Crooked Halos Read online

  In a situation like this, though, where the energy was more spread out, the field had no problem protecting me from Tuba’s assault. Sure, I was knocked off my feet and the Tuba rolled right over me, but I wasn’t crushed when he did so. As the Tuba rolled past, I got my feet back under me and dug around in my pockets to see what else I might be able to use against him. I had a hypodermic filled with the knock out gas I usually used on the folks I caught in the bubble, but I wasn’t sure it would be effective. Given how difficult the Tuba had been to take down just a few days ago, I wasn’t sure I wanted to take a chance on underestimating the dosage.

  That meant going for overkill, which might just kill the bastard outright. While I knew he was dying anyway and would probably—no, definitely—kill me given half the chance, I didn’t feel bad per se about accidentally killing him, it still wasn’t ideal. I’d prefer he lived long enough to regret his choices, but I also knew he wasn’t going to be seeing the far side of 100, so that seemed unlikely.

  I upped the dosage in the hypodermic dispenser, cranking it to three times the normal level, and waited for the Tuba to charge me again. He was slipping back into a feral state, which would make it easier to trick him but harder to get the chance to dose him.

  Tuba charged again, roaring a wordless challenge. I backed up against a wall and waited until the last second to dodge out of the way. Tuba slammed into the wall and rebounded back a meter. I lunged forward and pressed the hypodermic against the bubble and pressed the injector. The bubble flooded with a fine mist and Tuba snarled at me. He threw himself against the bubble, trying to claw his way through to me. Thankfully, the bubble held. It took the better part of a minute for the gas to take effect, and the whole time the Tuba tried to murder me. I managed to keep away from him until his movements became sluggish and directionless. His normal eye grew heavy-lidded, and he eventually slumped down the side of the bubble and passed out.

  I leaned against a wall and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. I heaved a sigh of relief and pulled a cigarette out of my pocket.

  “Y’know, Tuba,” I said, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag, “this could’ve gone easier. But no, you had to resist and make it difficult.” I exhaled a plume of smoke. “You, sir, are a tremendous asshole.” I looked over at the bubble and noticed that Tuba wasn’t breathing.

  “Aw, crap,” I muttered.

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  Kimiko and a few of her ninja showed up a few minutes later. I was still sitting on the floor near Tuba’s lifeless body, smoking my third or fourth cigarette.

  “What happened?” Kimiko asked as her men picked up the lifeless bodies of the ninja Tuba had killed and disappeared with them.

  “Dunno,” I said. “I dosed him with a sedative, and he just keeled over.” I stood up and walked over to the bubble and kicked it. “He went feral again. I think maybe he was in the late stage of whatever disease the gen-mod gave him.”

  “We must dispose of the body,” Kimiko said.

  “Yeah. The bubble should dissolve in another thirty minutes or so. I’m gonna leave it to you to take care of everything.”

  “Consider it done, Detective Hazzard,” Kimiko said.

  XIII.

  Over the course of the next several days, I noticed Carmen and the goon squad keeping an eye on me as I went about my day. With the ninja watching them, it turned into an ouroboros of observation and surveillance. Carmen was pretty obvious in her efforts. She was outside the Funeral Parlor one evening, and I spotted her across the street from Cathy’s Diner on 18th Street when I went in there for lunch a couple of days later. The thugs were generally hanging about at the street corner outside the office, trying like hell to look nonchalant. They failed, obviously, because thugs are never nonchalant. It didn’t help that one of them had a cast on his left leg, and another had a massive medical plaster across the bridge of his nose and looked like he was cosplaying as an idiotic raccoon. Our last encounter had clearly left them with some bumps and bruises, and I’m sure they were contemplating ways they could get their revenge. Mostly, they just leered at me or Miss Typewell, and Ellen commented that on at least one occasion, they’d made threatening comments along the lines of, “Sure would be a shame if somethin’ were t’happen to a pretty dame like you.” I think she pepper sprayed the lot of them in response, because Miss Typewell did not take shit from anyone and had absolutely no fear.

  Carmen, on the other hand, never tried to be menacing or threatening; she just stood there, staring, not caring at all whether or not I saw her.

  She’s there to remind me that she could kill me if she wanted to, I thought. It was sobering, and even the fearless Miss Typewell gave the bodyguard and presumed assassin a wide berth.

  As the day of Genevieve Pratt’s anticipated murder approached, I became more nervous. I knew that Crowder would slip into her room and take her out, but I didn’t know any of the other variables. Would Crowder have his enforcers or Carmen with him? How would he gain access to the room? Was Pratt going to just let him walk right in and kill her, or would he have to work for his revenge? There were too many unanswered questions, too many variables, and not nearly enough time to find the answers.

  I called Pratt two days before the planned murder. She answered the video call, looking tired and more haggard than she had when she came into my office just a week and a half earlier.

  “What do you want, Detective Hazzard?” she asked wearily.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this murder business? Wouldn’t better revenge be to just let Crowder rot in jail for the rest of his natural life for the attempt?”

  “We both know that’s not how it would go down,” Pratt replied. “Crowder was the golden boy of the APD back in his day, and he still has friends in high places. Me…well, let’s just say I’m no one’s favorite child.”

  “This still doesn’t feel right,” I complained, frowning.

  “I’d be more than happy to let one of your competitors take care of this for me, Detective. I think I have a number for Rachel Corelli on file…”

  “No, stop, don’t even think about asking for Rachel’s help on this. She’d bust in with grenade launchers and a crew of Pinkertons. She’s like using a nuke to swat a fly.” Rachel Corelli was another private detective in the city. She actually ran her own private security agency, the Pinkertons. She’d bought the rights to the name several years ago; I guess she thought it lent a certain prestige and air of authority to her business.

  Corelli was only this side of a thug, and just barely. Petite, but muscular, she could probably pick me up and throw me through a plate glass window if she had a mind to. She was legendary for her temper and her sense of tradition. She had a code of honor, of sorts, one that demanded that she avenge herself on anyone who crossed her or slighted her in any way. Corelli was a dangerous enemy, but an unreliable and unpredictable friend. The one case I’d worked with her, she’d nearly managed to shoot me, run me over with her car, and almost took my hand off when she passed me a live grenade with the pin already pulled.

  It was the worst fraud case I ever worked.

  “Definitely leave Rachel out of this,” I said. Even Crowder didn’t deserve her.

  “Then I suggest you stick to the plan, Detective Hazzard,” Ms. Pratt said. Then she cut the signal.

  “Well, a fat lot of good that did me,” I grumbled to Miss Typewell afterward.

  “You’re the one who took the case, Eddie,” she reminded me.

  “You’re not helping, either,” I said. “I just wish I knew what she meant by getting her revenge on Dresden by letting him kill her. It doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

  “Well, he must’ve done something to her,” Ellen suggested.

  “Maybe he’s the reason she’s sick,” Maya suggested, coming out of her computer-related fugue state long enough to take part in a conversation for once.

  “Could be,” I said, “but unlikely. Crowder’s many t
hings, but ‘cancer-inducing’ isn’t one of them, I don’t think.”

  “Well, wild speculation won’t get us very far,” Ellen remarked.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve built a career on wild speculation,” I countered.

  But Miss Typewell was right: wild speculation wasn’t getting me any closer to unraveling the mysteries of this particular case. I was going to have to see it through and hope that I could fit all the pieces together afterward.

  I just hoped there’d be enough pieces left over to get a clear picture.

  XIV.

  Things weren’t going great with the case, and they only got worse when Rachel Corelli walked into my office with two of her Pinkerton goons flanking her.

  “Oh God,” I groaned, “I’ve conjured you somehow.” I stood and flung my hands toward her in a warding gesture. “I abjure thee, begone from this plane of existence! Avaunt!” Corelli just gave me a dark look and ignored my theatrics. Had Genevieve Pratt gone and called in Corelli despite my advice against it? Probably. Leave it to a dying client to make a mess of things.

  Corelli kept her hair cropped short, a severe blonde stubble over a skull criss-crossed with scars. Rachel was a slight woman with broad shoulders and a blunt face. She spoke loudly and with an air of overwhelming confidence. Her vocabulary was colorful but mostly in shades of blue.

  The Pinkertons were once one of the most well-regarded private detective and security agencies in the country. About five years ago, The Pinkertons were, collectively, an odd bunch. The name had been used as a private security company for factories and refineries, but the company had fallen on hard times after a particularly disastrous terrorist incident at a refinery. Corelli got the name for a song and turned the Pinkertons into her own personal army of enforcers. She was ruthless, but effective. Her job completion rate was one of the best in the city, though her methods were not without their collateral damage. Usually excessive amounts of it. But she got the job done, and quickly. Her results were hard to beat, even if the police were unwilling to use her for anything delicate.

  “Word on the street is that you’re in the middle of a rough case, Hazzard,” she said. Her goons, two solid walls of muscle in bad suits, stood behind her with their massive arms crossed, mirrored sunglasses hiding their eyes. I could hear a faint electronic hum, the sound of a lens focusing and zooming, indicating that at least one of the goons had a cybernetic eye. This was pretty common in our field of work; doubly so if you worked for Rachel Corelli, whose methods often resulted in the need for extensive prosthetics.

  “Yeah, it’s what you could call a doozy, I guess, if you were inclined to say things like that.” I settled back into my chair and propped my feet up on my desk, trying to look relaxed and bored with their presence, though to be honest Corelli set me on edge just by being in the same room. I knew, secreted away on her person, were at least four grenades, three or four small firearms, and at least two knives. It was a miracle she didn’t clank when she walked. “Is there something I can do for you, Corelli?” I asked with feigned nonchalance.

  “Actually, it was what I could do for you that brought me here, Hazzard,” Corelli responded. “I hear your case is giving you some troubles. I could help you out, if you wanted.”

  “For a price, I’m sure,” I said. Corelli grinned; she was missing a couple of teeth, the result of one of the dozens of bar fights she’d been engaged in—and usually started—when she took up the private detective trade. “And why would you be interested in helping me out, hmm?”

  “I find the case fascinating, Hazzard. A seemingly-random murder, a fallen hero, the idiot trapped in the middle of it all…it has the makings of a world-class comedy, and I want a front-row seat.”

  I sat up, my mouth a thin line. “If you’re just here to be an asshole about things, Corelli, you can just go ahead and jump straight up yours.”

  Corelli held up her hands in a placating fashion, the grin disappearing from her face. “Easy, Hazzard, easy,” she said. “I’m just giving you the business. No hard feelings. Seriously, though, if you want help, it’s yours.”

  “I think I’m good,” I replied flatly.

  “Really?” Corelli asked, unconvinced. “You think you’re ‘good’? Hazzard, you are in the deepest mess of your fuckin’ life, here, and I say that knowing your career. Do you have any idea who the woman he’s supposed to murder is?”

  “Um, her name’s Genevieve Pratt. So what?”

  Corelli laughed; it was the sound of cats being drowned, nails down a piece of slate, every woman who’d ever wronged me. All rolled into one short, squat package. It was not, in short, a pleasant sound, and it went on for far too long.

  When Corelli had control of herself again, she looked me in the eye. “Hazzard, Pratt is one of the most dangerous women in Arcadia. Empires rise and fall at her word. Don’t tell me you didn’t do basic research on your client?” The incredulity in her voice was matched only by the absolute depth of my own embarrassment at having not, in fact, really done any research on my client.

  “Of course I did research!” I snapped, my eyes narrowing. “Now, I’ll ask you and your dance troupe back there to take a hike; I’ve got important business matters to attend to, if you don’t mind.”

  Corelli laughed again, a short bark this time, and turned to the exit. As she passed through the anteroom, she handed Miss Typewell a business card. “Here, honey; if things go like I think they will in a couple of days, you’ll probably need a new employer. Give me a call.” Corelli chuckled as she and her goons walked out of the office. I sat in my chair and scowled at the wall, imagining the special circle of Hell reserved for smug assholes like Rachel Corelli.

  XV.

  “Okay, so, we kinda need to do some research, guys,” I told Ellen and Maya as we sat around my desk.

  “On what?” Maya asked.

  “Genevieve Pratt,” I replied.

  “Our, um, client?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It’s a standard practice, one that I just sorta…forgot about.”

  “Because of Crowder?” Ellen asked. I nodded grimly.

  “We still have to do the job right, even if Dresden Crowder is related to the case. Ellen, I want you to dig through public records. Find out if she’s from around here, if she’s got an address or pays utility bills or got a parking ticket once. Whatever there is to find, get it.” I turned to Maya. “You’re gonna dig around in the Organization’s files.”

  Ellen and Maya both looked slightly startled. “Why am I, uh, doing that?” Maya asked hesitantly.

  “Because there’s something more to Ms. Pratt, something off the official record. I want to know what it is.”

  └●┐└●┐└●┐

  The ladies spent the afternoon surrounded by vid windows, digging up all the information they could possibly find on Genevieve Pratt. In the end, there wasn’t all that much, unfortunately.

  “She’s from Arcadia originally, but she just drops out of municipal systems about ten years ago,” Miss Typewell said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. Looks like she just moved out of the city. No forwarding address, no indication of where she might have gone. I checked credit card records, bank records, the postal service…she just disappears. It’s the damnedest thing.”

  “So, wait, she just skipped town without taking care of anything?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” Ellen answered. “She just up and left, didn’t bother packing anything or getting any accounts closed. Didn’t take anything with her, not even her purse from the look of it.”

  “That’s just damn weird,” I said, rubbing my jaw and feeling the stubble there. “What’d you find, Maya?”

  “Um…” she said nervously.

  “It’s okay, just tell me what you’ve got,” I said as kindly as I could manage. I liked Maya, I really did; she was very dedicated to the job, brilliant with machines, but absolute crap with anything regarding human interaction. It wasn’t
her fault, really; she’d grown up with her nose sandwiched between vid windows and computer monitors, more at home with the inner workings of an electrical device than with talking to the cashier at the corner store. Miss Typewell and I tried to help the girl out, nudge her in the direction of actually talking to other human beings, but it felt more than a little futile. No matter what we did or said, she continued to struggle with basic concepts such as making eye contact, not saying “um” all the damn time, and occasionally communicating with someone in person.

  “She, uh, doesn’t appear to exist at all in the Organization’s records,” Maya said.

  “So?” Miss Typewell said, frowning. “That just means she’s not a criminal, right?”

  “Not… exactly,” Maya said.

  Miss Typewell set her mouth in a straight line. “Explain,” she said simply.

  Maya twiddled her thumbs nervously. “Um, being in the Organization database means you were, um, either a member or had ties to one. Technically, about, oh, two-thirds of all citizens in Arcadia have some connection.”

  “What?” Miss Typewell said, her eyebrows arching. “That seems a little hyperbolic.”

  “It’s not,” I said, lacing my fingers around a mug of coffee and staring off into space. “That’s probably a conservative estimate. Vera Stewart kept information on virtually everyone in the city. Sometimes it was real simple, just whatever could be found in public records. But for a lot of folks, it was more detailed—relationships to Organization members, useful skills, potential leverage and blackmail material. Pretty much everyone ought to be in their databases somewhere.”

  “Right,” Maya said, “but Ms. Pratt’s not.”

  “How is that even possible?” I asked. “The only way you could not be in their database is to be either someone who is so unimportant that they have absolutely nothing to offer, or someone who is so important that they are above the Organization’s reach.”