by Jason Starr
He realized then that he hadn’t asked Colon who had hired him. But Frank didn’t care if Hugo Strange was involved. Only Tommy Wayne cared about that, and Frank wasn’t working for Wayne anymore.
He went into the motel office. Louie was still sitting at the desk.
“Thanks for all your help,” Frank said.
“Anytime,” Louie said.
Frank shot him in the face. Too bad, Louie was a good guy, and now he’d never get to go to his daughter’s wedding. Well, whatever, there were worse tragedies, right?
Another loose thread snipped, Frank took the loose cash out of the cash box, put the key on the desk—wiped off his prints—and went back outside.
TWENTY-ONE
“How do we know he’s in there?” Harvey asked Rick Powell, the GCPD Detective who’d been assigned the lead on the cop killer case.
“Anonymous tip,” Powell said.
Harvey, Amanda, and about ten other GCPD detectives joined the stakeout outside an apartment building in the South Village. There were also dozens of officers on site, and a three-block radius had been cordoned off. Harvey had moved over to get the lowdown from Powell.
“This is a lot of resources to put into a glorified hunch,” Harvey said. “The odds of an anonymous tip hitting are ten-to-one at best.”
Powell was a stocky, arrogant cop who always thought he was the smartest guy in the room, just because he went to college while most other cops—like Harvey—rose up straight through the Academy. He gave Harvey a once-over.
“I know the difference between a hot tip and a cold tip,” he said with a little sneer, “and this one was the real deal.”
“Yeah?” Harvey said. “And how do you know that?”
“Because I vetted it,” Powell said. “The witness said the suspect told him he was going to kill a cop today. Other witnesses were at the scene and—”
“Sounds flimsy,” Harvey said, not bothering to keep his voice down.
A few cops nearby were looking over, as it appeared as if Powell and Harvey were about to go at it.
“Yeah,” Powell said. “Well, I don’t give a crap if you think it’s flimsy or not, since I’m the one calling the shots.” His college-boy veneer was slipping. As far as Harvey was concerned, the only thing worse than having to play second fiddle, was having to play second fiddle to a jackass.
“Keep your voice down. You could be putting more cops in danger, for no good reason,” Powell said. “Just get in position, Bullock, or else.”
“Or else what? You’ll make another jackass decision?”
Powell shoved Harvey, and barely budged him. Harvey shoved Rick back, nearly knocking him down. Of course, that was when Captain Essen came over.
“Bullock, that’s enough,” she said. “Over here.”
Harvey had a flash of his grade school days, when he got called in to the principal’s office just about every day—yeah, he and school didn’t mix too well. Then he saw Powell smirk. He wanted to go after him again, beat him to a pulp, but he resisted.
“The guy’s got a chip on his shoulder,” Harvey said to Essen. “You know that.”
“This isn’t the time to act out on a personal grudge,” Essen said. “There’s a cop killer on the loose, and we’ve got to take him in.”
“I have a better chance of hitting a straight triple in the first race today at Gotham Downs, than of the killer being in that building.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Essen said. “We received a promising tip, and the lead detective on this case determined it was worth following up.” She glared at him, and added, “And I’ve had it with this pattern of insubordination. It’s becoming chronic, and I’m giving you your last warning. Play with the team, Detective Bullock, or I’m gonna kick you off it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harvey said. “I’ve been on the force longer than you.”
“Seniority only gets you so far,” Essen said, “and you may have reached the finish line.” With that she walked away to join Powell and the others. Harvey stood there and seethed, feeling humiliated, but he also knew there were some fights he couldn’t win. This was one of them.
Amanda came over. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you finding trouble,” she said, but she sounded concerned.
Then Powell signaled them all to get ready.
“Stand by.” Then he added, “Suspect is moving, let’s go.”
“What do you want us to do, boss?” Harvey asked, oozing sarcasm.
“Cover the back,” Powell said. He gestured, then he, Harvey, Amanda, and the other cops swarmed the building.
Powell and his partner went through the front, while Harvey and Amanda went around to the back. The GCPD had all of the possible exits—including windows and fire escapes—covered, and already had officers on the roof and the roofs of the adjacent buildings.
As soon as Harvey and Amanda entered the building, they heard a commotion in the front. They rushed over and saw Powell aiming a gun at a thin guy in jeans and a black leather jacket. The guy had thinning gray hair.
“I said put your hands on your head,” he said to the guy.
“What’s going on?” the guy said. “This is crazy. I-I didn’t do anything.”
“I need to see those hands,” Powell said.
“Tell me what I did wrong,” the guy said. “I have a right to know.” He took a step toward Rick and reached into his jacket.
Oh, hell!
Harvey knew Powell was about to shoot.
“No!” he shouted, but it was too late. Powell fired three shots in quick succession. All the shots hit the guy in his chest, and he went down like a bowling pin. Amanda rushed over and squatted to examine him.
“He’s gone,” she said.
Then Harvey leaned over and checked the part of the jacket he’d been reaching into before Rick shot him. He took out a pair of glasses and flung them onto the ground.
“Son of a bitch,” Harvey said to Powell. “He was unarmed.”
“So?” Powell said. “He was still the guy.”
“We’ll never know if he’s the guy, now that he’s dead,” Harvey said.
“I better tell the others,” Amanda said.
“Wait,” Powell said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Amanda stopped.
Powell took a spare gun out of his pocket, wiped it down, and then put it in the dead guy’s hand.
“What the hell?” Harvey said. He wasn’t beyond planting a gun to save his ass—he’d done the same thing before, and usually had a spare gun on him for just this purpose. But he only resorted to it when he knew, one hundred percent, that he was framing the right guy.
“Shut up,” Powell said. Then he added, “Little finishing touch,” and he took a book of matches out of his own pocket, putting it in a pocket of the dead guy’s leather jacket.
Abruptly Captain Essen and a few other detectives entered. Telling Essen the truth, that Powell had planted evidence, wasn’t even an option. There was an unwritten code in the GCPD to never point a finger at corruption, and Harvey never broke that code.
“We got him,” Powell proclaimed.
“Great work, Detective.” Essen was happy to get a high-profile case off the books.
“I gotta get outta here,” Harvey said to Amanda. Walking away, he added, “Can you believe that guy? Patting himself on the back after murdering somebody?”
“It’s possible he was the killer,” Amanda offered.
“Yeah, like it’s possible I’ll be the next pope,” Harvey said.
“I think the odds are a bit better than that.”
“Yeah,” Harvey said. “Maybe a little.”
“Well, if that’s what you really think, you should tell the Captain,” Amanda said.
“What’ll that do except get me another beat-down?” Harvey said. “She’s patting herself on the back, too—she did brilliant police work, she took a cop killer off the board. Bravo to the GCPD!
“The only wa
y she’ll ever even entertain the idea that they got the wrong guy is when the real cop killer strikes again,” he spat, surprised at his own anger. “Even then she’ll put a spin on it, say it was a copycat killer, there were two killers, just to keep internal affairs off her ass. Not that internal affairs would ever reprimand anything she does since they’re basically a bunch of puppets over there.”
“I don’t get it,” Amanda said. “If you genuinely believe we got the wrong guy, that the killer could strike again, you have to—”
“Keep my mouth shut,” Harvey said. “There’s only one word you need to know if you want to make it as a GCPD detective—silence. If you want to be a detective here, and have a career that lasts more than a couple of weeks, you have to understand that. We’re in the business of closing cases, not solving them.”
Captain Essen rushed up behind them.
“Detectives, wait.” She caught up with them then added, “Just got a call in about the perp you were tracking, Roberto Colon.”
“What about him?” Harvey asked.
“He was killed in a room at the Star Bright Motel this afternoon. There are two other casualties—a woman and the desk clerk.”
“Wait, not Louie DePino,” Harvey said.
Essen nodded.
“Goddamnit,” Harvey said. “Jesus H, what the hell is going on in this town?”
“Friend of yours, I’m guessing,” Amanda said.
“Old army buddy from the Great War,” Harvey said. “Just got an invite to his daughter’s wedding last week.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Essen said. She sounded like she meant it.
“So now that this case is solved, I guess we can go back to the Wayne robbery?” Harvey asked.
“Yes, you can,” Essen said. “Do you have any idea who could’ve killed your friend and the others?”
Harvey looked at Amanda.
“Maybe the third guy in the crew,” Amanda said. “The zombie.”
Essen looked confused.
“She means the guy who was wearing the zombie mask at the robbery,” Harvey said.
“Well, then you have your new assignment,” Essen said. “Go find that zombie.”
* * *
It seemed like the rest of the GCPD, whoever hadn’t been at the stakeout, was at the crime scene at the Star Bright Hotel. A triple homicide was a big deal, even by Gotham standards.
In the parking lot of the hotel, Harvey and Amanda approached a cop who had been one of the first responders.
“What do we got here?” Harvey asked, feeling déjà vu.
“The bodies—two in a room on the second floor, one the manager of the place.”
“Who’s the girl?” Harvey asked.
“Haven’t ID’d her yet,” the cop said. “Probably a hooker.”
While Amanda went to talk to possible witnesses, Harvey went upstairs to check out the scene. Cops and medical examiners were working the scene, including that weird kid, Nygma.
“Hi, Detective Bullock,” Ed said. “Exciting day today, no?”
Harvey glanced at the mess on the bed that used to be Roberto Colon.
“They let you out of the lab?” Harvey asked Nygma. “I didn’t know you ever get to see the light of the day.”
“Ha, ha,” Nygma said, but he didn’t really sound pissed. “Actually, with the cop killer case, and it being a Sunday, we were short-handed, but I filled the void with my usual alacrity.”
Harvey had no idea what the nut was talking about, and didn’t really care.
“Where’s the girl?” Harvey asked.
“Well, parts of her are in the bathroom,” Nygma said, grinning.
What a freakazoid, Harvey thought.
Harvey approached where the woman’s body was splayed, then stopped. Like Colon, she had been shot in the face. Although almost beyond recognition, Harvey still recognized her. He’d recognize that body anywhere.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Harvey said.
“You know her?” Nygma asked. “Sorry, knew her?”
“Jeez Louise,” Harvey said.
“Her name was Louise?”
“No, not Louise.” She’d gone by the name Lexi Love, but Harvey had a feeling that probably wasn’t her real name.
“She was a great love of yours,” Nygma suggested.
“No,” Harvey said, “she was not.”
“Then lover with an ‘r,’” Nygma said. “I’m a romantic myself. I pick up on these sorts of things.”
Amanda entered and said, “Nobody’s talking.”
“At the Star Bright?” Harvey said. “What a surprise. Damn, we need to find the Picasso,” he added. “The Picasso will lead us to the zombie.”
Nygma had overheard this. “How exactly does a Picasso lead to a zombie?” he asked.
“It’s complicated,” Harvey said.
“Oh,” Nygma said, “I thought it was a riddle.”
Harvey shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“We have to go to the hot art dealers in Gotham,” Amanda said. “If the zombie has the painting, he’s probably trying to sell it through a third party.”
“Okay, so where do you want to start?” Harvey said. “Look in the Gotham phone book under ‘H’ for ‘hot’?”
“May I hazard to make a suggestion?” Nygma asked. Harvey rolled his eyes again, then realized it was starting to hurt.
“I think you should focus on looking for fingerprints, or whatever you’re doing here,” Harvey said.
“I think you should talk to a woman named Belladonna.”
“Maybe we can find somebody here willing to talk,” Harvey said to Amanda.
“Wait,” Amanda said. Then she said to Nygma, “Why her?”
“A case I worked on when I first joined the GCPD,” Nygma said. “Several paintings were stolen from an auction house, and the criminals planned to fence them through Belladonna.”
“I never heard of that case,” Harvey said dismissively.
“It was Detective Powell’s case,” Nygma said. “A gang of criminals robbed a van transporting the paintings. If you haven’t realized it yet, I’m gifted.” He looked pleased with himself, like a child. “My mind is like a virtual encyclopedia.”
“Oh yeah, okay, that case,” Harvey said. “I remember it now, but I don’t remember anything about Bella Whoever coming up.”
“Belladonna,” Nygma said. “And, well, that’s because I’ve been doing a little investigating of my own. After you came inquiring about my dead friend, Byron Stone, I looked in Stone’s arrest records. During his interrogation in the previous robbery, he mentioned that his fence would have been Belladonna. So while Belladonna wasn’t actually a part of the case, in fact she was.” Nygma grinned.
Amanda shot Harvey a look. “It’s worth a shot.”
He had to admit, it wasn’t a bad lead.
“How are we supposed to find her?”
“You can start by going to her place of business. Eleven Duke Street.”
“You’re weird, Nygma,” Harvey said. “But you can be helpful… sometimes.”
“What does an ironic dying man say?” Nygma asked.
Harvey and Amanda had already left the room.
Nygma called after them, “Always happy to yelp!”
TWENTY-TWO
Frank liked this new dark side to himself. His whole career he’d been the good guy, and what had it gotten him? Not happiness, that was for damn sure—but now he was letting loose, breaking out of his shell, and it felt a lot like destiny. If he’d had any idea how great it would feel, he would’ve switched sides years ago.
Shooting the hooker had been like the gateway drug. He’d killed before—but always in the name of the law. Anybody could kill a bad guy, but killing an innocent person took cojones. And killing Colon? Even better, like moving up from pot to coke. The rush energized him, made him feel alive for maybe the first time ever.
People who hadn’t killed in cold blood before couldn’t identify—they had to e
xperience it for themselves. But killing Louie, ah that was the clincher. Killing a stranger was one thing, but to a kill a friend, somebody who trusted you—that amped up this killing thing to a whole new level.
It was like moving up to crack, or angel dust.
During the ride to Belladonna’s place, Frank kept replaying Louie’s murder in his mind, recalling Louie’s shock when he saw the gun, and that instant when everything he thought he knew and trusted about the world blew up in his face—literally! That look of total dismay and betrayal was a beautiful thing.
This whole killing thing could become addictive. It made Frank rethink his getaway plan, about retiring to the Mexican island. He’d got a taste of the thrill of murder, and it was hard to just walk away from it. He’d go into serious withdrawal.
Then he had a brilliant thought.
Why run away?
Quitting now would be like an athlete hanging it up after winning a gold medal. Yeah, it could be done, but why do it if he didn’t have to? Frank had just got started—he had so much more to accomplish. He could stay in Gotham, get work as a hit man. It wouldn’t be so hard to transition from detective work to killing. He’d have to solve mysteries, track people down, but when he found his targets, instead of bringing them to the cops, he’d knock them off. The day-to-day was the same—only the end result was different.
But would that be enough for him? Would it truly satisfy him? Maybe he was thinking too small. Instead of being a hit man, he could become a crime boss. Yeah, that was it. He could use the money from the Picasso to hire people to work under him, and create an entire crime empire. From his career in law enforcement he already knew the ins and outs of the Gotham underworld, so the transition would be easy.
Within a year—hell, maybe six months—he could take down Maroni and Falcone. That nut Oswald Cobblepot thought he was going to be the king of Gotham? Yeah, right. Frank Collins was going to be the next big name in crime.
“I want more!” he bellowed. “Give me more!”
When he got down to the docks, he drove around at maybe five miles an hour along Duke Street, looking for the building with the blue door—the one with graffiti on it.