The Radioactive Redhead with The Peach-Blonde Bomber

by John Zakour

  “I know. I’ll see you in about ten minutes. Thanks, Tony.”

  I ended the call and looked around at the gape-mouthed people in the hover.

  “So,” I said to Smiles, “how do you like me now?”

  19

  It is something of an understatement to say that I am familiar with the interrogation room at Tony’s precinct. I’ve been there so often over the years they’ve named a chair after me (and sadly, it’s often the hot seat). Tonight, however, I was not the one in the box. I was safely behind the two-way mirror, watching a couple of Tony’s men grill the guy that I had tackled on stage.

  He was large (somewhere between beefy and porky) and pale, with curly light hair and a face that was equally covered with razor stubble and acne. He looked to be about nineteen, scared out of his mind, and not at all the way I pictured an assassin would look.

  “His name’s Garry Koles,” Tony said, taking the seat beside me and handing me a cup of coffee. “He’s a crazo fan of Sexy’s. We have a list of a thousand e-mails he sent her over the past two years. Love letters. Smiles got a court order six months ago to keep him away from Sexy.”

  “How’d he get the backstage pass then?” I asked.

  “Good question,” Tony answered. “More importantly, where did he get the nano-explosives? That’s pretty expensive stuff. And they were keyed to a DNA trigger.”

  “DNA trigger?” I asked.

  “The detonator was coded to Sexy’s DNA, the nano she touched the flowers, the explosives would have detonated. She was the only person who could have set it off.”

  “So whoever made the bomb …”

  “Had access to Sexy’s DNA,” Tony replied.

  “And had the funds and expertise to construct the triggering mechanism. Gates, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it? You think this kid has the ability to do all that?”

  “Either way, we’ll find out soon,” Tony said.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out what scenario Tony’s men were using with this interrogation. One of the detectives was a big guy with just enough grooming skills to pass the NFPD image standard. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt (rolled at the sleeves and loose at the collar) that was barely big enough to fit his barrel chest and keg belly. The other detective was thin and had neatly combed sandy hair. His shirt was sharp and striped. His tie was a mellow brown and his corduroy jacket was neatly fitted with patches on the elbows. It was classic good cop/bad cop all the way.

  “Gates, Tony, why didn’t you just have the good cop come in wearing slippers and a smoking jacket? He’s way over the top.”

  “Shhh,” Tony said. “These are my best guys.”

  Inside the interrogation room, Bad Cop was trying to turn up the heat.

  “I think you’re lying to us, Garry.”

  “I’m not, I swear,” the kid said, his voice cracking.

  “You run up to Sexy Sprockets with a load of nano-explosives and you want us to believe that you didn’t mean to hurt her?”

  “I didn’t know they were explosives.”

  “That’s right; you just thought they were flowers.”

  “I did. I swear.”

  “You have to admit, Garry, it looks bad,” Good Cop said. “Where did you get the flowers?”

  “Someone gave them to me.”

  “Who?” Bad Cop said, slamming his hairy fist on the table. “Who gave you the flowers? And who gave you the backstage pass? You tell me now or, so help me, I’ll have you locked so far away, your parents will need a radio-telescope just to see you.”

  “He’s good,” I whispered to Tony.

  “He’s done some off-Broadway work.”

  Garry was growing paler by the nano and sweating now, which I’m sure wasn’t good for his pores.

  “I love Sexy,” he said. “Everyone knows that. Even the municipal judge who signed the restraining order knows that.”

  “Then tell us what happened, Garry,” Good Cop said. “Tell us how you got the flowers and the pass.”

  “I told you, I got a call from someone. I didn’t get a name and I didn’t see a face.”

  “Man or woman?” Good cop asked.

  “I couldn’t tell. The voice was deep but I think it was being masked. He wanted to be anonymous. He told me that he knew about my love for Sexy and wanted to give me a chance to prove myself to her. He sent me the pass and the flowers. He said the flowers were her favorite and that they were sure to sway her.”

  “And you believed all that?”

  “The pass was legit,” Garry said. “It was worth a try. I just wanted to see Sexy and let her sweat on me once more before she retired.” He put his head down on the table and began to cry.

  “I think you’re losing him,” I said to Tony. “Maybe you should give him a rest and come back with just the Good Cop.”

  “We’re not doing the good cop/bad cop routine,” Tony replied.

  “You’re not?”

  “That’s just the intro.”

  “Then what are you doing?” I asked.

  Back in the interrogation room there was a knock at the door. Good Cop turned toward the sound.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Zach Johnson!” came the voice on the other side of the door.

  “Tony, what’s going on?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” Tony said. “This is the good part.”

  “What do you want, Johnson?” Bad Cop yelled at the door.

  “I’m here to sit in on the interrogation,” the voice said. “This is my case.”

  “Go away!” Bad Cop said. “This is for real cops only.”

  “Oh, come on guys,” the voice repeated. “I caught the guy.”

  “What’s going on?” Garry said, a little confused.

  “It’s the guy who tackled you at the show,” Good cop said. “Zach Johnson.”

  “He’s not going to blow me up, is he?” Garry asked. “I heard stuff blows up when he’s around.”

  “Let me in guys,” the voice said petulantly.

  “Go away, Johnson!” Bad Cop yelled. “This is your last warning.”

  “If you don’t let me in,” the voice whined, “I’m telling Captain Rickey.”

  “That’s it,” Bad Cop said, striding for the door. He flung the door open and grabbed the silhouetted form standing in the doorway by the scruff of the trench coat, dragging him farther into the hallway and slamming the door behind him.

  “He never liked Johnson,” Good Cop said.

  We heard whispers from outside the closed door, urgent and angry. Then came the sounds of a scuffle and a yelp of pain from the guy pretending to be me.

  “What’s going on out there?” Garry said, clearly concerned now.

  “My partner’s angry,” Good Cop said. “I think Johnson’s paying the price for it.”

  The sounds of the scuffle turned louder, becoming a full-fledged beating.

  “I warned you,” Bad Cop shouted.

  “No! please, no!” the Zach impersonator screamed.

  Good Cop sat down and pulled his chair close to Garry, who was staring nervously at the door.

  “He gets this way sometimes. He doesn’t know his own strength.”

  The Johnson impersonator screamed again.

  “And when he’s done with Johnson,” Good Cop continued, “he’ll be coming for you.”

  “Me?” Garry said.

  “He thinks you’re lying, Garry. He thinks you’re hiding something. You need to tell us the truth.”

  “But I’m telling the truth.”

  “Take that, Johnson! And that!”

  “Please, have mercy!”

  “Not so tough now, are you?”

  Good Cop cast another glance at the doorway, and moved closer to Garry, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “We don’t have much time left, Garry,” he said. “He’ll be in here soon. You have to tell me the truth now.”

  “I told you the truth. I swear it.”

  “Who was i
t that called you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who gave you the pass?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who gave you the flowers?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Bad Cop burst through the door holding a trench coat and a bloodstained fedora and tossed them angrily on the ground.

  “Don’t let him near me!” Garry screamed. “I swear I told you all I know. Someone gave me the bouquet. He said it would sway Sexy. He said it would sway her!”

  He fell out of his chair and curled up on the floor, sobbing like a baby. Tony sat back in his chair and sighed, then he leaned forward and spoke into the desk microphone.

  “That’s enough guys. Take him back to holding.”

  The detectives heard Tony’s message over their earpieces and nodded to one another. Tony drew the shade over the two-way mirror and turned to me.

  “I can’t believe you hired someone to impersonate me.” I said to Tony.

  “You should see him do your pratfalls,” Tony replied. “We call that the Johnson beat down scenario. You’d be surprised how many detectives want to play the bad cop in that one.”

  “I should get royalties,” I said.

  “It’s just your way of paying back the department for the hassles you’ve put us through over the years,” Tony smiled.

  “So you think the kid’s telling the truth?”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Tony nodded. “Looks like he’s a patsy.”

  “So we’re back to square one then.”

  “True. But the upside is that Sexy’s still alive,” Tony said. “Thanks to you. You did good work tonight, Zach. You should feel good about it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s my motto. Any day that a client doesn’t die is a good one.”

  It was well past midnight when I left the precinct house and headed for my car. It had been a long and eventful day so I guess I can be forgiven for letting my guard down a little. Thankfully, though, HARA still had her wits about her.

  “You want the good news or the bad news first, big guy?” she asked.

  “I have a feeling that either way, this isn’t going to turn out well for me,” I answered.

  “The bad news is that there are five heavily armed gentlemen in suits approaching you from various angles.”

  “And the good news?”

  “I’m not finished with the bad yet,” she said. “Your gun is empty thanks to the EMP charge you used during the firefight, and your body armor is down to twenty percent capacity. You also very likely have two cracked ribs on your left side and I’m fairly certain that the bursitis in your elbow is flaring up again.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Okay, so what’s the good news?”

  “I’m sorry, did I say there was good news?” HARA asked.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “My mistake.”

  I saw the first of the goons just then. Two of them were approaching me from across the street. They were large and well-built, clearly no strangers to fights. Their hair was clipped short and their black suits were well kept but were clearly off-the-rack. They also wore dark sunglasses, so I was surprised that they didn’t trip over the curb as they approached.

  “Where are the others?” I whispered to HARA

  “Coming in behind you,” she said, “all at different angles.”

  “Mr. Johnson,” the lead goon said. “We’d like a nano of your time.”

  “Sorry, pal,” I said. “But it’s been a long night. Why don’t you give me a call in the morning when your sunglasses will actually serve a purpose?”

  The lead goon nodded gently to no one in particular and, as one, his four fellow goons drew in so tightly around me I could smell their cologne.

  “It wasn’t a request, Mr. Johnson. Sorry for the confusion.”

  “Honestly guys, I’m much too tired to do the stare down thing right now,” I said. “So if you don’t mind, can we fast forward over this?”

  I popped my gun into my hand and stuck the business end in the lead goon’s face.

  “You can either commence walking away peacefully or I can commence painting the sidewalk with your brains, which I don’t usually like to do in front of the police station, but a guy does what he has to, right?”

  “You know that your gun is empty, right?” HARA whispered in my head.

  “What did I say about killing the moment?” I shot back mentally.

  To his credit, the goon didn’t flinch (much). He stood his ground and simply turned slightly away from me and pointed to a black hover limo parked on the street in front of me.

  “Our employer would like to have a word with you,” he said.

  “You see?” I said, taking my gun away from his face. “Was that so hard to say?”

  The limo was black and sleek. Not as opulent or as well-appointed as Sexy’s but this was for an entirely different kind of VIP. And although I didn’t let it show, this VIP appearance worried me.

  I popped my gun back into my sleeve and walked over to the limo as the passenger door slid open.

  “Good evening, Mr. Johnson.” The voice was deep, smooth, and laden with a familiarly thick accent. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  I leaned against the limo and stuck my head inside the cabin.

  “Good evening, Mr. Governor.”

  20

  Hans Spierhoofd is a former rugby player, HV soap actor, and movie star who for the past six and a half years has been the Governor of New California. He’s not a particularly good governor but he looks good on camera, has low friends in high places, and knows when to whip out a good one-liner, which I think is half the job right there.

  I climbed into the limo and took a seat across from him as he advised. He wore a dark suit with a ruby red tie. His chiseled face smiled at me as I settled in and he closed the door behind me.

  “I hope my Secret Service men weren’t rude to you,” he said. “They can sometimes be overzealous. I find that endearing.”

  “Don’t we all,” I replied.

  He was smoking a cigar, though smoking is illegal in California, save for medical marijuana, but that didn’t seem to diminish his enjoyment of it (it’s a stupid law anyway). He puffed at the cigar as I made myself comfortable. The orange light of the ember was mirrored in the shine of his gold cufflinks.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Or a cigar?” he asked. “I’ll grant you amnesty from prosecution.”

  “Thanks, no,” I replied. “But I’ll take an amnesty card if you’re giving them out. You never know when that’ll come in handy.”

  He chuckled and flashed me his movie star smile.

  “I like you, Mr. Johnson. You’re a public nuisance on many levels, but I respect that.”

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  “That’s why I think we can help one another.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Spierhoofd touched a button on the console beside him.

  “Franz,” he said, “take us for a drive.”

  The hover limo rose gently and eased onto the skyway.

  “I don’t like standing still,” he said. “We can drive around and I’ll drop you off wherever you like.”

  “My car’s back at the police station.”

  “Not anymore,” he said. “I had it towed five minutes ago. It will be dropped off at your house.”

  I nodded. “Looks like I need a ride then.”

  He smiled. “It’s good to be the governor.”

  “So,” I said, “how is it that we can help one another?”

  “You’re currently working as a bodyguard for Sexy Sprockets.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I understand that she’s had some death threats.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “I’m the governor, Mr. Johnson. I know what you had for breakfast this morning.”

  “I’m glad to see
that my tax dollars are being well spent.”

  “You’re eating too much red meat, by the way.”

  “There’s no such thing,” I said and I think he liked that because he smiled before taking another puff on the cigar.

  “So, you’re currently protecting Sexy Sprockets from an assassin.”

  “That’s not entirely correct.”

  “No, Mr. Johnson,” he said sternly. “It is.”

  I leaned forward in my seat and rested my forearms on my knees.

  “Tell you what, Mr. Governor …”

  “Please, call me Hans.”

  “All right, Hans. Call me Zach. Let’s just set the coy stuff aside and lay our cards on the table. I’ll tell you what I know. You tell me what you know and if after all that we think we can help one another, then we do. If not then we walk away from one another and this conversation never took place.”

  I stuck out my hand. “Deal?”

  Spierhoofd held his cigar between his teeth, leaned forward, and grasped my hand firmly. “Deal.”

  I sat back in the seat and took off my trench coat.

  “I’ll take that drink now,” I said. “Whatever beer you have will be fine.”

  He reached into the fridge, pulled out two beers, tapped open the seals, and handed one to me.

  “My understanding of the situation,” I said, “is that Sexy is being threatened by a group named PATA. People Against Talentless Acts.”

  “And yet she was attacked tonight by a single armed man.”

  “Yeah. I’m not quite sure yet how he fits in,” I said. “He could be a member of the group.”

  “It is not a group,” Spierhoofd said, shaking his head. “The group PATA does not exist. And the boy tonight was a fall guy. A ruse. Trust me.”

  “I’m expecting you to plead the fifth on this next question, but how do you know that?”

  Spierhoofd sat farther back in his seat, took a long pull from his beer, and then turned back to me and spoke calmly, albeit with a little world-weariness in his voice.

  “Do you know how many people there are in New California, Zach?”

  “Sixty million, give or take?”

  “Sixty-three point four million,” Spierhoofd replied. “Forty-two point seven million of them are of voting age. Of those, only thirty-eight point three are registered voters. Only eighteen and a half voted in the last election. Ten million of those who voted, voted for me. Ten million votes and it was considered a strong margin of victory for my reelection.”