by Colin Harvey
He pushed back his chair. "I was determined I was going to see out the day, but that might put me into hospital. So for one of the few times in my life, I'll be sensible."
"Good idea," Bailey said. Shah wondered why she looked so relieved.
Wednesday
When Shah removed the hood, allowing the subdued hubbub of the office to ease him out of the images he'd been immersed in for the last forty minutes, he saw that a woman had sat beside him.
She was middle-aged, with clothes that highlighted her figure in all the wrong ways: a sleeveless blouse that drew attention to the ample flesh of her upper arms. It had a deep plunging neckline, at the base of which was a bust so buttressed that it seemed to defy gravity. Shah suspected that her hairdresser – if she had one – simply placed a bowl on her head and cut around it. Below the fringe deep frown lines creased her forehead. She smiled nervously.
"You waiting for me?" Shah said. "Sorry, I can't sense anything when I'm under this damned thing."
The woman smiled, although it never reached her eyes. "That's the idea. Don't worry, Pete. Van Doorn assigned me to help you both, so there's no rush."
"Okaaay. You weren't here yesterday, were you, so we never got introduced…"
"Holy crap!" The woman studied him. "You really have been, I mean you've lost…"
She stopped at Shah's, "Yeah, I really have no idea who you are."
"Right." The woman drew the word out into several syllables. "I'm Detective Lynn Stickel. We sometimes worked together before you were attacked."
Shah thrust out his hand. "Pleased to meet you. Do I call you Lynn, or Stickel, or…?"
"Call me what you like. You used to call me Bitch when you thought I wasn't listening. We didn't always work together. Your last partner was Marietetski."
At the mention of Marietetski's name, Shah felt a pang of guilt; he had barely given his partner a thought. That's what being an invalid does to you, he thought. Makes you turn inward, become self-obsessed, listening to every breath, watching every sign for improvements, or – worse – for a deterioration in your condition. I'll go tomorrow and see him. Or the day after, if I'm not up to it.
Shah watched her. While the woman was a little frosty, at least she had a personality, unlike Bailey, who Shah would have sworn jumped every time he spoke to her. OK, I let my impatience show a few times yesterday, but I was tired. Much of Shah's frustration with her came from the way she spoke about nothing except work, and when she did talk, it was as if Shah was made of nitroglycerine and might explode at any moment. He wondered what Bailey had been told about him – had some joker told her that he was a perv or something? "Seen enough?" Stickel said.
"Just thinking."
"That what the burning smell was?"
Shah chortled. "Yep." He hoped it had been intended as a joke. "If we didn't get on, it must have been at least fifty percent down to me. So I apologize sincerely and unreservedly." Because I'm going to need every bit of help I can get here. I feel like I'm drowning.
"Wow." Stickel raised her eyebrows. "That sounded genuine."
"It was. Why should I kiss off someone who van Doorn has set to help me? New start and all that?"
"Yeah." Stickel leaned forward and lowered her voice, "You can still call me Bitch if you want. Just don't spit after you say it, like you used to."
"OK, Bitch," Shah said, drawing a smile that mirrored his own. "Where do we start?"
"With coffee."
Shah sighed appreciatively.
When they returned, Stickel sat with Shah while he worked through the new cases. "If you take the newest ones first," she said, "you stand the most chance of getting a result. There'll be evidence, and witnesses will remember things that they've forgotten. But unlike most officers, you won't yet be following up your own cases, where you can't offload them. Our partners will work together for a few days following up."
"Offload them?"
"It's a numbers game," Stickel said. "We have to show our fund-providers we're giving value for money." She held up a placating hand. "Don't take this the wrong way, but coffee-machine gossip was that you're the best actual detective in the NYPD. What let you down was you never learned how to play the game. You got dumped on by other 'tecs looking to offload, but never sent any back."
Shah thought about it. "So police work's not just about solving crime?"
"Got it!" Stickel said. "Let's go through these: spousal violence. Send uniform off to that one. Mugging on the subway – that goes to the Transit Division. Memory rip. That's one we keep. Middle-aged man can't remember the last five weeks." Stickel grinned. "Of course, he could just have got a little honey on the side, and now she's drained his bank account he's got to make up with wifey."
"Do many people fake amnesia?"
"More than you might think," Stickel said. "Alibi of choice." She pitched her voice up: "Ah cain't remember uh thing, honey-chile. Don't be mad ut me."
"You're very cynical." Shah added quickly, "Or maybe I'm just naive."
"Maybe you are." Stickel smiled slightly at some unspoken memory. It wasn't a very happy smile, Shah decided.
They worked through the morning, offloading cases in a way that Shah found daunting, before Stickel left him alone for an hour while she took a lunch break.
Shah felt as if he was working in slow motion, the clock seeming to leap onward with every call that he made and every dive into the interweb. A headache built behind his eyes, and by the time Stickel returned, he felt as if he'd been working for days without a break rather than hours.
"You look tired," Stickel said.
"I'll be OK once I've got some air." Shah levered himself out of his chair.
"You realize that it'll take a while, you know?" Stickel said. "You've still got all the innate ability that you had before. But relearning the skills you developed to hone that ability will take much longer now that you're older – you know, Old Dog New Tricks Syndrome?"
"Gee, cheer me up why don't ya?"
"I am trying to, jackass," Stickel said. "What I'm trying to say – and obviously not doing it very well – is to be patient."
"I guess." Shah thought, I don't have time to be patient. "Maybe…"
"What?"
"You were saying about not following up our own cases?"
"Yeah, until you get back to speed."
"One thing I'd like to do is see this Kotian guy. He's at the heart of most of our cases."
Stickel looked dubious, but Shah ploughed on. "I'd be happy to just swing by his place on the way home, you know, just a social visit." He grinned. "I'll introduce you. Just to see what his reaction is; if he was behind the attack in some way…"
"It might force a reaction out of him," Stickel said, thinking about it. "Maybe. It's sort of against protocol, but then again, there is no protocol."
"Say again?"
"We've never had an officer attacked before, Pete. Not like this. Generally rippers are loners – they don't go attacking pairs of officers. I'll talk to van Doorn, see what he thinks."
XXVI
The heat outside is almost as hard as the noise assailing your eardrums. You've been inside all day in the dim coolness of the call center, which, for all its subdued but relentless babble to the punters about soaps and reality shows is a haven compared to downtown Bangalore's raucousness. Every hour is rush hour here.
Great steel penises thrust up through the labial lips of the clouds into the sky, and you realize that you'd better find a whore tonight. At fifteen, everything reminds you of pussy, but when even the sky reminds you of it, it's time to scratch the itch. Not that you can ease it as much as you'd like – you need the money for the future. The sort of whore that you want costs money. Not for you a cheap musky minger from the Gaya, but a proper whore with blonde hair and white skin and expensive perfume, like you'll have as a wife when you make your first million dollars.
The Americans are the latest whites to ask your countrymen to become their servants for a fee, and your h
ead is full of American slang. Whatever, awesome, dude and ain't that the case? rattle round your brain like dice in a cup. And dollars, and how to make them.
You stop for a cup of ice-cold lassi, chilled in the latest fashion.
"You work in there?" The lassi vendor asks you, his head waggling from side to side to emphasize the bond he'd like there to be between you.
"Ay-uh," you reply, in turn moving your own chin through fifteen degrees either way in affirmation. You work with an American, and the best way to ease the tedium of the day is watching him try to master the all-purpose wiggle – and fail miserably. Hilarious.
"Must be good." The youngster has a wall eye, which excludes him from ever getting a job there. Even though no customers would ever see his face, the people who run the call center have an almost superstitious reverence for physical perfection, as if it somehow mirrors an inner goodness. But you won't ruin his dreams
"It's a stepping stone." You watch a taxi disgorge a businessman, high-class, talking on one of the latest videophones. It looks like half of a pair of glasses. The future is in that frame, and you shiver. "It pays in real American dollars, still the best currency in the world, see? For all their troubles, America's where it's at. I'll make my fortune there."
"Need some help?"
Seeming to ignore his question you drain the lassi. Wiping the foam from your top lip, you look round for something to dry your wet fingers on. Careful not to stain your crisp white slacks – American style, of course – you rummage in your pockets for a tissue. "You need to provide these." You wave the used tissue at him. "What does your customer want?"
"Lassi?" When you shake your head, he tries again: "To wipe his top lip?"
"To feel better. You're not just selling him a drink, you're selling him satisfaction."
"Alas, while you're undoubtedly right, reality is preventing me from realizing this dream. I can pay for lassi, or I can pay for tissues, but not both – yet."
"You need investment." You recognize an opportunity. "You're undercapitalized."
"You're an entrepreneur?"
"Not for me the life of a wage slave." You grin and, winking, peel away a business holo-card with your name and cellphone in 3D. "Give me a call tonight. What's your name?"
"Aravinda," the vendor says.
"Abhijit Kotian." You offer your hand.
XXVII
Friday
Shah slammed one palm down onto the desk, and cradled his forehead in the other. Across the desk Bailey watched him wide-eyed. Shah restrained the impulse to snap at her.
"Problem?" Stickel said.
"This damn thing is so slow. I entered the next set of parameters while I was waiting. Now it's locked up."
"While you're waiting for the system to respond at busy times." Stickel's patience reminded Shah of Leslyn at her most unbearably reasonable. "You file or check your mailbox." She added, "You look tired. Maybe you're pushing too hard?"
"I'm OK."
He didn't tell her that he'd spent much of the previous evening searching the web for his memories. He was falling asleep in the chair, waking in the middle of the night to stagger to bed, then struggling to be ready for work the next morning. While dressing he'd caught the news of the latest victim, reduced to barely a vegetable after she'd been raped. Does he think he's being kind, wiping the memories, or is it to hide his identity? His eyepiece chimed, and he took the call wondering how he'd ever found this job easy.
"Officer Shah?" The caller was black, close-cut curly hair tinged with gray at the temples, deep-voiced. "I represent Justice for Victims." Shah could hear the capitals in the man's voice. "A clip of a lynching at Kiawah Island has been removed from the public domain. Your name appears as the certifying officer."
"Yeah?" Shah stalled as he wondered what he should do.
"We'd like this important historical document returned to where it belongs, and we're issuing a subpoena to that effect."
After several seconds, Shah managed to retrieve the appropriate procedures from the training manual and read directly from it, "You should call Internal Affairs, sir. Would you like the number?"
"This is outrageous, Officer. People have a right to know–"
"Would you like the number, sir?" Shah repeated, as the procedures advised.
"–that such crimes were committed–"
"Unless you advise otherwise sir, I'll assume that you have the number." Shah finished with, "Thank you for calling."
"What was that about?" Stickel said. When Shah told her, she scowled. "These lobbies They're not so powerful now that times are hard, but they can still be a pain in the ass. Copy the call to van Doorn, so that he can give IA a heads-up. It may be genuine, or a lone crank."
Shah glanced across at Bailey, putting on her jacket and gathering her handbag. Shah sent the list of offsite calls for follow-up onto her. Moments later, she said, "Thanks."
"Doing anything this weekend?" Stickel said as Bailey passed her.
Bailey shook her head. "Catching up on sleep," she said, walking away. "And household stuff."
"Enjoy," Shah called, but she didn't answer. He sighed. "What's her problem?"
"I'm guessing that she's always wanted to be a cop," Stickel said. "Now she's finding out you should be careful what you wish for. Ten years ago she wouldn't have been allowed into the force – now we're so desperate we'll take anyone. She's good at all the theory stuff that makes the brass cum in their pants. But she's scared of her shadow, let alone a perp."
"She'd be better off as a specialist."
"But all the jobs are frontline." Stickel added, "She needs to get used to working with a partner by Monday week, or the week after."
Clasping his hands together, Shah adopted a squeaky voice: "Please, don't leave me alone with him."
"Jackass. You're doing OK, Shah. Van Doorn said he's amazed how an old fart like you manages to clear half the workload of a star like me."
Shah snorted. "Yeah, right."
"What time you working till?"
"I'm doing a full day." Shah had worked longer and longer hours since his first day back, though he still found it exhausting – even without his nocturnal web-hopping. He had almost managed to work a full shift the day before. "Why? You asking me out?"
"Hah. 'Fraid you got the wrong chromosome for me." Stickel's tone was gentle, to soften the rejection.
"I was joking."
"Yeah."
"Believe it – or not; no odds to me."
"Actually," Stickel said, "I was thinking of us leaving together–"
"Hah! Me knew the lay-dee did protest too much!"
"–and calling on Kotian."
Shah stilled, all his attention on Stickel. "Van Doorn agreed it," she said. "He wanted to give you a few days to ease back in first. Keep shaving the caseload-mountain down, get your strength up, and you're back solo. He thought a little visit to Kotian might act like a stick poked into a wasp's nest."
"I'll get shaving that mountain now," Shah said.
"Good," Stickel said, "Because the fucker struck again last night. Teenage girl. We traced her back to out of town, but we got no leads on her. Bailey and my partner'll take this one, but the pressure's building, Pete. The commissioner's getting antsy. We got to stop this."
Shah was putting on his coat when his eyepiece chimed. He held up one finger to Stickel in a wait gesture. She was doing the same. The call was to both of them.
"Pete, this is Ray Eller over at the FBI. I heard what happened, so I guess you won't remember me." The man was close to Shah's age, thinning hair swept across his scalp, with the flushed face of a hypertension sufferer.
"Afraid not, Ray," Shah admitted.
"Sorry to hear about it. Bastard of a thing, these rippers." Without waiting for a reply, Eller ploughed on: "You put a request through a few weeks ago to look out for odd financial transactions. Something popped up when a data-entry supervisor gave access codes to his account for his annual audit, but gave the wrong codes – s
ort of stupid mistake that anyone can make. But instead of the usual in-and-out small payments, this guy's got big money coming in irregularly, and money going out overseas."
"Oops!" Shah said.
"Indeed, oops," Eller agreed. "So this mook admits to falsifying information, including the supposed corpse of Aurora Debonis. It isn't her, nor anyone that we have on file."
"So not a US citizen?" Stickel said.
"Absolutely not," Eller said. "I know that it isn't much, especially as he won't identify who paid him to bodge entries, but we'll keep working at him, see if we can turn him."