Night Call Read online

  I tucked Allen’s 1911 in my waistband and placed Belik’s weapon on the desk, then showed him that my own revolver was empty. “You know who I am, which tells me that you weren’t aware of the severity of your situation. But let’s make a deal, because I’m sure you’ll be more useful alive than dead.”

  “This isn’t my fault! Well, it kinda is, but not really. I didn’t want this fiasco to happen, but he told me it would.”

  “Who is he? Are you talking about your partner over there, Davin Morris?”

  “Morris?” Belik wiped the blood pooling under his nose and chin and peered over at the man cuffed to the railing. He looked back at me, apparently insulted. “Morris got taken out in ’27 in a raid on a speakeasy in Hell’s Kitchen. That is just some lackey who does the heavy lifting. I’m the only one left from the original group.”

  “So Morris and almost everyone else are dead? Then who is he?”

  “A Black Hat, G-man, whatever. He never gave me a name or a handle, but he was the one who planned on taking out my old friends in a bid to give me control over the little empire we had. I just rolled with the plan. But I had no intention of dragging you into this. You’re a death sentence in this business, and I’d prefer to keep living until my hair goes grey.”

  “Glad you know what you’ve got yourself into. But tell me, was he worth all this trouble?”

  “The G-man? Fuck him, seriously. If it gets me less time, I’ll rat him out. There may be honour among thieves, but not people like him. But then if none of this had happened, he’d still be running around without anyone chasing him.”

  “So then, explain how he fits in with you and everything else that’s happened. Start at the beginning … but be quick. More cops, maybe even the Mafia, might be stopping by after the lights go out, so you have less than an hour.”

  Belik shifted in his seat and wiped his bloody face before beginning his tale.

  “It started back in ’22, after the War, when the Automatics were welcome on every street corner and the Iron Hands had just begun peeping out of the shadows. The five of us — by now you must know who we were — were running a few ops, scouting a lot of heavy traffic at this speakeasy. We thought it was alcohol from up north. Little did we know that we’d walked into one of the Iron Hands’ biggest outposts for racketeering, with our old friend Karl Jaeger at its head. Smart bastard, he was, but he was still surprised when three cops in street clothes pulled .38s on him. Still, I felt bad about that fiasco, so after he got out of the slammer, both me and Stern decided to give him a deal on parts.”

  I stopped him with a raised hand and leaned forward. “Jaeger worked for the Iron Hands? You can’t be fucking serious. I thought he was a freelancer.”

  “Freelancer? With those resources? Hell, no, man. He was loaded to the neck with money and parts, so the bust was easy when there was evidence up the wazoo. We took him down and locked things up, but that’s as far as it went. As I said, he was a smart bastard: he burned his paper trail, so we couldn’t get a single lead that truly connected him with the Iron Hands. After the trial and our formal promotions, we thought maybe it was more than just a fluke, maybe it was even a blessing after all the shit we went through during the War. We brought a ton of parts in as evidence, and they were all detained and catalogued, but we hid some in our personal vehicles. Not a lot, just a crate or two. We planned to make some money on the side, divvied up the parts and ran a few small deals. We got good coin. Eventually it led to us finding dealers, suppliers, running trade routes, making deals out of state, and it boomed from there. After we all met back up and none of us had been caught during those few months, we pooled our cash and graduated to a full smuggling ring and split the money five ways. We funded a ton of things over about five years, from weapons deals to information on rival smuggling companies that we funnelled to other cops. Things took a dip when Morris took a bullet at that speakeasy a few years back.

  “Because of that and the Iron Hands putting more eyes on us, Stern decided to stem off on his own again, run smaller ops for his own stuff and keep his money away from ours. We kept in contact, but he was way too paranoid for his own good, or ours. Things went okay for us for about three years, until our old supplier got canned a few months ago and we got a new one: the Black Hat, who offered us better parts but wanted forty percent of the cut. One hell of a cut to take, but after we saw what our stock sold for, that sixty percent the three of us shared was more than double what we used to make.

  “Then, apparently, the other two found out that the Black Hat’s forty percent was funding some shady government projects and told me about it. This included a little pet project he had going downstairs in the attached office. The G-man came down a few days later, asked me if the others had told me anything. I denied it all, of course, but he wasn’t one for taking chances. Maybe it was his way of tying up loose ends, but he didn’t expect it to attract the attention of … well, you. He said if I crossed him, I’d get two bullets of my own. But fuck, man … what he can do with Automatics — it’s scary.”

  “At Prince and Greene he had one shell and one regular Red-eye doing the shooting. You know where that Swinger model is?”

  “It should’ve been outside … the same bot that shot them up is the one that was guarding me, making sure I didn’t try anything.”

  “I suspect the agent’s plan was to let things play out. The evidence and the identity of your two friends made it look like Jaeger was getting his revenge. You also grabbed Jaeger’s Automatic during a pickup and used it as your shell to draw attention away from your associate. The G-man saw that I’d ripped off the serial number and would use it to track down Jaeger. Seeing as it served its purpose, he dumped the shell up north. After all, he wouldn’t want any other cops spotting a brainless Automatic with a missing serial number at the scene of a crime, now would he? Too bad I didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “You got it. The G-man said it’d work out well and I’d be swimming in three times as much money as before. But I was uneasy knowing you were still out there. I thought this would get pinned on me if you dug deeper. Then again, knowing your reputation, I was more afraid of getting shot on sight, especially at Times Square a day ago. That’s why he placed the Auger and the Red-eye here, for my ‘protection.’ Still, big guy didn’t last a week before you blew his brains out.”

  “The original plan was to put a bullet in you and be done with it; you have that metal man down there to thank for my letting you live this long.”

  I hoped Allen was all right, now that I thought about it.

  “An Automatic for a partner? During Prohibition? Bah! Still, give it my regards. Anyway, back to the story: I knew you’d eventually find me, so I planned to liquidate my stock fast. I told the G-man I was moving to a more secure location. He wasn’t a fan, but he couldn’t stop me from getting rid of everything and pocketing the money. My runners are loyal, something his shells aren’t. It was only a matter of time before you found me — you have that knack — so I just waited for you to find this place, hoping I’d live long enough to explain everything. Today was going to be the day I moved the bricks to my bank box to grab later — if there was a later.”

  “Bricks?” I popped up an eyebrow and Belik nodded toward the corner.

  Looking around, I found a large briefcase standing on edge. I gripped the handle and yanked it up, bringing it back to my chair. Fuck, it was heavy enough that I had to use both hands. I sat down, placed the cumbersome suitcase on the desk, and opened it. I was not at all prepared for what was inside.

  “Holy shit.”

  The briefcase was filled with enough solid gold to make any miser swoon with lustful greed. I counted thirty-two small gold bars lined up neatly in the case. I’d never seen anything that shiny and pristine. Heavy, though.

  “You move your cash in gold? I never thought of that. Untraceable, unchangeable, and easier to hide than stacks of cash. You’re a smart man, Belik.”

  “It took me years to get a gig
with some local banks and factories that let me run pure gold shipments, but it was worth it in the long run. I used fifty-ounce bars, less traceable than the standard two-hundred-ouncers. This, and another three suitcases I have stowed elsewhere, are the payout from liquidating just this portion of the warehouse stock, and it’s valued at about a hundred and twenty-five grand. Less than what I was hoping for, but it’ll do, especially just from selling the less valuable stuff. If I’d sold everything in the other two warehouses, I’d have had around one million in gold, maybe more.”

  “What was the less valuable stuff?”

  “Silica gel and lubricant. They took up a lot of space and were too fragile to move discreetly, so we sold it off first. The rest would’ve been much easier.”

  I stood up, leaving the briefcase on the desk, and walked over to the window. The warehouse was immense, around eighty feet by ninety, with enough space to store a huge amount of silica gel. The shipments that had come through here should have been easy to spot, but we hadn’t been accounting for the G-men to be distracting the 5th. All of it had been a ploy to move this shit out and make a quick buck before the operation was compromised. And after they moved it, all they’d have to do was sell off the gold and buy more parts. Belik said the Black Hat had wanted a 40 percent cut of all profits, which meant that if all this was sold, four hundred thousand dollars would be funnelled into some shady government dealings. And that was far too much unaccountable money, especially in that business.

  “Take the gold. I don’t need it.” I spun around to face him. He couldn’t mean it. But he repeated himself. “Take it. I know how you run, Roche. This little excursion must be costing Robins one hell of a chunk of pocket change. Take the gold and call yourself paid. Hell, I’ll even tell you the location of the other three suitcases. But first, I need a favour.”

  “Depends on what you need.” I sat down again, leaning in.

  He took a minute to collect his thoughts. “I’ll give you his address, that’s all. He planned this entire shitshow — the deaths of my old friends, nearly destabilizing police activities across southern Manhattan. Just make him pay and give me a sentence I can work with.”

  “That won’t make up for you being an accomplice to a cop killing.”

  “No, but I feel like shit enough for that. I let my friends die, and I can’t bear to run from it any longer. There’s a reason you found me, Roche. Because I needed and wanted to be found. Put me away, take the gold, and take him down. For them and for me.”

  I looked at his face and saw that he was serious. Those wary eyes were also the eyes of a man with regrets he could no longer bury. He needed this case wrapped up as badly as Robins and I did.

  “All right, I’ll take the gold, and get you put away for … accessory to racketeering and smuggling. Ten years, tops.”

  “Sounds good. Great, even.” He stood up and followed me down the stairs, leaving his friend chained to the railing.

  Belik hopped into the Rotorbird and sat down beside Allen.

  “How did the talk go, boys? You good, metal man?” I asked.

  “Yes, Elias.” It nodded at me. It was still odd, hearing it use my first name. I’d have to get used to that.”

  “Take Belik here to the 5th for lock-up. Charge him as an accessory to racketeering. He didn’t set up the murder of our boys. Oh, and the guy up there — the 5th’s boys will get him later.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Sinclair’s look of resentment diminish into one of mild irritation. Sinclair had been sure that Belik was the one who’d gunned down his fellow officers. But one glance at the man — along with my word — reassured him that Belik wasn’t a cop killer. Sinclair got into the cockpit and started the rotors.

  Belik gave me the location of the Black Hat as he got belted in. The address was a few blocks south, on the border to the Meatpacking District, which gave me a bit of time to do some searching.

  “Dismantle his little project and then get there. He’ll be waiting on the helipad for his ride up,” Belik said.

  “When does he usually get picked up?” I asked.

  “He’d often leave this place at six, so I guess around seven.”

  “Roger.” I looked inside at Sinclair, who was preparing to lift off. “Send some squad cars from the 5th to set up a perimeter, keep Maranzano’s people from investigating.”

  “Got a plan for this place?” Paddy asked.

  “Yeah, it’ll be our tribute to her, a show of good faith.” Paddy nodded in response. “Also: Belik will give you an address. Be there at seven.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up, and I stepped out onto the warehouse floor once again. Allen made a motion to follow me, but I put my hand up. “No need, Allen. I’ll handle this one. Did you find Toby?”

  “Toby left the premises some time ago, with several useable parts.”

  He’s a slippery bastard, all right. Good ol’ Toby, I thought.

  “You just keep Belik safe and get him processed.”

  “But, Detective, surely you need assistance in the investigation.”

  “There’s no investigation this time,” I yelled over the noise of the rotors as they began to pick up.

  Allen pulled the sliding door closed, and the Rotorbird ascended through the skylight into the dimming sky. My watch read five thirty. Looked as if things were going well for once — quite the opposite to how it had all started.

  As I wandered through the carnage inflicted by the Auger, I was able to trace my path back to where Allen had fallen through the roof, and where the Swinger model had collapsed. Tracking the machine down took little effort; I had but to listen for the grunts of effort reverberating through the quiet building. I found it heavily damaged. There was a thick trail of green fluid oozing from the Automatic’s chem system, and its legs were barely functional. One arm hung useless, and there was a long gash in the metal on the side of its head where the bullet had grazed it.

  I approached the Swinger bot and pushed it onto its front to inspect the back of its head. I’d been expecting to see the characters J4-35 engraved there, but instead saw TH-30.

  “Fuck.”

  It wasn’t him. Wasn’t it. It wasn’t James. James wasn’t the killer. I’d been so sure of it …

  Or maybe I’d just been chasing a ghost again.

  Good thing the capek was awake, though. I turned it over and pulled it up by the collar. Its red eyes were shimmering and blinking from the damage it had sustained.

  “You pull the trigger, metal man?”

  “Sure did.” Its eyes contorted to give a look of self-satisfaction. “Almost did it for free, too.”

  “Bastard. How many cops have you killed for Masters?”

  “Oh, I’ve killed many, trust me. Not for Masters, though. I’m no slave to a fucking Black Hat.” It struggled to grab my arm and laughed in my face. “It’s all for the greater good, right?”

  Its eyes flickered from red to blue, making me panic and release it as its laugh echoed through the complex. The laugh was cut short by the sound of glass breaking and the shockwave of a rifle shot echoing through the building. The Red-eye’s Neural-Interface was strewn about the floor.

  That answered that question: it had definitely not been a shell.

  I raised the 1911 and pivoted around, but I had no idea where the bullet had come from. Whoever had killed the machine could easily have killed me, too.

  One thing at a time, Roche, I told myself. First the Automatic, now the project.

  The office portion of the warehouse was connected to the main complex by a door located on the main floor directly under the upstairs office where I had apprehended Belik. Like the warehouse itself, it was mostly empty. In contrast, though, there were myriad machines and computer parts jerry-rigged together.

  There were ten or so Neural-Interfaces hooked in to one another in the office, with a central terminal controlling them all as coolant regulators and devices kept the processors from failing. Most of the maintenance equipment necess
ary for keeping an NI running was contained within an Automatic, and so it was more like a human brain than I gave it credit for.

  Never before had I inspected a Neural-Interface. It was a work of art in its own right: various spark plugs, alternating dynamos, vacuum tubes, and dozens of other small devices circled a central metal core where the plug was attached. Miniature pumps began to oscillate faster as the “brain” warmed up, sparking as it began to transfer data to the terminal. It was an engineering marvel, an analog computer stuffed into a small space. While I might have some animosity toward shut-off coppertops, I could still appreciate their complexity.

  The centre of the office held a large server-like block of hardware. The Neural-Interfaces were all connected to it, with several wires coming off it from the top, probably connected to antennas which broadcasted right to the Plate. Had I been riding up in the Rotorbird with Sinclair, I would have seen whatever antenna array they had for this thing. It had to be massive for all the data that must be running through this little space.

  Thankfully, the connected Neural-Interfaces had their Automatics’ serial numbers attached. They were from a variety of machines — E1-1S, R0-GR, among others. One NI that was much less rusted than the others had the code RU-D1 on it.

  Rudi. Jaeger’s Automatic.

  I pulled that Neural-Interface from the contraption, hearing the coolant devices slowing down as the strain on them was lessened by one.

  But even with one less Neural-Interface, this machine was still dangerous. The 1911 in my possession did the rest, destroying whatever processors were active and springing a leak in the coolant system. If any NIs were still intact now, they wouldn’t be in about ten minutes, after they overheated.

  Six o’clock was when the lights went off. I assumed both cops and mobsters would be sprinting over here after hearing all the noise we’d made. That gave me thirty minutes to clear out before things got ugly, which they definitely would, seeing as this warehouse was situated smack dab in the heart of Maranzano’s territory. The less I interacted with that old school Mob, the better. I stumbled outside, suddenly reminded that a chunk of my thigh was still missing. My grey slacks were soaked through with blood. I’d try not to get any on the seat of my car when I got back to the 5th. For now, unfortunately, I had to lug a case of gold and a Neural-Interface across town on foot. At least no one would fuck with me when I looked like this.