Night Call Page 19

  “And how did you hear about what I found at GE?”

  Sinclair’s face went white, and he struggled to keep from looking at Allen. “Y-you rang, don’t you remember? Yesterday, before noon.”

  “Right … I did.” We couldn’t talk about her around Allen. I did feel a bit hurt that she’d told Sinclair about my findings before I got a chance. She must have been awfully anxious to break my trust and tell him. Of all people.

  Sinclair continued. “We’ve been thinking about looking for smugglers or racketeers in Chelsea, maybe organizing a raid, but that’s the 7th’s jurisdiction, so we didn’t want to step on any toes. And while we can’t go up there, you don’t exactly have the same limitations.”

  “Right. We’ll head to the 5th, get Robins in the loop, and organize a raid on the docks, hopefully a discreet one. Get a couple of the 5th’s boys pulling their weight for once.”

  “You’d think smugglers would try to be discreet, but it seems they’re trying to draw as much attention to themselves as possible with that business at GE. And they’re still selling crap after the stunt they pulled at the speakeasy,” Sinclair said. “Maybe they want to be caught?”

  “Like someone on the inside got cold feet and wants out? I wouldn’t complain. Case closed, smuggling operation toppled. Two birds, one bullet — right, Allen?”

  “Of course, Detective. I believe you’ll be needing this, for now.” For a moment I thought I saw it smirk as it handed my revolver back to me. A quick check revealed that it had removed the rounds from the cylinder. I supposed it thought I could use it as a deterrent. Or maybe it could tell what this hunk of steel meant to me.

  “No bullets, huh?”

  “When we arrive at a juncture that requires you to be armed, I’ll happily give them back to you.”

  “How many did I have on me?”

  “Fourteen total.”

  “You’ve done more damage with less, Roche.” Sinclair threw his dart into my ashtray and grabbed his coat. “Toby is waiting in the car downstairs. You planning on riding with us?”

  “Nah … I’ll take my car. Let’s get this done tonight.”

  “Prick … I don’t drive that slow,” Sinclair said, laughing.

  It was two in the afternoon. Not much time today to pull this off. We had to hurry. If she’d spoken to Sinclair, it meant she was flexing her muscles, telling me that if I didn’t get this job done, he’d become a target, along with Toby.

  Not on my watch.

  CHAPTER 15

  IT HAD BEEN A FEW DAYS SINCE I’d shown my face around the 5th, but that had been for the best, as Robins didn’t need my presence making the G-men more suspicious. I wasn’t one for wasting time during an investigation, but letting things calm down after my little stunt in Times Square hadn’t been a bad idea.

  We rolled up to the station as the afternoon faded away far above the Plate. This deep in the city, the only way you could tell it was getting late was the dimming of the bulbs on the Plate as the control room workers prepared for the six o’clock shutdown.

  Sinclair hung back with Toby as Allen and I entered the station. Where I had expected the bustle of nighttime patrols, I instead saw every single seat occupied by a constable sifting through what looked like enough paperwork to crush a horse. To call this an inspection was an under-statement; considering all the stress everyone seemed to be under, it felt more like a goddamn tax collection.

  Robins’s office wasn’t much better. Files and papers were strewn across his desk, the floor, even taped to the walls. Robins was reclining in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Beside him, a man wearing a dark overcoat was scanning some of the files. The whole place felt ready to go off at the slightest inconvenience.

  Robins shot me a glance that indicated that I should have called ahead. The other man glanced up before croaking out what sounded like a cross between a sneeze and a cough. “We aren’t expecting any callers. You’ve been out for a while, haven’t you?” Posh, well spoken with a hint of condescension … and yet I sensed some nervousness. Definitely a G-man.

  Robins would appreciate me playing it up. I needed an inside look at what they knew and to see if I couldn’t get paid sooner. “I’ve, uh, been on a stakeout for a few days, near a speakeasy. Anything the matter?”

  “The matter is, I have dozens of constables who need a careful watch, and I haven’t the time or manpower to carry out that order. We — and by we, I mean me and my associates in the FBI — need to be one hundred percent certain that you’re still here to serve and protect the right people. This simply isn’t efficient in the slightest, and we’ve been racking our brains trying to solve an unsolvable problem. Have you got a name, Constable?”

  I couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t been sifting through the files and found something saying that I was retired.

  “Stern,” I said. “Detective Andrew Stern. These are my partners, Allen and Toby — the Automatics — and Paddy … er, Patrick Sinclair.”

  “Agent Ewalt, acting on behalf of Agent Masters for this inspection.”

  My eyebrows popped up at the mention of the name.

  “I had the pleasure of meeting Detective Sinclair a while ago, back in Rotorbird training. Ace pilot, he is. Surprised you’re stuck here, though. You should be flying paramilitary, or even executives up on the Plate,” the Black Hat said, grinning.

  Sinclair’s expression was equally jolly. “My heart is in the city, sir, born and raised. Sometimes the grass is only greener ’cause of paint,” he said, half kidding, half sincere. “How’s your little operation been rollin’?”

  “No progress. We’ve been here for hours, and nothing. There was some shooting down near Times Square that riled up all my bosses, in case you hadn’t heard, Stern — and now the bigwigs want me planted here until we can better assess the threats rooted around the city and see whether the 5th is doing its job. Problem is that Masters has gone AWOL, and I’ve got no way to raise him. If he doesn’t get back in a few hours, we’ll need to pull out and reorganize this venture … and think of a fitting punishment for Masters for his vanishing act.”

  “But he’s your superior — do you have that right?” I asked.

  “This is the FBI, son. We can do much more than you can, especially concerning our superiors. Now, if you’ll excuse me … and get those Blue-eyes out of here unless you plan on Greening them!”

  I snapped my fingers and Allen and Toby silently retreated. The former was proper and well-mannered about it, while the latter, I could tell, wanted to spit on the floor.

  Robins was unnaturally silent — eerily so, actually. I’d never seen him like that. Sinclair offered to help the G-man find whatever he was searching for, while Robins stumbled from his chair and followed me and Allen out of his office, out of earshot of the Fed. He seemed more stressed than usual — due to the piles of paperwork, no doubt. And my sudden appearance at the precinct would have made things worse.

  “What the hell is this, Roche? I know you popped those bullets last night, and you hanging around here ain’t exactly lying low.”

  “Robins, I think we have our man.” Relief appeared on his face. “It’s a racketeer group. They’ve been cutting loose ends, and the two dead badges were supposedly in on it somehow. Belik is leading them — he used to run with the 5th, I think.”

  “Belik left the Force five years ago,” Robins said. “Said some ‘business venture’ picked up and led him to be filthy rich. I didn’t expect him to run down that road, though.” He leaned his big frame against the wall for a moment before straightening back up. “So, do you have evidence? I can’t put together much of a court case without any damning proof.”

  “I have some unofficial statements and a smuggling presence in Chelsea Docks that Toby scouted out. You can confirm everything with Allen if you —”

  “Allen?”

  “Forty-One. Whatever. I gave it a better name. It looks like an Allen. You gotta admit that, at least.” Robins peered at m
y partner and chuckled. “Allen has everything you need,” I continued. “It’s been on my heels since you put me in charge of it. Toby was an immense help as well … there’s a lot of evidence that it’s helped me retrieve.”

  “Toby, that funny tin can.” We both grinned. At least Toby wasn’t easily forgotten. “What happened to him — it, sorry — when it left the Force after Second Prohibition?”

  “It works construction for GE now, apparently. The job pays so well it turned to bootleggers to get quality parts, so that should tell you about its situation.”

  “I’d have Toby back on the Force in an instant if the FBI would let me. Bless that metal soul. But I’m glad its situation led us straight to the perps responsible for putting my boys down. I really couldn’t care less if they were part of some side op that wasn’t totally legal. They’re still my men. I’ll have Belik put down just as brutally as he put them down.” He peered over at Allen, who, as usual, was too busy observing us to talk. “How is Elias doing, Allen? How’s it been in the field?”

  The metal man looked at me queerly before turning back and replying. “Detective Roche has been admirable, and though he is somewhat passionate in his approach, he understands the intricacies of the police work, as well as the concept of subtlety.”

  Robins nodded, biting his lip before turning back to me. “Not too many dead bodies this time?”

  “Just one — the boy in the Packard 900,” I answered. I wouldn’t mention the stiffs in the alley behind Prince and Greene.

  “Good. Can we absolutely confirm that it was Belik who rewired that Red-eye?”

  I glanced at Allen.

  Robins got the hint and turned to the machine. “Allen, do you mind assisting Sinclair and Agent Ewalt in my office? I feel like you’d be an invaluable resource. And be sure to keep things under wraps. He doesn’t need to know anything about your past few days with Elias.”

  “Will do, Commissioner.” Allen attempted a smile — a good step toward its integration into this shitty little city — and walked through the door, taking care to close it behind him.

  Robins put an arm around me and walked me down the hall a little farther away from his office. “Roche, what’s off about all this? I’ve seen that face and heard that tone enough to know that you’re bothered by the situation.”

  “I can tell something about this is rubbing the Eye the wrong way; seeing as she wants everyone connected to this dead. I doubt Belik was the one behind all this. I think that, just like Jaeger, he’s a meat shield. Think about it: Has the Eye ever been this jumpy dealing with other racketeering gigs?”

  “She’s a paranoid person. But she’s dealt with rivals before, and she can handle it. Status quo.”

  Of course Robins wanted the Iron Hands to be unhindered. They were far more of an asset some days, rooting out the wrong kind of criminal and keeping the right kind. Even the commissioner knew that, as he was an avid believer in risk assessment.

  “I know she has,” I said, “and she’s been fine before with any number of rivals. But these guys are giving her the willies. And one reason she’d have to be afraid is if they have serious backing. Like, above what we believe to be serious backing.”

  “Police? Paramilitary? Some big top-hatter up on the Plate?”

  “Worse.” My eyes darted back to his door several times before he caught my drift.

  “What, the fucking G-men? You can’t be serious, Roche. This is one hell of a claim, even for you.”

  “Well, it fits, doesn’t it? Everywhere I’ve gone, this Masters guy has popped up. He denied the shooting me and Sinclair saw first-hand. His name was on the computer used to blackmail that technician into rigging the towers at GE. Hell, just the fact that he hid the scene and then dumped the Automatic shell in that graveyard past 90th is damning enough, since he’s probably hijacked shells to do his bidding before.”

  “Wait. What graveyard?”

  I brushed aside his question and continued. “Paddy said there was a shooting in the Lower East End. Have there been any official statements from the FBI or anyone from down there?”

  Robins rubbed his neck. “There were rumours that the Red-eye that raised hell didn’t have an NI … but the FBI aren’t saying anything.”

  “Masters is running the inspection! Don’t you see? The Iron Hands have been a heavy presence, and no one can root them out, not even the 5th, not even several dozen companies trying to buy them out. The only thing that would scare them is someone with the full force of the country’s government behind them. And if this really is an undercover organization wrapped around Uncle Sam’s finger, we both know the FBI would send tanks down Broadway before they let business be ruined by some bootleggers that have only been around for a decade or so.”

  Robins nodded again, deep in thought. “No matter how much I believe you and want to help you, I can’t exactly subtly organize a raid team without that posh prince in there noticing ten badges are missing from the station. That would lead to them being followed, and if this is being run by the G-man leading this inspection, it’s your ass and mine. So … I’m sorry to say it, so I don’t think I will say it.”

  Of course he wouldn’t say it. I was on my own. He knew I’d object, that there would be some speech about justice and law — like the discussion between Allen and me — and then I’d reluctantly agree. This time, I’d call the shots for a two-man raid.

  “Double,” I said.

  “Double? You’re kidding me. How much are the Iron Hands paying you? Her pockets are deep enough to cover the cost. You’re making me quadruple your already insane rates.”

  “If you want a massacre and some evidence to support that you weren’t involved, I can ring the Eye up. If you want Belik alive, standing trial and rooting out the G-man who organized this little venture, you’ll pay me double.”

  That face he gave was like a slap sometimes. He hated me for extorting him, but he agreed.

  I went to get Allen, but before we left, Robins called it over. He pulled a weapon from the holster that lay snugly under his arm and placed the handle in Allen’s outstretched palm with a metallic clang. “Forty-five-calibre pistol, heavy frame, eight rounds, sticks on reload if the mag is empty. Rules of Engagement are: shoot anything that moves, but bring Belik and whoever else is running the show back alive. Take Sinclair and the bird upstairs … but it ain’t ours, you hear?”

  “And Toby?”

  “Tin man is good with a Thompson … grab one from the armoury and head upstairs.”

  Allen was shocked, to say the least, but had no time to react as I grabbed its metal arm and pulled it along with me. I went by the office door to get Sinclair’s attention before we made ourselves scarce. An off-the-books raid meant we needed some serious firepower for four people.

  “Is the bird good to go?” I asked.

  Sinclair descended the stairs after heading up to run diagnostics on the machine resting on the 5th’s helipad. Toby had also joined the gathering group, carrying a large steel case over its shoulder, fresh from the the armoury.

  “It’s out for some reason or other, I can’t keep track anymore,” Sinclair said. “However, that doesn’t mean the helipad is empty.” My eyebrows went up at this. “We both know these agents didn’t drive here, right?”

  “Right,” I confirmed. “But won’t that cause more issues if they go upstairs and see their own executive Rotorbird missing?”

  Robins put his hands on his hips. “What’s that motto you follow again? ‘Fuck it,’ right?”

  I grinned and grabbed Allen’s shoulder, gesturing to it to follow me and get ready for our little escapade. This time, Robins would get his money’s worth.

  And so would she.

  We soon found ourselves strapped into the back of a Rotorbird — specifically, the executive Rotorbird belonging to the FBI. I doubted the G-man down there would hear the turbines spinning from more than a dozen floors down, but we were quick to take off, regardless. To avoid being conspicuous, we’d take
n the stairs, staying away from the constables and interns stuck in the building during the FBI’s inspections. Whoever was pulling the strings must be powerful and be dead set on keeping their assets from falling into the hands of the 5th’s best. Or anyone’s hands but their own.

  The dark-grey aircraft we were riding in had a wide carriage that tapered at the ends, with sliding doors on either side of the front half of the compartment. Allen and I sat buckled into two of the four retractable wire seats in the centre of the craft. The seats could be folded up and stored on the ceiling to accommodate heavy equipment if necessary. The back half of the aircraft, behind a set of doors, had another eight seats for a rapid deployment of anything from a heavily armoured squad of commandos to backup police officers. Another small doorway separated our compartment from the cramped cockpit, which held a single seat for the pilot and just enough room for another person to lean on the wall behind them.

  Sinclair was already in there, pulling levers and opening valves to allow the fuel cells to release their energized liquid into the beast. The oozing was audible, but was soon drowned out by the sparking and whining of the twin rotors on each side of the bird. Large rings on either side held three-bladed rotors, the engines spinning them in their sockets. Seconds later, the craft lifted off the roof, and the carriage dipped as we pivoted forward. I felt the lurch — my stomach felt it as well — of the craft dropping from the rooftop. The rotors caught us moments later, propelling the aircraft upward.

  I always hated that first drop. It always aggravated my stomach, and the alcohol still stuck in me did little to help the situation. Though, compared to Allen, I must have seemed the picture of comfort.

  “You okay there, bud?”

  “I’m not a fan of this experience, Detective Roche.”

  “You afraid of heights?”

  It looked back at me with widened eyes, its shaking hands grasping for the small handles located near the butt of each seat. I couldn’t help it — I laughed my ass off. I really didn’t care if Allen hated me for laughing; a robot afraid of heights was the highlight of my month.