We were done here, but at least I knew one thing: Anneka the superhero didn’t do it but she was involved in the murder, in some shape or form. My heart sank a little: this was starting to assume the shape, or rather the sour odor, of a conspiracy. A labyrinthine tangle, a road that twists and rebounds and turns back on itself, with the crazy baton woman at one point and Klosterman at a different point and unknown others dotted along the route. And someone at the top. There was always someone at the top, giving directions.
I buzzed the officer outside the interview room. When she came in I pointed at Klosterman and said, “Get her out of my sight.” The cop unshackled her from the chair and said, “C’mon, Clusterfuck, let’s march. One foot in front of the other.” The door banged shut behind them so loudly I almost jumped with the noise.
Chapter 11
Kildare
TEN minutes after talking to Klosterman, I’d put in a call to the Department head-shrinkers to have the five women psyche- assessed for compulsive confession syndrome. I didn’t expect any of them genuinely suffered from it—my nose was still tingling with the scent of conspiracy and my brain was screaming, This is a fix, Genie, it’s a con, it’s smoke and goddamn mirrors. But you have to go through the proper steps, right? So step I did, like a diligent marching band keeping time to someone else’s drumbeat.
And an hour after that, I was being bawled out by Chief Etienne for leaving the scene of last night’s little pas de deux. Someone talked to someone who knew someone who’d seen me. Etienne wasn’t happy; she breathed heavily through her nose like a horse with sinusitis; she rubbed her temples, first the left, then the right. She looked on the verge of an explosion of temper, though oddly, there was something almost sad in her eyes, too, like a parent brought low by too much love and not enough influence. Like Misery. But I didn’t want to push that—I was caught, dead bang. I was in the wrong, and we both knew it.
Etienne said, “Where did you go after this incident occurred? And why, in God’s name, did you not stay on the scene and report it?”
I chewed on my lower lip and bit hard on my confession. “I’m sorry, Chief. Truly, I’m sorry. I, you know, I screwed up. No question, I made a big mistake. I shouldn’t have legged it like that. I was just, I don’t know, I thought I was okay, I mean physi- cally I was fine, and…”
“Fine?” She snapped a three-page stapled report onto the table for effect. “This says you were struck at least once by a steel weapon of some kind. You tell me you’re fine?”
“Honestly, I am. Yes, I was attacked. I took a shot, but there’s no damage. Look… I was going to tell you everything this morning, then I got sidetracked by the five songbirds down in mid-town. You know about those, obviously.”
Etienne nodded and said nothing.
“Yeah, so… Chief, I swear to God I was going to make a full report this morning. I mean, I’m here now. It’s just that… Last night, uh, after the thing happened, I don’t know, I had to leave, I needed to get some space. I was, Christ, I was probably in shock. I don’t know, it’s not an excuse. But it’s a reason. I wasn’t thinking right, and I needed to get out of there.”
I held my breath. The moment became sort of heavy, heavy but empty, the silence punctuated by the ticking of Etienne’s ostentatious-looking hanging clock and the distant clatter of keyboards, telephones and conversation down the hall. A siren swung from somewhere beneath us, in the bowels of the building, and onto the street outside. I idly thought about how they didn’t normally spark up the sirens until the car was outside; what a weird sonic effect it produced. I thought about sirens and girls in uniform and car tires squashing on asphalt as they rode over a bump in the road—anything to distract from this moment I was stuck in.
Then Etienne nodded slowly and I breathed out as quietly as I could; it was going to be fine. She was still pissed, for sure, and this was a black mark in my copybook, but no more than that. I could swear I even saw the hint of a smile cross her lips before she spoke again.
“I worry about you, Auf der Maur. About all of you. This can be a dangerous profession of ours. And this is, as I recall, the second attempt on your life in less than a week.”
“Yes, Ma’am. And it was the same woman both times.”
She raised an intrigued eyebrow—the shape of it was surprisingly delicate, it didn’t seem to suit this stiff-limbed hulk of a woman. “So you were the target, then, that first time? On…where was it?” Etienne raised a finger in the air and held it there like an orchestra conductor delivering a dramatic pause to the music. “Yes. Datlow Street.”
“Actually, I don’t think I was. I know how it seems, but I don’t… It just doesn’t feel right. Last night, yes, absolutely—I was the mark. But the first one… No. Something isn’t fitting right in my head.”
“Alright. Well, I trust that head of yours, Auf der Maur. So go on.”
“The woman last night, that crazy bitch—she’s the one who did Madeleine. Uh, Greenhill. Madeleine Greenhill, that psycho killed her. I know it, Chief. Because, okay, first she said something about the girl. She mentioned Madeleine to me. ‘Tell Madeleine I said hello’, something like that. And the weapon, it was this pointed baton thing: steel, with a retractable inner section. Comes flying out when she releases a catch—wham! I felt it, here…” I tapped my chest for emphasis. “It had to be her. The physics matches up. She had the stuff for it, too. She is absolutely without empathy, feeling, any kind of human… She’s a stone-cold killer, that one. Which is why we’re gonna catch her. A pro like this, with this much of an idiosyncratic MO—no way she hasn’t left her footprint somewhere in our system.”
“I agree. Go through the mug-shot library—it’s tedious, I know, but it’s the only way for now. Collar one of the desk jockeys down there if you need help. But I still don’t understand why she tried to kill you last night. And why you think it was different on Datlow.”
I hummed in my throat for a moment, squinting at the bare fluorescent light running across the ceiling. The Chief never was much for decoration. I said, “Last night, if I had to guess…”
“You do.”
“Last night was unfinished business. Because she messed up a few days ago, because I got away. So now she’s got a witness, someone who can identify her, that someone being me. She needs to shut me up, permanently. Datlow…? That, I still think, was mistaken identity. She got the wrong gal, which wouldn’t exactly bother this asshole’s conscience, but howsoever. She missed, I got a look at her, she tracked me to the Zig-Zag and tried to tidy up her loose ends.”
This time Etienne really did smile, not just in my imagination. “And you got away again.”
“Yeah. My guardian angel is on overtime. And actually, to give credit where it’s due? The patrol cops, they were on the scene remarkably quickly. Those kids deserve a raise. Their siren scared her off, I think.”
A shudder passed through me then, unanticipated, gut-deep, a bodily recognition of dread, of how close I’d come to dying the night before. It really had been that close—another second, two seconds, and lights out for Genie, for good. But fuck it, I couldn’t brood on it. I was scared but I had to ignore it; my survival might depend on that.
“That’s all well and good,” Etienne said, “but we have a problem. From what you say, our woman with the steel stick won’t stop until she’s done.”
“No. She won’t.” I smiled cheekily; for some strange reason, I felt self-assured all of a sudden, almost bulletproof. “But it’s okay, Chief, ’cause I’m gonna nail the fucker first. Pardon my, uh, rough language.”
“Okay. Go and do it. And stay on edge, Auf der Maur. Until this situation is resolved.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
I rose to leave, gathered my bag and keys and notepad.
Then Etienne said, “You never told me where you went from the Zig-Zag. Last night, after that incident.” She shook her head with a trace of weariness. “Do I even want to know?”
I smiled reflexively at the memory of Cassandra my wonde
r woman; I fancied I could still smell her perfumed hair, taste the vague fruitiness of her lipstick, feel tiny hairs pricking awake along her upper arm. I said, “No, Ma’am, probably not”, and left the room.
Back at my desk, back to the shit-work. I sighed heavily as my padded chair sighed beneath me. First I had to file a report on the attack last night, make it official—Etienne, bless her, was sorely in love with finicky officialdom, she was hooked for life, joined at the hip. I often wondered if she was swaddled in red tape as a baby. But I didn’t mind too much; the Chief genuinely cared about her girls, so I’d make myself care for a little while, too.
I kept the report short and fairly imprecise, something like this: “I had a meal in the Zig-Zag, I left the restaurant at whatever time, returning to my car I was attacked and struck twice by an unknown assailant, I fired once and may have wounded her, patrol cars arrived, the assailant fled, I was physi- cally and psychologically fine, I left the scene and went…” Well. I couldn’t include the wondrous Cassandra, for obvious reasons. My fingers danced out a light tattoo as I typed, “I left the scene and returned to my apartment where I gave myself a thorough medical check to confirm I had not suffered serious injury.”
That last bit was partly true: we’re all trained in first aid and emergency medical response, how to spot when something is seriously wrong. In my underwear the following morning I had swiftly gone through the basic check-list for the sort of blows I’d received: I twisted my spine, I pressed hard with both fists on my chest and upper back, I rolled my head and touched my nose and maybe walked on my hands in a straight line. I was okay, still in one piece.
I printed off two copies of the report, one for Etienne and one for admin, and stuck both into my in-house mail-out slot. Then I grabbed a coffee and hit for the catacombs.
This was what Hera City dicks playfully called the vast, dank, labyrinthine reference center located two floors beneath the HQ building uptown. The brass hated the name because it reminded them that their shiny new edifice, this glittering testament to power and order, wasn’t all perfect geometry and tasteful design flourishes. That bomb a few years back had reduced the old place more-or-less to rubble, but only above-ground: the foundations were solid and ran deep. Three subterranean stories of reinforced concrete, the middle layer of which still contained almost all of HCPD’s paper records—including the mug-shot library.
I balanced the plastic cup of coffee on my knees and slid into a parking space three blocks from headquarters. You can never get street-side parking near that place, and the staff parking lot— also underground—is always full, so why bother with the hassle? I killed the drink while walking to the building, tossed it in a Dumpster with a conveniently open lid and decided to postpone the pleasure of a smoke until I was trawling through the photo gallery of Hera’s most wanted. HQ looked undeniably impressive as I approached—even amidst the surrounding multi-story buildings, it dominated, it was broad and forceful, its glass-front sparkling in the early afternoon sunshine, the bronze HCPD banner grave and engraved above the entrance.
I showed my badge at reception and signed in for use of the library, then strolled through the main concourse—it was spectacular, light falling through the glass ceiling like heavenly drizzle, ivies and creepers bringing the supporting pillars to life—and on to the amusingly archaic basement elevator, at the back of the building. The thing clanked into life and moaned rustily as we descended, then shuddered to a halt. No sign of the doors opening. I smiled to myself and lightly touched my weapon: “Whaddya reckon? Think we should blow the lock out?”
Then the doors were heaved open by a panting administrative officer, a smallish woman with an incongruously large head and short legs, in that dark green rank-and-file uniform. She held up a finger to bid me allow her a moment to get her breath back, then gasped, “Sorry. Freakin’ doors. Older than I am. Need a little persuasion sometimes, don’tcha?”
She patted the elevator affectionately—I stifled a smile. The woman stuck out a hand and grinned, saying, “Hiya. Officer Kildare. It’s Detective Auf der Maur, right? Your office rang ahead. Said give you any and all assistance. I said, that’s what I’m here for.” She beckoned me to follow her, still chattering: “Auf der Maur. What a great name. I mean, I like my name, sure, but Auf der Maur? Now that’s a cool name. What’s it mean, anyway?”
“Um…I’m not sure. Sorry. I think it’s the name of a river.”
“A river, huh? Well, whatever, it’s fantastic. I love the sound of it, you know? Auf der Maur. Real, I dunno, exotic. Anyway, shut up me, says you. Don’t wanna be listening to this old flake rambling on all day.”
I laughed. I liked this woman. “You’re not old.”
She continued to lead me through the twilight gloom of the enormous basement. Row upon countless row of shelving, stretching back to unseen boundaries, filled with corrugated- cardboard boxes, numbered and catalogued and filled with files—the scrolls and annals of this city’s criminal history.
Kildare said, “Nah, maybe not on the birth-cert but sister, I feel it. Down here every day for 20 years, like a, hell, I’m like a mole in the dark!” She laughed too, a sort of honk through the nose. “Snuffling around for crumbs in the dark. And you know what?” She gave a lovely smile of pure professional pride. “Wouldn’t change it for the world. Besides, my kid’s in college now, you know what those college girls are like. They ain’t cheap to keep, I’ll tell you that much. Studying medicine. Says she’ll look after me when I’m old and infirm, but I’m not so sure about that. Nah, I’m kidding, she’s a great girl. Okay, here we go.”
We entered a large room at the rear of the catacombs, cooler than the muggy main area, and brighter, with three powerful halogen lamps on the ceiling and small spotlights over a row of desks. Kildare said, “This is the reading room. You get your files or whatnot out there, bring ’em in here for a good old squint. Now you, I understand, are looking for pictures, okay? So, I mean, could we narrow it down a bit? The mug-shots are catalogued by date and category of crime.”
I shook my head. “Nope. She’s almost certainly got a record but I couldn’t give you specifics. I’ve an awful feeling I’m going to have to go through the whole collection and hope for a break.” “Well, hold on now. Let’s see if we can’t… I’ve got a pretty good memory, Detective—good at puzzles, you know, those ones where you gotta recall what you put down earlier? And I’ve seen pretty much all these birds at some point. So whyn’t you tell me what this lady looks like, your target?”
I lit a cigarette and blew out heavily. “Hm. Big. As in, tall and bulky. Big build. Cropped hair, sort of spiky. Tough-looking; a tough face. Uh, let’s see… A mean kind of cast to her, you know?” Something blinked on in my mind. I said, “Actually, she looks a bit like that pro wrestler, what’s her name? She’s on TV a lot, she’s a big star I think.”
Kildare’s eyes lit up. She said, “Sure. You mean Dolores de los Lobos? ’Course that’s just a stage name. She’s actually called Anne-Marie. Anyway, that who you mean? Dolores, she’s the current HCWF champion, five years running. Beat that clown Shakira Underworld in her last bout. Gee, I hate that Underworld. She’s such a clown.”
I smiled. “I…guess so, yeah.” “Alright. Gimme five. No, ten.”
Kildare rifled through a series of mug-shot books with impressive alacrity as I metaphorically put my feet up and literally finished my smoke. A little while later she slammed several books onto the desk, each marked with cardboard tags at the relevant page. We went through them, slowly and methodi- cally. What a depressing set of images; a hell’s anthology of ignorance, stupidity and pure badness. Even as an experienced cop, it still hit me sometimes. Most of the women had hard, dull faces, staring blearily at the police camera, belligerent and brainless, blunted of feeling, an animalistic sort of non-life. A minority looked out-of-place and plain scared. One or two leaped up at me for a moment, maybe that’s her, it could be her, she could have been younger then, skinnier, longer hair, bu
t only for a moment. None of these were the woman I wanted. The baton lady had a low profile.
Eventually I shook my head and said to Kildare, “Nah. I don’t see her. Thanks for your help, but… Looks like I’m gonna have to take the long way ’round.”
She gave a sweet sort of sympathetic look and said, “Anytime at all, Detective Auf der Maur. You need to come back here and recheck anything, whenever you want, you know where I am. Where I always am, ha ha!”
Kildare erupted into that honking laugh again. I smiled and shook her hand. “I might just do that.”
I gathered my few things and we walked in easy silence back through the dungeon of records. She called the elevator and wrenched open the doors when it arrived. I made to step in, then turned and said, “What’s her name, anyway? Your daughter.”
Kildare blushed and stared at the ground. She said quietly— really it was hardly above a whisper—“Dolores. She’s called Dolores.”
“Yeah? After the wrestler?”
She nodded. After a long moment she looked at me, grinning. “Most moms would prefer their daughters did a good college degree instead of getting involved with some silliness like pro wrestling. Can you believe it? I’m the opposite way around!”
Chapter 12
Misericordiae
BY the time I returned to Dicks Division something rather unexpected had happened: Marcella Donat had left a message, asking me to call her as soon as possible. Big Cella? Why would she want to speak to me? We hadn’t talked in a few years, though I’d always liked her well enough. She was brusque and uncompli- cated, smart in a convergent sort of way, generous and guileless. What you saw was what you got, and with Cella, all 14 stone of her, you saw a lot and she gave a lot. But she was a civilian now, out of the game; what was it Officer Browne had said about her cousin? Private detection, tracing missing people, running down debtors, something like that…
The Polka Dot Girl Page 11