EMPIRE: Imperial Police

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Not in this part of town. That’s a sure way to give up what she wants paid for,” Armbrand said. “She’ll stay at street level, most likely.”

  They trailed her from north central Imperial Park South nearly all the way to the southern boundary of Imperial Park proper; as she grew nearer Imperial Park, the neighborhood improved, and she eventually went down to the arcade level to use the slidewalks.

  A couple of blocks from the Park boundary, not very far from the Imperial Mausoleum, she entered a little diner, the Waffle Stomper. Given the name, it wasn’t surprising it was frequented by the Imperial Navy and Marines, which meant it was a potential source of clientele for Kaplan. She settled down at a table; Armbrand slipped inside and took a table nearby, letting the other two members of his team keep clandestine guard outside, and watching surreptitiously as she ordered two eggs, scrambled hard with Swiss cheese, with oatmeal and a cup of fresh melon on the side, along with water, grapefruit juice, and black coffee.

  She took her time, spending nearly an hour and a half noshing on breakfast – or, as Armbrand noted her reference to the waitress, “brunch” – while somewhat absently watching the nearby video screens for the news of the day.

  When she was finished, she paid in VR and rose, heading back out the front door. Armbrand stayed where he was, finishing his coffee, while he told Smith and Weyand in VR to follow her, and he’d catch up to them.

  From there, Kaplan headed east and slightly closer to Imperial Park, then entered a grocer’s to shop. She spent an hour in there, and this time, Weyand followed her in, shopping nearby, and watched her price-check her various choices; it was obvious she was pinching pennies, but she still got the makings of a large salad, as well as some farm-fresh fish.

  A quick check-out, and she made what appeared to be a usual arrangement to have the groceries delivered, so she didn’t have to carry them back to her apartment. Not only would that exhaust her, it would put her in danger of being mugged for the food; it made sense to spend the extra money on delivery.

  Then it was off to another store…which turned out to be a very risqué lingerie store.

  “Aw shit,” Armbrand grumbled; all three investigators were single men, currently unattached, and none of them were comfortable going into that store. “Nick and Cally shoulda had this one!”

  “Hell no,” Weyand said. “They’d both have blushed purple! They don’t even like anybody teasing ‘em about the fact they’re going out! It would have given the whole damn thing away.”

  “Well, somebody has to go in there and keep an eye on things,” Smith pointed out.

  “Hm. Maybe not. It’s got a nice, big storefront window,” Armbrand noted. “Maybe a bit of fancy footwork, here, so to speak…”

  He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on. The polarized lenses immediately adjusted for the ambient light, and Armbrand grunted in satisfaction as they cut through the window glare.

  “She’s getting measured by the shop manager,” he told the others. “Looks like she wants some new lacy floofies.”

  “‘Floofies’?” Weyand said, cocking an eyebrow and glancing askance at Armbrand, who flushed. Weyand grinned, then added, “Old girlfriend?”

  “Um,” Armbrand said, clearing his throat, “actually, no. My older sister calls ‘em that. And yes, she’s married.”

  Weyand and Smith desperately stifled guffaws.

  After a purchase in the lingerie shop, Kaplan headed home. Shortly after arriving in her apartment, the windows went dark.

  “Yeah, I confirm,” Weyand said, hidden in an alcove down the hall from her door. “The slit under the door just went dark.”

  “Well, I guess it stands to reason,” Smith decided. “She’s gonna be up most of the night, banging johns.”

  “True,” Armbrand agreed. “I suppose, if I was in that line of work, I’d take an afternoon nap, too.”

  “Then probably a shower and some dinner, before her ‘guests’ arrive,” Weyand speculated.

  “I’d say so, yeah.”

  “So now we’re just kind of here, watching and waiting?” Smith wondered.

  “Yup. Hell, if we can get a list of her johns, we might be able to bust them while we’re about it.”

  That first night, she had four clients, beginning at 8 in the evening; the first two of them stayed two hours each, with an hour of inactivity between, and the last two clients only stayed an hour, but it was nearly continuous from 11 at night until three in the morning. And, according to Weyand, the last “client” could be heard down the hall.

  At 3:30 am, half an hour after “Mr. Howler” left, the lights went out in the apartment and stayed out.

  “I’m not surprised,” Armbrand said, raising an eyebrow. “Damn.”

  Surveillance Time – Team Rassmussen

  Derek Beckham lived on the unofficial boundary between Imperial Park South and Imperial Park East. It was definitely a more upscale apartment than Kaplan had, and his lifestyle showed it; it had a bit more of an upper-crust air, without being quite as expensive as true upper-crust would be.

  Though he had few actual arrests to his account, and those mostly for aiding and abetting, Beckham was in fact a high-end con man, which was how he had met Joey Bronze.

  The Rassmussen team surveilled him for several days, adopting tactics similar to the Armbrand team. Some discreet inquiries, accompanied by a few minor payoffs to informants, ascertained he typically rose around seven or eight in the morning and had a leisurely breakfast at home, to include a whole pot of coffee, over which he liked to linger, if delivery services comments were anything to go by. He typically emerged, fully dressed in elegant clothing – he was something of a dandy, which made sense, given his con targets – and headed deeper into Imperial Park East around mid-morning, though the informants around his apartment building didn’t know where he went.

  “Which means we have to find out,” Rassmussen pointed out to Jones and Osborn.

  Where he went, it turned out, was a fashionable café a few blocks east of the southeast corner of Imperial Park East.

  “Man, that guy loves his caffeine,” Jones decided, as the trio subtly watched Beckham in the café from three separate vantage points, conversing privately – and unnoticed – in VR. “Entire pot of coffee at home with breakfast, according to his deliveryman, and now he’s already gone through two frou-frou coffees while reading – I didn’t even know anybody still published newspapers…”

  “Demetrius says it’s a new fad among the nouveau riche,” Rassmussen said. “It’s more expensive to get your news that way, instead of in VR, so it shows off that you can afford to.”

  “I note he isn’t buying the papers, just reading ‘em while he drinks his coffee,” Osborn said, mild disgust evident in his tone.

  “Yeah. And damn! He just ordered another coffee!” Jones said. “How the hell big is that man’s bladder?”

  Finally Beckham finished his reading and drinking, and having paid for his coffees as he went, he rose and headed out.

  Rassmussen, Osborn, and Jones followed.

  Subtly.

  Beckham ended up at the Waffle Stomper diner around noon. Going inside, he took a seat at the counter and ordered a huge burger topped with a fried egg and a side of fries, along with…more coffee.

  “If that guy doesn’t vibrate outta there, I’m gonna be shocked,” Jones declared in VR as they watched through the diner windows from different locations.

  “Either that, or his bladder will explode,” Osborn decided. “That can’t be healthy.”

  “It doesn’t say good things about his kidneys, I expect,” Rassmussen agreed.

  At the end of lunch, Beckham finally ducked into the men’s room – along with Jones, to make sure nothing unusual went down – and relieved his bladder.

  “Damn, guys,” Jones said in VR, so his colleagues could hear but his perp could not. “It’s Arntigier Falls in here! Half his belly must be bladder…”

  “Any
body else in there with you?” Rassmussen asked.

  “Nah. Well, couple guys in the stalls. Nobody else at the urinals. And nobody trying to make contact with him. Shit! He’s still going!”

  “Emphasis on going,” Osborn said dryly.

  “Okay, finally,” Jones said. “He’s zipped and gone to wash his hands. Heads up; he’ll probably be headed out soon.”

  “Yup, here he comes,” Osborn said. “I’m on him.”

  “Tag team like usual,” Rassmussen ordered.

  After lunch Beckham met with a well-to-do businessman named Ching, in a private club. Rassmussen called back to ICPD Headquarters to connect with the club’s security manager, and soon he was able to meet with the security manager to tap into their video within the club and watch what was happening.

  “What’s going down, Pete?” Jones wondered.

  “Near as I can tell, he’s setting up a con,” Rassmussen decided. “I’m reading lips and I think he’s making some kind of ‘business proposition’ that I expect is designed to con the guy out of a fair amount of money – without being so much that the guy would be inclined to go after him legally if he’s caught out.”

  Rassmussen kept up with the con in progress, while explaining to the security manager about Beckham’s record, and was assured that the irate manager would talk to Mr. Ching in private at a later time, to warn him off of Beckham’s machinations. It took some doing to talk him out of banning Beckham from the club, but finally he got the manager to understand the need to prevent flight. Meanwhile, Jones and Osborn kept a watch on the exits from the private club.

  After a couple of hours of expounding on the wonders of his fake business proposition, the men appeared to strike a deal. Beckham rose, bowed, and shook hands with Ching, then departed the club with a smile, heading several blocks over, and carefully shadowed by Rassmussen’s team.

  There, he entered a four-star restaurant and met with yet another wealthy businessman.

  Colonel Peterson had grasped what was happening upon Rassmussen’s urgent call from the club, and now Adrian Mott showed on the scene with his duffel. He grabbed Osborn and Rassmussen, pulled them into a nearby mews, and proceeded to re-dress them in expensive business suits, while Jones kept an eye on the restaurant. He hit them with a whiff of the most expensive men’s colognes on the market, then pointed.

  “Go,” he said. “Find out what’s going on in there. I’ll stay out here with Jones and keep watch.”

  “Damn,” Rassmussen cursed in voice comm to the others. “Same song, verse two, only this mark is somebody named Stewart. It’s even the same con.”

  “Well, sure,” Mott pointed out. “That way, if this guy and the previous guy happen to talk, they’ll be talking about the same supposed business proposal, and not only will it sound legit, it’ll look like a great deal. They’re getting in on the ground floor and all that, see.”

  “We need to make sure this Stewart knows,” Osborn said.

  “Nah,” Rassmussen demurred. “As soon as we nail this guy and he stops showing up, his marks will either forget all about him, figure he was the crook that he is, or decide the whole deal fell through. In any case, they won’t worry any more about it. Now, any previous marks that he’s conned, that’s a different story; we’ll need to try to get any names and numbers, and see if there’s anything left to be reimbursed…though I doubt it, given this guy’s tastes. A huge fraction was probably literally pissed down the drain.”

  “True, I guess,” Osborn agreed. “On multiple points.”

  The pair watched Beckham wine and dine Stewart with fine food and drink, while pretending to discuss business over drinks themselves, and putting their drinks on the expense account for the department.

  After a couple of hours, Beckham and Stewart shook hands. Stewart paid the tab, and Beckham departed in a chipper mood.

  Beckham’s next stop was another restaurant, somewhat closer to home, but still a fairly expensive proposition. This time, Mott and Jones entered, dressed in classy slacks and sport coats with ties, while Osborn and Rassmussen kept watch outside.

  As it turned out, Beckham was only there for dinner. He met no one, but had a very nice four-course meal with wine… and an after-dinner dessert coffee, along with…tiramisu.

  “What is it with Nick’s investigations and coffee?” Rassmussen wondered in disgust. “I like the stuff, but I’m starting to get sick of it.”

  Finally Beckham meandered back to his apartment.

  The scenario repeated itself the next day, and the day after that, at different clubs and restaurants, with different rich targets.

  Surveillance Time – Team Ashton

  According to the information Ashton had teased out over the years, Bronze tended to be much more irregular in his habits than either of his accomplices. His day apparently depended on whether or not he had a call or an assignment from IPD Headquarters. If he did, he would be up early, either checking in with Headquarters, or scouting out his target.

  For the time being, and so soon after the Medved murder, he appeared to be laying low. Which meant there was no way to tell exactly what he might be doing, except to go watch.

  His dwelling was far posher than even Beckham’s; these days, Bronze owned a condo in Imperial Park East. It was in the south-central part of that district, but far closer to the commuter train line than Beckham’s apartment. Ashton’s investigations into Bronze’s finances in the course of his profiling – having hacked his various accounts – indicated he could now afford it; after proving himself on the early assassinations, he was currently paid a premium for his skills as an assassin, as well as extra for any lookouts he felt he might need, and it looked to Ashton like he skimmed from that extra, not paying those henchmen all he was given for the cost of hiring them.

  Ashton ensured his team was dressed suitably for the area, which was fairly well-to-do, then they headed straight for the building in which Bronze lived.

  A quick check with the management of the condominium tower ascertained that he tended to call down to the café on the arcade level for a pot of coffee and a couple of Danishes to be delivered to his condo.

  “Of late,” the manager said, “It’s been closer to noon when he calls. He seems to be sleeping in.”

  “Do you know how he’s employed?” Ashton wondered.

  “He’s a free-lance artist and analyst of some sort, according to the application he submitted when he bought the condo a couple of years back,” the manager explained. “Says he works a lot for the Imperial Police, as well as some wealthy patrons. So he keeps somewhat odd hours.”

  Ashton stifled a snort.

  After that intel, Ashton and his team quickly headed for the arcade level and the café.

  “Hello, folks. How can I help you?” the host – whose name tag indicated he was the manager, one Bill Cane – asked as they came through the door.

  “We’d each like a cup of coffee and one of your excellent Danishes,” Ashton said with a friendly smile. “I hear Mr. Bronze highly recommends them.”

  “Oh yes.” Cane beamed. “Mr. Bronze orders a pot of our café special dark roast and a cheese Danish every morning. Maybe not like clockwork,” the manager laughed, “but he never fails. I’m glad to hear he’s passing word on to his friends.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Ames said, taking Ashton’s arm in a subtle claim, thereby making them look to the manager like a couple plus their friends; behind them, Weaver and Compton grinned, not bothering to hide them. “Mr. Bronze was very complimentary. We decided to swing by on our way to meet up with some more friends for a fun little outing, and have breakfast here.”

  “Of course. Well, you’re more than welcome; our morning rush has slackened a bit, and Mr. Bronze isn’t likely to call down for Sherry to bring up breakfast for a couple more hours. What would you like?”

  “Mm. How about a pot of the house blend coffee, and an order of Danishes apiece?” Ashton suggested, glancing at the others, who all nodded.

&nbs
p; “Anything else for you?”

  “Not right now, no.”

  “Excellent. Let me just ring that up for you,” Cane said.

  The manager totaled the charges, and Ashton paid for it in VR, putting it on their expense account. “You folks just pick a table and have a seat and I’ll have Sherry bring out your coffee and pastries in just a moment. Do any of you want cream or sugar?”

  “Both, please,” Ames noted.

  “I’ll take cream,” Compton said.

  “Black for me,” Ashton said.

  “Me too,” Weaver agreed.

  “Very good. Just relax and enjoy yourselves, and it’ll be right out.”

  “Here you go!” Sherry the waitress declared cheerfully as she stopped at their table with a tray, setting down cups, cream, and sugar before pouring each a piping hot cup from an insulated pot. She sat the pot in the middle of the table, then passed around plates with two cheese Danishes apiece. “Does that look good?”

  “It sure does!” Ames declared eagerly. “Thanks!”

  “I hear tell you guys heard about us from my best customer,” Sherry said, and Ashton smiled.

  “We sure did. Joey Bronze is well known to me and my friends here.”

  “You can say that again,” Weaver agreed. “If he likes it, you know it’ll be good.”

  “Hee! Every morning he calls down and has me bring up a fresh pot, and a whole platter of pastries, usually the cheese Danishes, though he likes the strawberry too, when they’re fresh in season. And I get it all together, and when I get there, he’s either watching the news on the screen, or his favorite soap opera, depending on what time of the morning it is.”

  “Ha! Which soap?” Ashton wondered with a laugh.