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  “Another dead cop here, separate from those ones. Three dead badges is one hell of a haul for the Mob if they were the ones gunning us down. You think they’d use their fuckin’ brains pullin’ something like this. Killing cops will get you a target on your back in this city.”

  “Didn’t stop Murder, Inc., and it won’t stop whoever did this. If the 5th can contain this, they better be quick.” I turned over one of the bodies. Thick face, long moustache, clean-shaven everywhere else. The hair on his head was matted down with blood. Even grey and dead, I recognized the stiff. “Shit, I know this fella.”

  “Yup, 5th Precinct, worked here since the early days. Name on the badge is Travis Barton. The other one is Bill Ewing. Ya probably ran some raids with him over the years.”

  “Never did, but I saw him in the station a while back. What about the third fella?”

  “ID says Marco Coons, undercover for the 11th. I gave them a ring. Waitin’ for them now.”

  I let the grey head roll back to its relaxed position. It felt weird touching a corpse again. Like touching a robot, but squishier, stranger. Like stepping into a house that had recently been occupied and bustling each day. A husk that shouldn’t be a husk.

  The guy from the 11th’s wounds weren’t that bad, all things considered. One shot to the gut, another to the shoulder, and several broken ribs and ruptured organs from the throw. So the first machine hadn’t been as trigger-happy as the second one — interesting.

  “There’s hell to pay for a cop killing in the 5th. Everyone in the Lower City knows that, I’m sure. You’ve dealt with cop killers before. Why did you need to call me in?”

  Sinclair beckoned me over. In a small corner halfway between the stiffs and the door was a riddled husk of an Automatic, its limbs twisted and mangled, its boxy head dented in all the wrong places, wires poking out, the Tesla Battery inside trying to power the broken machine. He grabbed the lifeless head — lifeless wasn’t the most accurate word to use — and forced it open, revealing the Automatic’s brain. And therein lay the problem: there wasn’t one. The Neural-Interface was missing, which meant that this machine shouldn’t have been walking, let alone shooting up a speakeasy.

  “Fuck,” I managed to croak out.

  Sinclair pulled out a second dart and lit it, replacing the old stub in his lips, and refilling his lungs with fresh tobacco. And him always saying he’d quit smoking. “Fuck is right. Put it together: dead cops, slaughtered patrons, two Red-eyes, and a dead perp with no head? I’ve heard of cops chasing ghosts, but this is pushin’ it.”

  I rubbed the back of my head. I wished I’d stayed in school before the War. Might have learned a thing or two to help me. “That’s one way of putting it. Fuck if I know anything about Automatics. Shouldn’t you defer to Red-eye Law?”

  “Red-eye Law still requires a human to be present to take the blame, and a Neural-Interface present to tell us who did it. We have nothin’ other than the shell, which is less than useful. Fuckin’ Grifter capek.” He kicked the empty-headed Automatic, causing it to lurch a bit, then walked around to try to ease the pain in his toe. I was surprised. Sinclair wasn’t usually one for vulgarity.

  “What’d the other Automatic look like? Anyone get a description?”

  “A few of the patrons got a look, but nothin’ concrete.” He pulled out a small notepad from his pocket. Probably not his, though; he wasn’t the type for writing things down. “Uh … six feet, rusted, red eyes obviously, older model. Some said a Swinger model, but those are pretty rare these days.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing else. We’re runnin’ on nothin’ but gut feelings.” Sinclair wiped his brow. Sweat was beading on his forehead, even though the place was freezing now that the doors were open to the November air. “Keep this on the DL, ’specially now. When it comes to the Automatic trade, things pick up in December. People try to smuggle shit in from China during the Christmas confusion. Talk to Robins. This is fresh news, and I need to hide their buzzers before the other boys outside start spreadin’ shit …”

  Sinclair didn’t get the chance to finish his thought. Tires screeched, doors slammed, and Constable Hoyte was heard trying to assert his authority. Whoever had arrived must have superseded him, however, and their approaching footsteps told me that they meant business. I bent down over the dead Automatic and reached behind its head as I searched for its serial number, something Sinclair wouldn’t have thought to look for. Whoever had programmed the Red-eye had stupidly left it on. A quick pull ripped it from the metal, and I stuffed it into my pocket.

  Through the open doors of the speakeasy came a small collective of men and women in black suits. They spread out through the area, covering every possible angle and corner. A man who looked more important than the rest approached me and Sinclair. He was tall and quite lanky, with a receding hairline and stubble on his chin. Dark glasses were a nice touch — an attempt to look imposing, I guessed.

  “Officers, please remove yourselves from the area. This crime scene is now under the jurisdiction of the Automatic Crimes Unit of the FBI, as denoted in section six, subsection four of the Automatic Rights Charter.”

  Sinclair and I weren’t convinced. My friend was still puffing on his dart, and I readied my stance a bit. The G-man’s blank face made him seem almost as dead as the stiffs on the floor.

  Sinclair spoke first, dropping his dart and crushing it with the toe of his shoe. “You got a name, boy?”

  “Agent Masters.” I snickered, and he snapped his head around to look at me. “Need I repeat myself, officers?”

  “No, sir,” I snarled, putting my hand on Sinclair’s shoulder to urge him forward. I could have stayed and flexed some muscle, but Robins would have had my head if I pissed off any Black Hats. I followed Sinclair out, with Agent Masters’s glasses still tracking me as I exited the speakeasy onto the cold street.

  “If it weren’t a Night Call before, it would be now,” I said.

  Sinclair rounded up his officers, yelling to them to pack up and get out of the Black Hats’ way. “Hope you got some ideas, Roche. We’re runnin’ on borrowed time now,” he said.

  “I got a plan,” I said. “It’s stupid, but it might pay off.” He didn’t need to know any more than that lest the G-men “question” him and try to pull information he wouldn’t give willingly. This way, both our asses were covered. “I’ve got to see Robins first.”

  “Get this news to him quick, before he gets blind-sided by it. Be safe out there, Roche.” Sinclair started toward his unit, grinding his teeth.

  “Paddy, one last thing.” He turned back to me with a look of impatience. “The Swinger model Red-eye had enough trigger discipline to shoot only one target, then let another machine cover its escape with .45-calibre bullets. Regular Red-eyes ain’t this precise. They’d have filled Coons through with holes. This was some top-notch police programming it had to put holes that clean into two targets.”

  “Police programming is pretty good these days, El. What else do you want me to say?”

  “No, it isn’t this good. This is custom … I know this programming.”

  Sinclair looked up at me, his gaze lingering, trying to draw my eyes to meet his own. “El … he’s dead.”

  “I’m not so sure, given the evidence.”

  I decided to make myself scarce after that.

  Dodging the gaze of the other officers on scene, I slid into my car. I stabbed the key in and turned it, and the engine roared to life, crying in anguish. I felt eyes on my back, but not Sinclair’s. No, I felt watched. I hadn’t had dead cops on my plate for years — two years, to be exact — and I’d rather it had stayed that way. Something about this gave me the chills. Maybe it was the pressure, or maybe the hangover. That evidence didn’t calm my mind, either.

  I couldn’t get it out of my head: a gut shot and a secondary one up higher. Perfect double tap, something only implemented by old police programming. Swinger model, too. The Automatic I was thinking about had died
a while ago — I knew that for a fact — but tech was improving every day. Its body was probably long gone, but the Neural-Interface could have been saved, along with the programming that I myself had made sure was in there. But, hell, if that dead machine at the scene was any indication, Automatics didn’t need Neural-Interfaces to kill anymore. That wasn’t a pretty thought.

  Could it be him?

  It, I mean. Not him.

  Sinclair gave me a wave as I punched the car into gear and ran it down the street. The Talbot was purring, but creaking as well. It sounded like it was struggling to survive, just like me, or my career. I’d have to check the car, maybe do some repairs.

  Eventually.

  CHAPTER 3

  WHOEVER HAD SENT THOSE RED-EYES to tear up that speakeasy was either brave and stupid, or smart enough to know that they could get away with it if they played it close to the precinct. After all, the 5th was only a stone’s throw from ground zero. The precinct had gotten under the skin of quite a few organizations — especially the Mob — which made nearly anyone in southern Manhattan a suspect. Still, while too many people had it out for us, far fewer had the means to pull off something of this calibre.

  I coasted up to the front of the 5th Precinct and cut the engine. I always forgot how tall the actual building was. I still expected to see the tiny, three-floor office it had been in my childhood. The 5th was one of the few buildings in the area whose top hadn’t been cleared for wireless power services. Instead, it boasted a helipad to accommodate a Rotorbird. The air was still and silent at the moment, meaning the vehicle was absent. It was a useful contraption for cops to zip across town from SoHo to Greenwich faster than a bullet.

  Traffic was thinner in this area, maybe because people didn’t want to get in the 5th’s way, or maybe because this was one of the many backwater streets forgotten by the ever-shifting populace. It was dark down here, so deep in the Lower City that a lot of lights were needed. One of the lights outside the station was burnt out again. Or was it the same one I’d noticed months back? I walked up with some difficulty, tripping a few times on the cracked sidewalk.

  The station was bustling with activity. The interior was the same as it had been back in the ’20s, with wooden door frames and asbestos ceilings. It had a charm that had always made me happy when I’d worked here. Stepping through the glass doors into the central area, I nearly toppled over a small trash bin. Thankfully, my blunder went unnoticed by the apathetic cops nearby.

  The corridor to the right of the central area led to Commissioner Robins’s office. The wooden door at the far end of the hall looked darker than it had before, possibly because it had been painted over, or maybe due to rot. Light poured through the crack under the door, and I could hear people talking. Robins would kill me if I interrupted something important, so I took the opportunity to head to the bathroom and make myself somewhat presentable.

  Inside the tiny washroom was a porcelain sink, a toilet, filthy tiles, and a blinking light that begged to be replaced. It was bright enough for me to make out my reflection, at least. I placed my hands on the edge of the sink and let my head hang for a few minutes, trying to collect myself.

  I turned the taps on and splashed water into my face, watching the dried blood and soot of last night run down the drain, before looking up into the mirror.

  I almost didn’t want to.

  My jaw was a bit worse for wear, but it was still square and sharp. A thick mat of hair covered much of my face, going down to my neck, though some sloppy shaving had cleaned up the area under my chin somewhat. I should shave again soon. My cheeks were sunken and gaunt, reminding me that I needed to start eating properly again. My hair was a little long, but it had some style to it. The cut on my cheek was scabbing over and looked far better after the wash.

  The cuffs of my polo shirt were a smidge looser now. Losing muscle mass was the one sign I’d told myself I wouldn’t ignore. Just looking at myself made my stomach grumble in dissatisfaction. I’d grab something to eat after meeting with Robins.

  The slam of a door told me that Robins’s visitor had left. As I headed out, I caught sight of the long greying hair of the woman storming from Robins’s office. I retreated back into the bathroom and held my breath as her heavy footsteps approached, then turned to leave. Who knew the director of the FBI would take such an interest in the 5th?

  I had a feeling I wouldn’t have to tell Robins what had happened at Prince and Greene.

  I emerged once more and made for Robins’s office. The slammed door had blown open again. Robins sat down in his chair with a thud, his overweight body making the chair creak and groan as he settled in. He was a man who loved his job, though you wouldn’t have suspected it, looking at him now. He froze when he saw me and licked his lips in preparation to speak.

  “I tried to get here quickly,” I interjected, and was met with a groan.

  “Yeah. Not fast enough. You would have been a good chew toy for Greaves instead of me.”

  I closed the door behind me and fell into one of the chairs in front of his desk, which was as dishevelled as I was: papers here and there, open folders, and his M1911 resting on top of several files, one of which was mine, I saw from a quick glance. He definitely needed some time off, and I was about to tell him so when his low voice shut me down.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Elias? You only come to the station when I call you or when you need something. And seeing as I haven’t called you, I’m really not in the mood for the second option.”

  “Paddy gave me the ring about the shooting.”

  “Shooting?” Shit. Maybe the FBI director hadn’t been here about that. “What shooting?”

  “Speakeasy at Prince and Greene. Two Red-eyes tore up the place. Three dead patrons and three dead cops, two of them from the 5th.”

  “In the shop or on the street?” The way he said this gave me the impression he was more accustomed to the latter.

  “The shop. A few hours ago, maybe earlier. I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything.”

  “There’s too much to hear in this city, especially these days. I can barely focus on one thing before getting jostled into another fiasco. I thought people would be smart enough not to kill cops near the 5th, let alone cops from the 5th.”

  “You give people in this city too much credit.”

  “I suppose you’re right. For once.”

  Robins stood and walked over to the window. I knew what he was looking at: that damn fountain. Everyone knew that whenever he felt stressed, he’d eye that stone relic, never mind the fact it hadn’t run for years. “We’ve been setting up a raid on Prince and Greene for a couple months. The cops were probably scouting it out. Of all the times this could happen, did it have to be when fucking federal agents decided to come down to the Lower City for a spell?”

  “Ballsy doing it near the 5th. Dead cops are enough to get you a bull’s eye painted on you — on the street and in the big house. They might as well have walked right up to the precinct and tried to gun it down.”

  Robins paced for a while before sitting down at the desk again and putting his head in his hands. He wasn’t usually this calm; some days he was like a tsunami. It all came back eventually. “You have any leads?”

  “A serial number I haven’t yet run. I could use someone to make head or tail of it in the Automatic Division. And —”

  “No time,” Robins interrupted before I could finish. “I can’t have the FBI coming down from their perch to see a former cop running side ops for us. One of the main reasons they’re coming is all the recent Automatic crime. Shootings, stabbings, Mob fights, bootlegging. Red-eyes mostly, though no machine will be off the table when they start their inspections. How do you think they’ll react if they spot a serial code search with no records of who looked it up? If they find any connection between us, they’ll toss you in prison and cart me off the island.”

  “That hasn’t been an issue before. Either you’re getting paranoid, or there’s some shit
-stirring going on here.”

  “These FBI agents are everywhere, from the 5th up to the 9th on the Upper West Side. Something poked the nest, and the bees are swarming now. Whatever that something was, they think we caused it — we being the Lower City, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And the problem is, we don’t know what they want. They’ve pulled a ton of big names from the other precincts up to the Plate for questioning, and I might be next. Were there any agents on the scene?”

  “One guy from the Automatic Crimes Unit. Agent Masters.”

  “What a stupid name,” Robins chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Fuck, it’ll get back to her eventually. Then the shit will really start flying.”

  “We talking about Greaves? Annual inspections, I presume.”

  “Same time of year — it never changes. Greaves is punctual, I’ll give her that. You’ve got to tread carefully while they’re here, especially if they already have agents on the case. One whiff of you near a crime scene they’re investigating, and it’ll be both our asses. And I’m far too young to retire.”

  I snickered. In response, his face twisted into a scowl.

  “Sorry. Well, in that case, I’ll be off to solve this case properly.”

  “Not so fast. I need a favour.”

  I groaned. Fuck. “I’m already solving a crime for you. Can’t you put a hold on it?”

  “I really can’t. This news has forced my hand. Given the context of your investigation, as well as your reputation for dealing with Black Hats … well …” Robins stared at me for some time. Not like he was disappointed with me — I knew that expression quite well. He looked almost concerned. “You won’t like me.”

  “I don’t need a reason, but I’ll take one regardless.”

  “If the FBI decide to question you, we need you to look completely legit.”

  “I agree.”

  “In every aspect, right down to the badge, which I’ll have for you in the next few days.”

  “Excellent, new badge, whatever. You’re stalling. What’s your big idea for making me look on the level?”