Cold

by Robert J. Crane

  “Great,” she said. “I’m parked just outside the police perimeter on Poydras. Why don’t you come join me and we’ll get a little something to eat and…” I could almost hear the joy she was wringing out of every word, and especially the last one: “…talk.”

  54.

  The Bon Ton Cafe was an unassuming, three-story brick building only a few blocks from where everything had gone down on the Riverwalk. Michelle drove us herself, at the wheel of a well-worn minivan, the Triad queen rocking her usual yoga pants and not saying a damned word as we went. She pulled up into a parking lot beside the restaurant and led the way inside, silent as a mouse until we’d been seated and had a couple waters in front of us.

  Mine didn’t last more than ten seconds.

  “Thirsty?” Michelle asked, eyeing my glass, empty to the ice at the bottom.

  “Chasing people across the city by foot and bike takes it out of me,” I said. My strategy for this meeting was simple: say as little as possible while trying to get her to say as much as possible. So far, based on the ride over, my strategy was not working very well. “Why’d you pick this place?”

  “Bon Ton?” She looked around; the décor was very basic, red and white checkered tablecloths, simple wooden chairs, the occasional pillar right in the middle of the dining room and a ceiling that was aged wood slats and the odd chandelier or fan interspersed. It was basic, incredibly basic, down to the brick walls and perfunctory paintings on the walls. “In a city full of great restaurants,” Michelle said, grinning, “Bon Ton stands out.”

  “Hm.” There was a smell of food radiating from the kitchen in the back of the place that was already making my mouth water. “So…am I going to walk out of here with all my articles of clothing this time?” I stared Michelle down, and shameless as she was, she didn’t even have the grace to blush. “Do I need to keep an eye on my pants?”

  “I have no interest in getting you out of anything you’re wearing,” Michelle said, “unless you’ve got an interest in converting to the cult of the yoga pants? Because let me tell you something, Nealon—they would free you up in all the best ways, especially as much as you move.”

  “Given that I often kick above my head,” I said, “I’m not sure yoga pants are the best choice for me. Also, probably not in the FBI approved list for standard wear.”

  “How often have you ripped the seat of your pants while fighting?” Michelle asked.

  “Ripped them?” I snorted. “Hell, I used to go through entire wardrobes of clothes back when I could light my whole body on fire. Rips were the least of my problems.”

  “Interesting,” she said, then piped down as the server came over to take our drink order. She listened politely to the spiel for a second, then cut in: “I’m not having anything, and my companion doesn’t drink.”

  Our server wasn’t much deterred, promising to return in a few minutes so we could order. I didn’t argue, because I was still trying to figure out what was what with the menu. “How’d you know that?” I asked as soon as the server was out of earshot.

  “Know what?” Michelle asked oh-so-playfully.

  “That I didn’t want anything to drink.”

  “Oh, come on now,” she said, making a big show of perusing the menu. “Surely you aren’t tempted to break that longstanding sobriety streak just because you’ve had a couple rough days since you got here. Though I suppose New Orleans is a tempting city for that sort of thing…”

  I felt my blood run cold. “How did you know about my sobriety?” I tried to remember if I’d mentioned it to anyone at any point over the last few days where she or anyone on her payroll might have heard it. I couldn’t remember saying anything about it in any forum since arriving in New Orleans.

  “I read a speculative article about it on Flashforce,” she said, looking up. “Do you know how much mystery there is surrounding you?”

  I flushed, my cheeks feeling hotter than flames. “Yes. But it’s not like I have time to sift through every stupid clickbait article written by all the wankers who just churn out hot takes by the metric ton so they can afford their apartments in Williamsburg and San Fran.”

  “Is there a reason you don’t do any interviews?” she asked, head cocked a little, clearly curious. “You know, so you could clean up some of those misperceptions?”

  I blinked. “The FBI doesn’t let me. Presently.”

  Michelle almost snorted her water. “The FBI may not let you, but you know that half the FBI agents in the major cities leak like sieves to every journalist under the sun, right?”

  I stiffened. “I’m not in that half.”

  “Good for you,” she said, still looking at the menu, “having principles and such. How’s that going for you so far?”

  “Does how I answer affect whether I get stuck with the tab for lunch?”

  She laughed. “No, I think I can handle this one.” She quieted again as the server came back, ordering us a Bayou Jambalaya appetizer each, then a Fried Soft-Shell crab entree for herself. I ordered the Crawfish Etouffee, and our server disappeared toward the back of the restaurant after validating our choices as good.

  “So…” I said. “Were you just tired of the social scene here in NOLA when you asked me to lunch, or…?”

  “I am a little tired of the social scene here, come to think of it.” She looked like she was thinking about it. “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “We’ve already discussed my unwillingness to wear yoga pants. If it’s more personal than that, I’m drawing the line.”

  Michelle smiled tightly, then leaned in. “I want to talk about violence.”

  My entire body seemed to twang to that topic of conversation, a little offense radiating out from the gut level to clench all my muscles. “So, of course you come to the Slay Queen,” I said.

  “That’s a terrible nickname,” she said, making a light retching noise. “But I do have an honest query for you—you seem to be keeping a good handle on it these days. What’s your secret?”

  “Well, I did a little three-day stretch in the meta prison up in Minneapolis a few months ago,” I said, trying to defuse her question with jokes, as one does when questioned about the murdering and such they’ve perpetrated, “and I think that really cured me, as far as ever wanting to go back. I feel like it totally cured me of the need to bust heads.”

  “That’s not a serious answer.” Her eyes were on mine, shining, but direct.

  “No, but it’s a somewhat accurate one,” I said. “You go do a stretch like that and see if it doesn’t change your mind about reflexively killing people.”

  “That’s disappointing,” she said, sitting back in her seat. The jambalaya arrived, and it, fortunately, was not disappointing. In fact, it might have been among the best things I’d ever eaten, and not just because I was starving. I scarfed it down, and if the server had been hanging around the table, I’d have ordered more on the spot.

  Michelle kept quiet as she delicately went after her own jambalaya, employing patience and table manners where I’d dispensed with both. Consequently, she managed to string out her food and her silence until the salad arrived, whereupon I tucked in and devoured mine in seconds and she again took her time.

  “It’s good that they course things here rather than just bringing them out when I’m ready,” I said, finally having had enough of watching her eat in silence. “Otherwise I’d already be out of here and you’d be sitting by yourself, with no one to talk to.”

  “That would be a real tragedy,” she said, completely inscrutable. “Like wasting any of that jambalaya. Did I see you lick your plate?”

  “If I thought it was acceptable, I damned sure would have.”

  “Don’t go stopping yourself on my account. Table manners are overrated when the food’s this good.”

  “Agreed; the food is amazing so far,” I said. “And worth the trip, don’t get me wrong. But am I going to get an answer about what you brought me here for? Other than ‘violence’?”


  She pushed a piece of lettuce around with her fork before spearing it and delicately popping it into her mouth, chewing completely, and swallowing. This whole process took well in excess of a minute, and I’d just about given up on actually getting an answer to my question when she said, “Well, if you’re wanting to have a discussion about violence, it makes sense to seek out an authority, doesn’t it?”

  I smiled slyly as she went back to her salad. “Tell me—do the Triads in New Orleans employ violence very often?”

  She showed zero surprise—or any reaction at all—at my query, but she answered it much quicker than my last question. “Violence is a part of life in any society. In civilized societies, we reserve the largest part of it for the state, granting them the effective legal monopoly on it, and for its agents. But there are laws, and then there are cultural norms, subcultures…the Triads are a subculture, one that exists below the bounds of societal organization.” She kept her eyes on her salad the entire time she spoke. “When you’re raised a certain way, it is hard to depart from that. Don’t you think?”

  “Not sure what you’re getting at there.”

  “In times of stress do you ever find yourself drawn to tight quarters, confined places?” Her eyes shone as she looked at me, and I wondered, for perhaps the first time, if I was dealing with a telepath. Again. “Some artifact of your upbringing, perhaps?”

  “Why do you ask?” I kept the focus on her, didn’t dare to give her an ounce of reaction to work with. I kept my palms in my lap, kept down the flush that would normally have flooded my cheeks. I didn’t deal with customers as cool as Michelle Cheong very often, and it required more control than I could recall producing, maybe in my life, including in my new job, where I’d been on my very best behavior. This was also one of the more circuitous conversations I’d ever been in, with so much parrying and whirling it might as well have been a fan dance. Or a sword fight.

  “Maybe I was thinking about the holistic picture of your life,” Michelle said. “You were introduced to the theoretical tradition of violence early. That is a feeling I’m well acquainted with. In theory, of course.” She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “No. Strike that. Not in theory. My father was a very violent man. He maintained his hold on his empire with bold strokes of violence. Anyone who stepped out of line faced brutal reprisal. There was no elegance to it, only the certainty of pain and death.”

  I tried to take in what had just happened. It seemed like Michelle had just broken down a wall between us with that admission. Our whole conversation had been stone walls on both our sides up until now, no exchange of anything other than surface-level pleasantries. For some reason, she’d decided to finally add some actual substance to our talk. “He preceded you in the family business?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer that, of course. “China has traditionally been a much more patriarchal society. Having a woman take up particular roles, such as leader…” She shook her head. “It was not easily done.”

  “I probably don’t want to know what that comprises,” I said. “Even though we’re talking about violence.”

  She looked right at me, smiling slightly. “I’m sure it’d be like a light afternoon for you.”

  “Ouch,” I said, watching our server thread her way through the tables toward us with a couple more plates. “Lucky for me the food’s almost here, so I can mitigate the pain of your words with crawfish etouffee.”

  “You’ll love it,” Michelle predicted as the server delivered our food, asked if we needed anything, and then disappeared once more, thankfully.

  I dug in, and yes, I loved it. The etouffee was so buttery and delicious, the rice beautifully cooked in a way that my rice at home never was. It was smooth and tasty, the roux giving it a richness of flavor that overcame my normal dislike for rice.

  Once again, my food vanished in moments, and Michelle’s was still 75% intact by the time I was done, no words exchanged as I vaporized mine with meta speed. She showed no sign of impatience with my quick disposal of lunch, and since she’d said it was fine, yes, I licked the plate. That roux was A+++.

  “Told you you’d love it,” Michelle said, taking in a piece of softshell crab and carefully chewing it up.

  “Well, you weren’t wrong,” I said. “About anything, really.”

  She arched her eyebrows at this, as though, duh, she knew that already, lending credence to my suspicions about her telepathy.

  I decided to fish. “So…if someone is disloyal to you, do you know it immediately?”

  She raised one eyebrow. “I can generally figure it out, given a little time. Their patterns of behavior change. It’s very tough to betray someone while looking them in the eye. It takes an especially cold character to pull that one off.”

  “Colder than a killer, you think?” I watched for her reaction.

  She nodded. “In a way, killing can be easy. With a gun, I mean. You could almost close your eyes and pretend it didn’t happen, if you lined everything up right. Conversing with someone as you’re thinking about betraying them—there are levels of emotion that need to be present for that—ambition, greed, anger or a sense of betrayal for yourself. Motive to do the thing, if you’re betraying someone you serve.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “I never thought about it that way.”

  “Humans are social creatures,” she said. “We give off social cues constantly. Like you, with your arms folded across your chest, suggesting you really don’t want to give anything away. So guarded.”

  “It’s almost as if I was already run around by you once,” I said. “And lost the soles of my feet in the process.”

  At this, she smiled. “Well, come on…I have to have a little fun in my life. And if I can do it at the expense of the FBI, that only enhances my reputation in my particular subculture. Especially when speaking to you otherwise might be seen as stigmatic, as though I’m giving away the keys to the metaphorical kingdom.”

  “I guess I can understand that,” I said. “Though my feet are less understanding, and looking for an ass to kick in reprisal.”

  “Perhaps I can suggest one,” she said, and now she was back to guarded herself.

  “Please say Mitchell Werner,” I said. “Pretty, pretty please.”

  At this, she smiled. “I wouldn’t know about Werner and his strange and tangled web. I was thinking about a larger target, one certainly in Werner’s orbit, as much as he might try and hide it from you.”

  Another strike in the telepath column. How else could she have known about the removed photo? Or my suspicions about who was in that photo? “That’s a big target,” I said, trying to play as coy as she was.

  “Yes,” she said, and signaled the server for the check by waving her credit card, once. When the server came to collect it, Michelle took only a cursory glance at the bill before handing her card over. The server dutifully went away yet again, and Michelle looked me right in the eyes. “That particular target deserves a full accounting, for he has so many, many outstanding debts.” She took the receipt and scrawled something on it, sliding it across the table to me. I glanced at it, but it was nothing more than a name and phone number:

  Whit Falkner

  New Orleans Herald-Tribune

  504-555-8364

  “If you do manage to place something upon his head—” and Michelle stood, all trace of emotion gone from her face save for a very, very small flicker in her eyes—anger, an emotion I was entirely too familiar with “—perhaps you should consider his payment placed upon the account of Emily Glover.” And with that, she walked away, leaving me with my jaw on the floor because of what I’d seen her in her eyes at the mention of Emily Glover’s name.

  Hate.

  She hated Ivan Warrington—and that me wonder again what he’d done to Emily, and how Michelle was tied up in all this.

  55.

  Olivia

  When we finished breakfast, we headed over to the Metro PD headquarters on Veronika’s hunch that we should “dro
p by” and see what was up. She ignored my near silent protests of maybe just going back to the hotel and waiting to hear from someone. Or maybe just ignored them.

  The Las Vegas Metro PD headquarters was a gleaming glass and white concrete building just off the freeway. The desert sun was beating down on us, no sign of wind in the air today. It felt hot for October, at least compared to Minnesota, where the high today was 65 degrees. I’d checked my weather app while Veronika fidgeted in the Uber.

  “See, you can’t rely on people to call you back in this world,” Veronika said as we walked into the building like we owned the place. The desk sergeant hit the buzzer when Veronika waved at him, and she headed straight into the back, leaving behind the assorted waiting pedestrians like we were people who belonged here. With the real cops. “You have to take the initiative, kiddo. Seize life by the cajones.” She made a face. “So to speak. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “It’s a pretty common phrase,” I said. “I don’t break at words, Veronika.”

  “Just trying to be sensitive, sweetie,” Veronika said. “Not everyone’s as…what’s the word? Anti-fragile…as you are, maybe. And I try to respect people who might be struggling.”

  I wondered where that respect had been when she’d smoked my personal story out of me this morning with a whole lot of talk about finding me a random guy to get, uh…frisky…with.

  “Yo, Detective Norton,” Veronika said, breezing into the bullpen. “What’s up, you sexy thing?”

  “If it isn’t my new favorite metahuman lady,” Detective Norton said, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Veronika.

  Veronika made pouty lips. It didn’t look hard for her; she seemed like she’d had lots of practice doing this. “‘New’ favorite? Who was your old favorite?”

  Norton shrugged. “I got a little crush on the Slay Queen, to be honest.” Her eyes lit up a little. “She’s your girl, isn’t she?” Somehow, by her wandering gaze, she included me in this.

  “She’s, uh, no, I’m—I don’t even really know Sienna,” I managed to stammer out.