Forests of the Night
Page 19
"Why aren't you talking to your tip?" Nohar had an idea why. A morey from Belfast meant a fox.
Isham flipped out another picture, confirming No-har's suspicion. The picture snowed a morey vulpine, very dead. The fox had a small-caliber gunshot wound, close range, right eye.
"She was our witness. Whelp fox from North Ireland. Had the bad luck to be in a street gang that called itself Vixen— I see you know what happened to Vixen. Never got the chance to contact her."
She leaned back and glanced, over her sunglasses, at the one-way mirror. Then, satisfied, she went on. "The Fed only has suspicions of what Hassan is doing. But it scares Washington. Joseph Binder's Senate campaign seems to be his latest target. The Fed thinks a radical morey organization is operating out of Cleveland. The terror attacks by the Zipperhead gang give credibility to the suspicion."
"You want information on Hassan."
"We put you and Hassan in the same area on at least three separate occasions. When Hassan killed a local pimp named Tisaki Nugoya. During the attempted as-FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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sassination of Stephanie Weir, former assistant to the late Daryl Johnson. And the arson attack that killed Desmond Thomson,"
"Hassan was there?"
"One of the security guards lived long enough to give us a tentative ID."
Maybe he could bargain. "What do I get for talking to you?''
Isham took oif her glasses and looked at Nohar as if she was examining a corpse to determine the cause of death. "You'll get my good will."
The smile was gone. "Nohar, you are going to walk. Make me happy."
Nohar scratched his claws across the linoleum and decided he didn't want Isham as an enemy. "I'll tell you, but it's mostly second-hand . . ." He gave her the story, as he saw it, leaving out the MLI angle in deference to client confidentiality. Saturday the 19th, Young had let Hassan into Johnson's house. Johnson gets whacked by Hassan's Levitt. Thursday the 24th, while Stigmata is being wiped up by the Zipheads, Hassan takes position up on Musician's Towers during a thunderstorm and blows Johnson's picture window. Thursday the 31st, Young empties the Binder finance records, torches them, and himself, on the 1st. Monday the 4th, the Zips attack the coffeehouse. Hassan and Terin are together in the four-wheeler.
She completed the list. "Today, Desmond Thomson is a victim of a firebomb in his condo and Edwin Har-rison's BMW explodes on the Shoreway—" "Harrison'sdead?"
"Haven't you followed the news?" Nohar remembered the cabbie mentioning something about a bomb on the Shoreway. "Him and twelve other commuters during the morning rush hour. So far, because of you, Weir is the only one to survive an attempt by Hassan. Do you know where she is?"
"No." He didn't want to lie. He didn't know how for he could push Isham, but he didn't want to get
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Manny involved with this. "She gave me a lift to my old neighborhood. I don't know where she and the rabbit went after that."
Isham seemed to know it was a lie. * 'I want to know if you find out where she's hiding out. The Fed would like to put her under protection—"
The conversation stopped because a muffled yell was coming from the hall. It
was Mclntyre. "What?"
The room was supposed to be soundproof, but No-har could hear the conversation if he concentrated. From the pause in Isham's speech, she was eavesdropping as well.
"I said," Harsk's voice, "the tiger walks. Your own fault. Screwed your own collar, if there was a collar to begin with. Acted worse than a couple of rookies."
"You can't talk like—"
"Maybe if I put it like this. Fuck you, fuck your little proprietary DBA investigation, and fuck inter-agency cooperation if you're going to fuck up like this around here!"
"Detective Harsk—" That was Conrad.
"Shut the fuck up! DA sent the word. No prosecution on the coffeehouse, self-defense. None on the gun. Check your files, he's had a license since 2043. As far as recklessness is concerned, you're the glorified dimwits that stormed,into Autocab dispatch and not only disabled the override comm, but the emergency shut-off as well. DA's position is, since you didn't identify yourself, and the emergency shutoff was disabled, Ra-jasthan was justified." "You don't understand," Conrad again, "this is our first lead—"
"The charges from Autocab—"
Hask almost sounded pleased. "K>« don't understand. You have shit. Autocab is going to press charges—again,?? you two. It might come as a surprise, but not everybody likes to have the DBA walk in and take over. Not to mention the fact the Transportation Safety Board is upset with you. Cutting the override FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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on a remote vehicle is a felony. Because you two goobers couldn't identify yourself to the suspect, the cab goes flying blind into traffic. You're lucky you don't face kidnapping charges. You're not too far from assault with intent."
"You don't really believe he thought it was the Zips—"
"You unbelievable shits! Just because it's a morey, doesn't mean you can forget all that bothersome civil rights crap. The collar still has to fly in court. You blew it. Now get the hell out of my station and back to your stakeout in Moreytown—or better, back to the rock you crawled out from."
"Your superiors are going to hear about this."
"What a coincidence, your superiors already have. A district chief named Robinson would really like a word with you two.''
That ended the conversation. Nohar turned back to Isham. He was confused. "IF DBA started this, why were you the arresting officer?''
"Only one with experience tracking moreaus. Trained by Israeli intelligence." The evil smile was back.
Harsk burst into the room. "Agent Isham, where the hell you get off dismissing the observing officers? It's against operating procedure for an officer to be left alone with a suspect—"
"I'm not one of your officers, and Rajasthan is no longer a suspect."
"Christ, woman, are you pulling this shit just to piss me off? Nohar, you're walking. The DBA guys are fucked worse than a ten-dollar whore, and the DA doesn't want to press charges."
Nohar stood up. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. Because of you, and Binder, I got internal affairs clamping down on my ass—even if it was those Shaker cronies of Binder's that dicked around the Johnson murder. This Ziphead crap has got City Hall in a panic, the vids are having a field day—
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And I got suspicions it's all because you stuck your nose where it don't belong. If it was my choice, I'd lock you up and never let you go.
' 'As it is.'' He turned to Isham. ' 'If the special agent would kindly leave me and the tiger alone. Nohar, we have things to discuss, in private."
Harsk led him out of the interrogation room.
CHAPTER 20
Harsk's office was in the basement of police headquarters. It smelled of paper, dust, and mildew. When Harsk led him in, Nohar had to duck the pipes that snaked along the ceiling. There were two chairs opposite the rust-dotted green desk. They were water-stained chrome pipe with red-vinyl seats that were held together with silver-gray duct tape. Neither one looked like it'd survive him, so Nohar stood.
Harsk took a seat behind the desk. He picked up a cup of old coffee that had been sitting on one corner of the desk. It was one of many cups that occupied various open spaces in the room. Harsk took a sip, grimaced, and finished it. "So, Nohar, you think you just walked out of all that crap because of a clean life-style and goodness of heart-"
Nohar wrinkled his nose. He thought he saw something floating in the coffee Harsk was drinking. "You're about to tell me otherwise?"
The left corner of Harsfc's mouth pulled up. The closest the pink cop would ever come to a smile. He drained the cup and tossed it in the corner of the room, near a wastepaper basket that was awash in a tide of old papers. "Good. Your bullshit detector is working. I'm going to tell you why you're walking.
It
has little to do with the DEA's incompetence—"
Harsk opened a drawer and took out the Vindhya. "How many people know who your father is?"
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That was the last thing Nohar expected to hear from Harsk. "What has that got to do—"
Harsk started taking out the magazines for the Vind. He arranged it all on the desk in front of him. "Everything, Nohar. If you don't see that, you're dumber than most people give moreys credit for. Do you realize what the Fed, much less those dimwits at the DBA, would do if they knew you were your father's son?"
"It isn't my fault who my father is."
Harsk gave Nohar a withering stare. "If that ain't a load of bullshit, I don't know what is. There's a good chance that half the tigers descended from the Rajas-than Airlift were sired by him. You're the fool that had to track down your paternity. There's a few hundred Rajasthans out there that left well enough alone. You brought Datia's history on to yourself. Now you got to deal with it."
Nohar wished he had a good argument for that. He didn't. "What do you mean, if the Fed knew?"
"They don't, yet. I'll answer my first question for you. Perhaps a half-dozen people in the department know that Nohar is Datia's son. The DA's one. I'm another. All of us were at that last showdown at Musician's Towers. He held off a SWAT team with that gun." He motioned to that Vind. "When the Guard showed up, they torched the building to get him out."
Nohar didn't want to hear this. He was grateful that Harsk was a pink and couldn't smell the emotions off him.
"Datia was a dyed in the wool psycho who left about half his mind in Afghanistan. A lot of humans don't understand why hundreds of moreys followed the bullshit he spouted. Datia, at the end, didn't believe it either. Could've been anyone, though, That August was too tense, too hot, too unstable. Moreytown was primed, anyone could have touched the spark— A lot like it's been lately.''
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There was a silence in the room. It stretched out for a long time. "What are you getting at, Harsk?"
Harsk shook his head. "You blind SOB. Do I need to spell it qut for you? Six people in the department and two National Guardsmen were with your dad when he croaked. He mentioned you. His ramblings are in the official transcripts. It's just that no one has cross-referenced them yet. It is only a matter of time before someone in the Fed is going to see how closely this Ziphead thing was engineered to look like the riots, and look up your dad. Poof, all hell breaks loose."
Harsk stood up. "Does the word scapegoat mean anything to you? What you think Mclntyre and Conrad would do if they knew this?"
Nohar felt the world slipping away from him. "They'd think I was . . ." "—running the show, you shithead. It's damn lucky me and the DA know different. Though, if it wasn't for two things, I'd lock you up just to be on the safe side."
"What two things?"
Harsk sat back down. "Me and the DA think you'd make a great martyr. If you get locked up, or shot, or anything, and word got out of your parentage, that could be the spark that blows everything up again. Right now, we have to deal with the rats—that's enough."
Nohar could feel his own past bearing down on him. It felt like he had spent a decade running away from his own tail. "You said, 'two things.' "
Harsk turned the chair away from Nohar. "The other reason is your typical interagency departmental screwup. Agent Isham seized your weapon and didn't turn it over to property. Somehow the Vind got lost in the shuffle and never got tagged as evidence. You can't have a weapons charge without a weapon—" Nohar looked at his gun, laid out on the table. He didn't need more of a hint. He bolstered the Vind and pocketed the magazines. "Is that it?"
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"Fucking enough, ain't it? Do me a favor and stop being one of my problems." Nohar left Harsk's office.
When Nohar got to the lobby, dawn was breaking across a slate-gray sky. He was glad that they didn't make people pass through the weapons detectors on their way out.
The public comms in the lobby of police headquarters were in better than average condition—which meant maintenance spent at least one day a week cleaning off the piss and graffiti.
He called Manny collect, hoping to catch him before he left for work.
Angel answered the phone. "Fuck you be, Kit?"
"What the hell are you doing answering the phone? Nobody's supposed to know you're there—"
"Chill, Kit." Angel looked chastened. "Whafuck happen to you? Pinky's been up all night—" Nohar felt guilty for the way his spirit lifted when he heard Stephie was worried about him. "—and Doc's been riding a pisser ever since he got back last— Speak of the devil."
Manny came on the comm, pushing Angel aside. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are? I told myself I shouldn't ask where that hole in your hip came from—I was just about out the door to do more autopsies on rodents you shot—"
"Sorry, only place I could go."
Manny sighed. "I know, and I can't well turn you away. I hear that no one is pressing charges."
"It was self-defense."
"Next time would you go through the process? Where are you? You look like hell."
"Is that a professional diagnosis?" Nohar was still coated with algae. He probably smelled like the pit, but his nose had long ago gotten used to it. "When am I going to get the full story on what's going on?"
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"You don't want to know if you like to sleep nights. How's Stephie?"
Manny shrugged. "Better than most humans around a group of moreaus. She's been asking me a tot of questions, about you mostly." Manny looked off to the side of the screen and lowered his voice. "Stupid question, but did you—"
"Yes." And he'd do it again in a minute. Manny took a few seconds to respond.
"Damn." There were a few more seconds of silence while Manny recovered. "Well, did you know that they've reopened the Daryl Johnson murder investigation? Internal Affairs got wind that the Shaker division dropped the ball on purpose. Congressman Binder might get called before the House Ethics committee. Half the cops involved rolled over on him. It's all over the vids." "I got some idea of that from Harsk."
"My office is pissed. They've been given a court order to exhume Johnson's body, even if it wasn't the autopsy that got fugged."
They talked for about ten more minutes. The rest of the conversation consisted mostly of Nohar's stories of the DEA, and Manny's inquiries after his injuries. Neither of them raised the subject of Stephie Weir again.
Then Nohar called for a cab. He specified one with a driver.
Fifteen minutes later, a familiar Nissan Tory pulled up in front of the building. Same driver as yesterday— Autocab probably only had the one.
" 'Spected it was you."
Nohar climbed in the back and slipped his card into the meter. She pulled the cab away and started west toward the Main Avenue bridge. "Busy night. Clocked in this mornin' and, whoa, the rumors. Narcs bust into dispatch and take over a remote. They ain't no drivers. They trash the van with some poor fool inside it. Never trust those remotes ..."
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The patter went on and Nohar dozed off.
She woke him up when they got there, probably after copping a few dollars from the timer. He didn't begrudge her and gave her a fifty dollar tip. "Thanks.
Any time you call you can ask for me special. Tell 'em you want Ruby. Shit, you're not bad—for a moreau."
Nohar stood in front of the whitewashed bar with no name and watched the Tory go. The heat was beginning to bake the early morning pavement, as well as the algae caked in his fur. But, for once—though clouds threatened—things were dry. He paused a moment where they had parked the Antaeus. The only trace of the car was one of his own bloody footprints on the asphalt.
He walked to Manny's and had barely limped up to the door when Stephie yanked him inside. Nohar followed, stumbling s
lightly. He could smell fear and excitement as she pulled him into the living room. Angel was there. Manny had already left for work.
Stephie was breathless. "They started broadcasting it five minutes ago. It's on all the stations. All over the comm—"
Angel pushed her away from in front of the comm. "Shhh-"
Nohar watched the newscast. There was a pink commentator standing in front of the video feed. "We are now going to see exclusive footage of the disaster.
Tad Updike, our Channel-N weatherman for the Cleveland area was on the scene. We now give you the uncut video as we received it."
The commentator faded, leaving Tad Updike there, in a safari jacket. He looked like a weatherman, slick black hair, insincere smile. He seemed to be standing on top of one of the terminal buildings at Hopkins International Airport, on the far west side of Cleveland.
"—it promises to be another record scorcher. Today, a high close to 33, and the National Weather Service is announcing the third UV hazard warning this FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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sum—cut it." A plane was approaching, rendering Updike nearly inaudible, "[bleep] damn planes, didn't anyone look at the flight schedu—"
The cameraman had panned to the plane, over Updike's right shoulder. It was a 747 retrofit, the huge electric turbofans clung to the reinforced wing like goiters. Something streaked up from the ground and hit the plane, behind the front landing gear—
A cherry-red ball of flame engulfed the lower front quarter of the aircraft.
It was still over a hundred meters in the air. The nose of the 747 was briefly engulfed in a cloud of inky-black smoke. The right wing dipped and the camera
started shaking as the cameraman tried to follow the plane. Updike was screaming. "My God, someone shot it! Someone shot the plane—''
The wing crumpled into the runway, pulling the nose of the plane into the ground. It skidded like that for a half-second and the camera lost the plane off the right of the screen. The cameraman overcompensated and swept the picture back to the right, losing the tumbling plane off to the left.