Hostile Takeover (Vale Investigation Book 1)

by Cristelle Comby

  One person’s presence at this grim scene surprised me. Mayor Galatas was standing in front of a swarm of cameramen and reporters, giving an impromptu press conference with a face and body posture that said “social crusader” to me. I had to admit, even though she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed under the expert makeup job, Her Honor cut an impressive figure. I was enough of a cynic to wonder how many votes Luc’s death had just bought her.

  “Guess I shouldn’t even be surprised that you’re here,” Ramirez said as she crossed over from the police business side of the tape.

  “Just happened to be close by when I heard the news,” I said with a shrug.

  “Indigo?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at me.

  When I nodded, she said, “We found a cell in the vic’s hand. His last call was to a number that we can’t seem to trace … sounds like your hacker friend’s signature.”

  “Wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said. I endeavored to change the subject. “What’s the mayor doing in this part of town, let alone a crime scene?”

  “That’s the beauty, if you want to call it that, of an election year,” Ramirez replied. “The department doesn’t mind Her Honor getting a little screen time just as long as we get credit for doing our jobs right on the campaign trail.”

  “So this is a PR kickback?”

  Ramirez grunted something that didn’t pretend to be a laugh. “Good way to put it.”

  “How’s Morgan handling having a politician all over his crime scene?” I asked, looking around for the detective lieutenant, who was sure to be around if Ramirez was.

  “Why don’t you ask your new girlfriend, pendejo?” Mel snapped, cocking a thumb in the opposite direction I was looking.

  Sure enough, Kennedy was right in front of Morgan, with a cameraman in tow, firing off a series of questions that my least-favorite cop did not want to hear. From what I could make out, he was sticking to officialese and curt answers, the smartest play he could have employed with the mayor on site.

  “Mel,” I said, turning my attention back to my ex, “I’m telling you that she’s not—”

  “And she just happened to be with you at our old spot at Sundowner’s, right?” she shot back, reminding me once again of a wronged housewife.

  “Business, Ramirez,” I said, out of patience. “That’s all it was. You’ve got city taxes to pay your salary. I have to go out and earn mine any way I can. Sometimes I even get a chance to make the world a better place.”

  Ramirez sighed and shook her head. “This isn’t another of your crusades, is it, Bell?”

  Something about that hurt tone made me feel a little ashamed of myself for a second, but she didn’t wait for me to figure out what to say.

  “What am I talking about? Of course it is. They’re about the only things that ever matter to you.”

  I wanted to tell her that she was wrong and that I was sorry. I wanted to tell her that every time she walked out, my heart broke a little more. I wanted to say a lot of things that my tongue wasn’t letting me get out.

  “Why do we keep doing this?” she asked in exasperation. “As long I’ve known you, it’s always been the same. We get together, you get a case, you start to ignore me, we fight, we break up, rinse and repeat.”

  I looked down at my shoes. By now I was past wanting to get my mouth to work and looking for a graceful way to get out of there.

  “Want to hear something funny?” Ramirez asked.

  I didn’t but I had a feeling that it might give the opening I was looking for so I nodded.

  “Those cases are the only times that I’m sure there’s a good man in there somewhere,” she said, her voice getting wistful. “I just wish he’d stay around me for longer than a couple of weeks at a time.”

  I looked back at her. Something about that statement made me come to a conclusion. “You’re saying that you want to try this again?” I asked, finding my voice.

  Ramirez gave a quick shake of her head, looking irritated. “I don’t know. Ask me again some other night when I’m not mad at you.” Going back across the tape, she added, “I’ll go earn those city taxes you were talking about.”

  I let out a long, uneasy breath as she walked off. It wasn’t painless but it could have been a lot worse. I noticed that Kennedy was just wrapping up her non-interview with Morgan and splitting from her cameraman to walk in my direction.

  “Now, why am I not surprised to see you out here?” she asked as soon as she was near enough.

  “Not as surprised as I am to see you,” I said, an accusation behind the statement.

  “Hey, if you’re implying that I knew about this ahead of time, you’re a lot less smart than what I told you at the café,” she retorted. “As far as the rest of the world knows, this is just another late-breaking story on my usual night shift. Until I spotted you, that’s all I thought too.”

  “Might be connected to that dealer I was telling you about this afternoon,” I told her. “But I’ll need to know more to say for sure. Morgan let anything slip?”

  “Yeah, that there’s a dead body in the street that shouldn’t be there,” Kennedy said with annoyance. “How about we talk about something that could get us somewhere, like all those victims on our main story?”

  I took a quick peek around to make sure no flatfoot was hanging around. The coast was clear. “Okay, give it to me quick.”

  “All our first batch of victims had been ‘requested’ to move on out,” Kennedy said. “Every last one of them told the landlords where they could stick that request. Sure, they had a rap sheet that included plenty of jail time, but that’s never been grounds for an eviction that I ever heard.”

  “Then they get dead,” I added. “Thanks to those rap sheets you mentioned, the cops don’t look too hard at the murders.”

  “And no living relatives to speak up for the departed,” Kennedy concluded. “Just another ‘price of doing criminal business’ moment here in Cold City.”

  “What about Kurtzenberg?” I asked. “You know, the guy that the CCPD did care about.”

  “Here’s where it gets weird,” Kennedy said. “Just before his very untimely demise, Mr. Kurtzenberg was having his crew look at two of the properties for ‘health and safety reasons,’ one particular spot in each building. Looked like he was on that kind of inspection on a third building the night he died.”

  “What was so bad about the spots he was looking at?” I asked, knowing there was more.

  “That’s just it,” Kennedy answered. “Nothing. I’ve been over property records and blueprints until I felt like my eyes were going to start crying blood. I keep coming back to a big zero every time.”

  I spotted a uniform coming our way. “Might be a good idea to split for a few minutes,” I told her. “Don’t want word to get back to Morgan that we’ve been spotted here together.”

  Kennedy didn’t miss a beat, just walked away as casually as if I were a fire hydrant.

  I took the opportunity to shoot my favorite hacker a quick text to give him a heads-up that the cops might be coming his way. Once I was done sending it, Kennedy was in front of me again.

  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” she said, grabbing my hand by the ring and little fingers.

  As soon as we were a block away from the lights, she turned on me. “Could you do an interview with me on this?”

  I opened my mouth to object but Kennedy cut me off. “Off the record … consider yourself a protected source who will never be quoted directly.”

  “Just remember what we talked about before about info dispersal,” I reminded her.

  “You’re keeping your word, so I’m keeping mine. But I need a few blanks filled in. I can do the rest after that.”

  I shrugged. “Where do you want to do it?”

  “Just give me a lift home and we’ll talk on the way.”
/>   ***

  It’s a funny thing. I’m usually good about remembering details. I can tell you things about someone’s clothes that they never would have thought of, recall conversations good enough to pass muster, and tell a decent narrative from beginning to end. But for the life of me I can’t remember that interview I had with Kennedy while I was driving her home. Then again, there’s a good reason for my memory problems on this. I was listening to one of Kennedy’s questions when a big guy suddenly appeared in my headlights. The oscillation between a psycho football player and a demented goalie told me immediately who it was … the Berserker.

  Chapter nineteen

  Dirty deeds

  Before I could slam on the brakes, the Berserker gave a bone-chilling war-cry two seconds before he put his fist through the hood. I bounced around in the seat while the shriek of shredding metal accompanied the destruction of everything from the grill to just past the engine block. The airbag slammed in my face while my seatbelt tore into my shoulder. It was better than flying out the windshield, but not much.

  I punched my thumb onto the seatbelt buckle and pushed the door open to get out. Funny how that was one of the few things on the car that was still in one piece. I looked back to see Kennedy doing the same thing on her side.

  I heard a heavy growl and turned my attention to the front of the car. I don’t know if it was because of the collision with the car or the shit quality of the Glitter but the Berserker was now standing there in his full psycho glory, the white skull gleaming like a death’s head. Another low growl came from the bottom of his throat before turning into yet another war-cry as he charged me.

  I got out of the way just in time. A quick glance around told me that we were in Derby, the worst area in Cold City if you were counting on police response to save your ass. I had just enough time to realize that that was precisely why we had been ambushed there before the man-monster snarled, “Pay!”

  By some miracle, the wall behind me had soaked up the impact of that wrecking ball on legs hitting it. I wasn’t so sure if I was going to survive taking that kind of a hit, Lady McDeath or not. The Berserker ran at me again but at a slower pace this time, the better to swipe at me with his steel-clawed fist.

  I ducked and rolled out of the way, grabbing my knife from my ankle holster on the way. By the time I was on my feet, the beast was disorientated, giving me a chance to stab between the metal plates in his side. That’s when my luck ran out.

  The second the knife sank in, the Berserker whirled—too fast for me to keep a grip on the blade. His studded knuckles crashed into my side like a sledge. I went flying, hitting the asphalt as hard as the man-beast had hit me. I cried out with pain and found myself wishing that I’d thought to bring my Sig with me.

  As if in answer to my silent prayer for a firearm, shots started ringing out. They bounced off the Berserker’s armor just like mine had done the other night but at least they distracted his attention from me. Kennedy was crouched behind the wrecked car, delivering shot after shot from her .40 S&W. Another inarticulate roar came from the thing’s mouth as it started running down Kennedy’s position.

  “Get out of the way!” I yelled, pushing past my pain to get the words out.

  Kennedy didn’t need to be told twice. She did a quick sidestep half a second before the Berserker did more damage to my car by flipping it into the air. The poor, abused Stingray crashed into the wall, taking out a window, before landing back on the ground with a loud crunch.

  Kennedy, meanwhile, was running over to me and taking hold of my arm to haul me up.

  “We’ve got to spread out,” I said between coughs.

  “Shut up and get on your feet, hoss,” Kennedy snapped back as she helped me do just that.

  My legs were barely under me when the Berserker started uttering sounds I could understand. Not that the words were any comfort: “Die! Human!”

  I got a glimpse of my knife in his back before he turned around again. Kennedy held me under the shoulder with one arm while aiming her .40 with the other. Even she had to know it wasn’t going to be enough.

  I heard a familiar sound I couldn’t place as the Berserker made a run at us. In fact I didn’t place it until its source crashed into that bastard full tilt boogie … a Prius. The car knocked the creature down like it’d been hit with a giant fist out of some cartoon. It didn’t do the car much good, mind you … the hood was smashed in from the impact along with every window in it. Kennedy, for her part, emptied the rest of her clip into the now prone serial killer.

  This bought us a few seconds of respite, but the fight was far from over. As soon as the Berserker got back on his feet he would kill every last one of us. I took a few steps backward and felt my foot tap against something metallic … a can of hair spray. Judging from its undamaged condition, I guessed it must have escaped from Kennedy’s purse. I reached down to grab it just as her handgun clicked empty.

  Kennedy gave me a look that seemed apologetic. “I got to get a clip out of my back pocket.”

  “I’ll buy you some time,” I assured her with a nod.

  She let go of my arm and I willed myself to keep standing. Once I was sure that I could, I started walking towards the thing, which I knew had killed four people already.

  “Gotta admit, I’m surprised,” I yelled. “I mean, I knew you were good at murdering old men, women, and children who didn’t stand a chance. But I wondered how you’d do against someone who could fight back.”

  The growl as he rose was what I was going for. Sure, this divinely empowered thug had no qualms about snuffing out any mortal life. But pointing out what exactly he was stung him in that abomination he called “honor.”

  “You see, I wonder if that’s the reason why you didn’t finish me off last time,” I went on, wrapping my free hand around the Zippo I always kept in one of my jacket pockets. “You’d have to work at your kill and you’re just too lazy to want to bother.”

  “Maggot,” the Berserker sneered while I used my thumb to pry the top off the spray can.

  “Wow, the way you speak English, I’m surprised the word is even in your vocabulary.”

  By then, I knew I had to be in Kennedy’s line of fire. That was deliberate on my part. I stood a better chance of surviving what was coming next than she did. The monster was on his feet now, pulling my knife from its back and brandishing it like it was a sword. I slipped the Zippo out of my pocket and opened it.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, you pussy?!” I shouted. “Do what you came to do!”

  The Berserker aimed the knife at my belly as he ran at me, but I was ready. I brought my hands up and lit up the Zippo. The stream from the can hit the flame, turning the haircare product into an instant fireball. My would-be killer screamed in agony as the flames hit him square in the face, making him drop the knife as he tore off the bear skull. Another myth about the Berserkers busted.

  Then he started swinging blind, catching me in the chest with one of his swipes. It sent me flying the way the Prius had him, knocking me to the opposite side of the street, where I hit something hard and metallic.

  I could hear Kennedy’s gun doing its business as I shook my head clear. It turned out that a dumpster with two doors on top had broken my flight. Somehow I still had a hold of both the spray can and the Zippo. Using the dumpster’s side to brace me, I got back on my feet. The side I was on had an open door where all sorts of foul things were producing a distinctive aroma. A glimpse of some moldy newspaper inside gave me an idea.

  Climbing up the side a little, I sparked off the spray can again with the Zippo. This time, my makeshift flamethrower began burning the trash inside. Once the spray was lit up, I threw open the door on the other side of the dumpster to make sure the fire was getting enough air. In no time, I had a bonfire going so intense that I had to get out of the way to avoid getting burned. I could feel the heat coming through the metal as I s
lid down the side.

  I heard a roar from the Berserker and then the sound of its heavy feet running off into the night. Then another set of feet, much lighter, came closer … Kennedy.

  “Mind explaining to me how you knew a dumpster fire would make him run, when getting hit by two cars back to back had no effect whatsoever?” she asked as she helped me to my feet.

  “Publicity,” I wheezed as we staggered back to the wrecked cars. “He didn’t have any qualms about killing anything he could get his hands on. But that …”—I nodded my head towards the burning trash—“… that is way more attention than he wanted. Whoever is holding his leash must have given him precise instructions to keep a low profile.”

  The driver of the Prius was groaning from the pain of his self-created wreck. A flash of messy bleach-blond hair told us both who it was.

  “Zian!” Kennedy said. “How did you find us?”

  “Is he … is he gone?” Zian asked, his voice croaking with strain.

  “Yeah, Z,” I said, pulling the door open, the metal yawning in protest. “You did good.”

  At first glance, it looked like nothing short of the Jaws of Life would get Zian out. But the Prius’ safety features made the job a lot easier than I expected. We were soon able to get him out and lay him on the ground. My own injuries were screaming at me the entire time I was engaged in this mission of mercy.

  “Are you okay, Zian? Did the crash do something to your eyes?” Kennedy asked.

  She was bent over him, tissue in hand as she dabbed at a wound on my friend’s scalp. Even in the dim light of the streetlamps it was obvious that the dark color of his eyes was eating too much at the whites to pass for human.

  “It’s heterochromia,” I explained, backing up Zian’s previous explanation. I leaned against the totaled Prius, my strength spent. “His eyes change like that when he’s under intense stress.”