I looked over at Allen, whose eyebrows were raised inquisitively. “Should we check it out?” it asked.
“The hell is a 10-33?” I said.
“Explosive device present. The NYPD has been experimenting with brevity codes. It started after your time. This sounds like something up your alley, given the body count.”
“But it’s not a Night Call. I’m off the hook.”
Almost as soon as I had finished speaking, the radio crackled again.
“The 5th called in, get R on the horn,” the scanner announced.
That was my cue.
“Shit.”
I spun the Packard around in the middle of the street. Cars swerved to avoid me, and Allen yelped in panic. We headed northwest toward yet another crime.
And I had almost been glad that things were slow.
The scene was like something out of a movie: broken glass and debris all over the street, half a dozen police vehicles cordoning off the building, and even a few police chiefs on site. Rotating red beacon lights stabbed at my eyes, making the streetlights and Platelights seem dim in comparison.
The Edison Hotel was not one of the Control Points that supported the Plate and kept it from toppling over from its own weight, but it was a masterful work of architecture. No doubt its reputation would now be shattered after this incident.
Two ambulances — glorified hearses, in actuality — sat with their back doors open and three covered corpses loaded inside. Nearby, emergency workers looked after three women draped with blankets. One woman had a moderately sized chunk missing from the back of her thigh, though she seemed calm, probably thanks to a generous application of morphine, Syneal, and bandages. The other girls’ wounds appeared to be more psychological than physical.
Commissioner Jeffrey Robins, head of the 5th Precinct, was standing by, his look grim and his posture impatient. One of the few Black veterans of the Great War, he was a tough boss who wanted his men to be the best. He’d lost most of his hair stressing over his job and had sacrificed his marriage trying to make this city a better place. No one wanted to tell him how fruitless an endeavour that was.
Beside him were the heads of the 7th and 11th: Yevgeny Viessman and Tony Shen, respectively. The former was a Russian man, bearded and scarred from his days riding horses in the Cossack Division for the Czar. Whereas everyone else was wearing a parka or something similar, Yevgeny wore only
a thin shirt, his cheeks rosy and skin peachy. Tony was given a odd look by a lot of onlookers. Most Chinese Americans were, seeing as we were in a cold war with the Republic over the Automatics industry. But I knew Shen, and no one would have been more willing to take a bullet for Lady Liberty than him.
They all seemed to relax a degree as soon as I walked up with Allen.
“Sinclair is calling for you now,” Robins told me, nodding toward a nearby phone booth as he lit a cigar. “How’d you know?”
“I have my ways. They said five dead, but I only see three bodies. Is there a surprise waiting for me upstairs?”
“Da,” spat Yevgeny, as the five of us walked to the lobby. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his Russian accent contrasted starkly with everyone else’s.
“You’re more talkative than usual, Yev. Things got you spooked?” He scowled as we entered the revolving doors, making me grin. “Shen, were you first on the scene?”
“Unfortunately.” Shen lit a cigarette. “Took until Viessman got here before they’d listen and set up a perimeter.”
“Pricks, eh?” I said. Shen just laughed.
The lobby we walked into was decorated with fantastic woodwork and ornate stone pillars. The ceiling was bevelled and adorned with chains, from which golden chandeliers hung. Dozens of wealthy members of the Lower City were walking out in nightgowns and whatever else they could throw on. They peered at us like we were Automatics walking around up on the Plate. I ignored them as best I could. We entered the closest elevator, and Shen hit the button to the penthouse. He waited for the doors to close before speaking again.
“The shot that got our attention was fired at about eleven thirty-nine p.m. It shook this place to the bone. People got all stirred up and ran outside. We were able to deal with three of the bodies. They all had these stuck in them.” He handed me a small envelope.
Inside were some mangled rifle rounds. They were bent and crushed from slamming into muscle and bone, but still identifiable.
“Who are they, Mafia?” I asked.
“No, actually,” Shen replied, “they’re Upper City officials who worked underneath the dead VIP in the penthouse. They came down here for some rough and tumble fun, and now they’re all dead. The women are dimes from the streets. We did thorough background checks, and trust me, they have no motivation for murdering their clients at the exact same time. The bullets came in through the windows, so we think there were multiple gunmen involved.”
“Multiple?” Allen took the opportunity to butt in. “I know several people and Automatics who can fire quickly and accurately enough to take out four people from a single vantage point.”
“The first three bullets aren’t evidence against that — it’s the fourth one.”
The elevator opened, and the three chiefs fell back, allowing me and Allen to walk out first. We entered a large foyer with two arches on either side of the central wall before us, both leading into a larger room on the opposite side. The effect of the ornate wallpaper and lavish decoration was diminished by the sound of wind passing through the broken windows. I was wary of what I might find as I passed through one of the arches.
Now I understood why there were only three bodies downstairs.
The fourth and fifth were splattered all over the walls.
Allen stared at the thick smear of blood on a nearby armchair and immediately doubled over, puking. I relieved it so it could go pull itself together. Its acidic spew was already burning through the rug … ugh. The chiefs were standing far back, looking to me to deal with their problems.
“Well, a rag would be helpful!” I yelled over. Robins picked up a cloth napkin from a small table and threw it to me. I tied it over my mouth to keep the smell from hitting me too hard.
The windows had blown out onto the street, and the walls were coated in blood, gore, and chunks of bone. The chandelier hanging overtop the room was newly adorned with a rag-covered limb balancing on one of its arms. The explosion had jolted several pieces of furniture out of place, but it hadn’t been strong enough to knock down the walls, which meant that it had been contained. Dynamite charge? No, that would have involved shaping the charge and carefully placing it. And a grenade wouldn’t have done this kind of damage.
Robins approached, holding a handkerchief to his nose. “Theory, Elias?”
“Von Whisper?” I suggested.
“Looks that way, don’t it?”
“Tell me more about the victim.”
“Desmond Hartley, big name in GE’s Automatics Division. Another shill in a suit. Good riddance, I say.”
“And the other body?”
“Another prostitute. Poor girl.”
“They couldn’t have shot from the street.” I looked down through the broken picture window and saw the roof of the building opposite in plain view. “The perfect vantage point is the top of the Barrymore Theatre. It wasn’t a hard shot for an experienced shooter. What kind of bullets are these?”
“They’re 8x50 Lebel, used by the French in the War,” Robins answered. “Odd, huh? How many people do you know who use French rifles with outdated bullets?”
“Might be a good time to start asking. Lock down the scene. Me and Allen will do some work down there. Say it was … fuck it, the Iron Hands.”
“Don’t you think that’s dangerous, pinning this on them?” Robins kicked a piece of glass underfoot, trying to keep his shoes off the bloody carpet. “We’ve put in enough marketing effort for them as is. We need to stop saying that every mysterious murder is their work, else she might get upset. Pick someone else, please.”
Robins was nervous. I would have been, too, if I were him, with so many suspects for this crime. If only crime families weren’t running both cities.
“Maranzano?”
“Better.”
I collected Allen and headed for the theatre. On our way in I asked a security guard if anyone had come through the stairwell to the roof. She said that she’d been nowhere near the stairwell when the shootings happened. Figured.
The concrete rooftop was empty. Up here the horns and engines and other noises of the city came through undiluted. The end farthest from the hotel was teeming with evidence, though it wasn’t immediately obvious — you just had to know where to look. The rooftop access door came out in an enclosure that resembled a small brick shack. On the back of it I found two divots and some streaks of black, indicating that something heavy had been placed down there and dragged across.
“Someone set up a rifle here.” I pointed to the divots. “Got it assembled, moved to the perch, and took aim. Jesus, those are some difficult shots, even from this angle. He must be one hell of a shot.”
“A tripod would have helped,” Allen noted, its fingers drifting over the parapet. “They set up here, got into a better angle, and went to work. The recoil was absorbed by the concrete, as evident by the depressions. But using two different cartridges … that’s where things get tricky.”
“Multiple shooters?” I asked. Allen shrugged in response. “Go and do your thing, see what you can find.”
Allen scoured the area a quarter of an hour or so. I looked down over the parapet, watching a crowd coalesce around the scene. It was a mix of onlookers and reporters. Journalists both glamorous and stoic tried to get the scoop while their audio-jockeys followed, carrying recording equipment on their backs.
Allen finally returned with a displeased expression.
“No evidence of more than one shooter,” it said. “An 1886 Lebel is quite a collector’s item, but seeing as there are thousands of Great War veterans, that rifle is not exactly scarce. The last round came from a much larger rifle.”
“A Von Whisper.”
Allen scrunched up its face at me. “I don’t know that weapon.”
“Oh, you don’t know the slang. A G30 Von-Nernst.”
“Ah, the 15mm rifle. It was billed as an ‘anti-Automatic platform,’ as I recall.”
“Doesn’t stop people from using it on humans. Stil
l, there’s no way someone could walk up here with a Von Whisper, even disassembled, and get out fast.” I was missing something, as usual. But there was nothing else here. “What do we even have to go off? Hair? Shoeprints?”
“Nothing. Whoever took the shot was good, cleaned up almost everything. Perhaps they thought the tripod marks were inconsequential,” Allen said.
“Robins won’t like this. Shit, we’re dry up here.” I pulled out a dart and bit on it. I was getting nervous again.
Back on street level, the police were wrapping up the scene and covering any last avenues that might have served as an escape route for the shooter. The cordoned-off area was being assailed by the wave of journalists I had spotted. On the Cop Killer case, I’d been being hounded by cops and by the Eye, but thankfully, no press. When the news got involved, things always got messy. Especially when I was around.
One particular reporter was especially eager; she ran through the bustling crowd and slipped around a dim-witted cop from the 7th, her audio-jockey running just behind, holding the cord attached to her microphone. She was respectable-looking in tapered slacks, black flats, a grey blouse, and a thick white wool coat. She had shoulder-length blond hair and her emerald eyes drilled through me as she approached. What did she want with me?
“There he is, come on!” she said to the audio-jockey behind her. “Detective Roche!” Her voice pierced through the noise. Hers wasn’t a New York accent. And how did she know my name?
“What in the hell …” I turned to my partner. “Allen, car, now.”
“But —”
“Allen!” It listened that time. We hurried toward my vehicle, but I wasn’t fast enough to escape the woman. She ran around to block me. Behind her, the audio-jockey was spooling up his recorder.
“Shit,” I said, as she held the microphone to my mouth.
“Detective Roche, can you comment on the crime that occurred here? Who were the perpetrators? Are you hot on their trail?” She pushed the microphone even closer. I swatted it away in annoyance. “Anything for the listeners of 980 AM?”
Midnight Page 3
