by Dan Stout
Bryyh turned away and planted her hands on her desk. Her eyes moved to the framed pictures she kept there. Photos of her husband and their kids, both adults now, and her two grandkids. Bryyh chewed her lip, probably wondering how many more hours she’d spend on this case instead of her family.
I tried again, my voice calmer this time. “Cap, there’s something going on here. Somebody tore that Squib to pieces. And as soon as we collared Flanagan, someone started the wheels turning to get him busted loose.”
Turning to the rest of the room I said, “If he had an alibi, why didn’t he just say so? If the guide remembered him, why did she deny it when we asked the first time?”
I was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Bryyh barked out a gruff, “Not now!” but the door opened anyway. A tiny man with a salt-and-pepper goatee walked in. He carried a bowler hat in one hand, the dark material matching both his suit and his slicked-back hair. Assistant City Attorney Flifex had come slinking in just in time for my public shaming.
“I understand this is the place to discuss tonight’s momentous events.” He pointed at the empty chair beside me. “May I join in?”
Bryyh nodded. “Where do we stand with Flanagan right now?”
Taking a seat, Flifex crossed his legs and popped his hat on his knee.
“His lawyer hasn’t filed a motion yet, but she’s contacted us to let us know she’ll do so at the start of business tomorrow. We can file the paperwork to stall the process, of course. Though honestly, it’s a lost cause with that many witnesses. There’s simply no way we’ll get a conviction.”
“And if we hold on to him the press will camp outside the Bunker and hold a countdown for his release.” Bryyh rubbed the bridge of her nose.
I cleared my throat to get Flifex’s attention. “You said his lawyer contacted you. Who is it?”
“Emily Jankowski.”
Bryyh frowned. “What’s that turd Flanagan doing with a hired gun like her?”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Flifex. “Your friend Mr. Flanagan seems to have some impressive connections, Carter.”
I seethed, mentally forcing him to eat the word “friend.” In my imagination, he choked on it.
Flifex looked around at each of us in turn.
“The City Attorney’s Office has made its position abundantly clear. This whole thing is an embarrassment.”
I didn’t bother to hide my sneer. “The CA was more than happy to have us charge Flanagan when we had him in hand.”
“And now we’re more than happy to find a way to keep him. So tell me what you have to hold him on, and we’ll go from there.”
I squeezed my temples. “He had possession of a satchel with the emblem of the Squib nation.”
“Did it belong to Envoy Haberdine?”
“We haven’t establish—”
“Has a satchel been reported stolen?”
There was silence in the room.
“Not that it particularly matters. The public isn’t clamoring for the arrest of a dealer in stolen goods. What do you have to tie him to the Envoy Haberdine?”
“The AFS witness, Cordray, places him in repeated proximity to Haberdine, both before and on the day of the murder.”
“A trait the accused shares with dozens of other people. I do hope you’re saving the best for last, Detective.”
I shifted in my chair. “Nothing else.”
“Well.” Flifex ran a thumb along the cloth band of his hat. “That’s rather thin soup, isn’t it?”
I threw my hands in the air. “Then why the Hells did you insist we charge him?”
Flifex’s fingers left his hat and folded into each other as he stared me down.
“Whoever made that decision must have been assuming that when you hauled in your prime suspect in a high-profile case, you did so with evidence to back it up,” he said. “Silly us. It won’t happen again.”
Ajax had been nervously drying his tusks with a hanky while Flifex ranted. The poor kid was probably afraid that his career was over before it began. Now he spoke up. “Hold him on the stolen goods. Give us time to shore up the murder case.”
If we can prove it’s stolen, I thought.
Bryyh raised her eyebrows. “How would that play in the press?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid,” said Flifex. “His camp would play it up as a trumped-up technicality, while reminding the public that a brutal killer still walks the streets.”
It was time to throw reason out the window.
“Let him go,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“Even if we manage to make the stolen goods, having him sit in a cell doesn’t tell us how he killed Haberdine, or why, or even if he really did it. That guide has a lot of witnesses. And, yes, they could all be lying, but . . . if we let Flanagan go now, he’ll go to ground while we can still track him. He’ll lead us to whoever ordered Haberdine killed.” I swept my eyes around the circle. “Let him out preemptively. Don’t even tell his lawyer so there’s no chance for a press conference on the Bunker steps.”
Flifex arched his eyebrows and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It would minimize the press coverage. And if we do charge him later, it’ll make a good story.”
“That would help the prosecution?” asked Bryyh.
“It wouldn’t hurt.” Flifex ran a finger over an eyebrow, smoothing any stray hairs. “But letting him go is up to you, Captain. Your career, not mine.”
There was a moment of silence while that sunk in. Then Bryyh said, “Alright. Cut him loose and get him out of here.”
I stood up. “I’ll tell him.”
“Carter . . .” began Bryyh.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take Ajax along to make sure I behave.”
* * *
Flanagan was in a concrete-walled general visitation room, the only prisoner in the room. Just him, a soda vending machine, and a picnic table bolted to the floor.
He was playing it calm, sitting passively at the table, hands folded in front of him. The rules of the room were painted behind him.
NO SPITTING.
NO YELLING.
NO PASSING OF CONTRABAND TO OR FROM PRISONERS.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, CALL FOR A GUARD.
Flanagan had a lantern jaw and a twisted nose that looked like it’d been broken so many times even he’d lost count. His face wore a look of placid calm that was enough to turn my stomach.
“Look at you,” I said as I entered. “The cat that ate the canary.” Ajax followed behind me.
Flanagan held his hands out, palms up. “I just keep walking. The Path takes me where it will.”
“You know this is bullshit,” I said with some heat in my voice. It was important that he not think we were choosing to let him walk. “How’d you get the guide to vouch for you?”
“If someone vouched for me, it was because their conscience told them to do so.”
“A conscience or a paycheck. How much did you offer her?”
He was silent, his eyes focused on a point somewhere above my head. I recognized that look. It was the look of someone trying to mellow their way through an interview. The thought of him staying calm and collected when I’d lost so much sleep fixating on everyone he’d killed or ruined since I saved his life was more than I could stomach.
“You lying son of a bitch.” I was in his face, close enough for him to smell the remnants of my last meal. “If you walk out of here on a bullshit technicality, I’ll—I’ll—” I was way beyond acting angry to sell the plan. My hands were shaking, and I clenched them into fists that I shoved into my coat pockets to hide my lack of control.
His eyes shifted, and he looked right into me. His voice took on a gravel-rough tone it hadn’t had before.
“Innocence isn’t really a technicality, is it?”
>
“In all the world,” I said, “there is no one less innocent than you.”
“No one?” His nose had been broken often enough that his words had a nasal, resonate sound. “You think those idiots by the Mount who’ve never been cold in their life—”
“Don’t give me that,” I said. “You shook down anyone with a spare dime. You brought nothing but misery to everyone around you.”
“I brought justice,” he said, then dropped his eyes. “Or at least I tried. But I was never their lapdog.”
Ajax had a hand on my shoulder then, and another on my bicep. He eased me back, and I relented. He whispered something musical and calming through needle-sharp teeth, but I couldn’t listen. I was busy telling myself that if I could just keep it together long enough to get Flanagan out of there, we’d be giving him enough rope to hang himself.
With that hope, I managed to pull myself together. We processed the paperwork and escorted him out the back way, making sure no reporters were within spying distance. I hailed him a cab and paid for a trip back out to the Therreau ranch where we’d nabbed him. It wouldn’t do for him to be caught wandering the streets near the Bunker.
Before he got in the taxi Flanagan looked at me one last time. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something. Instead he sneered, shook his head, and climbed inside.
As Flanagan’s cab drove off, a small Hasam pulled away from the curb and followed at a healthy distance. The tail was on him. Now we’d play the waiting game until it brought us answers.
* * *
On the way back to the visitation room Ajax started whistling a tune. I asked him what it was.
“‘Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop,’” he said.
I gave him a blank stare in return.
“The new Dinah McIntire track,” he said. When my expression didn’t change he threw up his hands. “Seriously? Do you not listen to music at all?”
“Kid,” I said. “Disco’s not music.”
He spent the better part of a half hour trying to convince me that electronic keyboards and canned string sections could somehow make a decent album. It was a wasted effort. I was about to explain how much more dangerous the streets would be if thugs and killers learned he liked disco when we were interrupted by a rattle at the door. A guard stuck her head inside.
“Detectives? The prisoner’s attorney is here.”
“Send her in,” I said.
Jankowski was in a hurry, and she looked irritated—though not particularly surprised—to see us instead of Flanagan. She had faded orange hair swept up above her shoulders, only a few artfully chosen strands were left loose to fall onto her immaculate suit. She was press-conference perfect, even when she couldn’t really expect the media frenzy to begin until the morning. Amazing. She and Angus needed to trade notes.
“Ah. The arresting officer,” she said. “So glad I can tell you in person that I expect to be present whenever you speak to my client from this point forward. Not that you’ll have much of an opportunity. I believe he’ll be leaving in the morning. You’ll understand if I ask you to wait someplace else while I talk to him tonight.”
Ajax and I looked at each other, then stood up.
“Fair enough,” Jax said. “I was just passing the time myself. Did you need a lawyer for anything?” he asked me.
“Well.” I turned to Jankowski. “I did have one thing I’d like to know, Counselor. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Go ahead. We both know you’re going to ask anyway.” She set her briefcase upright on the table, an expensive miniature wall of leather and clasps.
“It seems to me that a high-profile attorney such as yourself must charge a reasonable fee for her time. Perfectly fair, considering all the good work you do. But I can’t help but wonder—”
“I can’t help but wonder when you’re going to get on with it.”
“Who’s paying your fee? Because Flanagan sure as Hells can’t afford it.”
She didn’t answer, only stared and looked unpleasant. But that told me something in itself. If the money were coming from an advocacy group, or the Therreau, then they’d want everyone and their brother to know about it. Her silence told me that whoever was footing the bill for Flanagan’s escape wasn’t eager to appear as his benefactor. And that carried another implication: Whoever this wealthy person was, they would respond if there was a threat to expose them.
On top of that, dragging this mysterious benefactor into the light might be fun.
Jankowski glanced at her wristwatch. “Can I see my client, or do I need to go revisit Judge Kalis?”
Jax stepped out from the corner. “Oh, you can see your client anytime you like. We released him half an hour ago.”
The hired gun smirked.
“Okay. No press conference in front of your building. Fine.” She picked up her briefcase. “If you’re done with me I’ll be going. Lots of other very high-paying clients to tend to.”
She walked out of the visitation room and Jax and I waited for the click of the security door latching behind her.
“We need to find out who’s paying her bill,” he said.
“Yes, we do.” I did a slow turn, taking in the visitation area and trying to imagine what it felt like to have this drab, dungeon-like room be the only place you could interact with your family.
“Something isn’t right,” I said.
Jax kicked a discarded candy wrapper to the side. “With what?”
“With any of it.” I looked up at the stained, palsied acoustical tiles on the ceiling, then back to my partner. “The whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”
I scooped the candy wrapper off the floor and stepped toward the trash, when something about the label caught my eye. I turned it over in my hand. The wrapper had once housed a Black Gold candy bar. Written across its face was a promise of the chocolate and caramel that could be found inside.
Black Gold.
“You know,” I said, “there’s really only two reasons someone would kill Haberdine.”
Ajax let loose a brief whistling sigh and clacked his biting teeth. “A personal vendetta or a desire to change up the wind farm plans.”
“What if there’s another reason that the oil fields are valuable?”
“You mean the oil fields that are almost dry?” he said. “At which point they’ll be vast, uninhabitable swaths of ice-covered rock. Those oil fields?”
I tried to coalesce the half-formed idea in my mind. “The entire city is based on oil.” I dropped the wrapper on the table. “Even our candy is named after it. What if its connection runs deeper than we think?”
“If I just admit that I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, “will that make you stop saying it?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
“Goodnight, Carter,” he said, and knocked for the guard. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”
* * *
I saw my cat when I got home. I scritched his ears and said, “Hi Rumple,” and checked his food dish. He had water but no dry food. I looked in the plastic storage bin, but only found a note I’d left reminding myself to buy cat food.
Then I opened the fridge and couldn’t find a beer. Or much in the way of food; I was down to a single slice of ham and a bottle of ketchup, but it was the lack of beer that got to me. I’d had a beer in my hand at Hammer Head’s— before Flanagan managed to yank it away from me. Or rather his lawyer, or whoever was paying her. Same difference. I swore that the world had gotten between me and a drink for the last time.
I flipped on the stereo, a sleek hi-fi unit with both an 8-track and turntable. The amp popped on with a click as it warmed up. I was hoping to catch the tail end of my favorite DJ’s rotation, The Handsome Hanford Happy Hour. Instead, the sound of a Rediron commercial filled my apartment. A broken record, promoting their the-past-is-our-future rh
etoric.
My stomach growled, returning my focus to the matter at hand. I brought the slice of ham to my nose to make sure it was good. Once it passed the sniff test I tore it into chunks and dropped it into Rumple’s food bowl. The bottle of ketchup went on the counter. A few minutes later I had a pan of boiling water. A little salt, a little sugar, add the ketchup, and presto—hobo tomato soup, just like my dad used to make.
I ate my soup sitting at the kitchen table, being careful of the wobbly leg I’d been meaning to fix for a couple years. From the wall a younger version of Talena peered over my shoulder. It was a photo of her, me, and her mother. We were all smiling.
It was a reminder that I hadn’t missed every important day in Talena’s life. Just most of them. Just like my dad had missed mine.
My father was a lifer on the oil rigs, a man who’d always seemed a little lost when he came home on leave and remembered that he had a wife and kid. He’d tried hard, though, to give me a good life, sheltered from the rough and tumble world of Titanshade’s streets. In the end, he hadn’t exactly succeeded. I ended up following my mom’s footsteps, enrolling in the police academy as soon as I was old enough. To his dying day he swore he’d never understand why I’d go and do such a damn fool thing as putting on a uniform and walking a beat.
Done with supper I flopped on the couch with my shoes still on. Dad would have hated that.
There was a hint of movement, then a furry shape landed on top of me. Rumple had finished his dinner, too. Needle claws tugged at my flesh through my shirt, sharp little pains that I knew would fade as quickly as they appeared. I endured it without complaint. Sometimes, that’s what you have to do.
The purring, furry mass finally settled down on my chest. He stretched his paws out as he relaxed, clinging to me like a child. I knew I’d wake to a fuzzy throat-warmer in the morning, but I didn’t bother shooing him away. It was nice to be accepted for who I was, even if that was just an occasional roommate who wasn’t so great at remembering to buy food.
At least that was something.