At 1:20, she stepped out onto the shoulder of the westbound freeway opposite her apartment building, having secured a lifter from a city maintenance worker, a sad, round little woman, one of an unseen multitude charged with fixing the city while it slept. The lifter itself seemed kind of morose, its basket drooping in anthropomorphized self-pity. Its control box set directly in front of her, she awkwardly climbed into the basket, raising herself with a lurch, the ascent jerky, mechanical, nothing like the soaring weightlessness of the Basement.
The ledge of the freeway sign was surprisingly narrow, and when she duck-walked over to the gym bag, the grated metal shelf wobbled precariously. Grabbing the bag, Terri steadied herself against the cold green metal of the signage, one hand flat against an arrow pointing toward Sacramento, and when she looked up she was staring at her own apartment building, almost equidistant to the front entrance, trying to remember why she’d left a light on in her living room. Carlos Jaramillo had been right. It was an ugly little building.
Back in her car, prize in hand, the lifter basket once more appeared to droop in glumness as she sped back onto the open road. The car accelerated and swooped onto I-5, as if following the arrow she’d pressed for the state’s capital. The route crossed onto a new section of the freeway with no markers, no dividing lines at all. They didn’t need markers on the road anymore, she realized. Even headlights were vestigial, unnecessary, manufactured for human benefit only.
Terri looked down to the bag in her lap and turned it over in her hands, feeling something soft inside, seeing no significant product or suspect tags in her PanOpt margins. She ran one finger along the zipper, breathed deeply, and then said, “Stupid.” Pulling down the zipper, she reached in and removed the fitted three-quarter sleeve with the fat blue and purple lightning bolts she’d gotten as a college sophomore; something lost and now reclaimed.
III
THE STAMPEDE AGE
“Okay. Let me think,” Zack said, standing on the enclosed screen porch of his house in Sherwood Forest. She’d spilled her guts, told the entire story, somehow finding it simultaneously impossible and frighteningly plausible. The exertion of unburdening herself added to the weight of her sleepless night, and she blinked away the urge to sink down into his hard cane lawn chair, meaning the soft car seat that held her true body, many miles away, parked in a desolate alley behind a boarded-up nail salon. Brightly colored toys and blocks littered the porch; if she floated up into space, she’d probably find her own seat filled with toys as well.
“I know you don’t have any macros at your place—and I’m going to resist the urge to say ‘I told you the fuck so’—but what about your landlord? What’s his name again?”
“Mr. Tan? He doesn’t record the building, if that’s where you’re going,” she said. “The guy’s cheap and he’s Chinese. I doubt he’s been at the property more than twenty minutes in the last decade.”
Zack turned and looked out the screen door and across the lawn, so secluded and leafy that it was hard to comprehend they were both still in the same county. Past the long expanse of well-trimmed grass, a stand of oaks broke the slanting light of breaking dawn into something nearly hypnotic. From her vantage point, she could just make out the dark hulk of their downed Christmas tree, languishing in the gutter next to the trash cans. Terri had never been quite sure how they afforded this house and three kids on his salary alone, but she remembered asking the question once point blank, and him sighing and saying, “Creative use of debt.” Or maybe Janice had inherited more than just their hallway library. He muttered, “Tan, Tan, China Man,” in a soft sing-song voice.
“So you have no way of knowing if it was Froggy or someone else who was in your apartment.”
“I don’t.”
“But it’s a safe bet that even if it was Froggy, it wasn’t Froggy, you follow me? I mean, that shitstain couldn’t tie his own shoes, let alone execute a flawless B&E. And what would he want with one piece of clothing, anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“Another thing. That’s your house. You remember that thing with Jimmy Montes?”
“Yeah,” she said, feeling a swell of exhaustion roll over her. “No.”
“He was on that antigang task force back in the thirties, busted up Darrows, Six Sentinels, did a serious number on Lágrimas De Sangue. All those guys wanted him alive, you know? But they knew Montes was like the rest of us, he’s covered by the Wall. When they finally go after him? Maybe the idea was that they could overrun the safeguards or something. They had probably thirty guys. It was like the end of Scarface. Except that twenty-eight of those guys got knocked out on his lawn and the other two, making it as far as his back gate, got blown up. All those idiots did was provide the force with a perfect system test.”
She nodded, feeling a pit in her stomach with where he was going.
“The day you get out of academy, that’s it. You’re untouchable. All of us. Someone comes at a cop in the street, tries to break into our residences? They can send a blow-dart anywhere in the county in forty-five seconds. Everyone knows it. Fuck with us? You got less than a minute before it’s Drone O’clock. As soon as Froggy approached your complex, he would’ve gotten tracked. And he would’ve been cold cocked before he got your door open.”
“I thought of that.”
“And yet, this guy pulls some super-spy voodoo shit, just walks in, takes what he wants, and then leaves. He’s a phantom.”
“Yeah.”
Zack palmed his face, exhaled, and then slowly massaged the creases in his forehead with two fingers. When he dropped his hand, he looked stern.
“This is a fucking setup.”
“Yeah.”
“Someone inside the force is positioning you to take the fall for something, and I’ll be goddamned if I can tell what it is.”
The oaks shushed in agreement from across the lawn. She could almost feel the breeze on her bare forearms, wishing she could stay where she was, then remembering she wasn’t actually there.
“What now?”
“What now? What now is … I don’t know what now is,” he said, falling into the opposite seat, then saying “Ow!” as he reached under his ass and produced a painted wooden T-rex.
“Who else have you told about this?”
“No one. I was going to go over this with Blanco in person, but it seemed prudent to tell you first.” Saying this now, the logic of her decision felt wiggly.
“Yeah. Good. Whatever this thing is, it’s vertical. And who knows how far up it goes. You said the CO told you, ‘the mayor’s office and maybe higher,’ right?”
“I can check the transcript. But yeah.”
“So don’t say shit to Blanco. For now. And don’t bother with trying to track down whoever shot the reporter. That doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Really?”
“Think about it. He kills the Santos girl, she kills our moron, our moron kills Froggy, Froggy kills someone, that someone kills someone … who knows how far back into the mists of time this chain of shit extends, you know? You already got your man and then some. Jesus, you solved the murder of the DA’s kid. You’re the hero of the city and the city doesn’t even know it yet.”
“Right.”
“So go low. Follow up on leads that keep you off this main thread. Because whatever whackadoo conspiracy shit is in play here, from where I’m sitting, you’re only going to get pulled farther and farther in the more you engage. In the meantime, I’ll start snooping on the inside, from this end. Get with me later today and hopefully we’ll be someplace better than where we’re at now.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Where’s this old shirt of yours now?”
“I rented a glove box, stashed it in there.”
“Good, good.” He stood and took in his lawn again, his hearty alertness contrasting her fatigue. “And get some sleep. No offense, but you look like shit.”
“Yeah. Sleep is what’s next.”
Instead, an hour later sh
e stood on the scuffed marble of the first-floor lobby in the Metropolitan Courthouse, a twenty-two-story tombstone that stood even closer to Central Division than the Temple. She was examining a framed collage hanging over the water fountains. It was a forgotten, faded assemblage of celebrities, farm animals, race cars, and basketball players cut out of old glossy magazines and jumbled up with the individual words of the preamble to the Constitution, like a giant ransom letter; the sad exertions of some high schooler who’d surely long since gotten swallowed whole by the very system they’d set out to decorate.
After the bailiff finished his public pronouncements, she slipped into the central courtroom and took a seat on one of the blue-and-gray patterned cloth benches that must’ve been recently reupholstered. Citizens yawned uncontrollably from their pews, stupefied to be up so early, physically incapable of faking alertness. Men clutched folded EyePhones in sweaty hands, too broke or clueless to wear a dress shirt with a pocket, anxious to get back to their real lives, far away from here, on the networks. A handwritten sign reading PLEASE CHECK IN WITH BAILIFF had been crookedly duct taped to the waist-high divider. It was a perfect example of how the entire county worked, spending money to spruce up the courtroom but not a dime to get a simple laminated sign.
Two women sat in the second row, on the far side of the waiting area from her, their artificial black bobs glinting under the fluorescents. Muslim Indian women had to wear wigs instead of head coverings in court. Terri had been on the force when the rule was enacted, the consequence of a foiled bomb plot by some weird fringe Hindu cult. There’d been uncontrollable protests. Now, no one seemed to care or even remember all the hubbub. It amazed her how quickly the world could heal around grievous injuries. Past this pair, the seal of California hung as a mighty bronze medallion on the wall, like a prize they’d all won, collectively, for being Best State. Third best state, actually. The bailiff strode back in.
Two young public defenders entered from the back. They were both young guys, lean, wearing suits and haircuts designed to underwhelm. She waved to the closer attorney, Josh Closs, realizing he’d lost a few inches of hairline since they’d last seen each other. He smiled, distracted, said a few things to the bailiff, and then circled over for a quick handshake over the partition.
“Hey, good to see you. What’re you in the building for?”
She’d need to be speedy.
“I hear Torg Skarpsvärd requested you.”
“Word travels.”
“I need five minutes with the guy.”
“Well, he’s downstairs. I won’t be needing him for the hearing until afternoon, so go knock yourself out. Need me to put in a good word with the checkpoint guys, or …”
“Yeah, but he requested you. So Minnick v. Mississippi says you have to make the introductions, right?”
He moaned. “Really? Today?”
“Why? What’s so particularly crazy about today?”
“Well, for one thing, I got Torg.”
“Five minutes, Josh.”
“That’s four minutes more than I have.”
She smiled.
“Damnit. Meet me just outside. Shit.”
Last March, she’d helped out Josh’s sister, a high-powered patent attorney in her own right, by brokering a sit-down with the two officers she’d drunkenly pummeled at a Koreatown nightclub. An apology and some gift certificates had gotten her off the charges, and the incident itself had presumably gotten Josh a large credit in the family favor bank. So now it was Terri’s turn.
Josh emerged from a side door two minutes later, nodding for her to follow. They zipped down a flight of stairs, through a set of security doors, then down another, shallower flight of stairs, arriving on a landing where dozens of spare Christmas decorations had been stacked out of sight from the public. Two collapsed fake trees bordered a dozen oversized presents covered in faded red-and-green wrapping, faint lines around the sagging ribbons showing where the paper had bleached from years and years of December sunlight. Behind these, a selection of worn plastic elves stood at eternal attention, like a row of terra cotta warriors.
Once through the main security door to the holding cells, she could smell fresh paint, this basement jail presumably part of the same renovations that had bought new upholstery upstairs. The door led to a tiny antechamber—for all practical purposes, an airlock—between the agents of crime and justice. She turned in her weapon at the Plexiglas window, then waited with Josh in a space not meant for two people to wait in, standing close enough to catch his tang of sweat.
Inside, they walked past a half-dozen holding blocks, each crammed with four or five sad, silent men. At the end of the row, they stopped in a cell holding only Torg. The door buzzed open, Josh signed her in and introduced her, she did the Miranda, and Josh said, “Hey, we’re good. There’s no way I can stay. Torg, you don’t care if I go, right?”
Torg shrugged.
“We even?”
“Until your sister gets dumped again, yup.”
“Don’t even joke like that, Terri. You have no idea. Okay.”
The door shut behind her and then she was alone in a cell with Torg Skarpsvärd. As the leader of the Rolling Figueroas, Torg was a genuine anomaly. A lone blond Anglo heading a small army of vicious Indian gangbangers, he thrived in the shadowlands of the skyscrapers. Once every sixteen months or so, he got himself arrested on a misdemeanor with the intention of meting out punishments to those who’d eluded him in the free world. Using complex channels of bribes and outside pressure, he navigated his way in and out of most cells and facilities he wanted, improvising through the penal system. His reputation gave the impression of a man comfortable inside or out.
She’d seen Torg plenty of times, although never in person. Terrifying footage had made the rounds, and still circulated among rookies. Torg had fought a half-dozen cops, guys from Devonshire she’d never met. In the melee, he’d received two fantastic hits with Maglights, one to the back of the head, one to the solar plexus. And yet he’d kept on fighting. She hadn’t been able to watch without wincing. In the inevitable remixes, Torg had been assaulted with larger and larger weapons—assault rifles, surface-to-air missiles, falling pianos—never quite faltering or giving up. It was as if the remixers, cops all, would have felt disrespectful depicting his loss.
Sitting across the cell from him now, she realized he had no body fat. Although his freshly shaved head and a small Sanskrit tattoo on his throat gave him an artificial air of serenity, a holy man falsely imprisoned. She opened a lie detector box in the space between them.
“Alright. First question. Are you acquainted with Dio ‘Froggy’ Sarin?”
Torg leaned against the wall of his bunk and sighed. He produced an Asian pear from a small paper bag. For a moment she wondered if he’d already had a weapon smuggled in.
“Nope.”
The lie detector said otherwise.
“Mr. Sarin double crossed one of your deputies, Mr. Achindra ‘Nailer’ Sankaran.”
Torg shrugged, looked down to the fruit, rotated it to an angle he liked, and took a bite.
“Are you telling me that you don’t know anything about that?”
He smiled. “That is what I am telling you, Detective Pastuszka. What’s your first name?”
“How about Farrukh Jhadav?”
Torg tilted his head just slightly, a plane in the smooth surface of his scalp catching the light. “I have no idea who that is.”
You had to hand it to the guy: if she didn’t have the lie detector bipping along true north, she’d have sworn he was telling the truth. It was the mark of a genuine sociopath.
This next question was just for reaction. “Do you have any knowledge of who killed Farrukh Jhadav on the morning of January 5?”
He squinted just for a second.
“No, I do not.”
Torg was an orphan. Both parents had been murdered while he was just a toddler, hiding under a duvet and listening to the screams. Although the mythology he�
�d subsequently built around himself had many facets, this detail held at least as much weight as his adult exploits. Any child placed in terrible physical peril, or who witnessed terrible carnage, was tagged, by various networks and systems, so as not to “go Torg.”
She’d always wondered if this tale was entirely cautionary. He’d certainly emerged from childhood a master of cruel efficiency. Skarpsvärd was as efficient a manager as anyone in the ranks of corporate America. If he or his deputies had been crossed, by anyone, at any level of the gangland hierarchy, Torg knew and arranged an appropriate response. He did an admirable job of downplaying a retention for names and faces that bordered on photographic. She hoped this reputation would help her now.
“And do you know the whereabouts of Rujuta Jhadav?” This was the crucial question. Regardless of anything else, Farrukh had gotten himself close to an enemy of Torg. Even though Farrukh had dispatched this enemy, the social physics of skyscraper life made Farrukh a possible target as well. She knew Torg had nothing to do with Stacy Santos—on either end of the gun—but she had no assurance that Rujuta wouldn’t take the fall for some unknown offenses committed by Farrukh.
“No, I do not.” The lie detector smoothed out; he was telling the truth. Her relief at this factoid was tempered by the utter similarity with which he’d offered her a lie and a truth and made both look like the same thing.
On her way back out, passing through the airlock, she had to rotate around a buxom young blonde with neon pink lipstick. As they slid past each other in the tight little antechamber, the woman’s byline popped up with a string of prostitution-related arrests and Terri understood that this woman was intended for Torg. She glanced up at the woman’s name just as the door was shutting behind her, and for a split second seemed to read KRISTA SPRIZZO. Standing back in the hallway with the Christmas decorations, she slapped herself once to wake up, the crack of her open palm echoing off the marble walls.
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