I’d caught some of Harvey Wilder’s funeral on the news at O’Sullivan’s Pub the year before. He died at the ripe old age of a hundred-and-fifty-something. The old soldier had made his fortune investing and branched into property, buying up much of the city. He’d gotten lucky as a kid straight out of college, prospecting in early start-ups. Among his earliest trades were comex, Stellar Engines, and James Madison Weaponry; three companies who reshaped the world and much of the solar system. Half the city attended the funeral procession. The police even cordoned off Brooklyn for an afternoon.
The Wilders were a big deal and among Mayor Quincey’s biggest supporters—if not the biggest. It was no wonder she’d lit the candle at both ends on this one. Crime scenes in one’s building were bad PR and people like the Wilders have reputations to uphold. That was another reason I couldn’t work out why Walsh wanted me at the scene. But money was money.
A single large raindrop hit the windshield. The sun still hadn’t risen, and even if it had the sky had grown low and heavy. I reached for the door handle when the heavens opened.
“Wait here, Cat.” I didn’t have an umbrella and doubted Walsh would appreciate a wet dog getting wet dog all over her scene.
Cat whined and nuzzled my hand, still on the stick.
“Okay, you can come. But don’t be getting in the way.”
“Yes,” he barked happily. Easy to please.
I got out and got my field kit from the trunk, keeping the brim of my hat between my face and the downpour. I got a whiff of burning oil from Betty’s engine mingled with that wet trash smell that comes with heavy rain in the city. I held my hat and ran to the barrier, Cat splashing by my side.
A tarpaulin had been pulled up over the barrier; the rain pelting it sounded like stones. It was blocking the steps to the building.
I recognized one of the two cops under the tarp. Rodger was his name—or was it Rodney? A surly middle-aged guy who looked like he was about to burst out of his food-stained blues. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. A bit of egg was stuck his mustache. The other guy was about half his age, in good shape and his clothes were clean. He had well defined cheekbones and wavy hair; a bit of a pretty-boy. He watched the street eagerly, somewhere between a puppy and a hawk. He wasn’t fresh out of the academy, but he couldn’t have had more than a year on the job.
Rodney met my eyes but didn’t say anything. I had seen him around during my days at the precinct, but I didn’t know him. I tended to keep to myself, even back then. It didn’t exactly make me popular.
It’s probably why I didn’t have much support when I went off the deep end.
“Rodney.” I tipped my hat and ducked under the barrier.
The pup threw up his hand, the other hanging a little too close to his holstered pistol for my liking. “Stop right there, sir. You can’t come in here. This is a crime scene. No reporters.”
“Name’s Miller. Gerri called me in to look at the scene. Tell him, Rodney.”
“It’s Ron,” the fat cop said, stuffing the last of his bagel into his trap. I could tell he was considering using the younger guy towith me. “Let this one through, Brad.”
“Sergeant Walsh didn’t call it in.”
“Sarge is otherwise engaged, kid. She’s got the authorities to worry about.” He licked his fingers. “Miller’s a consultant. You’ll probably see him around from time to time. Let him through.”
“Fine. But he can’t bring a dog.” He pointed at Cat.
Cat growled.
I gave Ron a look that told him that trying to stop Cat was more trouble than it was worth.
“He’s a service animal,” Ron said.
“He isn’t wearing a service tag,” Brad said and nodded to the nearest cop car. “It might confuse the v-unit.”
I could make out a vague humanoid form in the passenger seat. “The department is rolling out venerant bots?”
“Field testing,” Ron spat. “Bastards at city hall say they’ll help keep costs down. As if they haven’t already been slicing our budget like cheese. They’ve reduced the number of cops on the clock. Merged precincts. And now they’re making us train our replacements. Fucking machines can’t be trusted.”
“It’s why we can’t let the dog through,” Brad added. “It’ll throw the VOC.”
“We’ll include it in the report, kid. Let the techs back at the station worry about it.”
I could tell he didn’t like bending the rule, his shoulders sank. “Fine. But what’s that weird thing on his collar?”
Cat growled louder, but Brad didn’t seem bothered. The pup was either brave or stupid, and my money was on the latter.
“Back off. Back off.”
That scared the shit out of him. He jumped back and lost his balance. Would have fallen on his ass if he hadn’t bounced off Ron.
“It’s not a collar. It’s a state-of-the art translator implant. Lets service canines speak.”
The pup stepped aside, nonplussed. He was good-looking, but not the brightest.
“You said Macey’s dealing with the authorities,” I said to Ron. “Is the mayor here?”
He shook his head. “Mayor Quincey hasn’t shown yet, but she’s been hounding Walsh on the radio all morning. The Wilders sent one of their guys down about an hour ago. Mean-looking bald guy with a missing ear. He’s probably still up there.”
I nodded. “And forensics?”
Ron scratched his mustache and found the piece of egg. He examined it and tossed it into his mouth. “Forensics will be here any minute.”
I tipped my hat one more time. “Thanks, Rodney.”
I left before he could respond, taking the steps two at a time. An automatic rotating door nudged Cat and me forward and we arrived in the vast foyer and the gentle warmth of an air heater. Cat shook most of the rain off. I pulled off my hat and coat to do the same and stayed by the entrance for a minute, letting some of the heat seep into my bones. I was in a hurry, but I wouldn’t be any use to anyone if I got sick.
A bright flash blasted through the glass behind us. A second later, a muffled rumble rolled through the foyer.
Cat nudged the back of my knee and whimpered. There’d been a bad storm during our first winter together. He spent a whole weekend hiding under the bed.
“It’s just a bit of lightning boy.” I patted his head. “It’s okay.
The thunder echoed off the marble floor that seemed to stretch on forever. I could have fit my entire cabin into the foyer. A row of giant stone pillars ran down each side, ending at a reception desk carved from exotic hardwood. The desk was unoccupied and the lights were off. A giant backlit metal sign saying ‘Wilder Corp’ hung from long chains. Large plants alternated with paintings. Expensive originals no doubt.
I found the elevator and swore—I’d forgotten to ask what floor, though Rodney bastard should have volunteered that information. One to Rodder and his breakfast bagel. Zero to Max fucking Miller.
A door by the reception desk opened and a security guard appeared, an old fellow named Bob, according to his nametag. He rounded the desk, his movements slow but purposeful. He looked solid for a man his age.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Name’s Miller. Sergeant Walsh called me in to have a look at a crime scene.”
“Ah, yes, she said you’d be arriving twenty minutes ago. I expected a badge,” he said, looking me up and down.
“I’m not with the precinct. I’m a private investigator.”
“I see,” he said, now eyeing Cat. “We don’t normally allow non-service animals into the building, but we’ll make an exception given the circumstances. Take the elevator to ninety-three. I’ve unlocked it for the time being.”
“The top floor?”
“Second from the top. The storage floor for the penthouse office. It’s terrible what happened up there.”
“What exactly happened?”
The old man shrugged. His bony shoulders threatened to poke through his sh
oulder-pads.
“The cleaner found the bodies. Hopefully you guys can get all this out of the way before the building opens, or Vince Wilder will be pissed, and you don’t wanna see Vince Wilder when he’s pissed.”
I didn’t know much about Vince other than he’d taken over the family business when his old man passed away. It sounded like he had a short fuse. “Is that why Vince sent one of his guys down earlier?”
“My shift started twenty minutes ago. I better not have a whole day of this to look forward to.” He thumbed at the cop cars outside.
“Do you have surveillance on the floor where the bodies were found?”
“Cameras stop at ninety. The Wilder family and their friends spend a lot of time on the floors above that, and they value their privacy. Speaking of cameras, I better get back to my HUB.”
“Thank you,” I said, and make my way to the elevator as he trudged back into his security room.
So there were two bodies. My mind raced, conjuring all sorts of theories as to who they were and what had happened.
The elevator pinged right away and the doors opened.
Cat and I stepped inside an empty glass tube. I hit the right numbers and we shot up the side of the building, the city falling away beneath our feet. Another flash of lightning lit the sky and Cat scrambled behind my legs.
We finally reached the ninety-third floor, well above the city. On a clearer day I probably could have seen all the way to the end of Manhattan Island, but visibility was so poor I could barely make out the Empire State Building.
“Scared. Scared,” Cat’s translator whimpered.
“It’s okay, boy,” I said, trying to reassure him. Scratching him behind the ears seemed to help.
Cat followed me nervously off the elevator, making all manner of scared dog noises into a dim hallway past rows of boxes and stacked furniture.
He didn’t whine like that often. In the eerie, stillness of the hall, it caused the hairs on my neck to stand on end. Or maybe it was a premonition. One developed a sense for these things when one was only called in for the messier crimes.
“It’s just lightning,” I quietly told myself as much as Cat. A door slammed open and I jumped.
“Miller, you’re late, dammit.”
Walsh appeared in a doorway, backlit by a faint yellow glow reflected off the inside of the open door. A tiny, yet formidable demon. In her mid-thirties, about five-four with her copper hair tied back for business. A Celtic heritage was one of the few things we shared, though she was more Scot than Irish. She wore brown boots with a slight heel, jeans, and a blue collar hinted at a shirt under her fitted khaki jacket. An EDG heavy pistol hung from her utility belt, a serious piece of kit. Walsh always dressed practically and with style.
Her freckled nose scrunched as she glared up at me, somehow making me feel several heads shorter. I swallowed and did my best not to cower.
“Got cornered by my landlord back at the office.”
She waved me inside. “Get a move on. Lisa and forensics will be here any minute. Speaking of which. Hide this.”
Walsh handed me a brown envelope. Judging by its thickness, it contained eight hundred dollars worth of Jacksons as promised.
I slipped it into my breast pocket and followed her to the storage units, telling myself I was the one in charge. Truth was, if Cat and I traded places, my tail would be between my legs.
Walsh and I had known each other for years, so we shared a certain professional familiarity. I was still with the precinct when she came on as a rookie. I didn’t know her well back then. Unlike me, she kept her head down and got the work done. More importantly, she never took shit from anyone, and she held a strange sway over people twice her size. It had nothing to do with her eighth-degree red belt. Very few people even knew about that. There was something in her walk and in her talk. Walsh carried herself like she was the only one in the room who would know what to do if shit got real. By every account, Walsh was what one might call a badass. I’d only gotten to know her when the precinct assigned her as my handler, for want of a better word.
We walked through a long hallway door after door after door, passing three battery-powered mobile lights, like the ones forensics teams used in remote locations.
“What’s with the disco lights?”
“The power’s been off on the upper floors since we got here. The super will be here later.”
I made a mental note. “Something to do with the scene?”
“I don’t know.”
I could tell she was trying not to snap at me.
“I got here as fast as I could, Walsh. Your boys downstairs didn’t help. The pup thought I was press, and Ronald McEggface didn’t tell me what floor you were on. I had to dig that one out of the security guard.” It was a poor attempt at an apology.
“Dammit. Those assholes should know better.”
Cat whuffed agreement and rubbed against Walsh’s leg. He really liked Gerri.
She scratched him behind the ears as we walked. “Who’s a good boy?”
He panted contentedly.
“You’re never that nice to me.”
“Since when have you been a good boy?” she quipped.
“I can’t argue with that,” I admitted. “Is Vince’s guy still around?”
Walsh shook her head. “He was here about an hour ago. Went by the name Bugs Gallo. Asked a few questions. Wanted info for his boss. I gave him the usual run-around. Mean-looking guy with scars down one side of his face. He’s a cold-hearted bastard—only concerned about cleaning up the mess so Vance Wilder can open up the building. He didn’t stick around.”
“Ron seemed to think Bugs was still up here.”
“Probably left via one of the staff exits. Half of those aren’t on the security circuit. For when the Wilders need to take care of business.”
“Is that what they call it these days?”
“That’s what I call it,” she said.
“You mentioned this scene was bad. What have we got?”
For a split-second Walsh’s eyes flickered, and I caught a glimpse of something. Not fear. Horror. She didn’t usually let down her guard. I figured a woman in her position couldn’t afford to.
The steely resolve returned to her eyes but not her voice. “This one’s bad, Miller.”
“Black Charlatan case bad or Jack Fresnel case bad?”
She tried to hide her distaste, but I saw it. “Neither.”
“Let’s see it then.”
“Be my guest. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She opened a door.
The room beyond was dark save for a single beam illuminating a small circle on the ground. Something dark lay in the middle of the circle.
“I’ve had the moblight in here replaced twice already. Damn things keep going out.”
Walsh and I pulled out our flashlights.
I swung mine back and forth to get a feel for the room. It was much larger than I expected. Rows of storage racks on both sides with an avenue cut down the middle. The I followed Walsh through the ominous shadows cast by the shelves to the circle of light.
I set my field kit on the floor and rummaged for a pair of white gloves.
“Stay there, Cat. This won’t take long.”
Cat obeyed, sitting by the field kit like a good guard dog.
“So, what do you think?” Walsh said, pointing at the mess before us.
It took me a moment to make sense of what I was looking at. The body belonged to a Hispanic male in his thirties. He had dark brown hair and a well-kept goatee. He was naked. He worked out, judging by his arms and legs, for most of the flesh between his upper chest and hips was missing, the two remains held together by the spinal column and a few tattered strips of sinew and fatty muscle.
The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and something else that tickled the hairs in my nose, like the air was charged.
I looked at the hole in the ceiling. Another moblight shone from the floor above. When I squinted I could make
out the penthouse ceiling beyond. There were no prints or blood around the body. Going by the angle, he’d fallen from the next floor.
I’d never seen anything like it.
I shrugged. “Do we have a positive on the ID?”
“Jonny Sanchez. Thirty-nine. One of Vince Wilder’s bodyguards.”
She handed me a wallet with a citizen identification card on the inside. I sniffed it. Real leather. Alligator. It was nice to see someone else still used a physical wallet…or used to use. It contained several cards, a receipt from a restaurant called Deeno’s Diner, and about two hundred dollars in tens and twenties.
I handed the wallet back to Walsh and penciled the name of the diner into my notepad. “He have a record?”
“He had a few misdemeanors as a kid. Petty theft. Drug possession. Vandalism. Nothing out of the ordinary for a kid from Parkchester. My comex didn’t return anything on finance or medical. I’ll run him through the precinct’s database when I get back to base. A cross-reference might pull something.”
“Any ideas what he was doing here?”
“Apparently, Vince Wilder lets his bodyguards use the rooms on the floor below.”
“Then what was this one doing up here?”
“The bodyguards have access to storage and the penthouse for security, but they aren’t supposed to use either. Seems like Jonny didn’t get the memo and decided to take whatever party he was having upstairs.
“I’d like to look around up there.”
“Don’t forget about Mayor Quincey.”
“Hmmm,” I mumbled.
I hadn’t forgotten about Lisa, but I couldn’t rush a crime scene no matter how much I wanted to.
I fetched the polaroid camera from my case. They don’t make them anymore, but I know a collector in Tokyo who serviced gear from the old world. He was my go-to guy for repairs and supplies.
I set a yellow size reference on the floor and took three snaps. A wide shot of the body and two close-ups of the wound. I rarely use the photos, but I always felt better knowing I had them.
I looked at the picture of the hole. “The moblights up there working okay?”
“Those haven’t given me any trouble,” Walsh said.
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