Just as suddenly as the attack had begun, it was over. The cars’ tires squealed as they tore away from the curb and rounded the corner, disappearing. I risked a look around, and was gratified to see that no one appeared to be dead or seriously injured. Boom-Boom was still under me, whimpering like a whipped puppy. “Shut up,” I growled. “You’re alive and you’ll get a chance to spill all your beans, Boom-Boom.”
“They’ll kill me! This was just a warning!” he cried. There was a faint odor of urine in the air.
“Look at it this way, Boom-Boom. You help me out, maybe I can find the guy who’s behind it all and take care of him before he comes for you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, I was standing outside the dinner talking with uniformed officers from the 4th Precinct, giving them my statement. Broken glass crunched underneath our feet, and diners were clustered here and there having their wounds treated or giving their own statements to the cops. Boom-Boom was being loaded into the back of a van, his hands cuffed behind him and his pants still slightly damp.
Captain O’Mally came up as I was finishing my statement. “A word, Detective Hazzard,” he said. It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of what the future held. I turned from the uniformed officer who’d taken my statement and walked back into the diner with O’Mally. The floor was littered with broken glass and plates, people’s half-eaten meals scattered under tables and booths.
“The man you brought in, Xavier? He’s willing to talk to you, if you want to come in,” O’Mally said. He gave me a dark look that indicated he didn’t really want me to do it.
“Sure,” I said, in part to irritate the man. “Mind if I sit in on Boom-Boom’s interrogation, too?” O’Mally’s glare could’ve melted titanium, but he gave me a curt nod and strode off through the debris.
* * *
On my way to the precinct house, Miss Typewell called. I answered and received some unusual news.
“A guy I know who works forensics owed me a favor,” she said. Miss Typewell’s world was built on favors. She knew everyone everywhere, and had created a massive network of individuals who could help her find out virtually anything she ever wanted to know. I could barely maintain a single relationship, let alone the massive interconnected web of relationships Ellen had developed over the years. She always knew someone who knew someone who could do exactly what we needed. “I had him analyze the images you got on the murder of Wally Stewart,” she continued. “He said the images are faked. There’s a lot of technical details, about the way light refracts off of different substances and things like that, but the short version is that the photos were completely fake.”
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “Why the hell would Guido and Billy Sunshine fake Wally Stewart’s murder?” I asked rhetorically. “More to the point, why would Wally Stewart fake his own death?”
“So I guess this means Mr. Stewart is still alive?” Miss Typewell guessed.
I shrugged. “I would assume that’s a real possibility, but I wouldn’t guarantee it just yet,” I replied. “He was probably alive when the pictures were taken, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t died since then.” I thanked Miss Typewell and ended the call. Her revelation gave me some serious thinking to do. What would Wally Stewart gain from faking his own death? Had he also faked his kidnapping? That again raised the question of why, though. How did his dead secretary factor into things? The whole case made no damn sense. The deeper in I got, the more questions I found.
And this wasn’t even taking into consideration the case the Boss had thrust upon me. Was there a connection between the two cases? I couldn’t see it, not yet.
But I would be damned if I wasn’t going to get to the bottom of all of it.
XV.
I sat in an interrogation room in the 4th Precinct with Xavier. He looked calmer, more relaxed, more in control of himself than the last time I’d seen him. Admittedly, he’d tried to kill me the last time I’d seen him, but I wasn’t going to hold that against the guy. He’d said he was brainwashed, and I believed him. I didn’t have any reason not to.
“You look less murdery,” I said, leaning back in my chair and considering Xavier from across the table.
He nodded. “Yes. The conditioning is starting to wear off. I can . . . control myself better than I could before.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I am . . . sorry for what happened.”
I gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry about it. All is forgiven if you’ll just tell me who you’re working for.”
He shook his head sadly. “I cannot. I am still not completely my own man. There are mental blocks I cannot get around, information I cannot share.”
I sighed in frustration. My best lead, my easiest way in, blocked.
“What can you tell me, then?” I asked.
Xavier gave me a grim look. “The person behind all of this . . . the man who wants you dead, who wants to overthrow the Boss and take over the Organization . . . he is not someone you’d suspect.”
I sat there for a moment in silence, the horrifyingly obvious answer clearing its metaphorical throat for my attention. I barely wanted to even contemplate the possibility, but there it was, the obvious connection, the piece of the puzzle that completed the picture.
“Holy shit, it’s Wally Stewart,” I said, admiration and disbelief mingling in my voice. Xavier was silent, but his look told me I was right.
“Seriously?” I said, still disbelieving. “Wally Stewart? The poster child for pencil-necked accountants? If Wally Stewart was a color, he’d be beige or off-white! If he were a food, he’d be plain oatmeal!”
“And yet, he is the man you seek,” Xavier said calmly.
“This is all some elaborate joke, right?” I said, looking around the room. “Are there hidden cameras here somewhere? Am I being punked?”
“The truth does not care if you do not believe it,” Xavier said. “You know whom you seek. It is up to you to do what must be done.”
“Ugh,” I said, staring up at the ceiling in disgust. “I hate having to do stuff.”
* * *
Sitting around in a parking garage on Elm Avenue, waiting for an urban ninja to appear and take me to meet a crime boss, was sort of a new experience for me. As such, the usual methods of wasting time weren’t going to hack it. Instead, I spent the entire half hour I was sitting there waiting for Kimiko worrying like hell and checking every possible entrance over and over again.
Of course, she was a ninja, so even though I was keeping an eye out for her arrival, she still managed to sneak up on me. I nearly jumped out of my coat when she said my name.
I whirled to face her. “You really shouldn’t surprise a guy like that,” I said gruffly.
There was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when she replied, “Follow me.”
She led me down deeper into the underground parking structure, winding our way through empty levels of concrete and steel. There were no cars parked here. None. At least, until we reached the bottom level, where a black town car sat idling.
Kimiko produced a blindfold and gestured toward me with it. “I know the drill,” I said, turning around and allowing her to tie the strip of cloth over my eyes. She helped me into the car, which pulled away from its parking spot silently and accelerated up the spiraling ramp smoothly. Fifteen minutes later, I was taken out of the car and ushered into a building somewhere across town from where we’d started. The blindfold came off, and I found myself in the familiar room with the two-way mirror and the speaker in the wall. The chair was becoming all-too-familiar by this point, and entirely too uncomfortable, but at least I wasn’t tied up this time. I settled in as best I could and waited.
I didn’t wait long. A few moments after I sat, the Boss’s distorted voice came out of the speaker. “What do you need, Detective Hazzard?”
“Some answers. An identity. Do you know this guy?” I pulled up a vid window and showed him the picture of Xavier.
There was a
telling pause before the Boss responded. “No. That man is not known to me.”
“Bullshit,” I snapped, minimizing the window. “You do know him, and he knows Wally Stewart, the guy who’s behind all your problems.”
“What?” the Boss said, his voice abrupt and filled with surprise that filtered through the vocal distorter. “He wouldn’t betray me like that.”
That was a weird thing to say, I thought. The gears of my brain started slowly turning. There was something familiar in the Boss’s voice. Not the sound of it, obviously, but something about the cadence, the word choice . . .
“Who wouldn’t betray you like that?” I asked slowly, the gears in my head starting to turn. “Xavier, or Wally?”
“You are overstepping your bounds, Detective Hazzard!” the Boss snapped.
“Overstepping my bounds is what I do, pal,” I replied. “Ask anyone.” There was something nagging at me, some little thought clearing its metaphorical throat for my attention. I let my mouth run on autopilot while my brain did its thing.
“So, here’s what I think,” I said, standing up and beginning to pace around the small room. “Xavier was one of your guys. One of your trusted guys, I’d wager. And then he went and got brainwashed. Taken over to the other side by someone else you trusted with everything.” I stopped, staring into the two-way mirror. I knew I wouldn’t see the person on the other side, but they were definitely seeing me. “Someone you’d trusted with your identity, with your very life.”
“Detective,” the Boss said, threatening. Everything suddenly clicked into place, and I knew who the Boss was.
“Mrs. Stewart?” I said, jumping to the wild conclusion.
“What? No!” the Boss yelped. “You are mistaken, Detective Hazzard.”
I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. I started looking at the wall next to the two-way mirror and the speaker grill. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed a thin crack running up along the wall, meeting up with another, horizontal crack about six and a half feet up. I took out a pocket knife and slid the blade into the crack, wiggling it around until I heard a faint click. The door opened with a hushed swish on oiled hinges.
“So,” I said, leaning in the doorway and staring at Mrs. Stewart, “looks like we need to have a little chat, Boss.”
XVI
.
“D-detective?” Mrs. Stewart stuttered. Her eye makeup was smeared where she’d been crying. On a small table in front of her was a microphone with the voice distorter attached. I could see through the two-way mirror into the room I’d occupied so frequently of late.
“‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,’ eh?” I said as I leaned against the doorframe. “Or woman, as the case may be.”
“You idiot, Hazzard, shut the damn door!” she snapped, pulling me into the room and slamming the door behind me. “No one knows who I am, and I’d like to keep I that way.”
“Take it easy,” I said, holding my hands up in a placating gesture. “What’s the big deal? There’s no one out there.”
“I’ve worked for years to maintain my secret,” she hissed, pacing back and forth in the small room. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, always. Your big mouth and barnyard social graces could have destroyed everything I’ve spent years building in a matter of seconds!” She stopped mere inches from me, nose to nose. Her eyes were on fire with anger and hurt. “How dare you announce my name in the open like that? There is no one left in the Organization I can truly trust, and anyone could be loitering about, listening in and preparing to kill me!”
“Well, we know your husband is already on that list,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I failed miserably. If looks could kill, the glare Mrs. Stewart gave me would have wiped out me and three generations of my ancestors.
“So,” I said, carrying on in the face of adversity, “since I know who you are now, care to explain how your stupid husband is about to dethrone you as the criminal kingpin of Arcadia?” I dug a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it. “Or, hell, how about how it is that you’re the criminal kingpin—er, sorry, queenpin?—of the city? That’s a story I’d love to hear.”
Vera sighed heavily and collapsed into her chair. “I think we’re a little pressed for time, Detective Hazzard. As we speak, I’m sure my husband is planning the final stages of his coup. But . . . I suppose you deserve to know something. Just . . . try not to interrupt. It’s hard enough without your asinine comments.”
“You wound me,” I said, placing my hands over my heart.
“Not yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t,” she threatened. I shut my mouth. She glanced around. “Actually, not here, and not in your office. We need someplace no one would suspect.”
Inspiration hit like a bolt out of the blue, and I grinned. “I know just the place,” I said.
* * *
The 4th Precinct’s morgue was a dark, cool place, empty except for Markus Franklin, who’d made himself scarce as soon as I asked the favor. Miss Typewell had joined us. She usually had insight to offer, and I wasn’t sure it was safe at the office right then. Mrs. Stewart wasn’t looking too pleased about Ellen’s presence, but I’d told her letting Miss Typewell in on the secret was part of the whole deal of me helping her out of the mess with her husband.
“I first heard about the coup effort three months ago,” Mrs. Stewart began. “I didn’t have any idea who was behind it at the time, of course, so I waited and bided my time. Patience is the greatest virtue a leader can have. Wait long enough, and you’ll hear whatever you need to hear, discover what everyone is trying to hide from you. Eventually, I discovered that Guido and Billy Sunshine were involved—”
“—but that they couldn’t possibly be the masterminds,” I finished.
Vera gave me a terse nod. “Right. They were monsters, but they were followers. They had no ambition or drive, no skills to manage something of this magnitude. And they did not know who I was. They weren’t the threat, merely pawns in a larger game.”
Ellen shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The revelation that our client was the criminal mastermind of Arcadia was not sitting well with her.
“Who’s Xavier?” I asked.
Vera looked grim. “He was my capo, my second-in-command. A good man, someone who balanced me well. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, and usually kept me from going too far. I could tell something was wrong with him. A few months ago, he started acting strange, taking different stances on issues he’d always remained consistent on. It was one of the first signs that something was wrong.”
“Your husband brainwashed him,” I said.
Mrs. Stewart nodded. “I’d suspected some sort of psychological conditioning. He was acting so out of character.”
“That couldn’t have happened overnight,” Miss Typewell said. “That sort of cognitive reconditioning takes months to implement, if not years.”
“So Wally’d been planning this for quite a while,” I said.
Mrs. Stewart nodded again. “Years, if I’m any judge. I knew whoever was behind the coup attempt was playing a long game, I just didn’t know who the player was until today.”
“So, how did dear ol’ hubby even find out about your clandestine activities? I assume that you don’t file a tax return as a crime boss,” I said.
“No,” Vera replied. “On paper, I’m a receptionist at the accountancy firm where my husband worked. The business is a front, though. All of the accountants there work for the Organization, including my husband.” I nodded. She’d come to us posing as that receptionist, and it seemed like ideal cover. No one would suspect her of being the person in charge of it all, even if the whole accounting firm was just a front for her criminal empire.
“Anonymity is a valuable tool in my position,” Vera continued. “I kept everyone in the dark about the true nature of my position. It allows me to move through the Organization freely and independently, checking in on things and making sure my advisers are telling me everything they are supposed to. None of them ca
ught Wally’s involvement in this coup, though now that I know it’s him it’s easy to see the signs everywhere.”
“When did Wally discover your true identity?” I asked.
“About two years ago,” Mrs. Stewart replied. “It happened accidentally. I let my guard down, he caught wind of something he shouldn’t have, and I broke down and admitted I was the Boss.” She stared off into the distance for a moment before continuing. “He took it . . . surprisingly well, I thought. And it was actually kind of liberating, to be honest. I’d been living a double life with my husband, hiding this massive piece of who I was from him for years. Telling him allowed me to be more open and honest with Wally, to bring him into the difficult decisions I had to make all the time.” She laughed bitterly. “The funny thing is, he actually asked to help me with this coup problem, once he found out about it. Now I can see it for what it really was, the last step in his plan, his disappearance to set everything in motion.”
We sat in silence for almost a minute, holding rapidly-cooling mugs of Miss Typewell’s coffee.
“So,” Miss Typewell finally said, “what do we do now?”
“Now?” Vera echoed, malice in her voice. “Now, we get the bastard.”
Part Three: Defender of the Crown
I.
Now that I knew Vera Stewart’s secret, there were plenty of obvious signs: the way she tilted her chin, daring the universe to take a swing at her. The tone of her voice, full of control and authority. The glint in her eye, the steely determination to accomplish her goal no matter the cost. It was like she wore an invisible crown, the Shadow Queen of Crime, the Boss of the Organization. There was something almost admirable about the woman, if you ignored the fact that she was the biggest criminal in the city of Arcadia.
The Invisible Crown (Hazzard Pay Book 1) Page 15