It Sometimes Snows In May: A B.E.A.N. Police Novella

by Tope Oluwole

  “Whatever it was they were after, the were willing to sacrifice a lot for it,” Morefishco says.

  “I’ll ask one of the firemen to open it,” Practice says.

  Morefishco walked next to the box and notices it is cool to his touch, with blinking lights on one end. “Quickly!”

  Practice runs to the front of the wreckage and return with a squat, balding man in a light armored fire suit. It’s coated with the dent, dings, and scrapes of veteran use. They each take places around the box, dragging it out into what used to be the passenger area of the hover-shuttle.

  “What is this?” Morefishco asked.

  “It’s an industrial refrigerator; used to move meat, fish, ‘n stuff,” the firefighter replies. Morefishco glances at Practice, and then crouches down to attempt to open the fridge, when he see a biometric access panel below the blinking lights.

  Practice looks to the firefighter. “Can you open it?”

  “Sure...with a torch.” He giggles a bit.

  “Get a torch then,” Morefishco says.

  About fifteen minutes later, the firefighter runs the white hot blast of a laser-torch along the edge of the refrigerator. He’s surrounded now by Morefishco, Practice, and the EMTs.

  When the firefighter stops the torch, Practice lifts off the dismembered cover, with the help of the EMTs. Inside they see the body of a skinny, middle-aged man, bloodied and bruised. Practice places her fingers along the side of his neck. “I can’t feel anything,” Practice says.

  After tapping some buttons on the device, one muscular EMT places a med-scanner just above where Practice had touched. “I gotta pulse! Very faint!” he says.

  “Let’s roll,” Morefishco replies.

  At Zota’s residence the following night, a truck stands on the street corner while a torrent of rain beats down on it’s metallic black shell. Female fingernails type on a sliver of net-paper furiously. The woman picks up a pair of binoculars from the dashboard. She can see in the magnified view, a luxury sedan parked in front of the garage.

  She switches to thermographic view, and her perspective shifts to a globs of red and orange, surrounded by dark blue.

  “That didn’t take long,” Ryles says. She continues typing and an image of a radio antenna appears, along with the message, “Searching for wireless networks...” When “Z-man” appears on the returned list, she selects it with a tap of her finger. “Let’s hope I’m luckier than you were Zota.”

  Ryles taps an icon on the screen with a key on it, and the message, “Attempting to connect...” fades in across the screen. The n, “1st attempted failed.” Ryles taps the icon again, and after a few moments receives, “2nd attempt failed.” “Retry” and “Cancel” buttons appear on screen as well. “Dang!” Ryles hits the dashboard with the base of her fist.

  Ryles drives a rusty truck up the route as the sun peeks over the horizon. She wears a pair of green, convenience-store sunglasses. Her face is bruised, and her lip cut. Her head now wears a buzz cut. After scanning the right side of the road, she slams on the brakes after whizzing by a trail of debris and skids marks. The car screeches to a halt. “Do me a favor Zota and be hanging upside down with a copy of the ware in your pocket,” Ryles says.

  Ryles climbs down the path to the site of the crash. She finds nothing but twisted carbon fiber and aluminum. A two-hour search of the area reveals no Zota.

  Ryles returns to the truck and activates the vehicular computer. She scans the New Mass Gazette for the last two days for any report of the crash. After a few search queries, Ryles finds a short report which reads, “Vehicle accident on New Mass Pike. Occupants missing.”

  “Dang!” Ryles hisses. From her breast pocket she pulls out her personal digital assistant. She presses the phone icon. “Voice, distort. Dial Zota, home.” The device at the other end returns a few long beeps, before a male voice answers. Ryles pauses, before almost stuttering a reply, when she doesn’t recognize the voice.

  “Ah..Hello. This is Deborah at New Mass Satellite, is this Mister Citysun?” Ryles asks.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time. Mister Citysun isn’t available.” The man responds.

  Ryles eyes widen. “Err...Thank you...” Before Ryles could finish her sentence, she hear her PDA alert, “Call ended.”

  Ryles sips on a mug of liqueur-laced, black coffee at an outdoor table at the Last Breath Cafe in reunified Medford. The heat of the day makes for a damp and muggy night after the earlier downpour. From her table, closest to the trash barrel, and furthest from the rest of the patrons, Ryles stare at the holes in the table.

  Suddenly a shadow blocks the light as well as her view of the street. Ryles looks up slowly to see the Director of Protocol and two Triad heavies on each side of his hover-chair. Ryles' face drops to an expression of resignation. She leans back in her chair.

  “Have you resolved the problem with the ware?” Director of Protocol hovers so he is looking down at her, even though they both are sitting down.

  “I worked it out with,” Ryles said.

  “Is that right?” Director of Protocol studied Ryles face.

  “Yeah. The seller didn’t like giving so much up, but he didn’t want the alternative either. If you know what I mean?” Ryles said.

  Director of Protocol sighed. “I used to believe you were almost as good as your reputation. It looks like you are...to use your street vernacular...slipping. Imagine not knowing your client has met an untimely end."

  Ryles can feel her body sweat even more now, but she forces herself to slow her breathing.

  Director of Protocol slaps a cut of net-paper onto the table. A glowing ring of red hovers over the lower-left margin, on the list of bookmarks. Ryles reads to herself, the obituary notice for Zota Citysun. She wills back the tears already forming in her eyes.

  “I need...a week to filter his place for a copy of the ware.” Ryles stares down, her face sullen.

  “Are you asking for an extension, Ryles?” Director of Protocol smirks.

  Ryles gets up in Director of Protocol’s face abruptly. “Look you piece of...” The heavy on Ryles’ right places a larger hand on her shoulder and forces her back down hard on her chair, rattling it and the table beside her. Ryles sits up and slows her breathing again. “I can’t stroll into my client’s...”

  “Former client.” Director of Protocol interrupts Ryles

  “...house and just start downloading files. I need time. What if it’s not in the house? Then I gotta...”

  “Do not disappoint me again,” Director of Protocol says. “If you disappoint me, you disappoint the Triad."

  “Can you buy me a week?” Ryles asked.

  “You have 72 hours, per your contract.”

  Director of Protocol hovers across the street and boards the rear of a taxi van waiting for him and his heavies. The other cafe patrons avert their eyes as they leave. Once they are gone, the couple next to Ryles pass her a few odd glances. Ryles watches until the taxi van drives off, then she slumps back down with her palms over her eye sockets. With her eyes trained on the net-paper, she zooms in on the funeral address.

  Outside the entrance to Boylston Cemetery, Ryles watches through the mid-afternoon heat vapors, half-a-dozen people dressed in black. They stand opposite a woman in a off-white robe, reading off a sliver of net-paper. Ryles taps the right stem of her sunglasses, and the view magnifies so that she can now see the face of Elisa crying on the shoulder of a tall, good-looking black man in his fifties.

  Beside the man are an older, male eurasian couple, and then another mixed sex white couple. Ryles follows them with her gaze as they trail a procession on the path away from the burial site. Ryles looks back at the groundsmen shovel dirt down in the hole. Ryles taps the mirror function on her sunglass and examines the cuts on her face which have now scabbed over. After seeing the bags under her eyes, and the fine lines on her forehead, she sighs and tap the stem again. The view returns to the groundsmen.

  Ryles steps closer to the edge of
the path as Elisa approaches with a tall man by her side in a protective stance. He leaves her no personal space.

  Elisa notices an older, rugged-looking woman staring her down from behind her sunglasses.

  Ryles intercepts Elisa. “How did Zota die?” Ryles demands. The tall man puts out an arm toward Ryles.

  “This is a private ceremony. The Citysun family already delivered a statement at the press conference yesterday. We’re sorry if you missed it,” Aalin says. He pushes Ryles shoulder back hard enough that Ryles winces in pain. Both Elisa and Aalin stop, and stare wide-eyed.

  “Did...Did you know my husband?” Elisa asks, not immediately recognizing Ryles.

  Ryles removes her sunglasses. “Yes I did.”

  Elisa eyes widen and anger fills her face, flushing it red. “You! Have you no shame?” Aalin’s jaw tightens, and he reaches for Ryles. Ryles drops her sunglasses on the ground and then grabs Aalin wrist with her left hand until Aalin buckles down on one knee grimacing.

  “Your first one was free,” Ryles said. “Don’t let this one cost you.” Ryles applies more pressure on Aalin wrist forcing his extended arm to hyper-extend further. His eyes shut, and Elisa hears clicks from his arm. Aalin begins to struggle to contain himself. If Ryles didn’t have at least decade on him, she would have no chance to hold him this long. “Now be a nice boy, and pick up my shades so we don’t make a scene.” Ryles looks up to Elisa. “I know you plutocrats don’t like to ruffle your feathers.” Elisa begins to step back, while Aalin gropes for Ryles sunglasses.

  Ryles watches as Aalin reaches the them. “Good boy,” Ryles said. “Now get up, real slow.” Ryles lets go of Aalin’s wrist.

  Aalin immediately feels cool metal against his neck. “Real slow.” He hears Ryles repeat. By the time Aalin is up right he facing the business end of a pistol.

  Ryles catches Elisa easing backwards. “Relax. I’m here to wrap up some unfinished business with Zota.”

  “Well...as you can see he’s dead, so I guess your business will remain unfinished,” Elisa says.

  “Don’t be so quick to throw away money,” Ryles replies.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be coming over for dinner. Seven o’clock. Invite your lawyer too.” Ryles puts her sunglasses back on and walks off.

  Ryles walks up to the front door of Zota’s residence under the cover of another hazy summer night. She tugs down a leather hat matching her jacket, which hides most of her face from the cameras perched around the property monitor.

  “Please identify yourself,” the residence's artificial intelligence module asks in a voice matching Elisa’s.

  “Zota’s mistress.” Ryles smirks.

  “Please wait,” the residence AI responds.

  “Sure.”

  Moments later, the access panel display next to the door changes from red, to yellow, to green. “Access granted,” the residence AI says. “Welcome.” Ryles hears the doorbell chime inside, and a few seconds later. The front door slides open to reveal Elisa. She stares down Ryles; her face scrunch up as if she’s tolerating a foul odor.

  “How quaint,” Elisa says. Elisa leads Ryles in. Ryles watches Elisa glide through the living room which has been upgraded with larger, plush furnishings worth of an old England castle. At the grand, wood-trimmed table, Elisa sits at the head with Aalin to her immediate right, and a pigtailed, blasian man in his sixties on her left.

  “So...to what do I owe this visit, from someone I never expected to see...in my house...ever again?” Elisa says. She passes Aalin a side glance.

  “The brother with the sore wrist I know.” Ryles points to Aalin. “So I hope the skinny, old guy is your lawyer.”

  “The best ones are,” Elisa replies.

  “Zota and I have a business agreement…”

  “Oh! Is that what you daiswrights are calling adultery now?” Elisa interrupts.

  Ryles picks up one of the marble coasters on the table, feels its weight in her palm, and then slams it on the table. Everyone flinches, and Elisa gasps, eyeing the table where the coaster lay. “Pay attention, or you’ll miss the good part. I found a buyer for some ware your husband wrote. The copy he gave me to deliver doesn’t work. I need another copy so I can close the deal.”

  Elisa let out a dramatic laugh. “That’s preposterous!”

  “That’s why your lawyer’s here,” Ryles says.

  Ryles pulls out of her coat, a rolled up piece of net-paper, and pass it to Elisa’s lawyer. Elisa and Aalin look at each other. Both their smiles are gone.

  Elisa’s lawyer begins to read, and then taps the net-paper and swipes upwards, scrolling through the text. He stops then compares Zota’s signature on another net-paper document, with that of the document Ryles provides. He scans over both document with the face of his left palm. A light-blue beam washes over both documents. After about five minutes, a low chime emits from the lawyer’s hand. A green light flickers on and stays steady.

  “Well Wellington?” Elisa asks the lawyer.

  “The biometric signatures on this contract between Miss Ryles, and Mister Citysun are authentic.

  Wellington approaches Elisa with both net-paper documents, but Aalin intercepts it. After Aalin reads the documents, he turns to Elisa, nods, and then hands them over to her. Elisa flicks at the net-paper, whizzing through the contract. She stops at the dollar amounts, and then to the biometric signatures. She studies Ryles image, a younger version, and bristles.

  “So, how much am I receiving, as Zota’s legal beneficiary?” Elisa asks. Wellington nods in agreement.

  “Well my cut’s twenty percent, leaving Zota one-point-six million,” Ryles said.

  Aalin Flashes Elisa a look. “Really?” Elisa meets his eyes, and then she focuses back on Ryles. “Well, how does this all transpire?”

  “Same as always. I close the deal, get my cut, forward the rest to the seller,” Ryles says.

  Elisa and Aalin laugh. “We may be plutocrats, but we’re not above worrying about money. How can we be sure you won’t take the prize and run?” Aalin asks.

  “You guys are obviously new to this,” Ryles says. “Zota was green, but even he knew better than too…”

  Before Ryles can react, Aalin pulls an auto-pistol on her, and two red dots dance around her forehead like fireflies.

  “Whoa.” Ryles smirks. “You damn government net-paper pushers are trying to hustle me? Do you know who the buyer is?”

  “For that kind of money there’s only one place,” Ryles says. Aalin and Elisa look to each other. “That’s right.”

  “You think you two can just stroll into the bazaar?” Ryles asks. “I know people with new money can do some stupid things, but don’t make this one of them?”

  “Oh no. You’re going to take care of the formalities,” Elisa says. Elisa turns to see the look of apprehension on Wellington’s face.

  “Thank you for your time,” Aalin waves Wellington away with his un-bandaged hand. Wellington hesitates and meets Elisa’s eyes.

  “It’s all right, I’ll ring you tomorrow,” Elisa says.

  Wellington clutches his briefcase, and then rises. He nods approvingly at Ryles, and then walks around the table toward the front door. When Wellington passes Ryles, she grabs him tightly against her bosom, and then presses the nose of her drawn pistol to his temple. Aalin holds out his hand un-bandaged hand toward Ryles with even calm across his face.

  Wondering how I got past your security with this, huh? Well, I’d ask whoever did your security,” Ryles says to Elisa.

  Elisa glares at Aalin. Ryles grins and then eyes Aalin, Elisa, and the two shadows on the second-story landing picked up by her sunglasses’ heads-up-display.

  “Please leave Wellington out of this. He has a wife and child to go home to,” Elisa says.

  “How big of you. Here I am just trying not to get shot at by the two jokers on the second floor. How selfish of me,” Ryles says. Elisa grits her teeth.

  The front door slides open once Ryles s
teps on the pad in front of it. She steps backwards through the door with Wellington, and disappears.

  Three months later, at East Ispari Hospital, a nurse walks through an intensive care ward with a food cart. As she passes two other nurse, one male nurse teases her. “Time for your dinner date already, Lisa?”

  “Be nice Laban,” Lisa says.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know...The dead can still hear you. At least you know why he never calls,” Laban says.