“The guy in the show actually calls himself the Nightcaller? Christ, those are some unimaginative hacks running that show.” I tried to catch Allen’s eye in the crowd, but my partner was preoccupied. “So you know I don’t say that shit, and I’m sure you know I’m a brutal son of a bitch, but if that’s all you know about me, what is it you want to write about?”
He recomposed himself before answering. “You’re no hero, Roche. That’s something people need to be told.”
“Sure.”
“There is no plain good or evil; it all melds together into an indistinguishable grey blob in this city. Normalcy is something people both love and hate — monotonous jobs with scraps for pay, the rich staying rich, the poor staying poor. The divide is more noticeable than ever, and that’s the way things are going to stay, unless people like you decide to change all that.”
“How?”
“In this new media age, we run on chaos and complacency. People hate the position they’re in, but the shlock they put on the radio keeps them in line, dreaming that they, too, could be the Nightcaller. It keeps them rooted in their homes, in front of the radio whenever they aren’t trying to feed their families. Are you even getting royalties from RCA?”
I chuckled. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think, I know. You see, GE knows they can get away with it because they’re an omnipresent cancer. People are afraid to step out of line because the higher-ups or the Mob might take care of them. This chaos that’s been happening, this brewing war that everyone can feel in the air, this is good. This is going to turn the city upside down. We need this. Nothing will change until these streets are rife with bullets and bodies. GE needs to remember who’s going to build their towers and run their conveyor belts if they’re not employing Automatics. And the Mob — whoa, the Mob needs to be taught a lesson in dignity, in respect, in … goddamn keeping their noses in their own business!”
“And will you be on the streets fighting, as well?”
“Hell no. I’ll be safe at home, writing.”
I started to laugh. “Everyone’s a hypocrite.”
“You got that right.”
“Speaking of fighting in the streets and chaos and whatnot: been to the Upper East Side recently?”
“Recently enough, I guess. I’m not a fan of the place, too clean, or pretending to be.”
“Right, right …” I picked at my teeth, keeping my eye on everyone else at this little get-together. “Heard of any crimes up there?”
“A fire or something, whatever was in the paper. Oh, and an explosion yesterday, I think? It all blends together after a point; the writing is pedestrian enough to fill a textbook.”
“Heard about Edison Hotel a fortnight ago?”
“A bomb went off in the penthouse. Nasty stuff, huh?”
He didn’t look like he was lying. He didn’t look nervous, either, only mildly entertained by my company. His answers gave me some sort of relief. I didn’t see the need to take him outside and beat anything else out of him.
“Regarding the writing thing … I’ll think about it, how about that?”
“That’s all I need,” Curio said excitedly.
“Good, now … just fuck off for a bit.”
I pushed him out of the way and headed to the kitchen, ready to talk to someone with a less bleak outlook.
Simone’s head snapped up as I entered. “You okay?” I asked. “You don’t seem to be having much fun at your own party.”
“Ah, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” She sipped her wine. “Your partner is … presumptuous.”
“It’s good at its job, both on and off duty. An unfortunate quality, but I’m ironing it out.”
“Yeah.”
I could sense the tension in her and felt terrible for Allen. What had it said to her? Poor thing didn’t have a full grasp of social boundaries yet. I couldn’t fault it, though. After all, it picked people apart, and I blew them apart — different, but the same.
“So, I wanted to talk to you again.”
“All right.” She straightened up, brightening.
“About the murders in the Upper East Side …”
“When you got cut up and shot at?”
“No, that was a different one. Well, kind of the same one, but … it’s complicated.”
Simone nodded. “I was there for a bit — you remember — but I didn’t really get any information besides what you and Commissioner Shen said. There were rumours about another bomb going off.”
“I’m going in the slammer in two days if I can’t find the real killer. The FBI have pinned it all on me.”
“Oh my God …” Simone walked around the island toward me, looking utterly shocked. “But surely they don’t have any evidence.”
“You remember our little jaunt into the Met a few nights ago? Seems the security cameras spotted me … but not you. Got any kind of explanation for that?”
“I … well, I’ve snuck in there a few times. I know where all the blind spots are. I tried to guide you through them as best I could. Maybe you slipped into range and a camera spotted you. I’m sorry, I had no idea I’d lead you into a corner like that.”
Plausible. Still, I wanted to get a look at that footage.
“They’ve got the security footage, and they have their assumptions, and that’s how they work, just going with a gut feeling and thinking it’ll fix everything. I’m not the most innocent guy, so I’m sure in their eyes, it’s the perfect resolution. What with every lead being a dead end, I guess I’ll have to get used to prison food.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way out of this, Elias.”
“I don’t think so. Prison isn’t so bad … three meals a day, six hours of sleep, monotony, and the promise of safety if you aren’t a prick. Lord knows the inmates in there will all know me. Not sure if that’ll make me a target or a threat. Probably both. At least my usual troubles have been easier to deal with, what with this looming overhead.”
“I’m sorry this is happening to you.” She placed a hand on my arm, her expression heavy with concern. “Anything you need, you tell me.”
“So, what did you hear from Shen that day?”
“Just that there was a crime on 72nd and 3rd. Four dead, if I recall correctly.”
I froze for a second before reminding myself to act natural. The gears in my brain were spinning.
“Shen said that?”
“I think it was in his statement.”
I knew damn well that Shen hadn’t had any idea how many bodies there were. The 11th hadn’t investigated the scene. That had been the whole point of the killer’s intimidation tactics.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Allen was sitting near the 5th veterans, only half-heartedly taking part in conversation. He was still mortified about what had happened with Simone, how he’d ruined the moment they’d shared when he confided in her.
“Yuri, come here!” Sinclair called. The Russian, now besuited and cleaned up, was still pigging out on appetizers. “You were in the War, eh?”
“Da, I was, Eastern Front, you on west.”
“Robins over there used to be head of a squad of Manuals.”
“Man-u-al?” Yuri asked, walking over to join them.
“The big robot things — you know, big guns, buzz-saws, six-foot combat knives?”
“Ah, the Svyatogor, the great giants from the west. You drove them, Mr. Robins?”
The commissioner turned from his conversation with General Morane. “I did. They called me the Winger. Got some nasty wounds, but they’ve healed well. Where did you fight on the Eastern Front? Poland? Hungary?”
“I fight as Cossack in Czar’s great guard.”
“You were a Cossack?” Sinclair grabbed another glass of whatever they were serving and took a drag of tobacco. “Goddamn, that must have been rough. You rode horses?”
Yuri nodded. “We fight for Czar. Was 1916, deep snow, the Austrians bring ou
t large, hulking beast, smell of fire and diesel, burn the nostrils. They big and tough, but the Svyatogor from America are smaller, quieter, run on electricity. They crawl in snow. Czar and men hide in snow for three days for ambush. The hulks did not know what hit them!”
“What did you do on a horse that the Manuals couldn’t?” Sinclair asked.
“Svyatogor strong, but too slow, even though faster than Austrian hulk. We ride out against the machines, use rope and chain to tie them down, make them fall, and pull them apart with bare hands. Many Cossack die running up to destroy, but not I! I say to them, ‘Yuri Semetsky will outlive you all!’”
All the veterans laughed along with him. In spite of his moroseness, Allen observed this bonding over war stories with interest.
“Where you fight, Mr. Robins?” Yuri asked.
“I was in Strasbourg, Passchendaele, even Gallipoli for a spell,” Robins answered. He put a hand on Sinclair’s back. “This guy was with Roche in the Cleanup Crew for the entire war, making sure those big things worked damn well.”
“Aye, they did, but they could have done more,” General Morane interrupted. “Cleanup Crew boys sat on their backsides and let the Manuals do all the work. They should have been mobilized earlier.”
“Excuse me?” Paddy piped up. All the liquor in him was weakening his inhibitions. “Last I checked, that war would have been lost without the Manuals. We kept them from breaking after we found out Ford was sabotaging them.”
“More men on the field is more men firing at those Kraut bastards, am I right, Robins?” the general said. The commissioner didn’t respond.
“Those Krauts helped us win the War, asshole! Next you’re going to call them traitors, too?” Paddy said.
“They’re all nothing but traitors,” Morane retorted. “They’d do the same to us if Austro-Hungary ever got the upper hand.”
The bickering continued. Robins said nothing but looked uncomfortable with the brewing storm.
Allen’s focus drifted as he tried to block out the argument. He wandered away from the group and came across Curio.
“Do you work closely with Miss Morane?” Allen asked, after they’d exchanged greetings.
“Decently close,” Curio said. “I mean, WAR ain’t a big station physically, but we’re churning out shlock all day every day for the news. They hire me to write and edit, two things no one there can do.”
“Is she … good at what she does?”
“Good? You must not know her well. She’s more than good. She’s ruthless. I’ve seen her barrel through traffic to get to crime scenes, flip off officers, trespass, all to get that story so she can impress. I mean, this whole Nightcaller thing? She tracked police reports for years — years — to find out who he was. She went to precincts that were condemned, stole files, everything under the sun. And RCA struck gold with it. Any of that comes out, they’ll defend her tooth and nail. Girl knows how to get the job done, let me say.”
“Interesting,” Allen said.
“You ever serve in the military, Constable …?”
“Allen Erzly.”
“Yeah, you look familiar.”
“My frame is inspired by the old models first released during the War.”
“Ah!” Curio exclaimed. “That makes sense. I was knee-deep there. I wrote my first poem while stuck in the western trenches: ‘Ballad of the Boots.’ I was starved for creative titles at the time, which is terrible since I won the Pulitzer for it in ’18. Now that terrible title is cemented in history. How embarrassing. That reminds me of another piece of writing I did …”
Now Allen tuned Curio out, as well, looking over the crowd and spotting Simone and Roche engaged in deep conversation. He felt a pang of envy in his stomach and clamped down his steel teeth to keep himself from doing anything impulsive. As he watched, Simone flipped her hair, briefly revealing the back of her dress and the tops of her shoulders.
Allen’s eyes went wide.
On the back of her left shoulder, barely visible to anyone but him, was the edge of a brown and purple bruise. Given its colour, he guessed it was a few days old. Roche walked away, and Simone looked up and met Allen’s gaze. He pulled back into the crowd and waited to tell Roche.
Having taken a moment in the bathroom to wash my face and re-collect myself, I headed back to the party, but paused upon noticing the bedroom door was ajar. Unfortunately for Simone, old habits died hard for Elias Roche. My brain was running on all cylinders since catching her slip-up. I needed to confirm my new theory. The old Roche might have caused an immediate ruckus, but working with Allen had rubbed off on me. I’d stop and think and confirm before rushing to a conclusion.
I checked that everyone was in the living area before making my approach to the bedroom, gently pushing the door open, and sliding inside. There was an armoire, a closet, a small bed, two nightstands, and a radio. Framed photos sat on all of the flat surfaces. Looking over my shoulder once again to confirm I was in the clear, I picked up and inspected one frame at a time.
The first was an old picture of Simone and General Morane. She, like the city, must have been in her early 20s. She looked happy. Her father’s expression was passive. The celebration scene in the background showed the simple delights of a bygone decade.
The next was a group photo in front of WAR Radio, featuring Simone along with radio operators, writers, journalists, and some of the brass from RCA. It reminded me of my photo of the men in my platoon. Out of the five hundred or more men from Cornell that I’d gone overseas with, less than a tenth of them made it home, and I cherished the picture as she must cherish this one.
The picture by her bedside table was very different and much older than the others. It showed a small family of five: mother, father, two brothers, and a young girl no older than thirteen or so. Looking at it closely, I was able to confirm two things: this was not the United States, given the Tudoresque style of the house the family stood in front of, and that father was not General Morane. It raised more questions than answers.
The creak of the floor near the bedroom door alerted me. I looked up sharply and sighed in relief when Allen poked its head around the door.
“Goddamn, Al, be quiet! Get in here.” I yanked Allen in by the wrist and closed the door just enough to keep people from hearing or seeing us.
“I have critical information for you,” it said in a harsh whisper.
“Same here. How good are you at profiling people?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, analyzing shared traits and facial features and all that. Can you do that? If so, tell me — that girl in the picture, is that Simone?”
Allen grabbed the picture with both hands, bringing it near a lamp and holding it within inches of its face. A few seconds later, it turned to me. “The eyes, the creases by her nose, the lips … I’d say with near certainty that that is Simone Morane.”
“Then who are those people?” Allen looked at the photo again, then back at me, astonished. “Come on, spit it out!” I said.
“Don’t you recognize him?” It pointed at the father.
“This is not the time for games, Allen, just say it!”
“That’s André Mercier.”
CHAPTER 24
AS THE PARTY DIED DOWN, we made every excuse in the book to stick around. Allen paced around the living room, looking for weapons, escape points, anything Simone might use to her advantage if things didn’t go our way. Meanwhile, I tried to keep her occupied to prevent her from suspecting anything was amiss. Her concern over my impending arrest helped cover my impatience, but even so, I almost blew it more than once.
The first to leave the party were the 5th’s boys, Sinclair in a sour mood for having to deal with General Morane, and Robins interested as to why we were staying. I told him I’d go through it all later. Recognizing my tone of voice, he hurried away all the more quickly. Yuri caught a ride with them, having been invited to stay the night at Sinclair’s.
Next was the general, kissing his “d
aughter” on the cheek, giving me a formal goodbye, and ignoring Allen at every opportunity. Simone took care in directing him to the door and reading him the riot act to make sure he kept to himself while outside. A very protective daughter.
Finally, Simone’s cronies made their way home at almost two in the morning, drunk and happy, singing songs with gibberish lyrics and flat notes. I had told Simone that I needed to speak to her about a private matter. That piqued her interest, though she’d soon learn she shouldn’t have fallen for it.
Allen was at the far end of the room, helping to clean up, and I stood by the door as Simone closed it after her colleagues. Allen had done me the service of heading down to the car earlier in the night to grab the cuffs I kept in the car. They were now hanging out of my back pocket.
Simone turned to me with a smile. “So, Detective,” she whispered. “Do I have the honour of being privy to your secrets?”
“Kitchen.” I nodded in that direction and let her go before me.
“I have to say, you’re a hard man to impress. By all accounts, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you —”
Her face broke when the cuff wrapped around her left wrist. The other cuff I quickly snapped to the fridge door handle. Déjà vu.
I backed up just as Allen appeared in the doorway. Simone looked frightened for a second, then infuriated.
“Elias Roche, what the hell are you doing?” she screamed. “Get this off me or I swear you’ll regret ever setting foot in this apartment!”
My Diamondback came out, flicked to double-action, and I drew the hammer. She stopped when the barrel was pressed against her forehead.
“You lied to me,” I said.
“Excuse me? What possible reason do you have for saying that shit and putting a gun to my head?”
“You aren’t Simone Morane, you are Simone Mercier, the Vierling Killer, and the asshole who was going to have me put in prison.”
“Are you insane? You are a troubled and slow man to think such a thing, Roche. What evidence do you have?”
Midnight Page 25