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  “Good.” I nodded, and Allen stepped back as I rushed ahead of him, throwing myself into the room. Stern turned, freezing when he saw me standing there, my finger half squeezing the trigger of my gun, which hung by my side. The expression on his thin, sunken face changed from surprise to horror.

  He looked like he was freshly out of college, though his file said he was just shy of his midthirties. His clean, tailored suit was way out of the budget of a legitimate cop. He carried a basic .38-calibre pistol, probably loaded with heated rounds for taking out man and machine. Clean-shaven with a flat-top hairdo: standard issue for the 5th’s boys. Yup, another faceless cop. If you needed to hide, you did it in plain sight.

  “Oh, fuck … Roche, just wait a minu—”

  Stern was interrupted by the butt of my gun striking his cheek. With my other hand, I grabbed his collar and pulled him hard, making his legs bend. Down he went on his knees. Allen grabbed the cuffs and locked them over Stern’s wrists. I pulled hard to force him back to his feet, dragging him out to the kitchen. Allen grabbed a chair, and I sat Stern on it. I tossed my revolver to Allen. Didn’t expect the metal man to use it, but Stern didn’t know that.

  “Roche —”

  “Shut up.” He snapped his lips shut, giving me the floor. “Give me one good reason not to blow the grey out of your fucking head for killing those two cops.”

  “I-I never killed anyone! Who’s dead?”

  “Don’t play stupid. All your files pin you and them in the same boat for years after the Jaeger case, which made your careers. Ring a bell?”

  He sat there with a glazed expression before speaking. “They’re dead?”

  “Fuck this.” I needed this interrogation to go faster. I had no time to deal with his shit.

  I pulled him from the chair, bringing him to the sink, grabbed some nearby towels to plug the drain, and began filling the basin with the hottest water the faucets could muster. Stern struggled and begged, but a quick connection of his forehead to the countertop silenced him for a good moment. Once steam floated up from the half-full basin of water, I shoved Stern’s head into the sink. Allen began running up, but I put up a hand to keep it from interfering. Stern struggled, pushing against the countertop. Bubbles rose up through the water as he screamed.

  I pulled him out and threw him onto the floor, where he coughed up water, his face red and spotty. I put my foot on his chest, and his eyes soon refocused onto mine. “Start again. Be smart.”

  “Travis Barton and Bill Ewing. Partners for fifteen years, through the War. I didn’t kill them, I swear it. I had no idea they were dead until yesterday, when I got the message.” He spat, his body shaking.

  I could see him looking up at the robot, maybe hoping that it would give him an easier time than I was. I supposed I had roughed him up enough. Clearly he was afraid that he might be the next target of the unknown cop killer. “All right, Stern, where have you been these past few days? And I think the question I’ll ask after that is obvious.”

  He took a few seconds before accepting that he was caught. His face went pale, and now he looked not so much frightened as angry at himself. “I was running a drop-off out of town, on the mainland. I have a few buyers out there, and I decided a week or so ago to move stock into a warehouse in Brooklyn that I just paid off. But the warehouse was raided days ago, so I thought it best to liquidate before the evidence caught up with me. Every place I’ve been over the past three days was either a diner or a buyer’s location. I haven’t been anywhere near the Lower City since Saturday. I have a few Automatic friends around the city who relay messages to me through the phone lines, so it didn’t take long to get word that my old buds were history.”

  “Fine. Next question: Where’d you get parts like these? You just pick them up off up the street, or off the machines themselves?”

  “These are quality goods from some of the best underground, all-American Automatic factories in the state. I’ve run my own business for more than five years. Me and a few boys used to run the operation together, but I decided to leave before things got hairy, like they have now.”

  “Who ran it with you?”

  “Other guys in my squad. Ewing and Barton, they were in on it, too. We all were. Jaeger went down back in ’22, and because of him, we had a lot of assets. We hid some of the evidence and started the racketeering business. Just simple drops here and there at first. Then after a few years, it picked up. After Jaeger got out of the slammer in ’26, I set up a little gig for us to send him a few parts now and then, my own way of apologizing. I never told the other guys that I gave him a discount, but I suppose they always knew. They had him in their sights for a while. I never knew why. But when they probed me for his information a few weeks ago, I knew something was up.”

  “How about the other two characters in your squad? Davin Morris and Cory Belik?”

  “They took it upon themselves to run the show after I headed out on my own back in ’27. Barton and Ewing were the foot soldiers for their smuggling ring.”

  “Would Belik or Morris ever decide to put bullets in their friends to keep those profits for themselves? After all, there isn’t much honour among thieves.”

  “If I can be frank with you about this whole conundrum, I seriously doubt they had anything to do with this. They barely had the courage to pull a gun out on a hardened criminal. I can’t imagine them pointing even a toy gun at me or any of their partners.”

  “That remains to be seen. After all, people change, don’t they?” I heard water splashing onto the floor and turned to shut off the tap. I knelt down and helped Stern up, setting him onto the chair once again.

  “Not a chance. Those boys can’t change. It’s just who they are. It was always my job to deal with the gun-toting Brunos we hired. For all we know, Barton and Ewing could’ve been offed by the Iron Hands.”

  The Iron Hands. So they were possibly a part of this. And owning a smuggling business didn’t exactly increase Stern’s life expectancy.

  It also explained why he was so eager to assist me on this little issue.

  I stood and left Stern there, giving him time to stew in his own failure as I approached Allen. “Ideas?”

  “Stern couldn’t have killed them, Detective Roche. He has the tools to do short work on repairing and refitting Automatic parts, but he has no way to Red-eye or reprogram Automatics. I believe we may have gotten lucky finding him, though, as the other two would have been impossible to find. I congratulate you on your intuition.”

  “Yeah, intuition … thanks, Allen. What about the others?”

  “There is a possibility that the other two, Belik and Morris, might have instructed the Red-eyes to kill Ewing and Barton. On the other hand, these Iron Hands could have done it. It’s impossible to deduce which scenario was the one that transpired until we can question either Belik or Morris … like actual officers. I’d rather we not terrorize them like you did here.”

  “Oh, you know me so well already.” I gave a grim smile as I turned. I knew I shouldn’t rely on her to help me find people, but she had eyes everywhere. I pulled Stern out of the chair and took the cuffs off, putting them away as he looked at me in shock. He seemed surprised that I’d even let him stand up. “You got any Automatics on your payroll?” I asked.

  “Me? No. Morris and Belik, they have a few. Some are Blue-eyes, but we used to nab cop-bots back when they started turning them Green — give them a fresh coat of paint and use them as disposable messengers.”

  “They have any Swingers? Red-eyes? Picked up after ’27, when you left?”

  “M-maybe? I’m not sure.”

  He was looking startled again. I realized that I had been walking closer to him, backing him up against the wall.

  “I’ll ask them myself. I’m pretty damn sure that one of them dragged out an old cop-bot, reprogrammed it, and sent it to do the deed.”

  “H-how are you so sure?”

  “I knew the Green-eye they rewired personally,” I said through clench
ed teeth. Stern looked down, alerting me to the fact I was shoving my gun into his stomach. I composed myself, putting my piece back in the holster and backing away from him. “Anything else to help your case? I can still put you away with all the shit in here.”

  “Wait! Wait, okay, I might have been in contact with them.” My eyebrows rose. “But not to that extent!” he hurried to add. “They contacted me a few days ago and asked for me to do some favours for them, since there ain’t much heat on me. Just a few simple drop-offs near 90th — they don’t like going there. I’ve done if before, and they pay me well to be discreet. It was just some scrap parts, is all. I can give you the address.”

  “Smart man.”

  He grabbed some paper and began scribbling an address on it.

  I glanced at it, then shoved it into my pocket. “Get out of the city, Stern. If I see you, or hear any mention of you again in Manhattan, I’ll pretend you were the killer, and one of these bullets will be for you.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Roche.” Stern turned and ran through the hallway into his room. Did he say my name with gratitude or spite? Fuck it, it didn’t matter now.

  “Leave the Automatic parts. If you want to keep your hands, that is.” I didn’t need to hear a response to that — I knew he’d listen.

  “You aren’t planning on allowing a racketeering criminal to walk away without any repercussions, are you?” Allen stood in front of me, trying its best to be intimidating.

  “I am. He gets to live outside of the Lower City. That’s his punishment. He’s still a cop, even if he has a … side business. And I might need a friend outside of Manhattan one day.” I brushed past Allen before it could say anything else and walked out of the apartment. The machine looked around, trying to decide what to do next, but it relented and followed me, probably reminding itself that this wasn’t a regular case. We headed down the hall, and I lit a cigarette, striding to the elevator as Allen followed.

  “This is not what I would call proper procedure, Detective Roche. We must return to arrest him.”

  “I think you keep forgetting, Allen, that I’m not exactly police.” I had a drag of the dart. Good, but not as good as whiskey. “You did nothing, so all you did was help in an investigation. You’re not even an accessory if they try to convict you of anything that I did.”

  “I’m quite curious to know what you mean by that. I hope you tell me someday.”

  Allen stared into my eyes for a moment before turning its gaze to the elevator doors. “Despite this fact, Detective, and returning to the more pressing point of our visit with Stern, we have no other angles to this case. The city is large enough that these two men, Belik and Morris, could be hiding literally anywhere. What do you propose we do?”

  “We split up. We now know they run a smuggling ring for Automatic parts, meaning our search just narrowed down substantially. You get the warrant and talk to some Blue-eyes downtown, get us an angle on where they’re getting their parts. If this little operation that Belik and Morris are running is in competition with the Iron Hands, I’ll bet money that a ton of metal men are buying from them, since they’ll be cheaper and safer. I don’t speak Bitwise, but I feel that you may, seeing as you still got the whole, uh … robot aesthetic.”

  “And yourself, Detective?” It looked at me queerly.

  “I have friends in low places to check up on. Leave it at that.”

  Allen went off to search the speakeasy back in SoHo. I didn’t know how it’d do, but hopefully it would get some leads. The Talbot purred as I slowed down, bringing it to first gear as I slid across West 108th, scanning the broken buildings. This side of the city, from 90th to 110th street, was almost completely abandoned — broken streets, demolished buildings. The few intact houses that remained were raided for squatters daily. The once musky city air had been replaced with the stench of mould, sewage, and decay, which wafted around every single building. The Upper City crowd kept saying they’d renovate the area once the Depression lifted, but I was sure I’d be in the dirt before they followed through with that.

  Beyond 110th was where things got interesting. With everyone moving to the Lower City after the great wealth migration to the Upper City, most of northern Manhattan was left to rot. I remembered listening to a few people who hoped to find a way out to the Grotto to join up with some sort of squatter group that had built a new Hooverville up there. At least they’d gotten out of Central Park; they’d been starting to make the place look trashy. When I was a rookie, we were instructed not to go past 110th. The sixth borough of New York was said to be a seedy den of murder and lawless pleasure — the Old West all over again, like I’d said to Allen. At least, that’s what I’d heard. But then again, no one who went there ever came back.

  “Fucking hate this place.” Toby was in the passenger seat, leaning back, its feet on the dash as it tried to stretch out in the cramped interior. “You really have to look for some fucking dumping ground out here?”

  “Afraid so. It’s the only lead we’ve got, and I need to know what Stern was asked to drop off. If it’s nothing, we can cross it off. And if it’s not nothing, our night will be more interesting.”

  “Huh, sure.” Toby looked out the window, its eyes gleaming as they took in the broken buildings, the shadows creeping around, keeping their distance. “You think they know you from your car? The squatters skulking around out there, I mean.”

  “I’d hope as much.”

  “So … your new partner?”

  “Drop it, Toby.”

  “Oh, come on! This is big news for you. I feel like a proud dad watching my son meet his first girl. Let me have this moment. It’s a big step.”

  “Now you’re pissing me off.”

  “Fine, fine. All right. I guess I’ll have to talk to him myself —”

  I hit the brakes. The tires squealed as Toby’s head flew forward and hit the dash. It looked at me with annoyance while I grinned.

  We finally pulled up to the address — a generous description for the site. To the south was a long stretch of road leading back to civilization. To the north was the wall of the Grotto: poorly welded, terribly balanced, an overall eyesore. Whatever happened behind those walls was alien to all but a few of us. And they didn’t open their gate for anyone unless they planned to jump you, take your clothes and your vehicle, and leave you wandering around with nothing.

  “Man, that’s just plain creepy,” Toby said, getting out of the car with me and staring at the wall. “You’d think they’d be more welcoming.”

  “Would you be? The government takes their money and runs, says it’s their own fault, and sics GE on them. Then, when they make their own little city here, the government comes knocking and demanding a piece of the pie. I can see why they’d do it.”

  “You’re defending the Grotto?”

  “I’m just saying I can empathize. Doesn’t mean I want to live there. Now focus. We aren’t here to sightsee.”

  I was careful to lock the car door, so no one could sneak inside and hide, then later cut my throat as I started driving. The site had used to be a string of condos, all of which had been cannibalized for bricks and metal to build the Grotto, leaving a muddy pit with bits of metal and wood poking out. Snow had dusted over everything, though the grey skies had yet to release another wave of white. The still water, even with the lights from the car illuminating it, was almost pitch black. Garbage lily pads in the form of cardboard and cloth floated around, while concrete tress and lumber reeds poked out. The liquid hadn’t frozen because of the filth within — which made my job easier. I wasn’t planning on digging through ice to solve this case.

  I was first to step into the swamp. I held my revolver above my waist. Cleaning it would take me half a week if it got dirty, so I preferred to save myself the work. I’d tucked my pants cuffs into my shoes, but that did nothing to help me stay clean, as the water came up to my knees.

  “Fucking … disgusting.” Toby eased its rusted silver into the muck gingerly. “Why
on earth did you ask me, of all the machines in the city, to come with you?”

  “You’ve got police programming. I’d rather have a gunslinger with me on this than a bureaucrat like Allen.”

  “Ah, you’ve named him, too.”

  I stared daggers at Toby, which only served to make it laugh.

  “Too predictable, Roche.”

  Ignoring Toby, I focused on the task of finding what Stern had dumped here. It could be stuck in the muck below, or perhaps it had already corroded. It was my fault for not asking when he’d last dropped off a delivery here. I was running on nothing but expectations.

  Suddenly, my foot caught on something hard and crooked that snapped up my shoe and locked me down under the mud. I yanked my foot out and called Toby over to reach down and pull up whatever I had stumbled on.

  “Oh, Christ. You’re paying for my refurbishing appointment,” Toby groaned as it reached down, felt around, and pulled hard, its clogged servos working extra hard to lift whatever was down there.

  It must have been heavy, because Toby struggled to drag it to the “shore” of the trash marsh. After a few minutes, it succeeded in heaving the dirt-covered device onto the incline, and its metal hands wiped away some of the muck. I took over, using my shirt to clean the object off and find out just what it was. A gleam of silver metal appeared under the dirt, and we looked at each other in surprise. A few moments later we had uncovered it, revealing an old, busted Automatic. The bullet holes in its chest and head told us why it was here. I popped open its noggin and found a hollow space — no Neural-Interface.