by Dan Stout
“Why are you here?” I straightened the lapels of my suit jacket, using the movement to hide my fingers behind the fabric. “Nice to catch up and all, but if you’re here then OCU must be interested for some reason.”
What I didn’t ask was whether he was about to dismiss us from the scene. The Organized Crime Unit could take control of damn near any investigation if it served their interests, and small cases had a tendency to get gobbled up and forgotten in favor of bigger fish. Some cops hated that because it could reflect poorly on them when it came time for promotions or transfers. Others just wanted to see bad guys go to jail.
“I’m here because I got a call,” Dungan said. “Same as you.” He passed us, walking a half-dozen strides to the laundry machine and nodding toward the top-load lid.
The fluorescent glare of the overhead lights revealed the watery pink smears on the inside of the lid, obscuring the instructions for a proper wash.
Ajax flipped his notebook open. “The victim was on the washing machine?”
“Not on.” Dungan’s child-like grin returned. “In.”
Ajax and I stepped forward. The smell of bleach pinched my sinuses. The dingy, discolored water obscured the contents, until something shifted, and the rounded end of a severed thigh floated to the surface of the water. The flesh was hairless, with a pale green tint that, combined with its size, marked the victim as a Gillmyn. The thigh bobbed in the washer, an obscene buoy in a tub of bleach and bloody water.
Dungan moved beside us, light on his feet for a big guy.
“Meet Cetus St. Beisht. A real son-of-a-bitch who’s been scrubbing funds for several operations run by the Harlq Syndicate.” Dungan said the name of the gang with a better pronunciation than I could muster. I said Har-lek, while Dungan got it out in a single syllable. Though Ajax said it best, with a gurgle in the back of his speaking mouth. Like he was gagging on swamp water.
“I’ve had him under surveillance for a while now,” said Dungan. “He went missing a day ago and I asked—”
“A day ago?” I said. “That’s some top-notch surveillance you guys run.”
I crouched down, examining the area around the washer. There were no bloody fingerprints, nor was there a mess on the white painted steel of the exterior. “How’d you know it’s him?”
“The nice thing about Carter is the positive feedback.” Dungan addressed Ajax, but I could feel his eyes on me as I peered along the washer’s side. “He’s all about being a team player.”
I rose slowly. “I skipped the team sports days in phys ed.” I jerked a thumb at the washer and asked again, “How’d you know this was your guy?”
The bigger man snorted. “His car’s on the street. Wallet and clothes are in the back seat. Call it a deductive leap.” A team of techs filed into the room, led by a heavy-set human with a bristly mustache. Dungan gave them a lazy wave. “We’ll know for sure when they fish him out.”
I didn’t recognize the tech crew, which meant they were OCU. Dungan wasn’t wasting any time asserting his authority. I looked from the stain on the floor to the bleached and blood-drained body. There was surprisingly little mess from one to the other.
“You already like someone for this?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a gang-breaker if I didn’t,” he said. “I’d heard he was on the shit list of the local Harlq boss, a nasty piece of work named Anders.”
Jax sucked in a breath and jotted a note. I wondered if that name meant anything to him. Dungan changed the subject.
“I rolled down when St. Beisht’s car was found,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Aren’t you on mental rest or something?”
“Post-trauma interventional assessment,” said Jax, still writing in his notebook. “You think Anders did this as an internal Harlq hit?”
Dungan showed his palms, as if apologizing for any offense.
“Post intervention thingamajig,” he amended. “How did you two get here so fast?”
“We were in the neighborhood,” I said. “Already picked up one today.”
“The candy in the alley?” Dungan clicked his snack against his teeth.
“We don’t know she’s a candy,” said Jax.
“How’d you hear about her?” I asked Dungan.
He sighed, as if burdened by the questioning.
“Crime scene tape on the alley,” he said. “And a pair of redbacks sitting in their cruiser. So I asked them the story.” The sweet tumbled from one side of his mouth to the other with a clatter. “By the way, the blonde with short hair? Not your biggest fan, buddy.”
Dungan stuck his hands in his back pockets and pivoted, looking around the laundry area.
“I’ll get the paperwork started for the case reassignment to OCU.” He paused, as if considering something. “I’ll take the one in the alley as well. That way we won’t be stepping on each other’s toes.”
“No,” I said, and maybe it was because of the echo in the laundry room, all those metal machines, but it came out louder than I’d intended. Dungan and the techs stared at me, though I noticed Jax stepped closer, closing ranks. I cleared my throat and clarified. “We’ll keep working that one. Already have some traction.”
It was a lie, but I wasn’t interested in seeing the OCU take a murder case that they didn’t care about. Whoever Jane was, she had a roommate or a lover, a family or maybe even a kid like Ronald depending on her, someone who deserved closure. And the dead woman herself deserved to be more than a bargaining chip in a plea deal designed to get some mobster to roll on another.
“Good for you.” Dungan shrugged, as if he were fine either way, then resumed his sprawling lean against one of the other washing machines. I figured I’d throw him a bone to cheer him up.
“There’s a security camera on the alley outside,” I said.
The candy in his mouth broke with a crunch. “No there ain’t.”
“We almost missed it, too. Can’t see it from the ground.”
Jax crossed his arms. “Are you going to get the footage from the building owner?”
“Yeah,” said Dungan. “You want a peek at it?”
“We do,” said Jax.
“I can make that happen,” he said. “But you know . . . Body in an alley. In this neighborhood, at this time of day? I’d almost think they were trying to get you two on a case that’d fly under the radar.”
I scratched my jaw, while Jax examined the heel of one shoe. There wasn’t much point in denying it.
Dungan nodded.
“And if that’s the case, this is the wrong place for the two of you to be standing. Because this?” He tilted his head, tipping his hat’s brim toward the bloodied laundry lid. “This is gonna get some attention.” He showed his teeth again. “So how’d you like to get involved in something a little more interesting that’s still got a low profile?”
I exchanged glances with Ajax. It made sense to at least hear Dungan out.
“Alright,” he said, rolling onto the balls of his feet. “We’d better get the two of you out of here before any press shows up. Follow me, gentlemen.”
* * *
Dungan led us down the stairs, running his mouth the whole time. Mostly with stories of the old days, when we were younger, dumber, and had an exaggerated sense of our ability to heal wounds.
“When me and Carter was on Vice,” he said to Jax, “we used to deal with all kinds. Pimps, candies, dealers, johns and janes. Spent a lot of time undercover making buys for all sorts of services.” He slapped my shoulder with a touch more force than needed. “Your partner here had this uncanny ability to never actually get a candy to go anywhere with him.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. Partly it’d been because I found it unpleasant, like we were picking on the wrong person. But also, I was genuinely bad at it. Picking up candies takes a certain gift of gab. You have to make them
feel comfortable. My social strengths lie in getting under people’s skin, irritating them enough that they forget themselves and say something they shouldn’t. “I suppose we all have our own talents.”
We emerged onto the street, blinking in the breaking light of the post-noon dawn. The name Titanshade was deceiving. Since the Mount sat on the northeast side of the city, it provided almost no shade at all to the low-seated sun. Winter daylight was fleeting, but unrelenting while it lasted.
“So who played the candies, then?” said Ajax. “Was that you?”
“Me?” Dungan waved him off. “Nah. I was too good looking. Nobody believed I needed to pay for it.”
He grinned, and I rolled my eyes.
“But this guy,” he jerked a thumb my direction. “He couldn’t even get a candy to even talk to him, right? But he could buy dope all day long. Everyone wanted to take his money.”
Ajax rolled his head, laughing from his throat while his imposing mouthful of teeth glinted in the short-lived daylight. “Now that I believe.”
We reached Dungan’s vehicle. It was another Hasam Motors model, though nicer and roomier than ours. One more OCU perk, I supposed. He opened the passenger door and pulled out an accordion file, the kind my old man used to keep recipes in. Dungan’s had a photo stapled to each pocket. Mug shots, mostly of shiny-plated Mollenkampis in suits, with the occasional human or Gillmyn thrown in for good measure.
“These,” he said, “are the major players in the local Harlq Syndicate. And these,” he pulled a second accordion file from the car, “are the CaCuri twins and their assorted hangers-on.”
The CaCuris were from the salt plains, dark hair and eyes, freckles over their cheeks and noses. I mostly knew them by reputation. Thomas was a shark, a well-dressed slab of muscle with no instinct other than violence. I wasn’t as familiar with his sister Catherine, though I understood she was cut from the same cloth. They were major players in the neighborhood, and they’d both been depicted in Jane’s alleyway mural.
“I’ve built up relationships with most of these characters, one way or another.” He held an accordion file in each hand, raising and lowering them as if he were the very scales of justice. “And watched them escalate with each conflict.”
“We get the idea,” I said. “You said this Anders guy had it out for St. Beisht.”
“I said he was on Anders’s shit list. But I think someone beat him to it.” Dungan raised the CaCuri file while lowering his voice. “Bad blood’s been simmering between those two organizations for months. Way longer than Thomas can normally keep his act together without beating someone into a coma.”
He set the files on the roof of his car, like a city attorney presenting at a trial. “I think the CaCuris lured St. Beisht onto their territory, then chopped him up in that laundry room to send a message.” He rippled the tabs on the Harlq file, pausing at a thumbnail photo of a stocky, smooth-headed Gillmyn and a lanky Mollenkampi, presumably the deceased St. Beisht and a bodyguard. Dungan flicked the photo as he hunched his shoulders and glanced around, giving a sense of shared scheming. He was laying it on thick—baiting the hook for whatever he was about to sell us. “If the Harlqs and CaCuris go at each other for this, it could start a street war.”
Jax lowered his head, almost muffling his speaking mouth behind his collar. “I’ve seen the Harlqs in action. They don’t care about bystanders.”
“Exactly. And after this?” Dungan pointed at the top floor of the building, where one of the Harlqs’ key figures lay dismembered in a washer. “There’s gonna be blood on the streets. Unless we do something about it first.”
“Uh-huh.” I tugged at my lip and stared at the building. Such a strange place to hide a body. It was a flashy crime, done with the intent to be found. “What do you want to do?”
“They’re gonna go after each other,” Dungan said. “There’s no stopping that. But once they do, I can be in position to take down the CaCuris—hard. And maybe the Harlqs in the process.” His eyes danced from Jax to me, his enthusiasm almost infectious. “The mistake they made, both the Harlqs and CaCuris, is relying too much on one source for almost all their funds.”
“How’s that work?”
Dungan rubbed the fleshy curve of his cheek. “White collar sleight-of-hand. Lots of cash accounts and complex math. You wouldn’t follow it, Carter.”
Jax widened his stance. “I would.”
The cheek rubbing slowed. “Yeah, you might.” Dungan rolled his neck, but didn’t provide any further details. “The point is that the Harlq’s local financier is dead, and the CaCuris have a single weak point. Strike there and both organizations are gonna starve without laundered funds.”
“So this single weak point,” said Jax. “Do you have enough to bring him in?”
“Better.” Dungan winked. “He’s primed to roll on the CaCuris.”
“You’re going to need a plan.” Jax’s biting jaws clacked together, punctuating his skepticism.
I exhaled loudly. “He’s already got one, kid.”
Jax was sharp, but he didn’t know Dungan like I did. For his part, Dungan jammed his hands in his pockets and smiled, a child caught nipping into the cookie jar.
“That’s why he’s telling us about it,” I said. “Somehow, he thinks he can use us to flip his guy.”
The older cop flashed his childlike grin, and the polyester fabric of his windbreaker whispered as he bounced from foot to foot.
“You got me, pal!” He leaned in. “Not everyone in this town hates you two. Turns out my potential CI is a big celebrity hound. A pep talk from the cops who rediscovered manna would be mighty convincing.”
I winced, and turned my face to the Mount.
“Can’t do it,” I said.
Dungan’s eyes widened, and he stopped his excited bouncing.
“What?” His lips pulled tight and his shoulders rose. He’d always had a temper. “Why the Hells not?”
Jax spread his arms, ready to step between us.
“Because this is the opposite of laying low,” I said. “Half the brass wanted to fire us rather than get us in the limelight more often.”
“That’s bullshit,” Dungan snarled.
“It’s not.” Jax’s voice sounded a dual-toned soothing note, which Dungan didn’t seem to register.
“You were right about us being on training wheels,” I said. “If we do what you want, we’re gonna get bounced right back to desk duty.”
He considered it, frowning, then nodded sharply.
“You want to play it that way? We can do that.”
“Dungan—”
“Nah.” His frown had turned into a cruel scowl. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just something I’ve been working on for the last year. And a war between Harlqs and CaCuris shouldn’t create more than a few dozen bodies. So who really cares, right?”
He stepped back, glancing at his watch as if he had other things to do.
“I’ll get the paperwork going for St. Beisht, like I said.” He spit out his candy, letting it skitter across the cobblestones. “And I’ll take that girl from the alley, too. One more thing you don’t gotta worry about. For old-times’ sake.”
My stomach clenched. Dungan had noted my earlier reaction to losing Jane’s case and was now using it to twist my arm. Dungan had always been willing to do whatever it took to make people dance to his tune. Only this time he wasn’t limiting it to drug dealers and street toughs.
“And what happens to the Jane Doe,” I said, “while you’re busy charming your pet mobster?”
He spread his hands. “Murders should get solved. But I’ve only got so much time.”
“Are you kidding me?” I kept my voice low. Low as I could manage, anyway. Whoever killed Jane wasn’t going to be a good citizen from then on—anyone who’d visit that much violence on a victim would do it again. If Dungan took Jan
e’s case and let it sit fallow, then the next death would be on us. “What the Hells is the matter with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” He looked left and right, appealing to an invisible panel of judges. “I ask for a favor and you tell me to screw myself. And you want to know what’s my problem?”
My throat constricted, a mix of disappointment and rage that I forced myself to swallow as I stepped forward, treading on some stray bit of trash and snapping it on the cobblestones. I twisted my foot, grinding whatever it was into the dirt beneath my sole. Getting into it with Dungan on my first day back wasn’t smart. I took a breath and let it out slow, looking away from him.
All around us the neighborhood was decked out in signs of the season. The regular Titan’s Day decorations of silver and blue bunting were supplemented by glitter-streaked posters, homemade things with glitter representing the iridescent shimmer of the manna as it rained down at the strike site. I noticed that none of these new representations had the rig workers’ bloodied corpses or my severed fingers in the scene. But how much historical accuracy can you expect from holiday decorations?
I locked eyes with Jax. He gave me the smallest of shrugs. It was my play. And we lived in a city where rot and corruption always lay hidden behind the prettiest decorations.
Glaring at Dungan I said, “Fine. We’ll do it.”
My old friend’s smile was forced. “See? We’re all on the same team.” He dropped the accordion files back into his car.
I stepped away. “Whatever. Keep your hands off our case and we’ll fix your problem.”
He shook his head like a disappointed parent. “Not just my problem,” he said. “Everyone in this town is threatened by the CaCuris. They’re priority for the entire OCU.” Dungan shrugged, drawing a sigh from the fabric of his windbreaker. “That alley candy is all yours. Help me with this one guy, and it’ll stay that way.”
If it was a priority for the entire OCU, that explained Dungan’s eagerness. I didn’t know his standing in the department, but flipping this CI could be a career-maker. I grimaced at the blatant power play.