These Mean Streets, Darkly (The Liquid Cool Prequel)

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These Mean Streets, Darkly (The Liquid Cool Prequel) Page 2

by Austin Dragon


  "Unit 7-8-2-7. Go ahead, dispatch," he responded.

  "2-11 in progress at the Downtown Seven-Eleven on Beat Street. Shots reported by armed suspect. Armed civilian security guard on the scene holding near the main entrance. Code 2."

  "10-4 dispatch. Code 2 acknowledged. En route three minutes."

  "10-4 Unit 7-8-2-7, back-up units five minutes out. Dispatch out."

  "Acknowledged, dispatch. Over and out." He tapped the button again.

  "Five minutes?" Officer Break asked matter-of-factly. "We'll have the perp bagged and tagged before the cavalry arrives." He accelerated the cruiser forward on a vector further above the sky traffic.

  The Downtown Seven-Eleven on Beat Street was not a huge store like others in the city, but it was on prime real estate on the street corner at the bottom of a parking structure in the city's "capitol." During the work week, the foot traffic was huge. Other times, customers could whip in and out of vehicle parking by hovercraft, hop into the express elevator, exit, shop, pay, and go. Everyone knew the relatively small store was a gold mine for its owners, but no one understood why the occasional robber would try to steal from it with City Hall, Police Central, and Downtown FBI just a few blocks away—mega blocks yes, but still only blocks away.

  The robber waved his heater (laser pistol) wildly. "If I see a cop, she's dead!"

  Someone watched the human stick figure of a punk yell with his blond mullet hairdo partially hidden under the hood of a jacket. He held the laser pistol to a terrified Asian female store attendant. Mascara tears trailed down her face onto her white-and-red 7-11 uniform—a college kid paying her way through school, but today, in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then the sniper sight, with its yellow lens, was focused on him, not her.

  The White male punk was pinned inside the convenience store and making up his words and actions as he went along, trying to look tough, covered in tattoos everywhere, even on his face. A lone strip mall security guard had already taken a shot at him once and was now kneeling behind a communications pole across the street—the punk had fired back at him. He smiled, eager for the coming 'excitement.'

  The strip mall guard was another college kid, from some East European country, and was as scared of his standard issue gun as he was of the robber. He looked up to see the glow of boot rockets high up in the sky and sighed with relief. The police had arrived.

  Downtown Seven-Eleven was like every other one in the world. They were all identical. Only the overall size changed. Row after row of products, and what couldn't be placed on shelves, could easily be fetched from the back by robotic arms and presented to the counter for purchase. The front counter was like a mini neon digital explosion of various advertisements, especially for lottery tickets, as well as scrolling news headlines, the New York and Tokyo Stock Exchange ticker feeds, and "Have you seen this child?" or "Have you seen this criminal?" bulletins.

  The punk pulled his human shield back further into the store and around the counter to take better cover behind the register. He watched the outside street closely.

  "I should have shot you and that guard and made a break for it. Now we'll have to have the shootout right here. How unlucky for you. No college graduation for you. No twenty-first birthday for me."

  "Just let me go. I didn't do you anything," the store attendant said as calmly as she could manage.

  "You didn't give me my money."

  "It's not your money."

  "It's not your money either, so why didn't you just give it up? You think your bosses who aren't here care about a few bucks in the till? A few bucks is nothing to them but a lot to me."

  "To do what?"

  "None of your business."

  "You're holding a gun to my head, so everything about you is my business."

  "Feisty, huh, for a hostage who's about to die." He held her closer and repositioned his gun to her temple. "Who do you think is going to kill you first? Me or the cops? You know how many innocent people get accidentally shot by the cops?" He glanced further into the store. "And that goes for the rest of you, too!"

  There were thirteen other hostages in the store, all of them lying on the floor as directed earlier, looking up at him with fear.

  The large front glass of the store was neon glass and had a tint that changed colors. In an instant, it shattered and cascaded down to the ground. The top of the punk's head was simultaneously blown off and his body collapsed to the ground. The hostage grabbed the sides of her face screaming hysterically.

  Officers Break and Caps stepped through the open storefront, their boots crushing the glass on the ground as they walked, long guns in hand. As with all Metropolis police officers, the word "PEACE" in big white letters was prominent on the front and back of their uniforms.

  "Ma'am," Officer Break called out.

  The woman was in a state of shock, staring at the body of the mangled would-be robber-killer.

  "Ma'am!"

  She looked at him now.

  He put a finger to his lips. "Shh!" She stopped screaming.

  Officer Caps touched the call button on his shoulder-communicator. "Dispatch, this is Unit 7-8-2-7. Robbery suspect is dead. Scene secured."

  "Unit 7-8-2-7, meat wagon en route. Back-up on scene now," dispatch answered.

  From outside the store, through the drizzle, one appeared, then another, then several more silver-and-black police "PEACE" officers appeared—their silent jetpacks with accompanying boot rocket nozzles made them seem like wingless black angels descending from the sky. They stepped through the open storefront into the premises—long guns in hand, visors concealing the top half of their faces. Now the night was illuminated by red-and-blue-siren lights.

  "This is the police! All hostages please stand and come forward with your hands in the air," one of the new policemen said with an enhanced, booming voice. He lifted his mouth from his shoulder-microphone to speak normally. "Ladies and gentleman, we'll process you, take statements, and have you home within the hour."

  All the store customers on the floor slowly rose to their feet and held up their hands. Officer Break walked to the store's attendant and took her by the shoulder. "Ma'am follow me outside. Ambulance services will take you to Metro General."

  She had stifled her screams, but her eyes locked on what remained of the would-be robber on the ground.

  "Ma'am, don't look at him. Don't pollute your memories with that human filth. He got what he deserved. Go about your life and don't give another nanosecond of thought to it."

  "Thank you...Officer," she managed to say.

  Their first call of the day was a silent alarm. The next call was a full-out "red-and-blue siren party" with the lights illuminating the sky for miles around. Office Break peered out his driver's side window as he acknowledged the ground officer directing him down to a patch of sidewalk with a double flash of his high beams. Officer Caps watched the people on his side congregating on their balconies at the nearby hi-rise closest to the scene.

  "It's going to be a tight fit," Break said to his partner.

  Caps leaned forward to look down to the sidewalk. "I've seen you land this bird on a dime before," he responded.

  Officer Break spun the cruiser around, backed it up, situated the craft, and slowly took it down. It touched down and both officers immediately lifted up the doors to step out.

  Two White officers walked to them—Boot was the bigger Russian, and Bus was the Italian.

  "We heard you two gave some skell a cranial haircut with one shot. That sounds like you, Caps."

  "B and B," Officer Caps greeted with a smirk.

  "Don't be shy, guys," Officer Boot said. "It's almost month-end and we'll be counting up the kills. If I'm going to be knocked down from my perch at the top, I want to know by who in advance."

  "Break drives, I shoot 'em," Caps said. "But this time, it was all Break."

  "Break," Officer Boot said. "That means, we're tied up, Caps. You and me."

  "I'm not worried. I'll knock you off the
kill-hill."

  "I don't think so. Only three days left."

  "What's going on here?" Break asked them. "A 2-07?"

  "Yeah. Little girl, ten years old, snatched right from her mother while walking to school. Pedophile, no doubt."

  Break and Caps were visibly disgusted.

  "It never stops. These pee-dophiles," Caps said.

  "Gentlemen, I nominate whoever this sick perp is for the honor of being next on the kill board," Boot said.

  "Deal," Caps said.

  "It'll be everyone's pleasure," Officer Bus added.

  Break and Caps could see another police officer gesturing to them from behind the police tape.

  "Detective Do-Little calls," Break said wryly.

  Carol sat on the bare asphalt, the rain pouring down. Her eye make-up ran down her cheeks, not from the rain, but from crying. She looked up and they just kept coming—"PEACE" officers descending from the air via jetpack. Back in the day, it was "POLICE," but many years ago someone somewhere in City Hall wanted to soften law enforcement's image. She always welcomed them, but always wondered about the visual paradox. The entire area was cordoned off by police tape and police cars, flashing red and blue lights everywhere. Police on crowd-control stood on one side of the "POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS" tape and crowds of onlookers stood on the other side.

  A policewoman stood next to her, dressed the same as the men, just as deadly with her "PEACE" lettering, but a smaller build. "Ma'am, you sure I can't get you an umbrella? You're getting soaked."

  She shook her head. The policewoman's face frowned a bit, but it was with compassion.

  Another policeman appeared and crouched down next to her, holding an umbrella over her with "DETECTIVE" on the chest and back of his uniform. He flipped up his visor so she could see his eyes.

  "Miss," he said, "I know you gave us the preliminary statement, but let me take you down to the station so you can tell us again on the record. The more times you tell the story, the more likely you'll remember an important detail, however small, that can help us find your daughter."

  "I can't leave here."

  "Miss, you're not leaving. You're simply coming down to the station, which isn't too far away, to give your full statement for the record. We'll find your daughter."

  "Ma'am, I'll get you back here personally," the policewoman said. "It'll be okay."

  Carol looked at her and then looked at the detective. "But will you find her alive?"

  She had a wild look to her eyes and the detective said nothing. She looked down to the ground. He glanced at the female officer.

  "Yes, ma'am, we will." The policewoman gave the detective a dirty look.

  "Officer, can you get her something warm to drink before we leave for the station?" he said to her.

  "Yes, detective."

  "And get her out of the rain. There has to be some place warm for her to sit." He turned back to the woman. "Miss, let the officer get you off the ground and some place warm. I'll check with my men to see if there is any new news and then we'll leave."

  The female officer leaned down and helped Carol to her feet. The detective handed the umbrella to the female officer.

  "I'll take her to the van," she said to the detective, and he nodded.

  As he watched the female officer take her to a nearby parked police hovervan, Detective Monitor walked to two of his officers.

  He knew the nickname the beat officers had for him. He came from a well-to-do Old North European family; the latter being irrelevant, the former being very relevant, because he made detective in record time.

  "What ya got?"

  "We'll canvass everywhere, Detective, and then canvass it again and again," Officer Break answered.

  "We have the entire Alley blocked, and I'm taking the mother back to Central, so as the senior officers on site, you two run the show for me."

  "Yes, Detective," Officer Caps said. "Should we expect the Feds?"

  "No, the Feds don't jump anymore unless it's a Red Ball. Too many kidnappings for them to handle anymore, so we get it. Besides, we have more resources in Metropolis than they do."

  "Good," Officer Caps said.

  "What is this Alien Alley, anyway?" Detective Monitor asked.

  "Nothing," Officer Break answered. "The word is that during business hours it's a space fiction nerd hang-out. Extraterrestrial, spaceship, sci-fi alien crap. Just kids. No hard crimes."

  "What about off-hours?"

  "Apparently, no one goes there off-hours."

  "Why?"

  "We don't know and no one seems to know."

  "What about the street?"

  "We'll question the local sidewalk johnnies. They know everything there is to know about every street and alley in the city. We'll put them in the box if they don't talk."

  "Don't be fooled by them. They like the box. Warm bed, breakfast, lunch, dinner, running shower, and toilet at taxpayers' expense. Lock-up is exactly where they want to be. Tell them to talk or we won't let them stay in the box."

  "Yes, Detective."

  "Forensics is already here, and I called in the dogs."

  "Dogs?" Officer Caps asked. "Won't the rain make any canine search impossible?"

  "Try anyway. Police dogs need to earn their pay just like us humans. We may get lucky. We need to get lucky. It's a helpless little girl for Christ's sake. I don't want this one to end up in the morgue. I hate these calls. I'd take a hundred calls of shootouts, robberies, and hijackings if I could avoid these calls. These calls tend to always end badly."

  Metropolis Police Central stood at the opposite end of the avenue from City Hall and looked like a cubical fortress. It was also rumored to be deepest building in the world, burrowing endless levels into the ground—a holdover of the Cold War days when nuclear annihilation and civil unrest of a biblical proportion was the daily fear of government bureaucrats. That was long before the megacities and supercities of today, and the rain. Central was home to a 500,000 plus police force—the largest in the nation.

  Carol sat in the general waiting room inside the station, which some interior decorator attempted to make as bright and cheery as possible, but it wasn't the opposite of the grimy exterior of the building; it complimented it. With the daily march of police with their combat boots and the steady stream of captured criminals in and out, how else would it look? She sat in her chair quietly, glancing around—there was only an elderly couple seated two rows behind her.

  They were actually in the inner waiting room behind the main counter and wall. The outer waiting room was like a massive zoo, with people all over the place waiting their turn to be helped, DMV-style, by counter police. She looked the other way to the bull pen of dual cubicles where the street police sat and worked when not on the beat. Further away, she saw elevated single cubicles where she imagined the detectives sat. Beyond that were the offices for the higher-ups.

  She had given her statement—again and then again. Now she waited to be taken home by the same policewoman as promised. All of it seemed surreal. She realized that she hadn't even called her job to tell them she wouldn't be in. Her daughter's school would have already logged another absence for her daughter. She had one already. Three tardies equaled one absence in the system. Carol couldn't remember what she had planned for work that day, but she knew there was something important. She closed her eyes and opened them when she heard voices.

  The same female policewoman was standing with the same detective, both listening to a man in dress blues.

  "Take her home," the Captain said.

  "What do you want me to tell her, sir?" the detective asked.

  "It's your case. Tell her whatever you like."

  "What are we supposed to do? You won't let me elevate it to a Red Ball, and you won't let me toss it to the Feds."

  The captain angrily motioned to him with his finger. "Come here. And you too."

  He led them around the corner to the large open room with the Big Board and pointed. Row after row of numbered cases we
re listed in "Active" status. They were categorized by crimes, noted by two letter abbreviations. Not many cases were in the "Closed" column.

  "The Feds won't take it, because they have one hundred missing persons cases on their plate now. We won't elevate it to a Red Ball, because of what's on our plate now. Which one of these mothers do you want us to tell to go to the back of the line with their missing son or daughter? Well? What's your answer, detective?"

  "None, sir."

  "Work your case, like everyone else. I decide who gets extra resources, not you. There is nothing special about this case. A missing girl in Metropolis is not special. A dead husband in Metropolis is not special. A drive-by shooting in Metropolis is not special. It's routine. Maybe one day you'll learn that. Work your case and get out of my face."

  The captain left them where they stood as he walked the other way.

  "I'll take her home," the female officer said.

  "You can tell her that we'll be in touch if we have any updates," the detective said.

  The female officer gave him a dirty look. "I'll come up with a better lie than that."

  She turned and left him alone.

  "I need a drink," he said to himself and walked to the break room.

  Security at Central was formidable—armed police guards, security cameras, armed sentries at the end of the hallways near the elevators, and scanning archways; but that was only for entering. Entering and exiting pedestrian traffic was divided by a solid metal barrier down the middle of the grand hallway. For those exiting, they walked out without any checks whatsoever.

  One of the police officers in work blues noticed a man in the crowd on the other side of the barrier, going out.

  "'Night, sir," he said as he waved slightly.

  "'Night, officer," the man answered.

  The Thin Man exited the main entrance.

  Chapter 3

  Frantic

  HER FIRST FOOT HIT the puddle, splashing the dirty water on her clothes. Her right foot hit the ground and did the same. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered. Her running was constant now. She had tied her plastic head scarf so tight to her head that there wasn't enough give to allow any rainwater to roll off. Her coat was wrapped around her body so tight that the buttons were about to pop off, with her running through the streets. Carol was a woman mad with grief—her eyes said so. People on the streets instinctively seemed to know this and parted to either side to stay out of her path.

 

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