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

by Brian Parker

  Sure enough, through the glass separating the different therapy rooms, I could see that bitch, Agnes, walking just fine.

  I put my head down and continued to try to adjust to my new normal. I sure as hell didn’t want to be crippled for the rest of my life, so I had to get this. I couldn’t very well move on to the next stage of my life in a wheelchair; that would require me to be upright and mobile.

  After about an hour of listening to the physical therapy droid’s archaic AI try to give me instructions, I was able to take four or five steps without needing to run to keep from falling over and my balance was improving. “That’s enough for today, Mr. Forrest,” the human therapist said. “You’re covered in sweat and need a bath.”

  “Only if you’re giving it to me. Jorge is too rough below the waist,” I replied. In truth, I’d never even seen the therapist, so she could be hideously ugly, but I didn’t care. I was happy to be done for the day.

  “Now, now. That’s what we call sexual harassment, Mr. Forrest. Don’t they teach you anything at the NOPD?”

  “Apparently I’m a slow learner.”

  I used the rail to make my way back to my wheelchair and zipped through the facility to my room. When I got there, Sergeant Drake was waiting for me.

  “Drake! Good to see you,” I said, looking up at the officer towering over me.

  “Detective,” he replied. “You don’t remember it, but I was here during and after your surgery. How you doing?”

  “I’ve been better,” I admitted. Lifting one of my legs, I said, “That woman sure did a number on me, huh?”

  “Can we?” He gestured at the door to my room.

  “Sure, come on in. Mi casa es su casa and all that, right?”

  When we’d gotten settled into my hospital room with the door firmly closed behind us, Drake gave me an update to what had happened at the cargo ship.

  “Karimov is dead,” he stated.

  “Good.”

  “Everyone who was on that boat, except the woman, is dead.”

  I’d figured as much. “Even the cyborg we’d arrested?”

  “Yup. Killed by your service pistol.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “The woman is Tanaz Karimov. Sister—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I interjected.

  “Nope. The woman is Farouk Karimov’s sister. When everyone was killed on that boat, it made her the single heir to the synthaine fortune. I assume she knows the formula as well.”

  A sinking feeling descended in my stomach. “There wasn’t an explosive switch or anything like that with Farouk, was there?”

  “No. She played us.”

  “Mother fucker!” I kicked my leg, the CPUs adjusting the foot wildly for the unexpected movement.

  “Yeah. Chief Brubaker was livid when we ran a facial recognition scan of her from the drone footage.”

  “The dress-shirt thingy,” I groaned. “Now it makes sense. She probably gave that as a gift to Terri Solomon, not her brother.”

  “Probably.”

  “And the unexplained attempted hit on Karimov at Liquid Genesis… It was her. She was the one in cahoots with Solomon.”

  “Given what we know now, it probably was. She’d likely used that as a way to kill him and when it didn’t work, she continued working with him like nothing had happened.”

  “Holy fuck,” I cursed. “Corrigan had been weird about the use of the name Karimov when we talked.” I remembered him saying something about ‘bosses’ and not a singular boss. He’d been working for both of them and I’d thought he was only working for Farouk. “The son of a bitch was playing both sides.”

  I pointed at my stomach. “Corrigan said Karimov was good with knives, used them to kill the competition. He was talking about the sister, not the brother.”

  The fragments pieced themselves together in my mind. The dark-haired nurse… “She killed him. Tanaz killed Corrigan to shut him up.”

  “I thought it was bad morphine,” Drake stated.

  “That the prison had records saying they’d turned all of it in,” I replied. “There was no reason that morphine was there, except to assassinate Corrigan and keep him from talking. Pretty poor luck that the guy singing like a bird to the cops was the only guy in the entire hospital ward unlucky enough to get the bad morphine, huh?”

  “Damn,” Drake said, shaking his head slightly. “She’s good.”

  “Any idea of her whereabouts?”

  “No. We raided her last known residence, but it was nothing except an abandoned space. We don’t even know if she’d ever lived there. The chief has a plan to lure her in though…”

  His voice trailed off and I thought of something further to say about Tanaz Karimov; nothing presented itself. With the short two weeks I had left on the force, I was off the case—regardless of my health status. The case would pass over to Doug Sanders or maybe to the Narcotics Division; it depended on how the department wanted to handle it.

  “What about all those hostages?” I asked, changing the subject slightly.

  “The ones from Warehouse Six?” Drake asked for clarification.

  “Yeah. What happened on the other side of the port?”

  “Fairchild’s team and the H-RATs kicked some serious ass. They took out thirty hostiles without any injuries and rescued over two hundred workers. There’s already talk that she’s going to receive the Louisiana Law Enforcement Medal of Valor for her actions.”

  “Good,” I replied. “She earned it. That’s an outstanding success; especially when compared to—”

  “Compared to our mission, which was an abysmal failure by department standards?” Drake chuckled.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I got every one of those people killed.”

  “Regardless of what the paperwork says, those workers that got shot were bad people too, Detective. They were manufacturing a highly addictive drug that ends up killing the user within six months. They were monsters.”

  I shrugged, knowing that there were simply some things Drake felt strongly about. Illegal drug manufacturers, dealers, and users were in that category for him. They were the scum of the earth and no explanation would make him change his opinion.

  “Detective, there’s something else.”

  I adjusted myself in the seat. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever he was about to say. “What is it?”

  “The chief’s plan to arrest Tanaz Karimov. It’s pretty messed up, but it might work.”

  “What is it?”

  “He’s going to use you as bait.”

  “What?”

  “He says he has a foolproof plan to bring her out of hiding and it involves you.”

  I grunted in surprise. “That old man has got some spunk left in him,” I laughed. “What do I need to do?”

  “You’re not mad?” Drake asked, his eyebrows lifted higher than I’d ever seen them before.

  “Fuck no. I want that bitch behind bars and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Well, you don’t have to do anything…”

  By the time Drake finished telling me the chief’s plan, the hallway was full of uniformed cops who disappeared into vacant recovery rooms. We switched on the room’s vidscreen, where Chief Brubaker had just stepped up to a podium for a news conference. Along the bottom of the screen, the words “Synthaine: Easytown Police Chief Update on the Crisis” flashed annoyingly to garner attention.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” Brubaker began. “The purpose of this news conference is to provide an update on the city’s synthaine crisis, which I’m sure most of you have guessed, originated in Easytown.”

  “Someone should tell him they already had the title of the news conference up on screen,” I joked, hitting Drake lightly on the leg with the back of my hand.

  He didn’t say anything, so I tuned back into the vidscreen.

  “I’m happy to say that we believe the drug may be eradicated,” Brubaker stated, and then had to wait as reporters shouted questions.r />
  “Please, hold your questions until the end,” he directed. “As you know, scientists have been able to identify the components of synthaine, but can’t reproduce the final product. This makes it extremely valuable on the street since there is only one supplier in the entire nation.

  “Ten days ago, Easytown Precinct Detective Zach Forrest led a raid against the suspected manufacturing location of the synthaine. He was correct. A man named Farouk Karimov produced the drug. Three years ago, Karimov purchased a retired cargo vessel legally and parked it in the Dockyards. That’s where he manufactured the drug that swept through the city, and eventually made its way into most major cities across the US.

  “Unfortunately, Detective Forrest was seriously injured during the ensuing shootout with Karimov and his guards. He remains in critical condition at New Orleans East Hospital. Additionally, Karimov and everyone who worked on the cargo vessel were killed during the exchange that involved several officers and police drones. With Karimov’s death, the knowledge of how to create one of the deadliest street drugs in the modern era has died away also.”

  He paused, and smiled into the camera. “We still have a long way to go since there’s still product on the street with dealers and the addicts will become increasingly more dangerous as they try to scrape up the money to buy the product as supplies dwindle, but the end is in sight. We seized and destroyed more than two hundred cases of synthaine after the raid on the shipping vessel, and we can say with certainty that the synthaine threat is in its dying throes.”

  Brubaker took half a step back from the podium. “We’ll open it up for questions at this time.”

  “Chief! Chief!” a woman shouted louder than the other reporters to get his attention.

  “Yes, ah, you,” he replied pointing at her.

  The camera panned to the crowd of reporters and I was shocked to see Sandra Deshutes, the desk officer for the Easytown Precinct.

  “How can you say that the synthaine epidemic is over? Isn’t it entirely possible that others know the formula?” Sandra asked.

  “While that’s possible, we are confident that all of the people associated with Farouk Karimov are deceased. There are reports from the officers on scene that a woman survived, but fled the area during the exchange of gunfire.”

  The reporters all began shouting again and Chief Brubaker picked a male from the back row. I recognized him as well. He was a cop who worked in Traffic Enforcement.

  “Brubaker stacked the questions,” I remarked.

  “Yup,” Drake said as the ‘reporter’ asked his question.

  “What do you know about this woman? Do you know where she is, or what she was doing there?”

  “Well… The only thing we know for sure is that Detective Forrest rescued her during the fight and was with her for several minutes before he was injured. The New Orleans Police Department would like to extend a special invitation to this woman: Please come down to any precinct office to discuss your role at the cargo ship and how you escaped from the situation.”

  “Chief! Over here! Over here!”

  “Yes, sir. You.” He pointed at another undercover officer from Petty Crimes.

  “Is this woman wanted in connection with the manufacture or distribution of the synthaine?”

  “No. Good question,” he said as an aside, selling his script. “The woman may have been a prostitute or even a housekeeper—there’s evidence that Karimov lived on the boat. At this time, the only one who’s talked to her is Detective Forrest.”

  “When will Detective Forrest be able to discuss his role at the cargo ship that night?”

  “Son of a bitch,” I groaned. “That’s Katheryn.”

  “Right now, we don’t know, ma’am,” Brubaker replied. “He’s still in critical condition and in a medically-induced coma. We haven’t been able to talk to him yet. As soon as he’s able, we will get his statement and get to the bottom of who this mystery woman is.”

  “The drones don’t have footage?” Sandra asked without being called upon.

  Brubaker looked annoyed, but answered her anyways. “No. The drones were a little busy taking fire from a group of criminals, so they didn’t record any usable footage except for the woman’s clothing, which is why we think she may have been a housekeeper.” He shifted slightly at the podium. “I’d like to remind everyone to please wait until you’re called upon to ask your questions. Ah, yes, you,” he said, pointing at a reporter that I recognized as a legitimate member of the media.

  The remainder of the questions became less invasive and more along the lines of what vidfeed reporters would normally ask. Less than ten minutes after the planted questions were complete, Brubaker concluded the press conference and the feed’s talking heads speculated about what the drug vacuum would do to the city, while experts in the field gave their opinions as well.

  Drake stood and turned off the screen. When he turned back, a smile stretched from ear-to-ear. “Now we wait.”

  TWENTY-THREE: THURSDAY

  Chief Brubaker was convinced that Tanaz Karimov would come to the hospital to silence me, but nothing happened Wednesday night. As Thursday stretched toward the late evening, I was beginning to wonder if she’d seen the press conference. They’d made it painfully clear that all the synthaine producers were believed to be dead and no one except me knew anything about the woman who’d escaped during the firefight.

  Which meant I was a juicy target, allegedly in a coma, lying in the New Orleans East Hospital’s intensive care unit—which Brubaker had ‘accidentally’ let slip during the conference. If she could eliminate me, she could walk away without anyone knowing what she looked like.

  It was a no-brainer that she’d be coming after me; it was just a matter of when and how.

  “Drake, I’ve gotta tell you something,” I said as I ate the bland hospital food that’d been brought into my room. I’d been confined to the space since the press conference because it was too difficult to secure the entire facility. The hallway outside was doable.

  “What’s that, Detective?”

  “I hate that Brubaker decided to use me as bait without discussing it with me first.”

  “Would you have said no?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “But I still don’t like it.”

  “Two more weeks and you’re a free man. No more orders from anybody if you don’t want to take them.”

  “True,” I replied. “In all honesty, I’m a little scared of going out on my own.”

  “You’ll do great. You’re a good cop. Maybe taking the reins of oppressive regulations off of you will be exactly what you need.”

  “Or maybe it’s just enough rope to hang myself,” I countered. “If I hadn’t had the department’s regulations hanging over my head for the last decade, I would have done some truly stupid things. And, to tell the truth, they saved my ass in a few situations.”

  “Would you do those stupid things today?”

  “Knowing what I know now? No way.”

  “Then you learned from it and that’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. The whole thing just—”

  A reflection of light outside the window over Drake’s shoulder caught my eye. I had a split second to ignore it or try to shove the immovable mountain of a man out of the way.

  I chose the second option.

  My legs overcompensated for the movement, launching me like a rocket toward his torso.

  “Hey!” he shouted as his chair toppled backward and I went flying over him, hitting my head on the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gun,” I grunted, shaking my head.

  The slight whistling sound of air rushing through a hole in the window reached my ears. Above me, I saw a small circular hole in the old-fashioned glass window. Surprisingly, it hadn’t shattered. I followed the line of trajectory with my eyes and saw a similar hole on the interior wall.

  “She’s using a laser!” I shouted.

  Drake stopped struggling to st
and and rolled sideways onto his stomach, then he low-crawled to me. “Do you see her?”

  “No. I’m sitting against the wall. What do you see?”

  “Nothing. I’m—Hey!” Drake shouted. “We have contact!”

  An officer burst through the door with his pistol drawn. He had a moment to register that Drake and I were on the floor before the laser blasted through his face and out the back of his head. He fell to the floor silently and his gun clanked against the tile.

  “Dammit! We’re pinned down!” Drake screamed. “She’s outside. We need drone support. Now!”

  Other officers began to shout out questions, but nobody was foolish enough to come through the doorway again. “Thermals,” I breathed heavily. “If she hasn’t used them yet, she will. We need to move!”

  “Drones inbound,” an officer yelled, relaying whatever information had come over the radio frequency he was monitoring. “Target identified. Shooter is on a hoverskiff, sixty feet from the window, due east.”

  I tried to remember which way was east, but everything in my head was a jumbled mess and all I could think about was the need to move before Karimov fired up her thermal imagers and shot at Drake and I while we huddled underneath the windowsill.

  Several holes appeared in rapid succession, including one in the concrete right between the two of us. Then the new holes stopped appearing and the officer who’d given the play-by-play a moment earlier shouted out, “Suspect has disengaged. She’s running! Drones are pursuing.”

  I used the window’s ledge to pull myself up so I could see what was happening. Less than a football field’s length away, I saw a hoverskiff headed toward Easytown. Three drones pursued it, firing as they went. Whomever had allowed them to go weapons free while traveling over the city was in for a serious ass chewing, I thought.

  It was probably Brubaker. His fake news conference was evidence enough that he wanted to end this as badly as I did.