by PT Reade
Around me, cops began clearing desks. I spotted Captain Laura Kinsey in the corner; the no-nonsense chief had recently helped me out in gaining access to the man I now pursued. A stern, but fair woman, she had stepped into the shoes of her much loved predecessor with about as much grace as an alcoholic on ice. No one would call her friendly, but all respected her. The kind of woman who got things done.
She stood in the corner, dealing with at least three officers at once, issuing orders and making phone calls. She’d pulled back her graying hair into a tight bun—now covered in ash—and the permanent scowl on her face seemed more etched in place than ever. Still, I had to give it to her—she took charge quickly. Just the kind of captain we needed.
Rey appeared at my side, his trademark dark curly hair now tinted white from dust. Shorter than me but muscular, he was a natural leader, as evidenced by the dozen or so stragglers he led from the ruined building. Now, a few hundred feet across the street and out of danger, we had a staging area. A place where we could handle the emergency. It was far enough from the blast to be safe, but close enough to access for search and rescue and, being, an old police station, it had connections to all the services for phones, internet, and communications we needed to operate as a police force.
“Hey, man. You ok? That cut on your head needs looking at,” Rey said.
“I uh. I’m just a bit fuzzy. I’ll be fine,” I replied, involuntarily bringing a hand up to my forehead. It came away sticky with part-dried blood.
When the bomb had gone off, a run-in with a filing cabinet had given me the gash. My memories still floated just out of reach, one moment there—the next a whisper on the wind. My head hurt like hell, but I considered myself lucky … compared to the poor bastards caught in the lower levels.
“What happened in holding? You went down there, right?”
“Yeah, I was there. I was …. There was a lot of, um … I’m not sure.”
“You sure you’re ok, buddy? You don’t sound so good.”
“I’ll be ok.”
“If you say so. What’s the plan here anyway?” Rey continued. “Is Kinsey in charge because—”
A group of three men stepped brusquely through the doors, interrupting Rey’s words, and moved straight to the front of the room. They wore gray suits that bulged at the chest and serious expressions that virtually screamed Feds.
Kinsey glanced up from her corner of the room, but before she could greet the newcomers, the leader, a chisel-jawed handsome prick with a hundred-dollar haircut, stepped up one of the stairs and began to address the room. It took less than five seconds for me to realize I was right.
“Ok people, listen up,” the man began, his voice loud and clear. Here was a guy accustomed to addressing crowds, Mr. Charisma. “I need everyone to pay attention, please. My name is John Lynch, my colleagues and I are with the FBI. This whole area is a major crime scene, so we all need to work together.”
A mumble spread through the gathered cops. Some nodded along, most grumbled with discontent.
“We’re not here to step on your toes; this isn’t like the movies ok?” Lynch continued. “I know most of you are great cops but trust me when I say; this is what we are trained for. With this in mind, we need your full co-operation please.”
“Captain Kinsey, will stay here at the station and oversee the city’s role in the investigation. Everyone should still report to her, and she will report back to us,” one of his colleagues continued.
I couldn’t help but notice the perturbed glimmer in the Captain’s eye as she nodded her acceptance. She was more used to giving orders than receiving them.
Lynch glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand, before continuing. “Fire crews are working with Ordnance to make the building safe. They will notify me as soon as it’s clear to proceed. When this happens, CSU, this will be—Watson, Phillips, and Field on today—I need your best work. If you find any anything whatsoever on your prelim, I need you to document thoroughly and report back immediately.”
“Right, so these assholes can claim to be doing something useful,” I whispered to Rey.
He chuckled quietly.
“Time is of the essence here,” Lynch said. “Traffic Enforcement, keep everyone calm, get out there and clear the congestion so we can avoid any major issues. Homicide—Edwards, and Moore—get your ears to the ground and see what you can dig up. Check with all your trusted informants. Finally, detectives”—he traced a finger down the paper once more and then nodded to Rey and a couple other guys I recognized—“I need you to identify every inmate who was in the holding cells. I want to know everything about them. Who they associate with. Get us a list as soon as possible.
“Most importantly, we don’t know if the party or parties responsible for this explosion are done yet. If you see something suspicious, call in the bomb squad so they can do their job and everyone gets to go home. Any questions?” Lynch asked when he’d completed doling out assignments.
I couldn’t help but notice my name had been absent from the list. I shrugged and looked to Kinsey.
She caught my eye and immediately spoke up. “What about Blume?” she asked. “He’s a good detective, might be able to help find a lead.”
“Blume?” Lynch asked, gazing up to finally acknowledge my presence. He nodded and turned toward one of his partners. “Check the list for Blume.”
The other grey suit moved his fingers down a list attached to a clipboard he carried and shook his head. “No Detective Blume on the list.”
“He’s not a city detective anymore” Kinsey corrected, “he’s a private consultant.”
“Official personnel only. I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to ask you to vacate the premises immediately.” Lynch puffed out his chest like a prize tool and returned to issuing orders.
I sucked in a deep breath. The words were professional enough, but I still felt as though I’d just been sucker punched.
“But…” Kinsey began. I waved her off.
I couldn’t fault these guys, not really. They were doing their job the way they were trained, and they were the most qualified to handle crisis situations like this one. Still, it didn’t stop the anger rising inside me. They hadn’t been there; they hadn’t felt the blast or seen the twisted, scorched bodies.
Maybe the detachment was essential. Maybe it’s why they worked so well at their job.
I’d assumed I’d at least be allowed to assist Rey. Still, I wasn’t about to make enemies with the Feds. This was no time for a battle over jurisdiction. I’d worn out my welcome.
I turned, knowing I had more to do.
THREE
I stepped outside the old police station and almost wished I smoked, to take my mind off the growing desire to drown my sorrows at the nearest bar. The cloudy desire swirling inside, beckoning sweet numbness was always there—my silent partner.
Luckily, cigarettes aren’t my thing. Besides, most of New York had gone smoke-free these days. Sparking up a cancer stick was becoming more and more frowned upon, but who was I to judge? I spent half my time battling my own demons at the bar.
I glanced left and right. The police had a cordon up, blocking the road and sidewalk for a hundred yards in either direction. First responders were rushing back and forth like busy critters, each individual with a purpose, a specific task. My eyes settled on a member of the fire crew, maybe the same one who pulled me from the bomb site. He stood next to a fire truck, unraveling hose as though his life depended on it. He then grabbed the main branch and sprinted off into the smoke and dust, joining the shadows and other worker ants attempting to quell the blaze that had started on the south side of the station.
Uniformed police officers dashed in and out of the main entrance next to me. Kinsey would be hard at work, establishing a perimeter, helping the fire crews make the area safe and evacuating at least two city blocks.
The emergency crews scurried back and forth, at least fifty men and women, single-minded and focused. And not one of them paid me any notice.
>
I longed for that focus, that drive. The past forty-eight hours of my life had been chaos. Faces from my past, clues to my future, but, as always, nebulous hints at what was really happening. Someone somewhere had to be pulling the strings. I was either too blind or just not that good a detective anymore to figure out who.
Tired of games. Tired of death. Tired of it all.
I glanced to my left. Two stores down, a pair of elderly Asians, Indian or maybe Bangladeshi, were being evacuated from their convenience store by a young female cop. They were shaking, covered in dust. Scared as hell. Who could blame them? The cop scooped the woman under her arm when she stumbled. Her husband helped her with the other. Together they staggered towards the edge of the police cordon and safety beyond.
It was all my fault. The disaster around us, it was down to me. Once again, I’d blindly stumbled into a situation I didn’t understand and screwed things up. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt anything but regret.
My head thumped with the reminder of my earlier injury.
With no aspirin to hand I did the next best thing. Stepping along the curb, I glanced left and right before ducking into the now abandoned convenience store. The window was shattered by the blast, and half the stock had been thrown to the floor and trampled in the haste to escape. Chips and plastic wrapping crunched underfoot while the air hung still and heavy with dust.
My eyes drifted to behind the counter. Most of the stock had cracked or fallen to the floor, but one bottle of Jameson’s had survived. It wasn’t my usual brand, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I whipped the bottle from the shelf and unscrewed the cap, taking a whiff of the sweet, smoky scent. Hanging from a rotating display stand filled with lighters and cigarette paraphernalia, was also a cheap hip flask. I snatched it, tore open the packet and poured the Jameson into the flask, before taking a sip of the whiskey.
I didn’t need extra guilt for stealing the booze, so I rummaged in my pockets and stuffed a twenty under the counter for when the owners returned. Though, as I looked around the store, it became clear no-one would notice. The place literally looked like a bomb had hit it.
I took another swig, feeling ashamed that I did feel better for the booze, screwed the cap on the hip flask and placed it carefully in my jacket pocket, hoping the cheap knock-off wouldn’t leak.
Stepping from the store and back onto the street, I returned toward the old police station entrance. The noise from sirens and fire truck engines was overwhelming now. A drum pounding in my brain.
I needed to escape.
The Feds wouldn’t let me inside the station, so maybe I should just stay out of the way, but that this didn’t feel right. I wanted to help. The fire crews could use the manpower, or maybe I could assist with search and rescue.
Hell, maybe I would have done just that, if not for the interruption. Something sharp at the back of my mind. A splinter in my senses.
What is that?
A whining, sharp and shrill cut through the air like a rusty knife. Even over the sirens and noise from the fire trucks across the street, it seemed to bounce off the buildings and poke at the corners of my brain. It grew louder and louder until my head threatened to split open, spilling what was left of my mind onto the sidewalk. I turned to the intrusion and spotted a moped of some kind, weaving towards me between the clouds of dust and rubble strewn across the road.
Somehow, the rider had negotiated the police cordon or arrived via a back street.
My body tensed. The day had been full of unwelcome surprises; I didn’t need another.
The rider jinked around the parked cars and cut through a gap in the gridlocked traffic near the end of the block as he drew closer and closer. The noise grew, and my head pounded.
Finally, with a squeal that set my teeth on edge, he pulled the bike to an abrupt rubber-burning stop, not twenty feet from where I stood. He dropped the kickstand and climbed off the bike, before reaching inside his jacket.
On a day like today, with the streets in chaos, half the city’s police forces on emergency and death in the air, I was on edge. My hand drifted to my waist, resting on the handle of the reassuring lump of metal living there.
Ready for anything.
Anything but what happened next.
The rider closed the distance on foot, his dark visor hiding his features and any chance I might have of guessing his motive.
Finally, the man approached within six feet and stopped. His hand whipped from under his jacket and came out carrying an envelope. Not the weapon I expected.
He thrust it toward me and, running on instinct; I grabbed it. The rider then reached up and pulled his helmet free. The kid couldn’t have been more than seventeen, eighteen at most. He had a long slim face and red blotches where an ongoing battle with acne had scarred his skin.
Not exactly the threat I was expecting.
“Thomas Blume, right?” the kid spoke. His eyes were wary, scanning around. I couldn’t blame him—we were less than two blocks from a bomb site.
“I am,” I replied, tersely. “What’s this?”
“Delivery,” he said as if it would answer everything.
“I can see that, a delivery of what?”
“No idea. I just get paid to drop it off, not to ask questions. Look, mister, I’m in a hurry, and if I don’t get to the next drop the boss will have my ass. Can you just sign here please?”
With another reach beneath the black jacket, the kid pulled free an electronic device and gestured with it. I scrawled my name, not really paying attention to the kid anymore. Instead, I stared at the package in my hand. It felt heavy, dangerous.
“Hey wait!” I called as the boy jumped back onto his scooter. “Who’s this from?”
But it was too late. With a twist of his hand, the air was once again filled with the shrill whine of the bike, and he was whipping back into the dusty afternoon traffic.
I flipped over the envelope in my hand and weighed it. Something was inside, something more than a letter. I had my fingers on the flap, ready to tear it open when Rey appeared at my shoulder.
“Having fun inside?” I quipped.
“Oh yeah, Captain America back there is a laugh a minute. Oh hey, what’s that?” Rey nodded at the envelope.
“I was about to find out, some kid on a bike just—”
I was cut off as a ringing chimed from my hands. The envelope was vibrating.
“Hey, there’s a phone in there, man,” Rey said.
“It’s a wonder you haven’t been promoted with those deductive skills,” I replied. Gripping the package tightly with my left, I tore open the top and reached inside, pulling free the phone within. It was a simple device, a Samsung of some sort I didn’t recognize. Nothing else lay inside the envelope, so I passed it to Sherlock beside me.
The Samsung was vibrating while the screen illuminated with the words “UNKNOWN CALLER.” A sick feeling rose in my stomach. Butterflies and barbed wire.
It had been a week for bad feelings.
I tapped the answer key once and switched it to speakerphone.
“Hello?”
The voice that replied was chilling. Deep and electronic, it sounded like something from a robotic nightmare, though I knew it was a simple voice scrambler.
“Ah Thomas Blume, at last, we speak.”
“Do I know you?”
“Unlikely, but I know you. Private eye, former police officer … and family man, in a past life.”
“Who are you, my biographer?”
A breath at the other end. Possibly a laugh, perhaps a sigh. It crackled with interference. “Consider me a fan of your work. I’ve been watching you for some time now.”
“Well that’s great I’ll be sure to send you a signed photograph, but in the meantime, I’m a little busy.” I had no time for games with nut-jobs like this. My finger drifted to the end call key.
“Busy with the bomb you mean?” the voice continued. “Did you like it? Not my best work but it did t
he job.”
I stopped dead. Rey caught my eye but remained silent, brows knotted.
“You? The bomb was your doing?”
“I trust it grabbed your attention?”
Anger welled inside me, a pit of hot coals killed the butterflies and melted the barbed wire. “You sick son of a bitch, people died in that blast, do you know how many—”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Blume, and don’t interrupt me again. People die. I don’t enjoy it any more than you, but casualties are an unfortunate consequence of the business you and I have chosen.”
“You and I?” I spat. “I’m nothing like you; you twisted asshole.”
The man on the other end wasn’t offended. He chuckled quietly again. The bastard was laughing at me.
“I hear so many great things about you, Blume, but you are blind. We are both part of the game being played around us. A game that unfortunately means many people lose their lives. The only difference is that I accepted the game long ago—whereas you refuse to see it. Perhaps now you will open your eyes.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Ah, now we get to the crux of it. Lucky for you, our goals are aligned.”
“I already told you—we are nothing alike.”
“I think you’ll find we have more in common than you care to admit. Especially today.”
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“Because we both want Roland Teach dead.”
FOUR
“Sorry, never heard of the guy,” I replied, frantically searching every corner of my mind for any reference, any contact or any indication someone else knew about my history with the man who killed my family. I had spent months tracking down the name Roland Teach and even longer finding the man himself. Only three people knew about my search: Amir, my friend, landlord and informant in London, Nicole Remay, my contact in the coroner’s office, and the man standing next to me, Rey Sanchez—my former police partner. It seemed unlikely any of them would spill the details of my case, but two were across the ocean, one was right in front of me.
I motioned to Rey with my best ‘get help’ gesture. He seemed to get the message quickly and dashed back into the building.