Night Call Read online

  “How about Allen?”

  The tin man thought about it. “Allen Erzly.”

  “Erzly?”

  “I’m based off of the Erzly model, which was a restoration of the old Swinger model from the Great War. Allen Erzly would be my full name, as humans put it.”

  “All right. I can roll with that.”

  The old Swinger model … could my old partner, James, have been slotted into a new model? I’d come back later, once Jaeger had something substantial, but right now, we had three cops to question.

  Allen reclined in its seat, and I brought the engine to life and headed out to continue our investigation. Yeah, Allen was a much better name than some string of numbers and letters. Still, you get attached to things when you name them.

  I shouldn’t make that mistake again.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’D CALL THE BOTH OF YOU blundering fucking idiots, but that’d be too generous.”

  Robins had a way with words, and since our arrival at his office, he had shown us how creative he could be. I remained quiet and allowed him to continue. “You’re goddamn lucky that GE’s security called me and not someone like Viessman at the 7th. We are trying to keep this case from the public, not throw it in their goddamn faces!”

  The metal man and I had already worked out how we’d discuss our discoveries with Robins. Now Allen took the stage. “Sir, we have uncovered new developments in the case. We tracked the serial number of the Automatic …”

  “I can’t be bothered with what you did or how you did it.” Robins turned away from us and stared out the window — at that damn fountain, again. “Just tell me you know who killed those cops.”

  “We have a lead, but I’m afraid the circumstances won’t give us much legroom, as the evidence was meant to mislead us,” Allen explained. “Two of the deceased officers were connected to a case which led to the conviction of our previous prime suspect. Therefore, we must assume that the three other members involved in that case must have some connection to these events.”

  Robins’s hands twitched. I could tell his worst fears were realized. I’d have hated to be the one to tell him. He turned and, with eyes downcast, slumped into his chair. “Goddamn it. So if someone else catches wind of this and digs deeper, we’re shafted. Is working here that terrible that my own boys need to turn their guns against one another?”

  “Terrible pay, horrible hours, and constant threat of getting a bullet in the head aside, this precinct is one of the best work environments I’ve ever been in.”

  Robins snickered. Even a little humour helped.

  “Well, it’s only a lead so far. There’s a chance that this can be a misunderstanding, or a scheme to frame cops. It’s a slim chance, and I know that maybe not all my men are clean … but they should know better than to shoot down people they trained and worked beside for years.”

  “You’d hope so. But everything is up in the air until we find out what the truth is. So … regular pay times two. Call it cop-killer pay.”

  “Times two? What do you need with five thousand bucks? The precinct isn’t made of money, Roche. I barely have enough to buy a new piece for anyone who asks for a position here.”

  “Pay?” Allen piped up. But I kept the negotiation rolling.

  “Welcome to my business, Robins. Would you really risk leaving this case to someone who wasn’t devoted to the 5th? Do you think that thing could solve this alone, without someone like me doing the dirty work?” I said, pointing to Allen, who, though silent, remained ever vigilant.

  “Commissioner, are you saying Detective Roche is an outside contractor for the police force?”

  “You could say that. He’s still part of it … just not entirely,” Robins said.

  “Any thoughts, Allen? Even a quip or two about the massacre?”

  “I … suppose that the evidence could be misconstrued, though the likelihood of that has diminished significantly. Our best bet as of this moment is to interview the other three police members who initially arrested Jaeger eleven years ago in the hopes that one of them has information leading us to the killer, or to other outcomes and possibilities. There is still a small chance that this has nothing to do with members of this precinct assassinating one another,” Allen stuttered.

  “I like the metal man’s thinking,” Robins said. “There’s still a chance. Run that plan, and I’ll do my best from here. I have the home addresses of those boys from several months ago, but who knows if they’ve moved. You’re pretty good at getting recent information, right, Roche?” He winked, causing me to jerk my head over to see if Allen had noticed. No idea if it had or hadn’t, though I doubt it’d think much of the wink either way.

  “Will do,” I said. “How often you want updates?”

  “That’s the issue. The FBI agents from the Plate will be arriving soon — as in minutes from now — and if they run your numbers and see a dead man’s name attached to them, we’re all in deep shit. So, for now, you’re fully off the books, and so is your partner.” Robins looked at me matter-of-factly. “We’re in a tough bind, so report to me only when you feel it’s absolutely necessary, and try not to cause too much of a ruckus. Everything about this is off the books so long as the Black Hats are here, including arrests, evidence — the works. Forty-One, keep a close eye on him. He’s a snake some days.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We turned to leave, only to hear a knock on the door. Robins snapped his fingers, commanding Allen to open the door. Four black-clad figures entered the small room and immediately surrounded us and the desk. They were led by our favourite Black Hat, Agent Masters.

  “Robins.” To my ears, his voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Agent Masters.”

  “Commissioner, if you please, we’ll be getting on with the inspections that Director Greaves insists we take part in.”

  “By all means.” Robins leaned back on his chair, lighting a dart as the men and women in black all turned to me and Allen.

  “Constables,” Masters said, as if informing us our presence was no longer welcome.

  “How’d that shooting investigation go? Any leads?” I asked him. He didn’t return my grin.

  “What shooting, Constable? Perhaps you’re mistaken.”

  I saw Robins looking shifty. Thank God all the G-men were looking at me. I dropped the smile and nodded. “You’re right, my mistake.”

  “I thought as much.”

  Without another word, we exited the office and strolled through the precinct. The place was empty. No constables at their desks doing busywork, no one running out to their cars — nothing. I had never seen the place like this. Thank God I was heading out. It gave me the creeps.

  Out front, I slid into the Talbot and put my hands on the wheel, frozen in thought. Allen soon brought me back to reality.

  “Was that agent unaware of the crime that occurred at Prince and Greene? It would make sense for you to hide it from him.”

  “No, Allen, he was right there when Sinclair and I left the scene. He took over the investigation minutes after I saw it.” Allen looked as perplexed as I was suspicious. “You any good at investigating crime scenes?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “We’re going back there. With any luck, they haven’t moved the Automatic bodies yet. Cops have a nasty habit of letting shells rot wherever they fall.”

  But of course, we weren’t anything close to lucky. This was a worst-case scenario, in every way possible.

  The exterior of the speakeasy had been mopped and fixed up to a presentable level, though it still felt like I was walking into a corpse. The yellow tape was gone, but the signs plastered across the shop were now red, meaning it was only a matter of time before a construction crew broke it all down and refurbished it. The owner would hardly want to keep running the place known for being the site of a massacre. The door was unlocked. The floor was still slick with blood and alcohol, and the stench made me gag. I supposed the owner hadn’t bothered to have t
he place cleaned since it was already slated to be renovated.

  The fact that there weren’t any agents outside to keep out curious members of the public and investigators was a worrying sign. I was glad that I had my Diamondback with me.

  I noticed some things that I hadn’t before, when I’d been hungover. On the upper level, beyond that broken railing, there was nothing but seating space. No exit door or hatch leading outside. That meant that the upstairs assailant would have been waiting for quite some time before Rudi showed up to blow everyone away with the Thompson. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for an Automatic to get past a few screaming, inebriated patrons, but getting past those cops would have been difficult, especially if they’d been armed with shock batons. It would have needed advanced close-quarters-combat programming — more credence to my private theory.

  The bodies were still there … interesting. The blood had been mopped up, and body bags lay next to the corpses, ready to carry them out. The dead Automatic, however, was gone, not a single part of its hull left on the floor.

  I could see where the G-men’s priorities lay.

  “Huh. First time I’ve ever seen them do the ol’ switcheroo.”

  “Excuse me, Detective?” Allen asked.

  “Oh, just … you know, bodies shouldn’t just be sitting there, you know?”

  “Quite odd, yes.”

  The metal man leaned down over the bodies, inspecting them without touching. I stood there and watched Allen run from one area to the next, scanning the walls, the grime on the stairs, even the stain left by pooling blood. It looked around with such intense concentration that the place could have caught fire. I’d never seen an Automatic focus or think this hard. It was unnerving, but impressive. Damn impressive.

  “Where did the first shots come from?” Allen’s ringing metallic voice ripped through the silence, startling me. It got up from its low crouch, the plates on its legs moving under its pants in odd shapes.

  “First shots came from there, I believe.” I pointed up at the twisted, broken railing of the balcony. “The rounds double-tapped through an undercover officer — one in the gut and one in the shoulder. He was thrown from the balcony, and then the second Red-eye came in and sprayed the place with .45s.”

  “How many rounds were fired?”

  “Fuck, you want to count the holes? Be my guest.”

  Allen took its time circling each of the bloodstains on the floor, eyes blinking and whirring as — I believe — it tried to rip whatever evidence it could from just gleaming at the bodies. It waved me over to the two cops in the centre of the floor, the ones who had put Jaeger away.

  “Notice anything interesting about these men, Detective?”

  “Other than the fact that they’re dead?”

  “Sarcasm aside … look at their wounds. They did not sustain fire from an automatic weapon. While the patrons around them have been hit by submachine gun fire, these cops are spotless, save for two shots each. The only way they could have avoided being sprayed by the automatic weapon is if —”

  “If they were already on the ground.” I knelt down, inspecting the bullet wounds. On both corpses, there was one in the head and another in the chest. The officer on the landing had taken a bad hit, but that was a reactionary double tap. These shots had been very precisely taken. The Automatic up above hadn’t been fucking around; it had targeted these boys. “I think the G-men hid the wrong bodies.”

  “I agree. The Automatic’s body might be useful evidence, but these wounds are equally so.”

  “The massacre — or attempted massacre — was a cover for the two real targets. Something tells me we should get started on that lead Jaeger gave us.”

  “Agreed. I shall be ready to depart in a few moments. I have one last thing to investigate.”

  I turned from Allen and put my hand over my revolver in its holster, spinning the cylinder with one finger to keep my hands busy. Something felt odd about this place, like I should get out of here. I still felt watched. Was I getting paranoid, or was someone actually watching us? We had to get out of here soon and get on with the investigation, or at least discuss things in a more secure location.

  I didn’t want to tell Allen that I thought there was a chance it was my old partner who’d put holes in those cops. Best to explore that theory without Allen looking over my shoulder. However, Allen seemed to have a good instinct for these things, and I needed its opinion.

  “What are you looking for, Allen?”

  “Footprints … the assassin approached and, before departing, took something from these corpses — something easy to hide, given the chaos they were surrounded by. Once we find the machine, we can discover what that object was.”

  “Unless the Automatic is just a shell, like the last one.” Allen didn’t seem to believe me that the now-missing Automatic had been lacking a Neural-Interface. But I knew what I had seen, and I needed more information as to how it was possible. “If that machine did take something from the bodies before running out of the speakeasy, it would have blood on its feet …”

  “And in that case, it would be quite easy to track it.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, metal man. Get on a phone and get the 5th pick up these bodies … they deserve more respect than being dumped here.”

  Allen nodded and I exited the old speakeasy. The cold air and desolate landscape of the Lower City matched the shitshow inside. The street was filthy, but there was indeed a faint blood trail leading out the door. I was surprised it was still visible, especially considering the foot traffic in this part of town and the G-men. I supposed they had been looking for oil, not for blood. Then again, the blood trail was faint. It could have been a remnant of someone’s bloody nose or someone could have gotten shot on the street a few days earlier.

  The trail ran alongside the building on the sidewalk, leading into a small alley, which contained a moderately sized trash bin, along with some garbage bags and forgotten debris. The blood was far more visible here, contrasting against the dark concrete of the alley, and it led straight to the Dumpster. Judging by the garbage surrounding the Dumpster, it hadn’t been moved in months. Or years.

  I opened the receptacle and found a weapon. But not the one I wanted. A Foldgun was lying on top of the garbage bags inside. The large shotgun was identifiable by its straight edges, octagonal barrel, and the large handle on the top of the receiver, enabling it to fold into a large briefcase. I pulled the weapon out and cycled the pump, which yielded nothing. Even if it was loaded, these babies couldn’t hold .38 rounds, and if it had been used in the shooting, those men in there would have been little more than ground beef. This wasn’t the weapon I was looking for, but it was something the 5th could use. I put the Foldgun back into its suitcase configuration and carried it as nonchalantly as possible to my car. It was the smartest idea I’d had that day.

  My route was interrupted by three thugs who’d no doubt seen me enter the alley and emerge with a briefcase. What a stupid set of coincidences. A suitcase meant either the Mob or big business, and both meant big money. In this district, I must have looked like Rockefeller, so they were probably hoping to rob me. One was short, white, and carried a broken bat. The weapon had either been salvaged from the garbage or broken from use. The second was black, tall, and carried a revolver in his belt. He looked like he knew how to use it. The third was white, tall, and built like he didn’t need a weapon.

  “All right, pretty boy, hand over the case and you get to live,” the short white one said.

  I considered pulling out the Foldgun to threaten them, but they might have shot me before I managed to do so. I dropped it and backed up against the Dumpster.

  Though I’d started out thinking these guys were regular muggers, it occurred to me that muggers didn’t often work in packs. Not unless they were being paid to keep people quiet.

  The curved lid of the trash bin bounced when I backed into it. Glancing at it again, I noticed that the mouth of the bin looked sharp, with th
e paint scraped away by the sliding action. I tried to get a better look, but only managed to move an inch before the cocking of a hammer made me stop dead.

  “No funny business or you get a bullet in your fuckin’ heart.”

  I nodded and kicked the box to them. The taller white guy grabbed it and tried to open it. I saw the lid of the Dumpster: sharp, very sharp indeed, with old blood from past accidents. Even if it had been dull, steel bites deep.

  “Do I get to go, asshats?”

  “Oh, so sorry, but that disrespect just cost you your wallet, too.”

  I was in no mood. “Come get it, shitbirds.”

  “Look, old man, I will fuck you up if you play this game.”

  “Son, I’ve seen Germans hold a pencil in a more frightening way than your friend is holding that gun.”

  Shorty was the leader, Big Guy was the muscle, and the kid with the gun was the hit man. The gun was shaking in his hand. He had killed before, but he was hesitating. He looked older than the other two, at least in his late twenties. Still younger than me. “I’ll give you to three,” the kid began. “One …”

  I looked at the trash bin. Time to dispose of the garbage. Ha.

  “Two.”

  Big Guy was still wrestling with the Foldgun, and Hit Man was shaking like a leaf. Shorty was still mouthing off. If I took him out, the rest would fall, easy. I didn’t need my Diamondback for this little encounter. Not yet.

  “Three.”

  They weren’t expecting me to move after three. Hit Man hesitated, losing his bead on me as I grabbed Shorty, pulling him with me to the garbage while Big Guy was still wrestling with the Foldgun. He was easy to move — he must have weighed ninety pounds or less — but he had some muscle on him. He swung at my ribs, the hit aggravating the bruises that the GE rent-a-cops had given me. But I was tougher than that. I made sure his back was to the group so that the bullet would hit him and not me if Hit Man got brave. I got Shorty in the cheek, but he was still fighting.