Crooked Halos Page 6
“Mr. Crowder is very disappointed in you, Detective Hazzard,” a rather more feminine voice than I’d expected said from behind me. I turned to see one of the thugs from earlier standing next to Carmen, his hand on my shoulder and her hands on her hips. The thug’s lips were curled in a nasty-looking grin, while Carmen’s were pursed in a frown. “You’re supposed to be much better than this,” she said in a disappointed tone.
“Well, I’ve had an off day,” I replied.
“Fifteen years of them, from what I can tell,” Carmen replied mockingly. I still couldn’t quite place her accent, but the recording software I had running pretty much constantly meant I would at least get some more material for Maya’s analyzer program. Assuming I survived this encounter, anyway.
“Gather your belongings, Mr. Hazzard,” Carmen continued, “and hand them to Olaf here. We are going for a ride.”
I left what little cash I had on the table next to my plate and rose, passing everything off to Olaf, who dumped the lot in a small carry-all he had slung over his shoulder. “Nice man-purse,” I said, heckling the oversized meathead. He poked me in the chest with a single, sausage-like finger, then guided me out of the diner, one hand on my shoulder and the other in an overcoat pocket that most definitely concealed a gun. Carmen led us to a waiting car, the same town car Crowder’s goons had shoved me into the last time we’d all met. I crawled in, Carmen ahead of me and the thug behind me.
We drove a seemingly random circuit while I sat in the back of the car between Carmen and the thug. They were silent for the first few blocks, but as I’m apparently physically incapable of staying quiet, I broke the silence with a string of asinine questions.
“So, how much is Crowder paying you, anyway? Must be a pretty fair amount. I’m guessing your services do not come cheap,” I said to Carmen. She remained mute. “I mean, I tried to dig up some information on you. There is nothing out there. Nothing! Not a picture, not a database entry, not a driver’s license, or an alias or anything. It’s like you do not exist, as far as the world is concerned. Even my hacker was impressed, and she barely even notices that other people exist. How do you do that?”
“Shut. Up,” Carmen bit out.
“Afraid not, lovey,” I responded condescendingly. I’m not generally a misogynist—or, at least, I try not to be—but sometimes you can get more out of someone after you’ve pushed their very big, very obvious buttons. “You’ll probably have to kill me to stop talking, and maybe not even then.”
The knife was out before I was even aware of it, the point resting just under my chin.
“I said, ‘shut up’.”
“Duly noted,” I said as the knife was withdrawn. “Anyway, seriously, what are you guys trying to accomplish here? Scare me? Get me to stop doing my job? Are you actually gonna kill me? If you do, I suggest not killing me in the car. Blood is a pain in the ass to get out of carpeting.” The thug gave me the hairy eyeball, while Carmen sighed heavily, slowly reaching for her knife again. “What? A guy has a right to know if he’s on his way to his doom,” I said.
“Only if you keep pursuing the case,” Carmen snapped. “If you just leave everything alone, Crowder will not bother you. You’re not even who he’s after.”
“Well, duh,” I replied, digging in my pocket for a cigarette. The thug grabbed my wrist and pulled—painfully—out of my coat pocket. I took the hint. “I know he’s after Genevieve Pratt. I just can’t figure out why.”
“She cost him his legs,” Carmen said simply.
“He seems to have them back,” I noted with a smirk.
“The psychological scars take longer to heal, you know that,” she said.
“Yeah, well, by definition scars do not heal. That’s not what scars do.”
Carmen gave me a sidelong glance. “Regardless, leave him alone,” she said flatly.
“Can’t,” I replied.
“Then we will have to kill you.” She leaned forward and tapped the glass partition that separated the back seat from the driver’s compartment. The driver acknowledged the signal by pulling over to the side of the road and stopping. Carmen pushed her door open, crawled out, and gestured for me to follow. “Out,” she said.
“What, you’re gonna kill me in the middle of the street in broad daylight?” I asked, mock amazement on my face. “That’s pretty damn brazen.”
“This is your stop,” she said, climbing back into the car. As the car pulled away from the curb, I took in my surroundings, and realized I had no earthly clue where I was. I was stranded with none of my stuff and no way to get home.
XI.
It took me half an hour to find someone who was willing to come to their door when I knocked, and a further hour beyond that to find someone who would answer the door and let me use their telephone to call my secretary and request a pickup.
After that ordeal, I sat on the curb for at least an hour, waiting for Miss Typewell to arrive. In that time, I did a lot of thinking. It’s not like there was a whole lot else to do out in the ‘burbs.
“You’re where?” Miss Typewell had asked when I called. Her voice was a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and dread.
“The suburbs,” I replied, blowing on my fingers to warm them. It had started to get cold again as the autumn evening wore on. The woman who’d let me use her phone was hovering just behind me, watching to see if I’d steal her silverware or turn into a werewolf or something. All I knew was that she was definitely going to kick me back outside after I was off the phone. “She just dropped me off in some damn residential neighborhood. Has all my stuff, too, the damn woman.”
“Have you considered that your so-called ‘charm’ is, in fact, the exact opposite of charm?” Ellen asked me.
“Can you be sarcastic on your own dime?” I asked testily. “This lady looks like she might go for a broom and start smacking me with it at any moment.”
“You deserve nothing less!” Miss Typewell retorted.
“Details,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Now, are you gonna come get me or what?”
She did. It took ages for her to find my car and then find me, but she managed. She always managed.
The car ride back into Arcadia proper was a quiet one, mostly because I was in no mood to talk for once. Miss Typewell spent the first ten minutes on an “I told you so” tirade, but even she eventually ran out of steam and just drove in frustrated, fuming silence.
When we arrived back at the office, I immediately went to my desk and fired up the tracking programs on my computer and the popgun. Nothing else in there was really all that important, though getting my licenses replaced would be a pain in the ass. The popgun was almost one of a kind, or at least one of about a hundred worldwide. They had never been put into mass production. The computer, of course, could be replaced, but it contained lots of sensitive material and data I didn’t want Crowder to get his hands on. Luckily, both objects were in the same place: a dumpster off Euclid Avenue Downtown, probably dropped there as soon as they got back into the city. I made Miss Typewell drive me to the spot, where I proceeded to spend the next hour and a half digging through people’s garbage to find my belongings. It was properly nighttime when I finally found the satchel Olaf had stuffed my stuff into. Everything was there, though I wrote off the pack of cigarettes they’d taken as a lost cause when I discovered the pack had somehow been soaked by some disgusting combination of old pasta sauce, stale beer, and what was most likely hobo urine.
“Right, at least most of my stuff is still here,” I said, sniffing the popgun. “Even if it could use a good sanitizing.”
└●┐└●┐└●┐
The next afternoon was a rough one for the office. Kimiko finally made it in around noon, her face crestfallen over her failure to effectively follow and box in Carmen and the thugs. Miss Typewell was still mad at me for…well, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure why she was angry with me. It’s not like I had purposely let Carmen catch me and cut me loose in the middle of suburbia.
Given the frustrations of the previous day, I decided to raise everyone’s spirits by bringing in sandwiches from Nixon’s. Crowder had made a solid choice going there for lunch the day before.
“Any word on our targets?” I asked around a mouthful of ham and swiss on rye.
“Crowder sure isn’t acting like someone about to commit a cold-blooded murder,” Kimiko said, pulling up surveillance footage. She had taken three large bites of her tuna melt and then forgotten about it, still caught up in her embarrassment over letting Carmen and the thugs get away.
“If you were about to commit a murder, would you go around conspicuously doing things that would indicate to someone following you that you were about to do it?” Miss Typewell asked. Kimiko didn’t answer. Maya stayed silent, focusing all of her attention and energy on her patty melt. I got the feeling she hadn’t eaten since the day before. She had a bad habit of skipping meals whenever she was engrossed in her work, which was almost always.
“Point, but everything he’s doing seems so…aimless,” Kimiko said. “Like he has nothing to do, nowhere to be.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to be,” Ellen replied. I sighed and set my sandwich down.
“All of this is absolutely no help,” I said pointedly.
“Sorry, Eddie, but I don’t know what else to tell you. You’ve got Ms. Pratt’s address, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Well, at least you know where Crowder will be next Tuesday, then,” she said, taking a bite of her sandwich. “Maybe you don’t need to worry about it until then.”
└●┐└●┐└●┐
I spent the rest of the afternoon downing a fifth of scotch, smoking a pack of cigarettes, and mulling over my meager options.
First, I could continue along my current path, try to uncover the purpose and motivation of Crowder’s plan to murder Genevieve Pratt, and either stop him killing her or catch him right after he’d done the deed.
Second, I could try contacting Captain O’Mally, Professional Hardass, and see about convincing him that the APD’s former golden boy was going to commit premeditated murder next week. But if Miss Typewell—who was far more persuasive than I’d ever been—couldn’t convince him to take the threat seriously, what chance did I have?
Third, I could just continue crawling into a bottle, drink myself into a stupor, and ignore the rest of the world until all this had just gone away.
While Option #3 had a certain charm and appeal to it, it was probably counterproductive at best and negligent at the very least. I knew a crime was going to be perpetrated, so I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.
So I was left with sobering up—accomplished with a liberal dose of Miss Typewell’s coffee—and contemplating the first two options. The trouble with getting O’Mally on my side was my complete lack of credibility with the APD. I’d been persona non grata with the department for years, with things only getting rougher of late as I’d taken cases related to the Organization. I hadn’t advertised that fact or anything, but word had a way of getting around. I wasn’t considered dirty, not yet, but I wasn’t much better. I could try to get Edison O’Mally to come around, but I figured I had a better chance of juggling chainsaws.
That left trying to catch Crowder out, either right after he did the job or—and this was my preference—right before. Things would only be made more difficult by the involvement of Carmen and/or the goon squad. Even with their involvement, catching Crowder myself seemed like the only viable plan.
Terrible as that plan was.
XII.
Complications arose the next day. Well, one complication, but it was a pretty big one.
“Something has changed with Mr. Timmons,” Kimiko told me. “He has become calmer, more lucid.”
That was odd. The progression of the disease he had should have meant he was becoming more and more of a vegetable.
“He’s asking for you,” Kimiko continued.
I frowned. “Think it’s a good idea?” I asked.
“Of course not,” “Kimiko replied. “It is a terrible idea. This could all be some elaborate plan to lull you into a false sense of security, only to kill you when you let down your guard.”
“That seems overly complicated for a guy who’d forgotten how to speak four days ago.”
I moved to the coat rack and grabbed my coat and hat. “I’m going to meet with him anyway,” I said.
└●┐└●┐└●┐
The warehouse was empty except for Kimiko, the Tuba, and myself. He was still chained up inside a cage, but he did seem more docile than before. I approached cautiously, though, just in case it was all a ruse.
“I’m sure it’s a ruse,” Kimiko said.
“Get out of my head and stop using my vocabulary,” I said quietly. I turned my attention back to the prisoner. “Hey, Tuba, wake up, buddy.” The large man shifted, bringing his head up. His eyes—both the flesh-and-blood one and the red cybernetic one—bore into me. He grunted and strained at the manacles on his wrists and ankles for a moment, then subsided and returned to the narrow bench that served as his bed.
“Hazzard,” he rumbled, his voice deep and guttural. “I’m dyin’.”
“Couldn’t be happening to a nicer person,” I said. “I hear you wanna talk?”
He nodded. “You took everything from me, you bastard,” he growled. “I became a…monster to destroy you.”
“You were always a monster,” I shot back, “it’s just now the outside matches the inside.”
Tuba chuckled, his basso voice was felt more than heard. “Maybe so,” he said. “But I know what’s coming for you. I know who you’re up against. And let me tell you—” he paused, seemed to collect himself for a moment, then continued, “—you are doomed, Hazzard. Dresden Crowder and his chippie are going to end you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, hoping I sounded more certain than I felt.
Tuba chuckled again. “You think all the things you usurped from the Boss will save you? You think the ninja can protect you? You’re a fool and a coward, Hazzard. I wish I was gonna be around long enough to see you suffer.”
“Yeah, but you’re a goner, aren’t you?” I sneered. No, it wasn’t very heroic of me, but I didn’t care. Tuba was annoying me.
“So are you,” Tuba replied with another chuckle. The laugh dissolved into a fit of coughing, one that wracked the big man’s whole body like he was in one of those old-timey exercise machines with the belt that went around your waist and just shook the dickens out of you. He doubled over, hacking and sputtering and gagging on his own mucous. Three of Kimiko’s ninja came hustling in to check on him, and that’s when the Tuba sprang his last trap.
They had to open the cage to examine him, which was their first and last mistake. Tuba grabbed two of the ninja each by the head and squeezed. There was a sickening crunch, and their bodies went slack. The third ninja had the brains to stay back, trusting that the manacles we’d clapped around Tuba’s arms and legs would prevent him from leaving the cage.
They didn’t.
Tuba grunted, then roared with effort, straining against the chains. There was the sound of metal rending, a single horrible, sustained tone that grated like nails on a chalkboard, and then a crash as the chains broke free of their moorings in the wall. Tuba stalked forward, hunching his massive shoulders to stoop below the cage doorframe, and emerged from captivity. There was an evil grin plastered across his face, and that cybernetic eye of his gleamed menacingly. “I’m gonna enjoy this,” he intoned, cracking his knuckles with a sound like doom descending on the helpless.
The remaining ninja charged the Tuba. He was unarmed—they’d come in expecting a medical emergency, not a kung fu emergency—but he was no less deadly for the lack of sharp, pointy things to stick into his opponent. The ninja feinted left, then right, then drove straight for Tuba’s face, expecting
the lightning-fast attack to stun the big man before Tuba could bring his prodigious strength to bear.
The ninja miscalculated terribly. Tuba hadn’t been fooled by either feint and was ready for him the second he threw his punch. The big man caught the ninja’s hand in mid-punch, and I could hear the sound of bones grinding in the man’s arm as Tuba squeezed. To the ninja’s credit, he never even cried out, while I would’ve been a blubbering baby long before Tuba finally took mercy on the guy and just snapped his neck in his other hand.
Tuba dropped the ninja’s lifeless form from his hands and focused on me. I gulped and twitched involuntarily; this didn’t look like it was going to go well for me. In combat, Tuba and I were currently one and one; this would be the tiebreaker, I guess.
“Best of three, huh, big guy?” I called out, unbuttoning my coat and wiggling my fingers to make sure they were loose. If I didn’t put Tuba down hard in the first few seconds, Tuba would maul me like a mama bear protecting her cubs and a full pic-a-nic basket.
Thankfully, I wasn’t unprepared for such an incident. I had the popgun, of course, and a couple of other useful tricks up my sleeve. I’d only get the chance to try one, though, before the Tuba was on me, so it was decision time.
I went for the popgun. It was reliable and easy. I drew, aimed from the hip, and pulled the trigger. It went off with a pop! and threw a rapidly-expanding bubble out at Tuba. He charged right into it, was encased in a fraction of a second, and that was the end of it.
At least, it should have been. He kept barreling forward, the bubble shoving a table and chair out of the way as he came roaring on toward me.
I didn’t have time to move out of the way. It’s not like the room we had him in was all that big, anyway. He was going to crush me, if I gave him half a chance, so I did the one thing I could think to do: I activated my personal force field.
The personal force field generator was about the size of a deck of playing cards and created a protective barrier around the user that lasted for about five minutes, depending on how much kinetic energy was thrown at it. You could deflect bullets from a distance with ease and up-close shots with decent surety, but point-blank was still taking your life into your own hands.