Supernatural 1 - Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Sam looked down at Dean, who was still seated on the couch. "Gee, we don't know anybody like that, do we, Dean?"

  Looking up, Dean glared, then also rose from the couch. "Yeah, we really do have something we gotta take care of."

  "You takin' the car?" Manfred asked after taking another toke.

  "Uh, yeah."

  "Groovy, man. Jus' park it b'hinda truck when y'get back."

  Dean smiled. "Thanks." He tapped Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. "Let's motor, Sammy."

  They went out to the Impala and retrieved their coats from the backseat. Sam still had the keys, and Dean had shown no interest in doing any more driving in this city—nor did Sam have any interest in listening to Dean while he did—so Sam folded himself into the driver's side.

  Driving to Webb and 195th took almost no time at all this late hour. There were other cars on the road, especially once they got out of Riverdale and drove on Broadway to West 225th Street, which turned into Kingsbridge Road once they went over I-87.

  Unfortunately, Sam's belief that parking would be easier at night proved a foolish one. "I don't believe it," he muttered.

  "Look around, Sammy," Dean said. "Most of these are apartment buildings, and I ain't seen too many parking lots. This time'a night, everyone's at home asleep, which means their cars are parked. Screw it, just double park."

  Sam frowned. "Isn't that illegal?"

  "So's breaking and entering, and that's kinda what we're here for."

  "Yeah, but we're good at B and E, and we probably won't get caught. But the car's just out there being illegally parked. I mean, I saw tons of doubleparked cars during the day, when I was driving around, but I haven't seen a single one since we left Manfred's. We'll stand out, is all I'm saying, and if some bored night-shift cop decides to—"

  "You got a better idea, Sam?"

  Sam steered the car down Webb back toward Kingsbridge. "Wasn't there a parking lot on Kingsbridge?"

  "Is that the big street we came up?" Dean asked.

  Nodding, Sam said, "We'll try there."

  Making a right onto Kingsbridge, Sam saw the parking lot—then the rates they were charging, not to mention the sign that said, sorry, full. His head in his hands, fingers rubbing his forehead, Dean said, "Sam, just double-park."

  Letting out a long breath, Sam said, "Yeah, okay." He drove down another block, turned right, made a broken U-turn using someone's driveway, turned left back onto Kingsbridge, then did the one-way-street shuffle once again to get to the house where the first of their Poe-inspired murders took place.

  "I got an idea," Sam said. The house had a driveway next to it that was gated and locked. The driveway was just wide enough to accommodate the Impala. Sam pulled up as if to parallel park. The first time, he aimed a bit off, and so had to start again. The second time, he came in at too wide an angle, so he had to start again. By the time he succeeded in parking the car more or less evenly, Dean looked like he was ready to chew off his own arm.

  Glaring at Sam as he turned off the ignition, Dean reached over and yanked the keys out. "I'm driving back."

  Sam shook his head and chuckled—it wasn't as if Dean was any better at parallel parking—and followed his brother to the wrought-iron gate that blocked the driveway they'd parked in front of. Dean looked up at the house. "Nice place. Surprised they haven't sold it."

  "Yeah, well, murder plays hell with real estate, y'know?"

  Reaching into his coat pocket for his lock pick, Dean said, "Yeah." He knelt down and started working on the gate's padlock. After about thirty seconds' work—which seemed like an eternity to Sam, feeling very exposed on the city street, even this late at night with no sign of anyone—it clicked open. Sam looked around nervously, unable to help noticing that several people in the surrounding apartment buildings had their lights on. Hope none of them are looking down at the street outside their windows.

  Dean pushed the gate open quickly—something Dad had taught them, metal gates made more noise if you opened them slowly. Sam jumped forward and caught the gate before it collided against the house.

  They both went into the driveway, Dean shutting the gate behind him so it would look normal. However, he didn't relock the padlock, as they might well need to make a hasty exit.

  Dean knelt down next to the side door and started to work on picking that lock.

  Several minutes passed, and Dean made no progress whatsoever.

  Whispering urgently, Sam said, "Dude, will you hurry up?"

  "It's a tough lock, Sammy," Dean whispered right back. "And it's dark. 'Sides, artistry takes time."

  "So does incompetence. C'mon, Dean, I've seen you get through doors faster than this."

  "Those doors had freakin' porch lights, okay? Just give me a sec, I think I—"

  Suddenly, a light shone right in Sam's face. Looking down the driveway at the source, he saw a dark figure who appeared to be holding a gun in addition to a flashlight.

  "Freeze, police!"

  TEN

  Fiftieth Precinct

  The Bronx, New York

  Saturday 18, November 2006

  It had been several years since Detective Marina McBain had been up to the Five-oh in the Bronx. Like most of the New York Police Department's precinct houses, the Fiftieth Precinct in the Bronx was a boxy white edifice with few windows and an American flag atop it flapping from a pole. McBain drove her Saturn—her own car rather than a departmental one, as technically she was off duty right now—up Broadway after getting off the Major Deegan at the West 230th Street exit. She turned left at West 236th, which had been renamed after Officer Vincent Guidice, a member who died in the line of duty a decade earlier. In fact, her last trip up here had been the renaming ceremony for the street back in 1999.

  McBain searched desperately for a parking spot. Generally, the street outside a precinct house had angled parking, but cops never parked their cars neatly. Vehicles, both unmarked and blue-and-whites, were thrust up against the sidewalk at every conceivable angle, some of them on the sidewalk itself.

  Eventually, though, McBain found a place to wedge in her Saturn. After locking it with the remote, she walked in the precinct's dirty glass front door, heading up the four metal-rimmed stairs and through the creaky wooden doors to the reception area. The public information desk was empty at this time of night, so McBain moved past it and to the left, walking by about half a dozen plaques for those officers who fell in the line of duty (Guidice most prominent among them). There, facing the large white wall with the Five-oh's insignia emblazoned on it, was the main desk, behind which sat a bored-looking night-shift sergeant. Hair in a crew cut, beady eyes barely visible under a ridged brow, a potbelly protruding over his gun belt, and with a name tag that said O'Shaughnessy, the sergeant was perusing the sports pages of the Daily News. McBain could hear a voice, not really audible, on crummy speakers under the desk. She assumed it was the dispatcher, and as she got closer she heard familiar codes, confirming her presumption. McBain also noticed the Derek Jeter bobblehead on top of the computer monitor. It was slightly askew, and obviously not attached to the monitor, so chances were good it belonged to this sergeant alone, who only kept it out during his own shift. In addition to his name tag, his badge, and the gold 50 pins attached to his collar, he was also wearing a decidedly non-regulation pin with the interlocking NY logo of the New York Yankees baseball team. If worse came to worse and she couldn't get O'Shaughnessy to help her out via friendly means, she could always threaten to report him for being out of uniform.

  Without looking up from the paper, O'Shaughnessy said, "Can I help you?"

  "So whaddaya think, the Yanks'll trade Johnson?"

  That got the sergeant to look up. "Friggin' well hope so." He looked at McBain. She watched his face change as he regarded her. First he saw her dark-skinned face and short, nappy hair, and his disinterested expression said, black female. Then he moved down to her dark business suit, which altered his expression to vague interest, since it was
now black female who doesn't look like street slime. Then he saw the gold shield on her belt. Only then did he set the paper down and change his expression to one of genuine interest, as now she wasn't a black female at all, but a member.

  "Never shoulda traded for the guy inna first place. He ain't no Yankee. Neither's A-Rod."

  McBain smiled, dredging up the baseball knowledge she had absorbed from her fellow detectives in the Missing Persons Unit. She couldn't have cared less about that or any other sport, but you didn't survive in the testosterone-laden NYPD without being able to hold your own in any conversation about the Yankees, Mets, Knicks, Nets, Giants, or Jets. The Rangers, Devils, and Islanders were optional, which was good, as McBain drew the line at hockey.

  "Yeah, but A-Rod's still a good player. I don't think RJ has anything left in the tank."

  "Got that right. 'Sides, after 2001, you don't let a guy like that onna team."

  "I dunno, they let Johnny Damon on after 2004, and he's been pretty good."

  O'Shaughnessy shook his head. "That's different—Yanks signin' Damon pissed off Red Sox fans. Pissin' off Red Sox fans, that's always good."

  If you say so, McBain thought. She was already starting to use up all the knowledge she could bring to bear in a Yankees-related conversation. If she had to drag the endless Yankees–Red Sox rivalry into it, she'd flounder, and that was contrary to her purpose.

  Luckily, O'Shaughnessy let her off the hook. Now sitting up straighter in his chair, he asked, "What can I do ya for, Detective?"

  "My name's McBain, I'm with MPU. You guys get any calls the last couple of days for a 10–31 at 2739 West 195th Street?" she asked, using the radio code for a burglary in progress. O'Shaughnessy's pudgy face fell into a frown.

  "Don't think so. What's that gotta do with Missing Persons?"

  Putting on an exasperated look, she said, "Don't ask. My sergeant's taken up lodging right in my ass until I get through this."

  "Heard that." O'Shaughnessy sputtered a noise that McBain supposed could have been a laugh. He grabbed the keyboard with a meaty hand and dragged it toward him. "Lemme check."

  Several keystrokes and a few mouse clicks later, O'Shaughnessy shook his head, causing his jowls to vibrate. "Nah, nothin' there since that homicide back on the seventh."

  "Okay," McBain said. It had been a long shot, but she was just sure that—

  The dispatcher's voice said, "Nine-one-one call, 10-31 at—" Here, the dispatcher enunciated each number. "—two-seven-three-nine West one-nine-five."

  McBain had to fight to keep herself from grinning. Knew I could count on the boys. O'Shaughnessy stared at McBain with an expression that she supposed was awe. "How the hell'd you know about that?"

  "It was a guess," was all McBain would say. "Listen, let me take care of that."

  "No biggie," O'Shaughnessy said, "I can get one of my guys down there and—"

  Wincing, McBain said, "Sergeant, please—I really need to take care of this one myself. It's the only way I'll get outta the boss's doghouse, y'know?"

  The sergeant stared at her for a second with his beady eyes. "This got somethin' to do with that homicide?"

  "Sort of." That, at least, wasn't really a lie. "Like I said, it's a long story. If you want the whole thing, fine, but there is a 10–31, and—"

  Waving her off with both hands, O'Shaughnessy said, "Fine, fine, what-the-hell-ever. Knock yourself out. Just leaves my guys free to bust more stupid college kids."

  McBain chuckled. Both Manhattan College and Mount Saint Vincent were within the Five-oh's jurisdiction, and Friday nights usually meant lots of so-called SWIs—Stupid While Intoxicated. Then O'Shaughnessy got a weird look on his face.

  "Hang on—you sure you don't need backup?"

  Trying not to grit her teeth, McBain said, "If this is who I think it is, trust me, I can handle it."

  "Yeah, but what if you can't? My lieutenant finds out I let you out without backup, he'll have my ass."

  "I can understand that," McBain said. She had been hoping O'Shaughnessy would be too bored to think through the implications.

  O'Shaughnessy's eyes darted back and forth as he thought for a minute. Finally, he said, "Tell you what—I'll send one of my guys over in twenty minutes if I ain't heard from you."

  That was a compromise McBain could live with. She was now grateful she'd had the foresight to program the Five-oh's number into her cell. "That's fair. Thanks a lot, Sergeant, I really appreciate it."

  "No problemo, Detective," O'Shaughnessy said, picking up his paper. "An' hey, listen, I got me season tickets for the Stadium every year. I ever got a free seat, want me to let you know?"

  "Sure," McBain said, confident that she would always be busy at those times, but preferring to keep the goodwill with the sergeant, just in case. With that empty promise made, she turned and headed back to her Saturn.

  It didn't take long to drive to the corner of Webb and 195th Street, and it took even less time to find an illegally parked 1967 Chevy Impala. I swear, I'm gonna kill 'em.

  Double-parking her Saturn right next to the Impala, she checked to make sure her NYPD credentials were prominently displayed on the dashboard, in case one of O'Shaughnessy's "guys" decided to get overzealous with the parking citations. The house in question was easy enough to pick out, as it was the only structure on the corner that wasn't red brick. Yellow crime scene tape was draped sloppily across the wire gate that led to the front door, probably a victim of eleven days of November wind. McBain was surprised the tape was still up, but then recalled that nobody actually lived in the house to take it down. Presumably, the real estate company representing the house—whose name, phone number, and website were listed on the For Sale sign—had declined to show the house for a while after it was a crime scene. Walking back toward where her car and the Impala were parked, she saw a gated driveway. Normally padlocked, the lock was hanging open, though the gate was still shut. Peering past the gate down the driveway, she saw a side door, and two figures kneeling down in front of it. One was fairly tall and was staring intently down at the other one, who was crouched in front of the door. The tall one seemed to be speaking sharply at the short one, though not loud enough to be heard from the street. McBain removed her nine-millimeter weapon from its holster and thumbed the safety. She also removed her flashlight, flicked it on and held both it and the nine-mil up as she kicked open the gate.

  "Freeze, police!"

  Both of them looked up at her, like deer frozen in headlights as her flashlight shone on them. Slowly, she walked into the driveway. The shorter one—that had to be Dean—started to rise up, and she said, "Which part of 'freeze' didn't you get?"

  Dean stopped moving.

  She finally came fairly close to the pair, though not near enough for them to be in arm's reach of her weapon.

  Once she was sure she'd put on enough of a show for whoever it was who made the 911 call, she lowered her nine-mil. "You guys are complete idiots, you know that?"

  Sam started to speak. "Officer, I can explain—"

  "It's 'Detective,' and don't even try to explain it, Sam, 'cause I got no tolerance for Winchester brand bull."

  Both of them started opening and closing their mouths, as if unsure how to respond to her use of their name.

  Deciding to put them out of their misery, she smiled and said, "Yeah, I know who you are. Sam and Dean Winchester, only sons of John Winchester, a man who, unlike his dumbass sons, knows to call me whenever he's in town."

  "You knew our father?" Dean asked, sounding stunned.

  "Yeah." She frowned, not liking Dean's use of the past tense. "The rumors I heard ain't true, though, are they? That he died?"

  Both brothers looked at each other, and the expressions on their faces told McBain everything she needed to know. Far too many missing persons cases ended with a corpse, and she knew what grief-stricken people looked like.

  "Damn. I'm sorry, guys, I didn't know. Look, my name's Marina McBain, and you are damn lucky I found you
before the uniforms in the Five-oh did. You know there was a 911 call on your sorry-ass attempt at B and E here?"

  "How did you—" Sam started.

  "Later. You wanna check out this place?"

  They exchanged another glance, this time looking confused. "I, uh—yeah," Dean said slowly.

  "Fine, get your ass back down on the ground and finish pickin' the lock. I gotta make a phone call. Here, this might help." She handed Sam the flashlight, which he held up so it shone on the lock.

  "Thanks," Sam said.

  "No problem."

  "You really a cop?" Dean asked.

  "Nah, I just like wearin' gold shields for kicks. Yeah, I'm a cop, now shut up and pick the damn lock." She started up the driveway toward the street.

  "Or what," Dean said with a smirk, "you'll show me that NYPD stands for 'knock your punkass down'?"

  She turned back around. "Okay, first of all, white people should not quote Will Smith. Second of all, if you want me to put you on your ass, just say the word, brushy-top."

  Leaving Dean to self-consciously touch the top of his head, McBain pulled her cell phone out from the inside pocket of her suit jacket, flipped it open, and continued up the driveway, calling up the number for the Fiftieth Precinct.

  "Fiftieth Precinct, O'Shaughnessy."

  "Sergeant, this is Detective McBain."

  "You okay, Detective?"

  He sounded genuinely concerned, which touched McBain. "It was the guys I thought it was. I took care of it, so you don't gotta send your guys over. Thanks, though."

  "No problem, Detective. Hope this gets you back in good with your boss."

  "Me, too," she said emphatically. Of course, she was actually off duty right now, and as far as her boss Sergeant Glover was concerned, she was a perfectly good missing persons detective who was currently at home asleep like any sensible dayshift detective would be at that hour. "Thanks again."

  She turned and walked back down the driveway.

  "Okay, I got the Five-oh off the scent. If the 911 caller wants to know what happened, they'll say it was taken care of, but I doubt they will. Damn citizens don't follow up on anything."