Pritchard had enough pride to at least sound indignant. “Watch it kid, I still got seniority on you!”
“Yeah, and that seniority landed you on the worst beat in the whole megalopolis.” Sam’s tone made his feelings about Lonnie’s seniority quite clear. “This, Detective Pritchard, is Madame Madeleine. She ran every single brothel and hooker for a two-hundred-mile radius. If you’ve ever had your ashes hauled by a pro in this town, she had a piece of that action.” He cast a measured look to the human flotsam fate had cursed him with for a partner. “She has a record of it too, somewhere.”
This seemed to increase Pritchard’s interest. “What, ah, kind of record are we talking about, here?”
Sam smiled, well aware that he had the man’s full attention now. “Likes, dislikes, conduct, income level...” He paused and layered the next word with faux innocence. “...addictions.”
Pritchard tried and failed to appear nonchalant. “Really? Wow, that’s uh... interesting. Any idea where she might keep that kind of information?”
“Not a clue.”
The older detective now appeared far less dismissive of Sam’s excellent training and skills. “Do you uh... think that’s what this hit was about?”
“Nope.” Sam said it with finality. “Nothing stolen, nothing ransacked. Her DataPad is still here and still locked. The killer took out eleven other unrelated people on his way to her.” In a moment his anger with Lonnie faded and he fell back to thinking about the case. He frowned at the strangeness of it all. “It was excessive and unnecessary. Sloppy even.” He shook his head, knowing only one thing for certain. “This was no raid, Lonnie. Somebody is sending a message.”
“To who?”
“Hell if I know, Lonnie. I suppose somebody should call for a detective, huh?”
Pritchard responded with a vulgar hand gesture.
Before the pair could resume their repartee, a voice broke over their unit’s comm channel. “Detectives? We got a situation downstairs. Some big jerk is insisting on seeing the crime scene. Says he’s some kind of local investigator?”
Pritchard answered immediately. “Well, pick him up on an obstruction charge and book him for an overnight stay. Fucking locals.” He looked to Sam. “No offense,” he added as an afterthought.
Parker ignored him and spoke to the men downstairs. “This guy real big? Like, huge? Bald and grouchy?”
“That’s him, all right.”
Parker looked right at Pritchard as he chuckled into the channel. “I do not advise you attempt to arrest him, boys. Even if he lets you bring him in, he won’t sit in a cell for more than two hours. I’m on my way down to handle it.”
“You know this guy?” Pritchard asked.
“Lonnie,” Sam could not hide his disappointment. “You have got to be the worst detective in all of recorded history. You ever heard of ‘The Fixer?’”
“Well, yeah I’ve heard of him. He’s the guy who...” his voice trailed off. “Aw shit. ‘The Fixer’ is downstairs, isn’t he?”
“Gee Lonnie, you look nervous. What’s wrong?”
The reason for Pritchard’s discomfort needed no explanation. Roland’s reputation with respect to dirty cops was a well-known quantity.
“Fuck you, Parker.”
Sam decided to let the man off the hook. “Relax. I grew up three doors down from the guy. I’ll handle him while you hide up here.” Sam was halfway to the door before Lonnie worked through that.
“Wait! You were his goddamn neighbor?”
“Worst. Detective. Ever.” Sam left his useless partner behind and headed downstairs.
Despite his calm exterior, Sam’s heart thumped in his chest. He had not seen Roland in several years and they had never been very close. As a boy, he had seen Roland first clean up the Southeast residential sector and then move outward to crush the gang wars all over Dockside. Sam had idolized Roland for a long time, but as he matured he found it harder and harder to think of Roland as a hero. One by one, the growing boy watched as the gangs and the rackets swallowed his playmates and classmates. In time, he realized that Roland was a tourniquet that kept Dockside from dying, yet did nothing to heal the wound itself. That understanding drove young Sam Parker to become a cop. Dockside needed real police. Police from the community who served the community. For all the good he did, Tankowicz was a consequence, not a resource.
Gripped by insuppressible curiosity, Sam had once employed his police credentials to delve into the mystery of Roland Tankowicz. A few information requests for military records and any other files on the man had resulted in the tensest few days of his short life. Two hours after his first request filtered through the aether of Planetary Council records, United Earth Defense Force officials had descended upon him like stooping hawks. When they had wrung every bit of information from him that they could, the men in black suits left him with a series of stern warnings about Corporal Roland M. Tankowicz.
Parker walked away from those interviews with a crystal-clear idea of what the highest echelons of government and law enforcement expected of him. The old soldier was to be left alone and given the highest degree of deference and cooperation from the NBPD. Unless Roland waltzed down The Drag murdering women and children as he went, young Sam Parker should steer well clear of the man and his affairs. This did not bother him so much. Roland was definitely not a criminal, and Sam had nothing but respect for what he had accomplished.
In the lobby, he found a huge bald man glowering down at four nervous-looking uniformed cops. The uniforms shouted over each other in an indecipherable wall of conflicting threats and instructions, all of which the large man conspicuously ignored. Everybody was yelling except Roland, who seemed content to let his imposing presence do his talking for him. The oldest police officer stood directly in front, holding a hand up as if a doughy one-hundred-and-ninety-pound cop had a prayer of stopping the glowering giant. What little information Sam had managed to glean from those UEDF interviews informed him as to the sergeant’s actual chances of preventing Roland from doing anything. If what he had been told held true, Roland could walk upstairs anytime he wanted to and only protocol kept him from doing it.
“Guys! Guys!” Parker shouted over the din. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this. Go upstairs and help secure the scene. The lab boys are on their way. Let’s try to at least look like we know what we are doing this time.”
The sergeant looked over to the youthful detective. “You sure?” He tried to glower at Roland, though compared to the big man’s palpable aura of calm, his expression only managed to come off as petulant.
“I’ve got this. Go on up.”
The uniforms stalked off toward the stairwell with a murmuring chorus of grumbled expletives.
Sam looked up at Roland and smiled his best cop smile. “Good morning, Mr. Tankowicz. I’m Detective Parker. How can NBPD help you?”
“Holy crap, Sam. You got huge,” Roland said by way of answer. “I mean, your dad was big, but you are just a monster now, aren’t you?”
Sam’s cheeks flushed with juvenile embarrassment. Fortunately, his skin was dark enough to hide his reaction. “So you do recognize me? I wondered if you would.”
“You look exactly like your dad, Sam. It wasn’t hard. You’re a detective now? Nice. I remember you and Granovich’s daughter playing cops and robbers under my window. I guess you weren't just screwing around with that.”
“Yeah. Got a full ride to the academy, and that sort of fast-tracked my promotions.” This statement contained an element of fabrication. Because he did not want to sound like a braggart to Roland, he left out the parts about his scores and field performance ratings being the highest in his class. His multiple track and field records remained unmentioned as well.
“And you picked Dockside for your post?” Roland’s question had an edge to it that Sam understood.
“I’m not dirty, Roland. This town just needs some good cops is all.” He met the big man’s gaze as evenly as he could for one so young. “I kno
w what it is you do, Tank. Hell, I’ve benefited from it. Who knows what would have happened to me if you hadn’t kept the neighborhood clear? But it’s just...” Sam was suddenly at a loss for words, a rare occurrence for the new detective.
“I get it, kid. I’m not really the solution Dockside needs. But right now I’m all she’s got.”
Sam nodded. “I know it. That’s the reason I wanted to come back.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Terrible. This department sucks, and it’s going to keep sucking as long as Uptown refuses to clean it up. My partner is a drug addict, and my lieutenant is into the Dwarf for almost a hundred K. The uniforms won’t even get out of their cars unless they’re on fire. Do you know what the going rate for a patrolman’s bribe is these days?”
“About a grand a week,” Roland answered without inflection.
“Damn right! A lousy grand gets you your own personal dirty cop around here.” Sam held up his hands. “How am I supposed to work with that?” He let them fall with a defeated slap against his thighs. “Now somebody just dropped The Madame, and my stupid partner didn’t even know who she was.”
“That is bad. Don’t worry, though. I’ll sort it out,” Roland said.
“No, Tank.” Sam’s vehemence came as a surprise even to himself. “The PD has to solve this one. Madeleine’s black book goes up to some very high places. That means a lot of powerful eyes on this case. If I can get this one collared, people might actually notice us again.”
“You want a big win.” Roland raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
Roland was unopposed to this, and he said as much. “No problem. It’s not like I care who gets the credit. But The Dwarf did hire me to sort this out, and that means I need to get sorting. Of course, it doesn’t mean we can’t work in polite cooperation, though. Consider me a consultant. You’ll find all my licenses are in order.”
“Yes.” Sam’s face took on a sly twist. “That hasn’t always been the case though, has it? Ms. Ribiero has done a lot to get your paperwork up to date, hasn’t she? I gotta say I had not figured you for the relationship type, Tank.”
“She is a very special lady, Sam.” Roland smiled back down, his own features looking sly. “That reminds me. Have you been around to see Elena Granovich since you got back in town?”
Sam winced. “Not yet.”
“You better. If she finds out you’ve been ducking her, she’ll probably just hire me to drag you over there, kicking and screaming if necessary. I might even do that one pro bono.”
Sam rubbed his face. “I’ll get over there soon. First things first, though. I can’t let you into the crime scene before the forensics team sweeps it. I’ll also need to get you formally under contract as a consultant. I suspect the LT is going to claim we can’t afford you though. He is not interested in doing real police work.”
“Rodney’s already paying me, so there will be no charge,” Roland barked. “See if he has a problem with that price.”
“And if he finds other objections?”
Roland sighed. “I’ll have Rodney give him a call. I know you don’t like that, Sam. Neither do I. But your LT is crooked and you said Rodney holds his markers. Until you magically clean up the PD, this is how things get done.”
“Welcome to Dockside, right?”
Roland nodded. “Let’s just solve one problem at a time, kid.”
“Right,” Sam agreed. Then the creeping boyish flush came over him again and he asked, “So, uh... you really think Elena wants to see me?”
Roland’s response was a knowing groan. “Oh kid, you are so doomed.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time sunrise had brightened the streets of his home, the burgeoning light caught Roland already sitting in his office. That is where Lucia found him as she stumbled through the clear door, steaming coffee clutched in her shaking hand.
She looked up at her partner and tried for a smile. Sadly for him, Lucia Ribiero did not smile before the first coffee of the day had been consumed. Roland thought her beautiful no matter what expression she wore, so it did not bother him in the least when she looked tired and grouchy. When failure became unavoidable, she abandoned the attempt and plopped down at her own desk next to his. “You didn’t come in last night. Was it that bad over there?”
“Cops made things complicated. I couldn’t get to the crime scene. From what I hear it was very bad. Twelve dead, including Madeleine.”
“Twelve?” Lucia wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That sounds sloppy as hell. Not a pro, then.”
“I was thinking the same.”
Lucia detected a nagging uncertainty in his reply.
“And...?” she coaxed.
“Cops sent over the crime scene reports first thing this morning, and every victim took a single eight-millimeter bead to the head. No misses, no stray beads in the walls, nothing. All perfect hits taken at a run on moving targets.”
Lucia took a long pull from her coffee before replying. “Well. That sure doesn’t sound like an amateur to me.” Then her head cocked to the side, a pressing question suddenly materializing. “Wait! How the hell did you get the police reports?”
Roland grunted at his oversight. “Sorry, should have told you already. The new detective in town is a guy from down the street. Good kid. Smart. Honest. He put us on as consultants.”
“We are consulting for the Dockside cops, now?” She slouched into her chair and closed her bleary eyes. “This’ll be interesting. I hope they don’t choke on our rates.”
Roland remained silent, but Lucia Ribiero had mastered reading his normally taciturn body language. “Oh for crying out loud, Roland. You have us working pro bono again, don’t you?”
“Rodney is already paying us for this one. No need to be greedy.”
“It’s not greedy to charge customers for services rendered, Roland.” She heaved a big dramatic sigh. “For a guy that scares everybody so much, you sure are a pushover.”
He was spared further dressing down by the arrival of Manuel Richardson. The reformed Venusian separatist was still wearing his hair long though he had tied it back in a tight pony tail to keep it out of his face. Roland thought it looked sloppy while Manny claimed it made him look roguish. Either way, the lean scout looked far more awake and energetic than Lucia. He bounced into the office with an easy smile on his tanned face.
“Oh good,” Lucia groaned. “Here comes another morning person.” She gave her coffee a slurp loud enough to make a strong point about her opinions regarding early risers.
“Good morning, Boss. Good morning, Mr. Tankowicz.” Manny seemed oblivious to Lucia’s bleary-eyed indignation. He dropped his coat on his chair revealing the smooth white synthetic mesh of his techno-organic left arm. While many people with prosthetics went out of their way to hide them, Manny seemed to enjoy displaying his. Constructed from exotic materials and employing much of the same technology that made Roland’s body so formidable, it was unique and the young scout took enormous pride in its capabilities. Lucia was glad he enjoyed it so much because taking a shot meant to kill her had been what cost him the original. Her own failure on that mission still gnawed at her.
With a wave to Lucia, Manny headed over to the supply closet where he kept his gear. “Mindy sent me a message last night. I didn’t read it because she writes like a child. We got a job?”
Roland spared her the chore of filling him in. “Somebody killed Madame Madeleine and eleven other people last night, Manny. We are working for Rodney and the cops on this one.”
“Is that very bad?”
With her coffee starting to kick in, Lucia warmed to the conversation. “She was queen of the hookers, Manny. Lots of enemies, lots of blackmail-worthy information in her possession. When it comes to having dirt on folks, she was top of the pile.”
From inside the closet, Roland and Lucia could hear the sounds of Manny rummaging about through the various bins overflowing with parts and tech. It made underst
anding his half-shouted reply very difficult. “Is this about blackmail, then?”
“Don’t know,” Roland grunted back. “Still sorting it out.”
“Okay. What do you need me to do?” Manny emerged with an armload of widgets and tools. He sat down at his desk and immediately began tinkering with his arm.
“Let’s wait for Mindy before we hand out assignments,” Lucia began. Her voice trailed off mid-thought when she saw the young man pulling pieces of his prosthesis off and laying them on the table with his remaining hand. “What are you doing? Dad is going to be pissed if you screw that thing up.”
“Dr. Ribiero is fine with this. I can remove, strip down, and reassemble it in under three minutes now.” Manuel might have beamed with pride for just a moment. “He says I have a lot of potential.”
Lucia rolled her eyes. “You are the son he always wanted, Manny.”
The arm was entirely off now, and had been separated into hand, forearm, and upper arm sections. Lucia hissed in mild shock at the sight of it all spread out on the desk. Manny caught the expression on her face and winked at her. Then, the unattached hand waggled its fingers in her direction.
Lucia squeaked with surprise and perhaps a little fright, too. “Oh crap, that’s creepy!”
Manny chuckled and looked back to his task. He left his disembodied hand drumming on the desktop just to unnerve Lucia.
Both Roland’s body and Manny’s arm had synthetic musculature and thus did not use motors or other mechanical actuators for movement. The parts had to be assembled one molecule at a time in a special gel tank and the result was a limb that moved and felt exactly like the organic original. Their own DNA provided the blueprint, so the new parts did not get rejected by either the body or the nervous system. The hosts systems simply recognized the new parts as its own. Normally, this made disassembly impossible. Because it was put together exactly like a normal arm, Roland could no more remove a limb than a regular person could. It appeared that this was a technological hurdle Manny and Lucia’s father had overcome. His curiosity piqued, Roland could not stop himself from asking, “How the hell can you do that?”
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