by Lee Killough
“Maybe they annoyed someone enough to make them worth causing temporary discomfort,” Janna said. “The hearse disappeared on Toro turf.”
Roos sucked in a breath. “That’s right.”
“So,” Mama said, “. . . if they needed a hearse and wanted us looking the wrong direction for the jackers, the Orion colors are a good choice. Easy to copy and distinctive enough for witnesses to remember.”
Janna eyed him. “We tried before thinking why someone would want the hearse. If we’re thinking Toros, do you have suggestions now?”
To her surprise, he shook his head. “No. And I’m wondering why they would go to Topeka Avenue to jack one when, again, Ridder-Yoneshi’s facility is much handier.”
“Maybe it’s protected because there’s a family connection between them and a Toro,” Quist said. “Topeka’s a good hunting ground for limos or something limo-like . . . catch one coming from Forbes.”
“In any case, they must have planned to make it disappear until time to use it.”
Once upon a time, a felon could just change the tags. Now transponders in the vehicles and tags sent signals as Traffic recorded the tags, and mismatches generated an alert for the vehicle.
“So it’s off the street for now,” Roos said. “I’d say somewhere close. We can check area rentals with garages — the Echo Ridge houses off Market have them — and cross-check them with Toro names.”
Mama said, “But while you’re doing that, someone should be locating and chatting with Toros themselves. Why don’t Brill and I go.”
What? Freeze their butts off some more? She shot him a withering glare. “I’m thinking do rock, paper, scissors again for it.”
“No.” Roos grinned. “I like his idea better.” She elbowed Janna away from her computer peninsula and sat down at it. “Call when you find them.”
“Will do.” Mama scooped his jacket off the visitor chair. “Come on, Bibi.”
Outside the squad room Janna bared her teeth. “Thank you very frigging much! What the hell did you go and do that for? Do you enjoy hypothermia?”
“I need to see something.” Once out of the garage and driving south, he asked, “Who’s the current Toro leader? I remember a bulletin a couple of years ago that someone ventilated Cesar.”
“In a manner speaking. His fem cored him to death.”
Mama blinked. “Excuse me? Cored?”
Janna grinned. “He punched her and knocked out a tooth. They were in the kitchen and Ms. Arenas happened to be holding an apple corer . . . which she drove into his neck up to the handle. Then as he bled out, she jammed the apple in her other hand into his mouth.”
Mama chuckled. “Let me guess. She’d have accepted the punch but not losing a tooth.”
“If she said that, it was only to her lawyer . . . who managed to plead her down to involuntary manslaughter and a year’s probation.”
“I’d have bronzed the corer and given it to her on a plaque for public service. Did you and Kiest catch the case?”
Wim . . . her partner of so many good years. Now six months out from Earth, sleeping his way to a colony world. The thought opened a hole in her. God, she missed him.
“Bibi?”
She shook herself. “No, it wasn’t ours. You asked who’s leading the Toros now. It’s Cesar’s former number two, Alejandro Becarra, who goes by Che.” She fished her slate spindle out of the scabbard pocket in her cargos and opened the screen to search for his address. “He lives at . . . 1901 Whitetail Circle.” She called up a satellite view. “Nice. It’s one of the new condos off Colorado. With garages. They’re not far from where the hearse disappeared, either. Unfortunately it’s on the opposite side of California. Though they might avoid surveillance by going through the yards between intersections.”
“Except . . . if the Orions are supposed to be the jackers, the Toros wouldn’t risk hiding the hearse in their own chief’s garage.”
“Not to mention that witnesses oblivious to a vehicle on the street would notice one going off-road. So what is it you—”
Looking up from her slate interrupted her, and answered her question, as Mama steered the car into E-World’s parking area.
“You think we’ll see something Quist and Roos missed yesterday?”
“I’m testing a theory.”
He pulled around back and set the car down. And smiled.
“Theory proven?” she asked.
“Maybe. What do you see?”
Not what he did, apparently. “The rear of the store. Toro graffiti on the walls.” As she had also seen on the windows out front. To the knowing, some of the tags provided codes for contacting unlicensed drug dealers and prostitutes. Now, what else was she supposed to notice? Oh . . . a void in the snow. “The Ar-Sal van Roos mentioned is gone.” She eyed him, seeing wheels turn in his head, but unable to read them. “Does that mean more than the company drove it away after they finished loading it?”
“Roos said they didn’t find a crew working.” Mama swung out of the car and waded to the void, where he touched one temple piece of his visor. Once recording, he called back, “Check this out.”
Pulling her cap down tight, Janna joined him.
“There’s not much snow here . . . just what’s drifted in. The snow stopped around ten last night, so the van left after that. What company moves equipment that time of night?” His head snapped up. “Listen!” He strode for the building’s rear door, pulling a code reader and flashlight from his jacket.
Janna scrambled after him. Crap! Remembering he had his bovi recording she said, “Listen to what?” rather than scream No! You can’t break in!
“I think someone’s inside.”
A familiar skin . . . one she herself had used for non-warrant entries. But she wanted to know more before using it this time.
The years of working with Wim had given them so many code signals their communication became almost telepathic. She and Mama might as well be using tin cans on a string. They did have a few signals worked out, however . . . an important one to her being “scissors” for: stop recording, or just plain stop!
“In there?” Making the gesture casual, she pointed at the building with her first two fingers in a vee. “I don’t hear anything.”
He ignored her and aimed his reader at the lock. “I’ve got exceptional hearing.”
Short of grabbing his arm to stop him, which she had no desire to have on record, she could only watch . . . hoping he tripped no alarms still active inside to discourage looters.
“Easy code.” He slid open the door and called, “SCPD! If anyone is in there, show yourself.” She held her breath fearing he might enter, but to her relief, Mama merely switched on the flashlight and swept the beam around the space. “I don’t see anyone . . . or hear anything now. I guess I was mistaken.” He touched his visor. “We’re off the record now, so come look at this.”
She peered past his arm into what had been a stockroom . . . the rows of shelving empty now, while dust and pieces of cartons littered the floor.
“I don’t see any signs of stripping the interior. I didn’t think we would.” He slid the door closed and recoded the lock.
“Why not?”
“The amount of snow that’s drifted in where the van sat tells me it left late last night. Since Traffic hasn’t recorded the hearse’s tag since California Dreamin’s surveillance caught it coming back here, what if that’s because it was inside the van.”
Inside the van?
“It’s perfect.” His eyes gleamed behind the lenses of his visor. “Who would question a salvage company van at a closed business. The hearse drives here and into the van, where they disable the GPS, and later the van hauls it away.”
“Much later. Your theory has it sitting here over twelve hours, including while Quist and Roos prowled around. What if they had decided to take a look inside? Would the jackers risk that?”
He cocked a brow. “Q and R didn’t, though. In their place, would you?”
Probably not, she had to admit. Still. . . “That’s a theory.”
“Which we can test it by asking the neighbors when they’ve seen the van, or an Ar-Sal work crew.”
He led the way around the building and across to California Dreamin’.
They walked through outer and inner doors swishing open for them . . . into a sauna. Janna gave thanks for the anti-fog treatment on the lenses of her visor.
Pulling off her cap and gloves, she found the reception area decor matched its temperature. Amid floral-scented air, palm trees rose from a beach-patterned floor to frame more doors left and right, while a seascape filled the far wall. Brightly-cushioned bamboo chairs — all empty at the moment — and small tables scattered with brochures and e-zine readers provided seating and entertainment for clients waiting to be led off to the salon or spa.
In a gold-card facility the seascape might have been a holo with surf rolling toward the beach, coordinated with an in-floor vid providing the illusion of each wave washing ashore. But this decor still looked an elegant world away from the graffiti outside. And the heat felt wonderful!
She unzipped her jacket. “Let’s spend the rest of the day here.”
“What?” Mama’s mouth quirked. “Flash bulletin. By-the-book Brill turns timeslider.”
“Smart-mouthed partner turns up dead.”
“Welcome to California Dreamin’.” Behind the reception desk — upright ends of surf boards topped by a horizontal one — a bronzed fem with violet eyes and matching corkscrew curls smiled at them. A name patch on her mango-orange skin suit read: Tish. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Just questions.” Janna opened her jacket to show the badge hanging around her neck. “Detectives Brill and Maxwell, SCPD.” A touch on the eagle topping the badge activated the surface laminate that displayed her name, rank, and picture.
Tish’s brows rose. “Do you want Maire, too?”
“Maire?”
The brows relaxed. “Our manager. The leos yesterday did.”
Mama said, “We may not need her today. What can you tell us about activity in the E-World building?”
The brows rose again. “There hasn’t been any . . . well, except for the hearse Maire said was on the cams driving through their lot yesterday. They closed right after Christmas.”
“What about a crew stripping fixtures in the building?” Janna asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“You haven’t seen vehicles parked around it, or passenger vans delivering a crew?” Mama asked.
“You better talk to Maire.” She touched the desktop. “We’ve got more leos.”
Moments later an invisible door in the seascape opened for a petite fem in silver and purple pinstripes, elaborate dangling earrings, and a casual topknot of black hair shot through with purple and silver filaments. Brilliantly green eyes flicked over them. “I’m Maire Olinger. How can I help the forces of law and order today?”
“Detectives Maxwell and Brill,” Mama said. “Do you know if Architectural Salvage is clearing the E-World building?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“You haven’t seen any activity around the building?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
Mama cocked an eyebrow at Janna.
Shit. “What about a van out back?”
Olinger shook her head.
“You haven’t been outside recently, to the recycle bin or taking deliveries?”
“We took some deliveries Thursday and yesterday, but the truck drivers brought those in. We don’t go out to the recycle bin, because we have a feed to it inside.”
Janna asked, “Do you have any employees who live east of here . . . who might cross Swygart coming to work?”
Olinger frowned in thought.
Behind the reception desk, Tish said, “I think Zusi, Manda, and Tafoya do.”
Olinger touched an earring. It brought three fems in hibiscus-patterned smocks to her office behind the seascape . . . a one-way window from her side, looking into the reception area. Manda, stylist from the salon, hair an elaborate rainbow braid down her back. Zusi and Tafoya from the day spa. Zusi, middle-aged, stocky, café au lait complexion. Tafoya, a Nordic amazon. They said they lived close and, yes, all walked to work . . . crossing Swygart and swiping themselves in through a rear door. Tafoya never saw the van because she kept the hood of her jacket tight enough to block everything but the view straight ahead. Manda and Zusi — who came together because they happened to be neighbors and Manda felt safer being with Zusi in case they encountered Toros — noticed the van only yesterday.
“Can you describe it?”
“Blue,” Zusi said, “with a logo on the side that had an A and S in it.”
Neither, however, could remember whether they saw it before yesterday.
Which appeared to be everything to be learned here.
Janna handed out cards. “Thank you very much. If you think of anything else, let us know.”
Wrapping up again and steeling themselves, they left the warmth of the building.
“So it’s confirmed there’s no salvage operation,” Mama said.
Maybe. “Let’s double-check with Lazaro Wu.” She waved toward the Celestial Bistro on the other side of E-World. “It’s time for lunch anyway.”
* * *
No graffiti marred the café. Partially because the rough, vertically-grooved concrete surface of the walls frustrated it. But even the glass brick of its windows remained paint and acid-etching free.
Protected by The Legend.
Every neighborhood resident and leo working Oakland knew the supposed story. Back in the mists of time when Wu first opened the Celestial Bistro, gangers — not Toros then — tagged the windows and demanded protection payments in the form of unlimited free meals. Wu purportedly agreed and started by offering a banquet with the café closed to everyone but the gang . . . who were never seen again. Investigation found no evidence of a massacre, despite a customer claiming to discover a gold tooth in a hamburger that tasted “different”. When a new gang moving in tried the same extortion, however, and a smiling Wu said, “Of course. Let me prepare a special banquet for you.” all harassment ceased. Never to resume, no matter whose turf the area became.
While not tropical inside, she happily accepted the Bistro’s substitute: air laden with the scents of hamburgers, Wu’s celebrated deep-fried onion threads, and the garlic-sesame-ginger combination of his secret sauce that accompanied the noodle dishes. Best of all, she smelled coffee — real coffee brewed from beans instead of gel cubes.
It must be three or four years since she last ate here, but the place had not changed a bit. Nor, for that matter, had it changed since she first came in working Patrol. It had the same red walls, red-painted wooden cable spools for tables, and straight-backed red-and-gold hardboard chairs — comfortable for meals but not enough to encourage lingering afterward. Nor had Wu changed . . . a smiling, ageless Buddha presiding at his counter inside the door. Albeit a Buddha with bright copper hair swept up the sides of his head into little wings and a matching Fu Manchu mustache drooping around the smile. Presiding so immovably — Janna did not remember ever seeing him stand and walk around — that despite the gleaming scimitar hanging in arm’s reach on the wall beside him, she wondered about The Legend. She and Wim had jokingly speculated he might be grafted to his throne-like chair.
Wu looked up from a slate playing stock market news.
The name Lanour-Tenning caught Janna’s ear, and a commentator’s remark: “We can expect the proxy vote to drive their stock price even lower.” Which made it appear the company had more problems than the missing corpse of an employee.
“Welcome, leos,” Wu said. Recognizing Mama as one, too . . . or merely guilt by association? “You may sit where you like.”
About half the tables had customers.
“Gladly.” She unzipped her jacket. “First we have a couple of questions about E-World, if you don’t
mind.”
He folded his hands on the slate, waiting.
“Is Architectural Salvage stripping the interior?”
He thought for a moment, pursing his lips. “Starting, perhaps.” He raised his voice. “Juli!”
Across the room, a plump waitress with a puffball of wiry orange hair turned around.
“Didn’t you mention seeing a van next door when you left Thursday night?” Wu called.
She nodded.
Since they closed at six — Wu’s advertised claim: “Serving lunch early and all afternoon” meant just that, no evenings — and probably took another hour or so to clean up, the van arrived sometime before seven.
“Is that the first time you’ve seen it?” Mama asked.
The waitress nodded again.
He sent Janna a satisfied smile. “When did you last see it?”
“Last night when I left—”
A loud clatter in the kitchen interrupted her.
The customers turned to stare at the door.
Wu winced. “Esme! See what that’s about.”
The other waitress, older and dark-haired, nodded.
Something else crashed, followed by a shrill stream of curses.
Reflex sent Janna that direction. “We’ll go.”
In the kitchen a thin, aproned fem with a tiara of yellow and fire-red braids stood with her back to a stainless steel table — feet surrounded by a spilled pot of noodles — swinging a heavy ladle at two jons in front of her. The pair, one blonde and one dark-haired, wore black jackets with a white bull head on the back and their hair braided in a pigtail at the nape of their necks. Toros. A few moments of shuffling through her mental file gave Janna their names: Scorpion and Baja.
A third pigtailed jon she did not recognize wore an apron, pretending to ignore the scene behind him as he fried hamburgers on the grill. Not so a fourth, non-pigtailed jon back by exit conveyor of the dishwasher, but going by his pallor, Janna judged him too frightened to intervene.
Out of the ladle’s reach, Baja clucked his tongue. “Ju should be nice to real people, chichita.”