West End Droids & East End Dames (Easytown Novels Book 3)

by Brian Parker

  “Thank you for saving my life, ma’am.”

  “Mmm hmm. I go get Bobby.”

  I watched her hop back in her forklift and zoom past me toward the office. Within seconds of her entering the office, a series of flashing yellow lights set into the ceiling began to rotate high above me. Then, all the forklifts, tractors, and trucks stopped moving. I couldn’t tell if the operators shut down their machines or if they were somehow centrally controlled. It didn’t really matter, what did count was that hundreds of angry workers dismounted their equipment and formed a semi-circle around me. If they weren’t moving cargo, they weren’t getting paid, and they weren’t moving cargo because of me, the idiot lying on the floor.

  “Uh, hi guys,” I offered weakly.

  The angry questions began immediately, demanding to know who I was, what I was doing there, and how I got hurt. “Andi, ETA on those black and whites?”

  “Three minutes until they reach the Dockyards.”

  Great. This mob could tear me apart in that time.

  Bobby, the fat, balding foreman I’d spoken to earlier appeared, riding on an industrial hoverskiff. He had the workers clear a space around me. “Now what’d you go and shut down my operation for?” he asked.

  “I have a knack for—”

  “He a cop!” a woman’s voice rang out. I looked to the source and saw the lady who’d helped me walking back from the direction of the office where her forklift was shut down like all the others.

  The angry crowd became menacing. Bobby abandoned his attempts to talk to me and began speaking to the workers.

  “You fellas get back to your stations,” he ordered. “As soon as I can scoop this guy up off the floor, we’ll get back to work.”

  Angry shouts answered him. “Pig lover!” “Company man!” “String ’em both up!” “He goin’ after Farouk.”

  That last one was from my lovely female savior, who’d turned out to be not so cooperative after she found out who I was.

  “Now, now,” Bobby said, holding up his hands. “Unsanctioned gatherings are grounds for immediate dismissal. The union has agreed to that stipulation. This is all just a misunderstanding.”

  “He gon’ try to stop the kickbacks,” someone shouted.

  That seemed to do the trick, breaking the hold that the threat of firing had over the crowd. They began to advance toward me.

  The ear-shattering screech of rending sheet metal stopped everyone in their tracks. Above us, a police drone rocketed through the hole it’d torn in the roof. It settled on spindly legs between me and the angry workers, narrowly missing Bobby.

  “Citizens, you are ordered to disperse,” it stated, the words amplified by the large, open warehouse. “Threatening a police officer is grounds for termination.”

  The drone didn’t mean getting fired from their jobs, and the workers understood immediately. They retreated backward several feet, casting angry glares my way.

  “Detective Zachary Forrest,” the drone continued. “You are being evacuated from this situation. Do not resist.”

  I didn’t have time to protest or warn the drone about my broken hip. It wrapped several rubbery tentacles around my legs, torso, and midsection. I screamed in anguish as the tentacles tightened around my waist. Then the drone lifted into the air and shot upward through the hole in the roof.

  I passed out before I had the opportunity to enjoy the clear, blue sky above.

  SEVENTEEN: SATURDAY

  “Like hell, Drake,” I spat, sitting up gingerly in the hospital bed. “I’m going back in.”

  “Detective, you don’t need to. SWAT has this.”

  “I didn’t go through surgery and two days of regenerative genetic stimulation to sit on the sidelines while someone else did my job. Karimov is my responsibility and I started this whole mess by not bringing him in when I had the chance.”

  Admittedly, the ‘chance’ I referenced was ended by me getting my right hip broken in six places by a six-foot length of steel, but that was beside the point.

  “That’s a bunch of macho bullshit, Detective. And you know it.”

  “Maybe it is,” I replied. “But I’m still gonna go out there and be on scene when this goes down.”

  Since I’d been evacuated from Warehouse Six, Karimov had taken control of the Dockyards. He’d organized the workers and they’d arranged the shipping containers into a massive wall. It wasn’t impenetrable by any means, and the drones could easily drop in behind them, but hundreds of workers hadn’t supported him and were now hostages intermingled with Karimov’s people, making it impossible to tell who was a hostile. That meant using the drones was out. It also meant that Lieutenant Fairchild’s SWAT team was once again on the hook to go into harm’s way because of something I’d done.

  “I’m not sure that Brubaker is gonna allow that,” Drake said after an extremely long pause.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.

  “You know; the IA report of findings…”

  “Shit,” I groaned.

  Lying in bed over the course of two days, I’d had ample time to go over the report, all one hundred and four pages of the main report, plus the additional five hundred pages of supporting evidence and video files. The backup document was full of useless information like insurance claims, annual performance evaluations, a detailed report of all misconduct claims—founded and unfounded—filed against me over my career, generalized psychological findings, and transcripts from the character witness interviews of fellow officers and department employees. The last section was truly eye opening since I was able to see exactly what people really thought of me.

  There were even a few pages on Katheryn Townlain’s involvement, along with video from our conversations, including when I told her why I was a cop, followed up by the close-up of my chest when we shared a sloppy, drunken kiss. Of course she’d been wearing a camera. The whole section with her was utterly pointless since nothing happened, and none of it made it into the main report.

  The actual findings of the report recommended my termination based on a pattern of misconduct. It detailed the various suspensions I’d been given, pointing to them as corrective measures that were ineffective, the most egregious time being when I was on suspension and interfered with an investigation, which resulted in the death of one hundred and twelve innocent bystanders at the St. Louis Cathedral. There was a note from Governor Talubee’s staff stating that none of the citizens died as a result of my actions and thousands of lives, including the Pope’s, were saved because I was the only police officer on scene. They left out the fact that Sergeant Drake was there, I’m sure it was meant to minimize the collateral damage to the department.

  It seemed that my good buddy, Councilman Jefferson, had finally been able to get back at me for detaining him last fall. The councilman was the one who’d requested the formal investigation into my police misconduct, based on tips from anonymous sources who said I was a troublemaker.

  Bullshit. The ‘tips’ were his own personal vendetta against me for exposing his adultery to his wife.

  I’d read and reread the file while I lay in bed. Termination was just a recommendation, it still needed to go to the board of police chiefs and the mayor, so I was still a cop. As long as I was a cop, I would do my duty to defend the city and her people.

  “It’s just a goddamned report,” I grumbled, slapping my hand on my phone where the pages were stored. “Karimov is a threat to this city and I sure as hell have a score to settle with that bastard.”

  “Exactly,” Drake rumbled. “You have a score to settle. You always have a score to settle. That’s why you’re in this trouble, Detective Forrest. Maybe you should sit this one out. That might look better in the eyes of the district chiefs’ panel if you take the time to allow others to do their job.”

  He had a point. If I let Fairchild’s SWAT team go in and clear the Dockyards, the panel would see that I was taking the Internal Affairs recommendation to heart and following the straight and n
arrow. I could potentially save my career if I followed the rules and colored within the lines.

  But I couldn’t let it go. This was my investigation, from start to finish, and I intended to see it through.

  “What did you find at the Ortega house?” I asked.

  Drake’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “We found the murder weapon. Forensics agreed that as far as they could tell, the pneumatic disks came from that handgun versus one of the rifles. Also…”

  He pulled out his own phone and tapped a few keys, projecting an image between us. It was a bunch of lines of text. “This is Ortega’s journal. He was stupid enough to write stuff down; had it in chapter format like he was going to publish an autobiography or something.”

  “Can I see that?” I asked, reaching for the phone. I couldn’t read the words on the projection.

  Drake handed it over wordlessly. I read for a few minutes, and agreed with his assessment. Ortega was trying to get himself published. His journal recorded that he’d also been having an affair with Henderson and had learned of Karimov’s involvement in the synthaine production. He wanted in on it and Karimov refused. Henderson sided with Karimov, breaking things off with Ortega. I’d been right. Henderson’s murder was a crime of passion. Ortega couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t up to par with Karimov.

  It still left the question of why Terri Solomon’s thugs had tried to kill Karimov, though. The connection didn’t make sense—yet. I’d figure it out in time.

  “What did the cyborgs have to say about this?” I wondered aloud.

  “Nobody’s talked to them yet.”

  “What? Who’s the city got on this while I’m out?”

  “Sanders, again,” he replied. “He’s been pretty busy with the Dockyard hostage situation. All of us have.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That idiot couldn’t investigate his way out of a pillow fort.”

  I flipped through several pages of love poems and shit like that, most of them directed at Dale Henderson. “Something about this isn’t right,” I stated. “Why would he keep all of this evidence in a journal where we could find it?”

  Drake stretched out his hand, open palm up. “May I?”

  I passed him the phone and he tapped the screen a few times. Soon, another picture appeared between us. It was a framed computer programming degree from MIT bearing the name Carlos Ortega.

  “So?”

  “The son of a bitch thought he was better than anyone else,” Drake stated. “He was damn good. It took our techs about six hours to break his encryption. This journal was buried deep down; you and me wouldn’t have found it, but the techies noticed keystroke patterns that pointed to a hidden folder. I’m not sure what he was planning on doing with it since it would implicate him in several crimes, but he was meticulous.”

  “Narcissistic fuckwad,” I surmised.

  “Yeah, that was my assessment as well,” Drake deadpanned. “So you see, the case is wrapped up, even with Sanders on the job. You can stay here and get some rest.”

  Maybe it was all wrapped up like he said. The only outliers were why the cyborgs had shot up the Liquid Genesis and arresting Karimov, who’d tried to kill me. I wanted revenge, but that was part of why I was in the trouble I was in. Not every action needed to be avenged. Fairchild could handle this guy.

  Besides, I felt like I was ninety. The genetic regeneration wasn’t fully complete. My calf muscle felt fully healed, an unintended beneficiary of the treatment on my hip, but everything else was still not completely healed. I could use another day of lying on my back and letting the process play out. Lord knows I deserved some time off.

  “Goddammit, Drake. Maybe you’re right,” I relented. “I should be smart and let someone else handle things for a while.”

  One of Drake’s massive paws slapped down on the bedside railing. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Following the doctor’s orders, allowing others to do their jobs, and listening to some sound advice—who are you and what have you done with Zachary Forrest?”

  “Funny, Drake,” I replied. “I’m right here. But like you said, maybe I should try to show some restraint if I want to keep my job.”

  “That’s good advice,” he chuckled. “Who could have given that to you?”

  “Okay, I admit it. You gave me some good advice.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh! Thanks,” I said, realizing he wanted an acknowledgement.

  “No prob—”

  A soft knock on the door to my room cut him off. He glanced at me and I shook my head; I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Drake walked over to the door and rested his hand on the grip of his pistol as he pulled the door open. There were some whispers that I couldn’t make out and then he reappeared. “Ah, Detective? You have a visitor…and I think it’s time for me to leave. You know, paperwork and such.”

  He stepped out of the way and Katheryn appeared behind him.

  “Hi, Zach,” Katheryn said with an awkward wave of her hand once my partner had left.

  “Katheryn,” I replied guardedly. Our last interaction at the NOPD headquarters had been civil and even friendly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about her yet—and hadn’t had time to think about it. On the one hand, she tried to entrap me to strengthen the case against me. On the other, she’d been ordered to do it and came clean with me. It still didn’t alleviate the sense of betrayal I’d felt when I learned she was a cop.

  “Thank you for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied without thinking about it.

  “I heard about what happened,” she motioned toward the bed.

  “You can come in. I won’t bite,” I assured her.

  “Even with the report?”

  She looked like she was going to vomit. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No.” She hesitated and then walked across the room quickly. “I’m not okay, Zach.” She sat in the chair Drake had previously occupied. “What they’re doing to you is wrong. It makes me sick.”

  I shrugged, attempting to show more nonchalance than I felt. “It is what it is. There’s nothing I can do about their findings. Everything listed in there is true, even if they chose to downplay the good parts of why I’ve done the things that I’ve done.”

  “Exactly,” she replied. “They mention that your actions resulted in arrests and things like that, but no emphasis is placed on anything except the negative. Smith and Jones have it out for you. It doesn’t matter what anyone said, they had a predetermined outcome in their minds and that’s what went into the report.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I know. The only thing I can hope is the panel will read my rebuttal and look at my body of work for the entire time I’ve been a police officer, and not place as much emphasis on the findings of a bunch of pencil-dicked, paper-pushing IA fuckers.”

  I stopped, remembering too late that Katheryn was one of those pencil-dicked, paper-pushing IA fuckers. “Sorry. I know what you do is important most of the time.”

  “It is, but I understand your frustration and lack of faith in the system. Hell, I would too if I were in your shoes and the department was hanging me out to dry…which, is why I wanted to come see you.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to stop by and see the wonders of modern medicine patching me up before your very eyes?”

  She laughed half-heartedly. “No—I mean, yes! I wanted to make sure you were okay, and see if you needed anything. But, I have some information about the case that you may not be aware of.”

  I frowned, wondering what news she had that I didn’t know about. “What is it?”

  “The district chiefs’ panel met this morning.”

  “And?” I asked, already knowing the answer. I didn’t know her that well, but I didn’t think she’d be stalling if it were good news.

  “The chiefs voted almost unanimously in favor of termination. Ten-to-one. Only your chief, Brubaker, voted to retain you.”

  She blubbered for a moment an
d then burst out in tears. “Zach, I’m so sorry.”

  “Hmpf,” I grunted, not feeling as hurt as I’d expected I would. I felt numb more than grief at the prospect of losing my job and no longer being a police officer. It sure as hell wasn’t where I thought I’d be when I joined the force almost fourteen years ago, but to be honest, I wasn’t torn up about it. I had plenty of money set aside since I’d lived well below my means. I’d be fine on the financial front. Emotionally, though, that may be a different story as time wore on.

  Besides, I told myself. The politics of the department are exhausting. I’m fine with the outcome.

  But I still wanted to bust Karimov.

  “Who else knows about the findings?” I asked.

  “As far as I know, only the chiefs and IA detectives know about it. Chief Brubaker is supposed to issue a formal one-month notice to you immediately.”

  “So, regardless of what happens, I’m still a cop for another month?”

  “Yeah. It’s meant as a transition period to give you time to settle your accounts and get everything ready for your life after public service.”

  I threw aside the thin hospital cover and ripped out the IV line stuck in the side of my thigh. The nurse had said something about a nerve blocker and pain medication, but I didn’t have time for that bullshit. I was about to have all the time in the world for recovery.

  “What are you doing?” Katheryn asked.

  “I’m going out to the Dockyards to arrest Karimov while I’m still a police officer,” I said.

  “That’s not the intention of the notice, Zach. If you do that, you may end up getting fired outright without a severance.”

  I paused. The severance package would include money, obviously, but also some type of medical coverage for a few months as well as retaining my firearms licenses. If I went out there to settle a personal vendetta, I could lose it all. Was arresting Karimov that important?

  “You’re goddamn right it is,” I answered myself aloud.