Genrenauts: Season One

by Michael R. Underwood

  King and Leah sat in the back, the team lead watching Tatiana like a hawk. An underfed, possibly buzzed hawk.

  “What about your catch-up with the captain?” Leah asked in a low voice. Thanks to the plastic divider, Tatiana shouldn’t be able to hear them. “Shouldn’t you be going out for dinner or something—keep up appearances or the like?”

  “I try not to get too close when I come back. It sets the wrong expectation. She’s married now.”

  “So, you come back and just make significant glances at one another all mission and then jet off.”

  “How many exes do you have, Probie?” King asked as they reached the bottom of the stairs, bundling up.

  “A few. None that I talk to anymore.”

  “Exactly. Now imagine what it’s like to have to see them again and again, and to know that if the dice had fallen differently, that they’d have been with you your whole life. And then see how comfortable you are hanging out with them socially and keeping secrets from them for their own good.”

  “Gotcha. Anything I can do? Should I ask to tag along and help protect against angst or something?”

  “I’ll be fine. With this case, there’s no room for error, no time for social calls. It’ll happen anyway, might be essential for solving the case, but I should be able to keep from lingering. Just keep me relatively sober until this is all done.”

  “Yeah, what’s with that?”

  “Archetype bleed-over. The version of Detective I’m performing is frequently cross-indexed with the Alcoholic PI.”

  “Gotcha. And how am I supposed to browbeat my boss into not drinking, exactly?”

  “Distraction, mostly. You don’t want to get into too much of a groove, not for too long. Extended-flow states make it harder to come back up for air.”

  The car pulled up to the precinct and the cabbie rattled off their exorbitant rate. Traffic was still moving at a trickle. But King had said they weren’t going to try to walk the whole way there and give Tatiana a million chances to bolt.

  “I can see why you and Shirin have been doing this for decades,” Leah said, sliding over once King had paid. “Seems like there’s always another layer to this genre onion.”

  “Work at it long enough, and you learn to manage the tears,” King donned his hat and stepped out into the cold as Tatiana power-walked up the steps, apparently eager to be done with them.

  Raymond Chandler, eat your heart out.

  Chapter Seven: Wacky PI, Grumpy PI

  Tatiana cooperated all the way to the interview (aka interrogation) room, then clammed up like she’d forgotten how to talk. The captain and most of the squad were back, though Franklin had tripled the detail at the hospital, just to be sure. King spent a good fifteen minutes getting the breakdown from Roman of what turned out to be a very boring lockdown of the hospital. By all reports, Nancy had gotten into a shouting match with a very short and very loud hospital administrator.

  Apparently unsatisfied by that encounter, Nancy had taken over the interrogation, since King wasn’t actually a cop. Leah would be watching them from the room behind one-way glass.

  The captain put both hands on the table. “We’re talking to your friends about two nights ago, but we still need to know where you were this morning between eleven and eleven thirty.”

  “I was out, doing errands. I got a life to live, you know. Trying to, at least, since I got out of lockup.”

  Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. She only did that when she was frustrated. And if she was frustrated there, it meant they weren’t getting anywhere. But even if Easley was a red herring, he needed to run down every angle until the next plot beat emerged.

  King checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. The phone on his hip was set to buzz if any word came through from HQ, and he’d partitioned part of his brain to will the phone not to buzz, not to pull the plug on their mission.

  He repeated the captain’s question. “Can anyone verify where you were this morning between eleven and eleven thirty? If they can, and your alibis check out, you’ll be free to go and return to putting your life back together. But here’s the thing. I think you didn’t kill Dwayne Smith, but you had every reason to take a shot at DeeZee.”

  “You’re damn right I’d have reason to shoot DeeZee. But I didn’t. Wish I had. Joystick-loving tool. Thinks he doesn’t owe anything to the neighborhood. We went to the same school, you know. He hit the pro circuit and disappeared from the streets, suddenly too important to look out for the kids who schooled him in Halo when he was too young to be able to play arcade games without a milk crate.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” King asked.

  Tatian scrunched up her nose, thinking, still frustrated with them. “I dunno, maybe a month ago, at the restaurant? He was there with his hottie detective girlfriend, being all cutsie.”

  “That’s interesting, because we have a witness that puts you at the restaurant yesterday, and we know DeeZee is there all the time?”

  “I was there yesterday, but I didn’t see him. I went in, had my lunch, and left. I talked to Angela, the server. That’s ‘bout it.”

  So now we have conflicting accounts, King thought. They’d need to loop around again with Hernandez.

  King tugged at another line of questioning. “Almost two years you spent upstate. Eighteen months nursing that grudge against DeeZee and De La Cruz for ruining your life, or whatever lie you told yourself about why you got caught.”

  He knew he was monologuing but leaned into it. The faster they could push through this scene, the better. “But here’s the thing. They busted you on laundering, but it could have been far worse. You have another chance now. If the comedians confirm that this bag was theirs, that’s a petty larceny charge. Not good with you being on parole. But if you are the one that shot DeeZee, I will make sure that you go away for a long, long time. So, if you did it, you need to confess now and roll on the Salvatores the way you didn’t when they left you out to dry.”

  King watched Easley, trying to read her small movements, to catch the moment where she broke or gave something away, pointed them at the real killer, something.

  Easley said nothing, so Nancy escalated, pounding on the table. “Tell us, Tatiana. You knew DeeZee, came up together. You resent his success, especially since you had to work so much harder to get a mere fraction of what he got, all because he was good at games. If you did it, I’d understand. But if you give us nothing, we can’t give you anything. Not another chance, not protection from the Salvatores.”

  “I didn’t fucking do it, okay?” Tatiana shouted, scooting back and standing out of the chair, finding the wall behind her. “The bag, yeah. I went to their show, and I get these moods, you know? Get a thrill out of stealing little stuff. Pack of gum, pair of socks. Used to shoplift when I was a kid; still do the little stuff here and there. I always take it back. More fun to sneak things back in than to take them in the first place. I took that fancy ring out and left it. Only thing worth a damn in that bag. Charge me for the bag if you want, but I didn’t kill the cook, and I didn’t shoot DeeZee. So, all you’re doing is yelling and wasting your time.”

  King looked to Nancy, who nodded. He turned and walked out into the hallway, then around to the observation room, where Leah stood hunched over her phone.

  “Not interesting enough to hold your attention?”

  Leah held up her hands, placating. “You can cool down the routine, boss. It’s just me.”

  King took a few long breaths, slowing his pulse. She was right. The case couldn’t wait, but he had to keep his edge.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “This solves the first breach, but I don’t think she’s related to Smith or DeeZee.”

  “She’s the connection between the two cases—there’s no other angle.”

  “What if the breaches aren’t connected?”

  “It makes too much story sense that they are. This region, the two cases always end up connecting in
the end.”

  “What if we already had our connection, and she’s the red herring for the murder-homicide case?

  King gave her a doubtful look. But the doubt wasn’t just for her. Maybe he was being too reductive, looking for the easy win so they could get back home.

  “I kept digging. Think I have a lead.” She presented her phone.

  Leah displayed a set of Yipe! reviews for Lake Effect. One mentioned hearing shouting from the kitchen, another mentioned two men talking in the office, their voices carrying as the reviewer used the restroom. The third talked of a Latino chef storming out just a week before, followed by the restaurant owner (whom the user knew due to a feature in the Tribune).

  Together, they made for a huge red flag that all was not well in Lake Effect, and pointed a suspect finger at Hernandez.

  King nodded in appreciation. Smart thinking. Initiative, lateral thinking. Exactly what he was hoping for. “Good work, Probie. Let’s get the owner on the line and start asking some questions. Someone is covering something up, and I’m betting we’ve got our murderer.”

  Leah pumped her fist, beaming like she’d just won the lottery.

  The kid was getting better, learning how to bring her instincts and perspective to each world, fitting its expectations while still keeping her distinctive point of view.

  But first, they had to make sure this lead was legit. Which meant it was time to head back to Lake Effect.

  * * *

  The restaurant was still closed, Refai fending off questions from the media.

  This time, they stopped at a table and just sat, sparing Leah the kitchen and flashback memories of hurling.

  “Thank you for meeting us again. We have some follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. I hope this means you have a lead?”

  King nodded. “My colleague Miss Tang was going through some reviews of the restaurant and found some curious accounts. We were hoping you could put them into context and tell us what was going on in the kitchen over the last few weeks.”

  Leah pulled up the screenshots she’d taken of the reviews and presented the phone to the Chef. It felt both weird and awesome to be presenting Yipe! reviews as a lead in a murder investigation, but this was her role, after all. She was fulfilling it as much by being a millennial digital native as by being a wacky comedienne. She could imagine the junior staff writer pitching the plot beat in the room to the eccentric Luddite showrunner. Technological savvy was presented as basically magic on cop shows, especially when deployed by The Youth.

  Chef Refai read the reviews, then set the phone down on the table, lips pursed in thought.

  “I did not want to tell you earlier because of my investors. They said if anyone found out about the announcement early, it would tank their chances—competition for restaurant real estate is no joke in this city. I decided a few months ago to open a new restaurant. Downtown, with an ultra-hip aesthetic—more affordable but still catering to the modern gourmand. But I cannot manage two restaurants with the same care I give one—the new bistro would demand all of my attention. Over the last few months, I have been observing my two head chefs—Ricardo and Dwayne. I had hoped to make my selection before anyone found out about the bistro. But rumors multiplied, like they do, and word got out. Instantly, Ricardo and Dwayne began competing, trying to one-up each other with more and more grandiose specials. It got…heated.”

  Biting her tongue, Leah let the obvious joke pass her by. Don’t interrupt the exposition that helps you close the case, she heard an inner version of King whisper.

  Adnan was a gesticulating talker, his hands moving as fast as his words. “And so last week, I offered the position of executive chef to Dwayne, and he accepted. Which left me with the unhappy duty to let Ricardo down easy. Dwayne’s vision is”—he caught himself, sighed—”was just stronger, it was more Lake Effect. But Ricardo was hired six months before Dwayne and thought the position should have been his by seniority. If I’m looking after the best interests of my restaurant, how am I to choose seniority over vision?”

  “You should have told us this the first time, Mr. Refai. Withholding information in a murder investigation….”

  Adnan shook his head. “I know. But the stockholders told me that if news got out, in any way…and how could Ricardo have killed Dwayne? They were rivals, but Ricardo is a good man. He is not a murderer.”

  King set down his glass, looked with remorse at the half-eaten steak, and sighed. “Your trust in your staff is admirable, but we’ll need to ask for his home address. Is there anything else you’ve been holding back for your investors?” King’s voice was short.

  Refai pulled out a pen and wrote an address on a Post-it note from his coat pocket. “No. That’s everything.”

  Chapter Eight: Express Delivery

  Ricardo Hernandez’s apartment was a fifteen-minute walk west from Lake Effect. Leah struggled to keep up with a power-walking King.

  The team lead’s phone buzzed ten minutes into their walk. He read the message, then made a frustrated sound and held the phone back to Leah. She grabbed it, trying to focus both on the slushtastic ground so she didn’t lose her footing and the phone to read the message.

  Break in the storm is coming. From the next message, you will have no more than thirty minutes to return to your ship and get off-world. The next break is not projected for ten days. Respond immediately if you need extraction.—Preeti

  “Shouldn’t we head back?” Leah asked.

  “The time counts down from the next message. We’ve still got a bit of a buffer. And we’re so close to closing this case.”

  “Where we’re going is like twenty minutes from the warehouse. That’s cutting it pretty close. Can’t we send the info to the captain and let her solve it? We need to rendezvous with the others.”

  King’s voice grew hard. “We are going to close this case, rookie. You and me. It’s got to be us. If we punt this back to the precinct, the breaches will keep growing. We’d see a crime wave across the country, maybe beyond.”

  Leah gulped. “And you’re sure this isn’t just the archetype talking? Very sure?”

  King shook off her doubt like a dusting of snow. “It has to be us, Leah. We’re nearly there. But text the information to the captain regardless. Her contact information’s in my phone.”

  Leah was very glad for the capacitive touch gloves that had come with this world’s gear, tapping out the message about Ricardo, their conversation with the chef, and the pair’s plan of action, attaching the screenshot of the Yipe! reviews that she’d forwarded to King. The phone made the bwee-doop sound of a sent message, and she took three quick steps, catching up to King to pass the phone back over his shoulder.

  Ricardo Hernandez lived in a condo building, #27 by Chef Refai’s notes. This meant they only had one flight of stairs to scale.

  King flashed his bogus badge to the guard, along with a fierce Takes No Shit Cop look, and the guard buzzed them in with haste.

  “Same deal as with Tatiana. Be ready for him to make a break, got it?”

  “We’re really going to chase after him if he runs? In the murderific weather? I nearly ate it twice on black ice just walking over here.”

  King stopped and turned to Leah, his expression softening. “We can do this. Believe it, and we can do it. You’ve done great, and we’re almost home. Got it?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Overruled. Let’s get moving.”

  “You might not mind getting stuck here, but the rest of us don’t have someone tying us here, boss. We have to remember the bigger stakes.”

  “Your objections have been noted, rookie. Stick with the plan and we’ll out of here faster.”

  If we get out at all.

  This round of shivers wasn’t from the cold.

  But King had the experience, and they were so close to a breakthrough. King drew his gun as they scaled the stairs. Leah left hers in its holster. She’d put in twenty-
something hours in the firing range since joining, but the gun still felt like an alien artifact strapped to her hip.

  They found condo #27, and King slid up beside the door, gesturing where Leah should stand, behind and slightly to his side, cutting off the hall behind them. He held the gun high by his head and knocked with his free hand.

  “Ricardo Hernandez? This is Detective King, CPD.”

  Why would they knock?

  Well, they didn’t have a warrant. Even in a story world, where police procedure was loosey-goosey at its best, they needed a warrant to just go barging in. But if they knocked and the response was something suspicious? Then they had TV-level probable cause. And there was still a chance that Hernandez was innocent, that Tatiana had done for both crimes.

  Leah heard shuffling from inside, then the howling of wind, as if through an empty window.

  “We’re coming in!” King shouted, turning and kicking in the door. Leah had learned, trapped in the bathroom during Chinese New Year, that even a big strong dude like King (or her uncle Ronnie) could take a dozen tries or more to kick down a door.

  But this was a story world, and King was a protagonist. The door cracked and splintered open, revealing Ricardo Hernandez climbing out the window to his fire escape, a suitcase in one hand.

  “Down to the street, cut him off!” King barked, charging into the condo.

  As she turned and headed toward the stairs, she heard the familiar buzz from King’s phone.

  Shit.

  “We gotta go!” she shouted, heading for the stairs.

  “Stick to the plan!”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  They had to close the case, but they had to get home. There was no way they’d get a cab or an El in time, and the ice was getting worse. But King wasn’t going to back down.

  So instead, she took the stairs as fast as she possibly could, half-sledding down the rail as she did her best to keep her balance and head Ricardo off before he could hit ground level.

  * * *