Taking the Highway

by M. H. Mead

  Madison rested her forearms on the table in a circle, as if physically gathering her team. “Now, if you’ll turn to page six, you’ll see that all the murder victims listed ‘fourth’ as their primary occupation.”

  Andre returned to the table and scooted his chair in next to Sofia. He lifted her copy of the report and flipped to the relevant page. Sofia had already scrawled a WTF? in the corner.

  “Not many fourths do that,” Andre said. “Put fourthing first. The one group of fourths who make a point of it, even if they also have more lucrative careers, are those trying to unionize.”

  Sofia drew another question mark and underlined the W.

  “Ah.” The noise escaped Kosmatka and his frown leveled out into a crooked smile of understanding. “You think certain people might be trying to help ‘organize’ this union?”

  Andre shrugged. “Don’t they always?”

  Sofia had written the word mob in the margin and followed it with you could have told me.

  Discussion of the theory was ranging around the table on its own, so Andre took a stylus and wrote You’d have figured it out, of course. He did not tell her that he had just now figured it out himself.

  She fumed for a moment, then seized the pen and drew a round face sticking out a tongue at him.

  “The most convincing fact is the cash,” Kosmatka said. “Most criminal enterprises are run on a very cashy basis.”

  Cashy?

  Kosmatka raised a hand. “I’m thinking money laundering.”

  Talic spoke up. “Who would be interested in a fourth union doing their laundry?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Kosmatka pulled out his datapad, got a warning look and a head-shake from Madison, then reached for a stylus. “Tocco. The Koscheis. Clan Monaghan. Whoever gets there first gets to do everyone’s wash for them. Real laundromats run on quarters, but the guy collecting those quarters makes a pile.”

  “So why kill fourths?” Talic asked Kosmatka.

  “If the mob is trying to run them and they won’t play ball . . .” Kosmatka flipped through the report again. “If they whacked five guys just to send a message, someone must have really pushed the wrong buttons.”

  “Fourths are pretty independent,” Sofia said. “It’s easy to imagine them pissing off the wrong people at the wrong time.”

  Ouch, he wrote. “We need to find out who’s been doing the pissing. And who is pressuring the organizers.”

  Kosmatka shook his head. “If these guys are afraid for their lives, they’re not just going to name names in an interview. Do you know who they are, the union organizers?”

  “Not yet,” Andre admitted. “I haven’t paid much attention.” He turned to Madison. “But I can find out, quietly and quickly.”

  Sofia’s stylus tore at her side of the paper, but he didn’t look.

  “You’re thinking undercover.” Madison looked thoughtful.

  “Technically, yes. Practically, I’d just be doing my regular jobs anyway.” He saw the skepticism on the faces around the table. “You’ll never find someone else in time. Just training someone to be a convincing fourth could take weeks.”

  “Approved. We don’t have weeks. We don’t have days.” Madison tapped her stack of papers. “Lieutenants Talic and Kosmatka are too visible in their divisions.”

  Sofia pointed with her pen. “But—”

  “Sergeant Gao, you will be the head of this task force.” Madison held the room with her suddenly non-maternal gaze. “Each of you will take your cues from Gao, report only to her, and she will communicate your progress to me. I expect regular updates. Put together your support team. Make sure we have the tightest security—networked but private.”

  Sofia was drawing smiley faces for the Os in the hasty SOBs she’d scrawled a moment ago. Andre rewound the conversation in his mind, trying to see at what point he’d given her the task force. No, he hadn’t given a millimeter. Madison had swept it out from under him and handed it to Sofia on a platter.

  Madison stood and the rest of the room followed. “Don’t let the mayor down.” She turned and crossed the room, disappearing into the mayor’s private office.

  Kosmatka shook Sofia’s hand. Talic folded his arms and smirked. “Sucks to be you.” Andre wasn’t sure if Talic meant Sofia, who would get the lion’s share of the blame if things went wrong, or Andre, who would be not only the grunt, but would be the undercover grunt whom nobody acknowledged. No matter. Blame and glory were beside the point. Putting a stop to the killing was all that mattered.

  He picked up the copy of the report and wrote down a name. “This is the tech guy you want. Jordan Elway can make any system sit up, roll over, and play dead.”

  Sofia studied the paper. If Andre had tried to bring up Elway—or any suggestion—at the beginning of the meeting, Sofia would have told him to go to hell. Now, she showed Elway’s name to Talic and Kosmatka, earning nods of approval. “You think he’s available?” she asked.

  Andre nodded, already thinking about tomorrow’s ride in.

  TALIC WATCHED WITH CAREFULLY hidden amusement as Madison Zuchek held up one finger and beckoned him into the mayor’s office. He followed along behind her, stepping silently on short pile carpet the color and texture of astroturf. The dark paneled walls were broken by windows in an alternating pattern, casting striped shadows on the heavy wood desk. The effect seemed overly masculine, but Mayor Smith had never redecorated. There was something to be said for tradition.

  He wondered what the mayor would think of Madison’s appropriation of her space. But Smith was on one of her endless diplomatic tours, showing Detroit’s face to the world, leaving the city manager to do the true work of running the city.

  “I thought the plan was to let LaCroix head the investigation,” Talic said.

  “You should be pleased. I know you don’t like him.” Madison crossed to the ever-present coffee cart, a twin to the one in the outer office. She poured two coffees and mixed cream and sugar into each.

  Talic took the offered cup, cradling the delicate china in his hand. “LaCroix’s a peacock. He couldn’t care less about working homicide, but somehow he stays dry when the world is trying its hardest to piss all over him.” He took a sip of the creamy, sweet coffee. “It’s Gao I’m worried about.”

  “Exactly why I put her in charge.” Madison moved to the windows and stared down at the city. “A little extra work to keep LaCroix off balance, a little power to keep Gao smug and steerable.”

  “With me following them wherever they go.”

  “No need to sound bitter. When LaCroix put the pieces together there was nothing else to do.”

  Talic felt a tightness in his shoulders. He tilted his neck to one side, then the other, to ease it. It wouldn’t have occurred to him—or Madison—that anyone else could link the dead men. That was what worried him. What else was he missing? “Now that I’m officially on board, I can use this union connection to find the others.”

  “You should have found them by now. We shouldn’t need this task force.” Madison moved to the coffee cart and put a hand on the edge, leaning into it. There was only one chair in the room, behind the massive desk, and neither of them sat in it. Madison loved using the mayor’s office for its privacy, but carefully avoided any hint that she wanted its power. Nor did Talic. They were the kingmakers, not the kings, and both knew they could serve the city best without the constant need for public approval.

  “You’re thinking like a police officer, Jae Geoffrey. This is no longer waiting for a mess and then cleaning it up. This is preventing the mess in the first place.” Madison set her coffee cup at the very edge of the table. “All it takes is one. LaCroix arrests a single terrorist and suddenly that terrorist is all over the media. Then he has a platform. If he’s a fourth as well? Even worse.”

  “You really believe that fourths are that important to the economy? Bernstein said—”

  “Bernstein’s an idiot. Bernstein’s from California.”

  Talic nodded, wond
ering if those two things were a single descriptor.

  “Bernstein thinks economics is numbers and formulas. He doesn’t know the first thing about human beings.” Madison picked up her cup and stared at him over the rim. “Let me tell you what drives the economic engine. Movement. Trade. And above all, confidence.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I will not risk panic.”

  “You can stop it?”

  “Easiest thing in the world. I stop it by doing nothing at all.” Madison circled the desk and planted herself in front of him. “Do you have any idea how many times this economic justice group has contacted my office? As long as we don’t acknowledge them, as long as we don’t give them legitimacy—”

  “They sabotaged Overdrive! You can’t wish that away.”

  Madison reached forward and touched his forearm. “If you do your job, I won’t have to.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, ANDRE walked to his usual fourthing stop, the parking lot of a bowling alley a kilometer from his apartment. He chucked his empty orange juice bottle into a recycling bin and checked the time. Six forty-five. Early, but not too early. He usually waited no more than ten minutes for a ride, earning the hate of the first-rush leftovers. If he was without a ride at seven, he would go home and pick up his Dodge Raven, speeding past this same fourthing stop on his way to work. Some of the losers would still be standing there, hoping for a car that would never come.

  He assessed the five men already waiting. All five dressed well, stood straight, and acted indifferent, as if a ride would be nice, but they didn’t need one. They were perfect, and Andre knew without a doubt that they had been standing here for a long time. Since the Overdrive crash, pickings had been slim. Traffic once again flowed normally on 96, but Andre estimated that overall highway use was down at least twenty percent, maybe thirty.

  His datapad vibrated for attention, and his hand automatically dove into his pocket, bumping against the Challenger key. It was funny. The key to the Raven, the car he drove every day, was a flat card tucked away in his wallet. Never touched. He rarely even looked at it. But the key to the Challenger, which he never drove, was always in his pocket, getting in the way of other things. Still, there was no way he was leaving the Challenger key at home. Ever.

  He reached past the key, lifted the datapad from his pocket and accessed the display. Damn it, not again. He did an about-face and walked away from the fourthing stop. To miss a possible job was bad, but to be caught with an open datapad while he was supposed to be fronting up for a ride was unthinkable. To ignore a call from his mother? Impossible. When he was far enough away, he answered the call, keeping his back to the other fourths.

  “It wouldn’t kill you,” Mom started. “It’s just inconvenient. Of course, you don’t want to be bothered.”

  Which obscure relative’s birthday had he forgotten this time? Someone important, since it was barely dawn in Arizona. Mom sat by a window, the soft light making her white hair glow. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m sure it wouldn’t kill me, but since I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

  “Of course you do. Your brother.”

  “My brother wouldn’t kill me?”

  A dramatic sigh. How did she do it? Mom had lived in America her entire adult life and hadn’t lost a trace of her accent. She even sighed in French. “He wants to kill you, sometimes. That’s what brothers say. But he does not kill you. No. He’s a good son. He calls his mother.”

  “I call you.”

  “Of course you do, darling. You and Oliver are both such good boys.”

  Andre turned his body ninety degrees and scanned the parking lot out of the corner of his eye. Two new guys already in place, eager for rides. Cars slowing, choosing their fourths. He turned back to the pad. “Is this about Oliver’s fundraiser?”

  “You say you will go. Then you say you will not. Your brother calls me, hurt.”

  “Hey, Mom, how many politicians does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  “What do you mean by this?”

  “None. He gets his mother to do it for him.”

  “This joke isn’t funny, Andre. Mettre de l’eau dans son vin.”

  “No! He’s the one who has to tone it down. I was doing my job, trying to help people, I had a head full of police chatter, and he wouldn’t shut up about his stupid party.”

  “Oliver loves you and wants you there.”

  “If he really loved me, he’d let me stay home.” Both of the new fourths had accepted rides. The bowling alley’s lot was down to five, the same five that had been standing there when Andre had arrived. He wondered if he should try to get his mother off the phone or just give up and go get the Raven. “No, if he really loved me, he’d invite me to a good party, with people he actually liked, with no agenda other than having fun. How come Oliver never gives that kind of party anymore?”

  A new car slowing down, creeping up to the lot. A window lowered, a choice made, and one of the first-rush losers actually got a ride. It was one of those miracles that gave the other leftovers hope. It was the reason they stayed. If Andre got there now—right now—the next ride would belong to him. Five minutes and it would be too late. “Mom, I have to go.”

  “Oliver will be so happy.”

  “No, I mean I have to disconnect.” It was always this way. His mother—in fact, her whole generation—could talk on the phone for hours. About anything.

  “So you will attend the party?” Mom clasped her hands in front of her neck. “Shall I tell him?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

  “A bientôt.”

  “Salut.” Andre cut off the phone and hurried to the lot, slowing his pace at the edge and strolling into it. He didn’t need a ride today, and he wouldn’t act as if he did.

  Cars passed. Green, blue, yellow. A white Octave Quartet pulled all the way into the lot and cut its engine. The other fourths shied away, but Andre held his ground. The bowling alley wouldn’t open for hours, and he could make out three passengers in the vehicle. These people needed a fourth, they just didn’t know how to get one. He straightened the license badge on his lapel and approached the car.

  The Octave’s window slid down and he made a split-second assessment. Thirtyish woman in front, hair in a ponytail, casual clothes. The man driving—her husband?—also dressed for a day off. Andre peeked into the back seat. A little girl, smiling at him. A gap in front where her baby teeth had fallen out and the new ones hadn’t come in. His proposed fee shot skyward. Nobody brought their kids unless they were desperate. A licensed fourth was perfectly safe, but not something most parents were comfortable putting in the back seat with their child.

  “There and back?” he asked.

  “Sure!” the driver answered, too quickly, too friendly.

  “Three sixty.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Andre hopped into the back seat as the mom dug through her purse. She pulled bills out of an envelope and handed them across the top of the seat.

  Nine of the twenties went into his tailored inner pocket. He returned the other nine. “Ma’am? You pay me the other half on the way back.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. I’m Andre.”

  “Pleased to meet ya.” The dad stretched his hand over the bench seat and shook. He turned to his wife. “See? A fourth.” He brandished a pad. “Can I scan your badge?”

  Andre offered his badge. A scan would list his full name, eligibility, and clean record. It would also register in the database as a pickup, which meant taxes.

  “So, where are you folks from?”

  “Chicago.” The dad put the car into gear and exited the parking lot, heading toward the highway. “We’re in town for a week.”

  Tourists. Andre had heard of such things, but had never ridden with them himself. Tourists usually stayed in the city, being too well-fed and entertained to want to leave. He’d been hired by out-of-town business people, too cheap to pay downtown hotel rates, but never anyone who stayed in t
he suburbs for fun. He put on a happy face for them. “You having fun so far?”

  “We went to the Jackson Chihuly exhibit at the State Museum yesterday. We had dinner at Losts.”

  “You don’t have Losts in Chicago?”

  “No! And Lauren loved it!”

  Andre had to assume that Lauren was the child, not the wife. None of them had introduced themselves. He wasn’t expecting a business card or an e-handle, but an exchange of first names was customary.

  “It took us forever to get to the museum,” the wife added. “We’re staying with my sister out here. So today I insisted we take the highway.”

  “We almost didn’t,” the husband said. “After the crash, the glitch or whatever. But they say it’s fixed.” The husband waved one hand above the steering wheel. “I mean, the governor came from Lansing and everything.”

  “The monorail would take you right downtown,” Andre said.

  “We’re on vacation. We’re in Detroit.”

  “Of course.” They were stupid for driving their own car. Too bad he couldn’t tell them that. He had to be what the carpool wanted, even if they didn’t know what that was. He glanced at the kid, who was still staring at him. None of his usual jokes worked at a seven-year-old level. Politics was out. Fashion, sports, music? He could amuse little Lauren very easily by talking about the Town Brothers or doing his Emma Dink impression, but the parents heard that all day. A fourth had to do better.

  They entered the highway and a flickering auto-banner admonished them, Pool is the Rule! along with a warning of steep fines for minimum passenger violations. The husband eased off the accelerator and let the car find its cruising speed.

  “Where are you headed?” Andre asked.

  “We’re going to the Castle,” Lauren said, bouncing in her seat.