by Jack Heath
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you go in there,” she said.
Wright stared at her. He kept his gaze even. “There’s been a homicide, and everyone in that building is under suspicion. I don’t know who you are, but—”
“Danni Braid, Terrorism Risk Assessment,” she obliged. “And I can’t let you go in there. We’ve had a report of a biological weapon being deployed inside the HBS building, and we have been authorized to stop anyone entering the building.”
“My team needs to question those people,” Wright insisted.
The woman shrugged. “With respect, sir, they’re not going anywhere. No one is allowed to leave the building either. And because you and your team are already inside the safety perimeter…”
Wright turned and saw that a roadblock had gone up, with city cops on the other side holding the crowds back. There were five more people in hazard suits climbing out of the van and approaching the building.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave either,” the woman said. “Sir.”
So Wright had gone to the KFC to question the workers there instead. The manager didn’t speak much English, and only managed to convey that he was terrified, as if he feared he would be fired for allowing corpses to be placed in a company dumpster. The other employees were all kids, barely teenagers. Greasy boys and made-up girls, who found the discovery of bodies nearby “cool” and “gross” respectively.
It’s always the same with people who never knew the victims, Wright had thought. In large groups, they pretend to care. Most of them. But you see through it right away; they’re just treating it as a surprise interruption to their day. Like a power outage or a fire drill. They’re either pleased or annoyed about it, depending on how much they hate their jobs, but that’s not the same as caring.
He felt just as detached. But he could blame years of detective work in a big city for desensitizing him. If he let the presence of death get to him, he’d have gone mad long ago.
Wright had been walking back to his team, preparing to explain the situation, when the Bugatti Veyron flew across the street above their heads.
Now, he turned to watch the panicking crowd. There were the people inside the quarantine zone who were trying desperately to get out, and the lunatics outside who wanted even more desperately to get in. The police at the roadblocks were doing a good job of holding them back, on both sides. Wright saw a kid holding up his phone to the sky, recording video footage of the two buildings, with a kind of glazed hopefulness in his eyes, praying for more. It would be on YouTube by the end of the day, thought Wright.
The detective’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Yeah?”
“Damien,” Belle said, “the prints are back. Brace yourself.”
Belle had been Wright’s partner for two years; since his old partner retired and hers got shot in the leg. She was a lousy driver and too cynical to play for political advantage at the station, but she was smart. Much smarter than him, he believed. Thanks to his eye for details and her photographic memory, they made a formidable team.
“Did you see it?” Wright said. “Is there a TV near you?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” He’d get to the flying car later. The prints on the body were important. “Who’s our dead guy?”
“No idea.”
“He’s never been printed?” That was unusual. Anyone who’d ever been questioned by the police or had a police check, anyone who’d ever worked in any way for the government and anyone who’d needed to prove their identity to various departments or companies in various states would have been printed. The people who didn’t have their prints on the national database were in the minority.
“They were on file,” Belle said.
“So you’re saying that the prints have been found at other crime scenes, but the crimes were never solved?” If the window washer was a criminal…
“Nope. I’m saying that the database wouldn’t let me access his personnel file. Classified.”
Wright glared at the HBS foyer entrance. “No way.”
“Yes way,” Belle said. “Our John Doe is either in the witness protection scheme, on the run from the federal police, or, more likely—”
“A government agent,” Wright finished. “Working for TRA, or maybe a covert branch of some other law-enforcement department.”
“So basically, we’re screwed.”
She was right. Whatever’s going on, Wright thought, there are major players and it involves terrorism, the government, and possibly corruption. Best case scenario, I get taken off the case because it’s in TRA’s jurisdiction. Worst case scenario, I never work out what’s going on because too many details are classified.
Why would a government agent be washing windows at HBS?
“Oh god,” Belle said. “Are you watching this?”
“Watching what?”
“There’s a car jumping across… Unbelievable! You have to see this. I’ll record it.”
Wright pressed his fingers against his temples. “I’ve seen it,” he said. “I was there. It’s all connected, somehow.”
There was really only one thing he could do. He started walking towards the roadblock.
“This is the weirdest case I’ve seen in a long time,” Belle was saying. “Do you have a working theory?”
“Yeah,” Wright said. “People are killing each other, and people who outrank us are letting them do it.”
“The high court might want something more specific. It’s hard to win a case against ‘people’.”
“I’ve only been on the scene an hour,” Wright said. “Give me time.”
A city cop at the roadblock was barring his way. “I need you to stay back, sir.”
Wright flashed his badge. “Detective Damien Wright. Who’s in charge?”
“I am,” the cop said. “But I can’t let you through, no matter who you are.”
“Not asking you to,” Wright said. “You’ve got your hands full here, and the TRA guys are busy keeping the HBS building sealed and checking out the inside. My whole team is stuck here, including forensics and photographers. We’re going to enter the building opposite and check out the crash site for that car.”
“I’ve been instructed to—”
“Keep everyone inside the perimeter, I know. The building is inside the perimeter.”
The cop seemed reluctant. “I’ve sent for backup to do that.”
“I wasn’t asking,” Wright said. “I outrank you.” He turned away and started walking towards the building with the gaping hole in it. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled to get his team’s attention, then he beckoned. “Follow me.”
They ran towards him. I’ll get to the bottom of this, he thought, staring up at the broken window. This is what I do.
Ash woke up before her eyes opened. They felt gluey and tingly, like someone had taped them shut with Post-it notes. It took her a moment to rewind her memory enough to catch all the important facts. Her name was Ashley Arthur. She was fifteen. She lived with her dad at 146 East Park Way. She was a thief.
And the last thing that she remembered was driving a Bugatti Veyron off the roof of Hammond Buckland Solutions headquarters.
She opened her eyes. Incredibly, the car was still running; the engine purred as smoothly as if nothing had happened. The inside of the roof looked like a crisp packet that had been scrunched up and then stretched out again. The windscreen was still in one piece, but opaqued with cracks. So were all the windows. The only way she could tell the car was upside down was that her hair was touching the roof and her head hurt. All her blood had drained into it.
Ash unbuckled her seat belt off the accelerator, and the wheels wound themselves down to a stop. While the Veyron had survived the crash better than perhaps any other car in the world would have, she suddenly realized that she was incredibly lucky it had landed upside down. If the wheels had been touching the floor and still spinning, the car might have kept going right th
rough the walls and out the other side of the building.
Ash unbuckled her seat belt and fell immediately against the roof. Storm clouds of pain thundered through her entire body, squeezing every limb and twisting every bone. Her neck felt as wide as her shoulders.
“Oh man,” she whispered. “That was a dumb idea.”
The iPod headphones had come out of her ears. Her arm crackled as she reached out to get them.
“Ash! Ash! Talk to me, damn it!”
“Hey, Benjamin,” she said. She tried to focus her eyes on the steering wheel, but it was too close to her face. “Did you see me on TV?”
“Thank god,” Benjamin said. “Of course I saw it. It was hard to miss.”
“Am I identifiable?”
“No. Motion blur, plus poor resolution, plus tinted windows – don’t worry about it. Are you hurt?”
“Cuts and bruises,” Ash said. “Well, bruises.”
“Can you move?”
“Yeah.”
“Then start moving.” Benjamin’s voice was grim. “A whole bunch of cops just walked into the apartment building.”
Ash frowned. “What? Why?”
“Because they just saw a car fly into it! Move it, Ash. Pay attention. Cops are coming. You need to get out of there.”
Ash shook her head. It hurt. “Cops. Coming. Move. Got it.”
She pulled the door handle. The door wouldn’t open. Ash shoved it as hard as she could, but the lock must have been twisted. She braced her feet against the passenger door and tried again.
The passenger door popped open instead. Ash wriggled out that way.
She knew she had to hurry, but she couldn’t help pausing for a moment to survey the carnage. Buckland’s bullet-punctured office was nothing compared to this.
The Veyron had landed on a four-poster bed, snapping all four legs and crushing the frame against the dented wall. Walking across the floor was like walking through a barn, with broken glass and mattress stuffing instead of hay. Two jagged halves of a flat-screen TV were on opposite sides of the room.
And the car itself looked a lot worse than it had from inside. The bonnet had buckled, exposing the grey cylinders inside, the bullet-torn tyres sagged behind their crumpled hubcaps, and the rear spoiler was now three miniature rear spoilers. Two million dollars of automotive glory had become worthless scrap metal in a matter of seconds.
Ash tore her gaze away, shoved open the door, and stumbled out into the corridor. Soft cream carpets, cheese-coloured wallpaper: classy apartment accommodation. There was a sign that said LIFTS, and she followed the arrow. There were grey sliding doors up ahead. Then she checked the red LED screen beside them, and saw that a lift was already on its way up.
She staggered backwards, looking for a different lift, or some fire stairs. There was no sign of another way down, and the corridor was long and straight. The cops would see her as soon as the lift doors opened.
There was a janitor’s closet. She ripped the door open, tumbled inside, and slammed it shut behind her. A bucket with a mop in it bounced against the floor as she tripped over it. She sat down in the corner of the closet rather than standing or crouching. Thief’s instinct: if you’re going to have to be really quiet for what might be a really long time, make sure you’re comfortable first.
There was still a ringing in her ears, like a thousand tiny people screaming “MEEEEEE”. In the silence of the closet it was painfully loud.
Her nose was running again, and her eyes were sore. How long was I unconscious? she wondered. How long have I got to find the anthrax antidote?
A muffled beep wafted in under the door, and Ash tried not to breathe. The lift with the cops in it had arrived. The floor had seemed deserted – maybe everyone had been evacuated when the TRA team arrived, although Benjamin said they had sealed off the whole block, so Ash figured this building was probably still inside the quarantine zone. More likely all the occupants had fled this floor when they heard the crash. Either way, it was lucky no one had been in the room when the Veyron flew through the window.
Footsteps outside the closet door. Quick, but measured. The sound of four or five people trying to find something quickly.
Ash heard someone kick in a door. The steely crack of the lock tearing through the frame.
“We don’t have a warrant,” someone said. Male. Young-sounding. “Think we should be destroying property?”
“We also have no way of getting a lock-release gun or master key without violating the quarantine,” a female voice replied. Ash heard another door crunch open. “And besides, you think anyone will care about some broken locks after the damage that car must have done?”
“What do you think we’ll find?” a third voice asked. Male. Older than the first guy. “Surely no one could have been inside that car.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” the young man said. Bang. Crack. “Found it.”
“Whoa.” The woman again. “What a mess.”
Their voices were quieter now that they were in the apartment. Ash shut her eyes, trying to focus on sound alone. She heard the click of cameras. Broken glass tinkled as feet shuffled through it.
“Like I said. No one in the car,” the woman said.
“Oh my god,” said the young guy. “That’s a Bugatti Veyron! You know what that car is worth?”
“One hundred grand?” the older man guessed.
Way more than that. Ash winced, thinking again of the money she could have made selling the car, instead of writing it off.
“Two million,” the young guy said.
“You’re kidding,” said the woman.
“Seriously. This is an absolute beast of a car.”
More clicks, more shuffling.
A new voice spoke up. Male. Cynical, authoritative tone. “There was someone in the car when it crashed.”
There was a pause. “How do you figure that, detective?” the older man said.
“Engine still running,” the detective said. “The car was built strong, the cabin especially. Therefore, just because no one’s in it now doesn’t mean it was empty when it hit the window.”
Ash gritted her teeth. The last thing she needed right now was a smart cop.
More shuffling. “Nothing attached to the pedals,” he continued. “No brick in the cabin. Someone had their foot on the accelerator.”
“The driver could have jumped out before the car went over the edge of the HBS roof,” the woman suggested.
“No,” the detective said. “See the broken glass? How it’s sprinkled all over the underside of the car? There’s tonnes of it. But not a single shard is resting on any of the tyres. They were still spinning when the car stopped moving. They would have stopped in mid-air if the driver was no longer in the vehicle.”
More camera clicks.
“You may also notice that the rear tyres are flat,” the detective said.
“A blow-out on impact?” said the young guy.
“You saw the crash,” the detective said. “The car’s roof hit the window first, and now it’s upside down. Unless someone’s moved it, and the glass suggests they haven’t, the tyres never touched the ground, or the window, or anything else in this room.”
“So you think they were flat when the car left the roof?” the young guy said. “You think they contributed to the accident?”
“Take a close look at the punctures,” the detective said.
Lots of shuffling. Ash listened carefully.
“What the hell?” the old guy said.
The woman: “Bullet holes.”
“Here’s what happened,” the detective said. “Someone was shooting at this car before it went off the roof. Maybe that caused it to go off the roof. The driver survived the crash, apparently unhurt; he or she was strong enough to push out the passenger door, and there’s no sign of blood anywhere. The quarantine zone has given us an advantage. Both the shooter and the driver are contained inside it. But I’m willing to bet that the driver is still in the building, so
I suggest we start looking.”
Ash could hardly hear him over the blood pounding in her ears.
“Mills, Baxter, you go down to the bottom floor and work your way up. Search one level at a time. Caswell, start searching this floor and work your way down. Check every room of every apartment. Check every bathroom, every cupboard, every manhole.”
Ash pressed her ear against the door. She heard his next sentence very clearly. “And don’t anybody touch the inside of the car,” the detective said. “We’ll be able to get the driver’s prints off the keys.”
Peachey opened the stairwell door. At least that was the problem of the girl solved. He hadn’t had the satisfaction of killing her himself, but he wasn’t a greedy man. And it almost counted – he’d been the one who chased her up to the roof, and who shot out her tyres. But he was reasonably confident she would have died anyhow. What was she thinking, trying a stunt like that?
Back to the plan. Hide in Buckland’s office. Wait for him to come back. Kill him. Walk out.
His phone rang. That’ll be Walker, he thought. Haven’t heard from her in a while. He answered it. “Hel—”
“What the hell is going on?” Walker screamed.
“Hi,” Peachey said.
“We are paying you for a simple task. Kill Hammond Buckland. Instead, you’ve broken one of Buckland’s windows, thrown a member of his cleaning staff to his death, and shot at a car as it drove off the roof. You now have the attention of a live television audience, and the TRA seems to have showed up for some reason. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
How did she know I was on the roof? wondered Peachey. “I’m doing my job.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. Because from here it looks like you’re just making a mess.”
Peachey pushed open the stairwell door on floor 25 and started walking towards Buckland’s office. “Everything I’ve done has been essential to my mission,” he said. “I’m setting up a trap for Buckland, and he will come to me. When he does, I’ll kill him. But until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling me. When the job is done, I will call you. Got it?”
“You now have a time limit,” Walker said. “You have until I find a better assassin. I’m trying to track down Alex de Totth as we speak.”