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While I braced against his punches and kept a grip on his collar, with my other hand I opened the Dumpster lid. Shorty was still on his feet. After finding that the suitcase wouldn’t open, Big Guy dropped the Foldgun and ran at me, hoping to catch me off guard. I threw Shorty against the Dumpster. His head and shoulders fell into the receptacle, and I had to duck to avoid Big Guy’s swing. I was smaller and could move well, but if the big guy hit me once, I would lose.

  I shifted right. Shorty struggled to push against the Dumpster and get his head out of it. Big Guy swung again. I dodged, shoving my back into Shorty. His legs gave out, and his chin hit the rim of the Dumpster, locking his head into place. I grabbed the top of the lid and pulled down hard. The sharp edges dug into his flesh — only his vertebrae stopped the metal from cleaving off his whole head. Blood sprayed everywhere, hitting both me and Big Guy, which made him hesitate as well.

  My Diamondback was waiting in my holster, but I knew I didn’t have enough time to pull it, cock it, and fire. I needed something else to use as a weapon — a bottle, a stick, a pipe, a wrench, glass, wood, anything. The only thing available was a broken whiskey bottle. Perfect. I dodged another of Big Guy’s swings, then leaned down and grabbed the bottle’s neck. I moved backward to the wall opposite to the garbage, where a fresh corpse now hung limply, and broke the bottle against the brick wall of the building to make sure it was sharp.

  He swung, I went under, then came up, and the bottle followed my movement. The cracked glass went through his neck, cutting through his esophagus. I kicked his body back, pulling the bottle out as a fountain of blood poured from his gaping wound. He didn’t struggle long. His crimson blood pooled with Shorty’s around my feet.

  The black guy with the gun wasn’t firing. He had dropped his gun a while ago and now stared at me in disbelief, then at his old cohorts. I nodded to him, looking at the gun. He kicked it from himself, backing away, then breaking into a sprint.

  I walked away from the ugly scene, wiping blood off my face, then looked up to see the metal man standing there. The adrenalin was wearing off, and part of me felt … off. The fight had scared the shit out of me, but my hands were steady and my heart wasn’t in my throat. I’d have been lying if I said the War didn’t hit me hard, but all the same, some days, it was the adrenalin that kept me going. The 5th had just gotten a new set of bodies to clean up.

  Speaking of which, Allen had chosen that moment to come walking out of the crime scene. It looked quite shocked seeing me coated in red. “Detective Roche, are you quite all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “I heard sounds of a struggle, and I thought —”

  “I’m fine, robot.” Fucking bastards. Now I had to wash my shirt … and I’d just had the thing pressed. “I cut myself on a dirty bottle, got worked up. Go run your errands. We’ll meet up later.”

  “Of course, Detective …” The machine clearly didn’t believe me, but with orders from Robins, it didn’t have much leeway to argue. “Where?”

  “Meet me in two hours at the Lower East Side Diner. You’ll see my car.”

  I waited for Allen to put some distance between itself and the alleyway before I went to my car and started it up. First, to get home to change and look more presentable.

  Then, I’d have a little meeting with the only person who saw and heard everything in this city and who might know a thing or two about our cop killer.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’D ALWAYS LOVED THIS DINER. It was familiar, clean, classic. Everyone called out to me when I came in, from Martha serving tables to Dean in the back washing dishes. The clock finally hit six in the morning, and the bulbs on the underside of the Plate started warming up and switching on. It was the signal for the night shifters to go home and the regular crowd to wake up, get some grub, and get to work.

  The diner was rectangular, with a counter running along one of the longer walls, stools dotting the floor on one side of the counter, and booths along the opposite wall. The establishment was almost empty; most of the city was still waking up. I headed to my usual booth: the second one in, facing the door. As I sat down, I checked out the rest of the occupants. A young guy sat in the booth closest to the door reading a newspaper. Another guy, who looked like he had finished a night shift at GE, was sitting at the counter sipping coffee. The cooks were busy at their grills, preparing their own breakfasts or cleaning whatever dishes they’d missed during the night. Martha came out from behind the counter and strolled up to me. I barely caught a breath before she rolled by with that musk that followed her. Sure, I smoked, but not as much as she did.

  “What can I get you, El?” Though she smelled like a smoker, she didn’t sound like one. She had a nice face to match the nice voice, too, and blond hair still pure and undamaged.

  “Coffee. Throw me a few eggs as well. I haven’t been eating right the past few days.”

  “Your little cases got you on the ropes? Or are you always this high-strung in the mornings?”

  “You’d know better than me. Technically, this is my lunch. I’ve been up far too long.” I flashed a grin, took a folded ten in my fingers, and put it in her apron pocket. “And give me a kick. I need something to help me relax.”

  She nodded, smiled, and went to the kitchen, her shoes slapping against the linoleum floor. As she yelled my order over to the cooks, my eyes wandered over to the window. The streets were illuminated by incandescent bulbs high above. Light reflected off of a metal dome moving along the street — I recognized Allen approaching the diner.

  Allen came through the door, and everyone inside the diner — except me — stared for a moment, then looked away. Not many people on the Lower East Side were fond of Automatics.

  “You get anything of use?” I called out to Allen, so it wouldn’t get cold feet from seeing their reaction. It hesitated, but moved toward me.

  “I was able to dig through the records of several precincts, though I believe they would have been far less reluctant to give me information had you been there, Detective.” It slid into the booth seat opposite to me. “They were not too keen on allowing me to enter their buildings, let alone access their records.”

  “We all need to make sacrifices some days. You show them your badge?”

  “I did.”

  “And I’m guessing they were just as surprised as I was …”

  Martha practically threw the coffee at me as she ran past the table. Considering the number of patrons in the place, I doubted she was actually that busy. This place didn’t have a No Automatics Allowed sign out front, but every other shop did; the owners probably expected to be covered by association. Umbrella effect and all that. I could see Allen eyeing Martha with curiosity. It was a subtle reaction, but its servos twitched into a concerned expression.

  “Any significant findings?”

  “None thus far. I was able to find the addresses of the three officers in question. After informing Robins of their connection to the case, he has sent his own officers to the addresses to find them. He said he would contact you if he found anything of note. He seemed tense when I visited the precinct, perhaps due to the FBI’s presence.”

  “Yeah, or maybe he just wasn’t all there.” I grabbed the coffee and sipped. Damn, that feels better. Martha was damn good at hiding the smell of the Irish coffees she brewed.

  “All there? Is that a euphemism I am unaware of? Does he have frequent absences?”

  “No, not like that. We don’t know if it’s depression, or exhaustion, or what. He’s just never totally aware of everything going on around him — one of his quirks. Always has these blank stares. Some days I’m not sure he even hears anyone talking to him.”

  “The job of policing is tough on everyone.” Allen sat there rigidly. It never seemed to be comfortable, even when it knew what it was talking about. I took another sip of coffee. “Especially for former Manual Corps pilots,” it continued.

  I choked on my coffee at the statement, drawing some attention to myself as I hacked the l
iquid out of my throat. “How in the hell —”

  “His scars,” it said in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t think I’ve spotted a single scar on him in the past decade. Except maybe the one on his forearm from a knife fight with a mobster a few years back. I didn’t even know he was in the Manual Corps. What did you see that I didn’t?”

  “Around his collarbone he has two pronounced scars. They reach from his clavicle to the edges of his pectoralis major and —”

  “I know what a Trauma Harness is, Allen. I fought in the War.” I drank more of the coffee, hoping that would force my metabolism to start processing the alcohol faster. “But damn, if he had a deployed Trauma Harness, I’m surprised he’s alive and well. Usually when those blades go into you, you’re a dead man fighting. He’s a tough bastard. Explains why he’s more shaken than I am.”

  Allen perked up at the mention of myself. “You were in the War, Detective?”

  I guessed it was story time. It might be useful for the machine to learn more about me.

  “Yeah, a lifetime ago. I was in the CC — Cleanup Crew — for the Manuals. I was usually in the back repairing them, but in ’17 we got mobilized for a full-scale assault against Strasbourg. Goddamn … it was a nightmare.” I leaned back, hearing Martha’s shoes clacking against the floor as she brought my plate. The eggs still sizzled — fresh off the grill, all right. That was why I loved coming here.

  “Would you rather return to the subject at hand, Detective?”

  “Well, it was your tangent, but sure.” I smiled and chuckled, and Allen responded with confused — or perhaps apathetic — silence. Not the worst response I’d ever received, but it was up there. “So, on the subject of bloody things, any leads on what model of Automatic we’re looking for?”

  “The data suggests that the machine is indeed a Swinger model from the early 1920s. It is well known that both the Swinger and Grifter models are favoured by the Mob, so this would seem to fit typical assumptions.”

  “Other than the FBI denying the shooting, the dead Automatic’s empty head, and everything else we’ve uncovered thus far.”

  “Precisely.” Martha passed by again. This time, Allen tried to get her attention. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Martha kept walking by without acknowledging Allen, and a pin of empathy poked me right in the heart. Even with my own prejudices, it still hurt me to see something innocent being treated like that. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers, getting Martha’s attention. She came back. I looked pointedly at Allen, and she reluctantly followed suit.

  “Might I have the same as he is having?”

  Martha turned to me, still silent. We shared the same confused look as I shrugged and she nodded, walking back to the window to the kitchen to call in the order — this time speaking more quietly than before.

  I’d thought that metal men only drank — just for recreation — but this one seemed to be craving an actual meal. It was too early for weird shit to be happening already. I did my best to ignore it, though, not wanting to cause a scene. The Irish coffee was starting to hit me now, too. The more I drank and the longer I sat, the more things became floaty. Comfort in the familiar, I supposed.

  “How about you?”

  I was shaken from my daze. “What?”

  “What did you do while I was collecting paperwork from the precincts?”

  Allen began swaying as it spoke. Or maybe I was swaying, or maybe the earth had decided to move a smidge to the left. Liquor and exhaustion didn’t mix well.

  “I got some info from a few outsiders who owed me, and one of them was able to help me track down an apartment that one of those three cops owns.”

  “We already have their addresses on file —”

  “I got an unofficial address, an apartment one Andrew Stern bought on the side.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  The conversation died down as the second meal arrived. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn’t touched my food, and it was beginning to get cold. I grabbed utensils and began scarfing it down, trying to get as much food down my gullet as possible before the conversation resumed. Looking up to see if Allen was about to rebut my claim, I had a shock. Allen, too, had grabbed some utensils and was working away at its own meal.

  Alcohol made things foggy. I was halfway through my own breakfast, and Allen had begun its own. I was dumbfounded. It was eating — with its mouth and everything. It was strange, to say the least, like watching someone set water on fire. Allen hadn’t yet noticed me staring.

  “I suppose that is as good a lead as any, considering we have very few at the moment. Should we split up again to search the official and unofficial addresses?” Allen blinked a few times, doing everything a human might do. That was the worst part. I wasn’t sure if it was imitating humanity, or actually operating that way. “Is something the matter, Detective?”

  “No.” I straightened up, recomposing myself as I finished the meal and waiting for it to do the same. “No, we’ll go together, just in case things go pear-shaped. We find the bullets, we find the gun, and, therefore, the gunner. Easy stuff.”

  “I concur. Lead the way.”

  I threw down some change to pay for the food — both mine and Allen’s. Hopefully Martha would just think I’d had two helpings. I’d rather she not worry herself over this sort of anomaly. We stood and walked toward the door, Allen moving ahead of me.

  Just as Allen went through the door, the young man at the booth beside it knocked on the table ever so subtly.

  Two times, twice.

  He pulled the newspaper closer to his face before sliding a slip of folded paper across his table. I took it before Allen noticed. Opening it up revealed an address, the one I had mentioned to Allen several minutes ago while sitting in the booth. The font was neat, square, and legible. On the back was a message written in cursive.

  Be quick.

  She was as impatient as she was informative, I supposed, so I’d best not keep her waiting. I followed Allen out of the diner, stuffing the paper into my pocket before we got into my vehicle and headed out.

  From the diner on Delancey Street, we drove to Hell’s Kitchen, reaching an apartment building that was several dozen yards from the bottom of the Plate. It was a quarter to seven in the morning, and the liquor had finally kicked in, making it even harder for me to steer the Talbot. I nearly swung into oncoming traffic more than once. Allen kept its mouth shut for the ride, either scared for its life or trying not to criticize my driving while I had questions that needed to be answered.

  I parked the car in the multi-level garage, which was as tall as the apartment building itself, then exited the car and crossed one of the bridges that connected the parking levels to different floors of the building. There were too many entrances to this place. It made me uncomfortable not to have control of the battlefield. For all I knew, the cop could be watching out for someone, ready to hightail it out of there the moment he heard the elevator arrive at his floor. Hell, we didn’t even know whose apartment this was. It could have belonged to any of the three men whose names Jaeger had given us: Belik, Morris, or Stern.

  But none of them was expecting me.

  The landlady for the set of floors was a quaint old woman, at least seventy, who seemed caring and tolerant. However, the holster and the .44 by her waist told me this area had seen better days and tenants. While Allen informed her why we were here, I noticed how steady her hands were. She must have been one hell of a shot. I showed her the apartment number on the slip of paper. She smiled a gummy grin and led us to the elevator.

  My mind faded in and out during the ride. I thought I saw the number thirty, or forty.

  “Has he ever acted suspicious, or caused discomfort in the building?” I was glad Allen was doing the talking. It felt to me like the elevator was spinning while we rode up.

  “Oh no, he’s been a dear. He always pays his rent in advance, brings me flowers every birthday.
He’s never been a bother.”

  “Any shady characters ever swing around his place?” I piped up, though I felt like that was all the talking I was capable of.

  “Now listen, whatever he’s done, he is a good man. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. Hopefully looking through his place will prove that to you.” She thought of him like a son. Cute. She seemed convinced he was the golden child of this building. Maybe he was — but he might still have blood on his hands.

  We exited the elevator and approached his apartment, the landlady taking her key out and shoving it in the lock. She remained outside as Allen entered first. I followed behind.

  The apartment itself looked clean, respectable, quite polished. I hadn’t seen an apartment this clean in a long time, which made me even more suspicious. I switched on a few lights and we started to search for anything incriminating.

  The kitchen was pretty barren, but used enough to suggest a single occupant. The bathroom was clear — maybe a few too many blood thinners and pain relievers stood on a shelf, but that wasn’t a crime. The living area contained a radio a few years older than what was currently on the market. The couch looked well used. Perhaps he often had guests or used it for sleeping as much as I did. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in my bed, so I could relate.

  Overall, things checked out. Allen elected to check the bedroom. It was there that things got odd.

  “The bedroom is locked, Detective. Do we get her to open it?”

  “No need. I doubt she’d have the key.” I swung myself at the door. The wood splintered as the lock tore off of the door and I fell to the floor, landing on something that felt harder than I’d expected the wood flooring to be. Getting back up, I noticed Allen staring.

  I soon realized what it was looking at. The bedroom was stripped bare save for a bed, a crude dresser, and several tables. Every surface, from the tabletops to the mattress, was covered in electronics and machine parts. Automatic parts.

  Arms, legs, chassis, servos, Neural-Interfaces, reprogramming equipment, even a shoddy terminal no doubt stolen from some back-alley dealer auctioning off old GE hardware. Under some of the items were loose sheets of paper with signatures and wads of cash, all addressed to the tenant, Andrew Stern. It was a gold mine for a racketeering charge and evidence enough that we were on the right trail.