Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

He got the key to a room about halfway down the building and let himself it. Brown carpeting was faded in spots and stained darker in others. The orange, brown, and black beadspread's swirled pattern was probably intended, but failing, to hide stains. A table sat next to the bed and a television on top of a dresser across from the bed. A window air conditioner was also the only heat or cooling source. It felt typical, familiar. Had he stayed in places like this before? He hoped he was used to better.

  The torn plastic shower curtain had been clear when it was new, but a gross film and age meant it would actually provide privacy now, not that he needed it. He tried to take comfort in knowing he wouldn't need the cracked toilet seat, but he'd rather deal with a cracked toilet seat than total incontinence. He groaned at the scene around him. “Well, it’s not jail.”

  Lifting the mattress off the bedspring telekinetically proved less awkward than lifting it by hand would have been, so he set most of his cash under the middle of the mattress. Even if it made a lump in the mattress, it wasn't like that would make it uncomfortable. The appeal to the room was about a roof, and a mirror and sink, some temperature control, and a locking door than about the bed. A pillow on the floor would be just as good.

  He spread most of his belongings on the bed, and moved clothes to dresser drawers. He lifted the toothbrush and toothpaste and took them to the mirror and sink outside the bathroom. Brushing his teeth was a complicated affair, and he didn't bother to make it look natural. Maneuvering the toothbrush backwards in the mirror took some adjusting to. Fortunately he had feeling in his mouth to go by, and he managed the task without making a mess of himself. Toothpaste drooling down his chin was an indignity he so did not need.

  He took a shower, fascinated by the spraying and splashing water. Every droplet was an individual moving object. He could redirect it some, but couldn't really control it. He hadn't noticed the water as much in the apartment he'd broken into. Now he had more time for littler details. As it was, all he could do was hope he actually got everything, since he could only feel the water on his head and face. He lingered in the shower until it ran cold.

  He found more new bruises he couldn't account for. Oh, well. Not like they matter.

  He ran a flying brush through his hair. The back of his scalp was still tender around the stitches, and he was extra gentle around those. Again he was glad for the places that did have feeling. The slow, precise movements were harder to control and gentle took extra concentration—and was only possible because of the feedback from his scalp.

  He looked better cleaned up. He wanted a haircut, but any hair stylist would ask questions about the stitches. He really didn't want to answer those kinds of questions. But at least now he'd get stared at less.

  He scanned around himself for movement, but most of the building was empty. He'd have to wait until at least evening to know how full the motel was. There'd only been a couple cars in the lot, but that wasn't a reliable indicator.

  How long had he just stared off into space? An ache sat heavy in his jaw. Had he been clenching it? Exhaustion hit him like a bus.

  For now, however, he was safe. No rain falling on him, and closed curtains meant no one could see him. Safe from weather. Safe from detection by police and FBI. The pillow beneath his head was a luxury he appreciated in the brief time before he drifted off.

  CHAPTER 24 – FOLLOWING LEADS

  Rachel was tired and hungry. She'd spent her day questioning and interviewing, yet again, the remainder of Ambrose’s bank crew. She'd learned nothing new, heard nothing she hadn't heard before. She reviewed video records and testimony from witnesses at the other banks. Nothing indicated someone other than Ambrose as the ringleader. Everyone agreed he had been. Carter confirmed it. And Juarez had been ordered to kill him if anything went wrong. She sighed.

  “Just turn yourself in, okay?”

  It was past when she should have stopped for dinner. Past when she should have just stopped for the day and gone home. A long day on a Sunday. She'd even gone to church this morning, the first time since before joining the FBI. As in her childhood, it did nothing to relieve a creeping dread she couldn't find a proper name or source for. Fragments of memory floated like dust motes in a sunbeam, echoes of voices. ‘You can’t stop me.’ She shook her head at them when they came. Now was not the time for self-doubt. She would find him. She would catch him and put him back in jail where he belonged.

  And it had been a stressful and noisy and tiring day. Often she liked to keep the door to her borrowed office open. Today, however, she closed it as often as possible. A certain amount of noise was inescapable here. Much of it came from the Pit, not far away. Phones rang, names were called, and the general drone and din of overlapping conversations and complaints had a way of carrying. Closer by, phones also rang, conversations—especially near the small, doorless kitchen—also overlapped.

  General noises like those were normal. She was used to them, and on other days they made her smile. On those other days they were the sounds of the law enforcement machine running, an engine that idled and roared in turns. But today hadn't been normal. Half the desks in the pit had been removed overnight, damaged by fire. Replacements would come, but hadn't yet. That left detectives and beat officers with no place to do paperwork. Some doubled up and shared desks, which increased tensions as people bumped and got in each other’s way. The briefing room, once a safe refuge of quiet with thicker walls and a good door, was now shared by all the people who could improvise workspaces in it.

  Yet her borrowed office was just her. Nobody asked to come in and share her desk. She was still an outsider here. Working side by side with feds was an expression these police men and women did not like to take literally. Sometimes she refreshed her coffee just to get out of the isolation.

  Worse than the noise, and definitely compounding her frustrations, Raul Juarez killed himself overnight. Or at least, so the reports claimed. She wasn't convinced. Sure, he could have. He also could just as easily been helped. Silenced. She might never know for sure.

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence he died right after talking to her. She'd been on the right trail, but that trail was gone now. Juarez and Steven went back and had history, even Carter had heard about that. There was something there she was missing. She was sure of it.

  Still, she wasn't yet ready to give up for the day. She was not ready to go home admitting she might actually know less about how to find Ambrose than she had when she woke up. Even if someone was helping or sheltering Ambrose, the escaped thief was the one she most needed to have in custody, to have on trial. But she had to find him first, and she still wasn't any closer to doing that.

  “I figured you were still here, Rach,” Thorne said, leaning in through the open doorway. Noise levels had tapered as it got later, but before the night rush. “Come on in,” Thorne said, ushering in a shorter brown man in a brown sport coat and tie, a gold police sergeant’s badge on the belt around his jeans.

  “Special Agent Rachel Moore, this is Sergeant Garcia, Vice,” Thorn introduced. He tossed a black-and-white sketch onto the desk. It reminded her of Steven Ambrose, but the face was too wide and the nose too large.

  “Tell ‘er what you told me,” Thorne said.

  “I’m working a few undercover men in local drug operations. Trying to get close enough to get some of the bigger distributors. One of them, Roberto Martinez, got himself into a good spot. Last night he was riding with one of the sellers I’m watching. From everything I can tell, things were going pretty good.” Garcia paused, looking nervous or anxious.

  “I don’t have the whole story of what happened,” Garcia apologized, rubbing at a spot on his lapel. “Martinez has a cracked shoulder blade, dislocated shoulder, couple cracked ribs, and a concussion. Skull’s fractured,” he added. “There're some spotty bits, but what he remembers is a guy approaching the car after a buy. This guy rips the door off their Volvo and throws it across a street. He says he remembers the clang when it hit a wall. The other guy
in the car got a shot off, but he doesn’t know what happened other than that after that shot this guy reaches in, grabs him, and throws him after the door.

  “Someone called nine-one-one,” he continued, “anonymously, although I think it was my seller. Paramedics found Martinez in and out of consciousness and took him to General. He ended up identifying himself and I got called in. That,” he said, indicating the sketch, “is the guy who attacked him. Some kinda martial arts expert or something.”

  “Obviously you know who I think that looks like,” Thorne said.

  “Does look similar,” Moore agreed. Tore a car door off? Memory of events just before a concussion wasn't reliable. She had read more than she ever wanted to know about the effects of brain trauma recently. But the face came from somewhere. “Do you mind if I talk to Martinez myself, Sergeant Garcia?”

  “Not at all. You probably have better questions to ask him about this than I do if you’re already looking for this guy. Just make sure you get him, will you? And be careful when you do. I think this guy’s dangerous.”

  “We’ll definitely be careful, Sergeant. Thank you.”

  Thorne stayed behind after the vice sergeant excused himself and left.

  “Martial arts expert?” Thorne raised a dubious eyebrow and scoffed.

  “There’s nothing in the profile we have on him to suggest that,” she agreed, “but obviously there are things about him we don’t know.” Like what he can do. She shook her head. No, he was smart. He could plan. He was connected. He had resources. A strong boxer or fighter could even have been wearing a mask. Still, a lead was a lead.

  “Makes me wonder just how much we don’t know about him,” Thorne said.

  “Or, again, maybe whoever we keep seeing is not the same fifty-two-year-old man who was in the hospital with two head GSWs,” she countered. Things seemed to lend more and more credence to the idea either Steven Ambrose was not who everyone wanted her to think he was, or maybe she really was pursuing the wrong man. She sighed, more annoyed than before. “So, off to General?”

  “You go ahead.” Thorne rubbed at his left temple. I’m chasing down a couple more details on Ambrose’s past, especially trying to track down other places he might be spending cash. Massage parlors, other restaurants, and so on. His car had some custom tuning work done, and we haven’t been able to track down who did it. I’ve got six more mod shops I want to talk to, not that I expect them to be honest with me. Let me know if Garcia’s guy has anything we can use.”

  “I’ll do that, Pat.”

  So far, trying to flesh out more of the profile they had on Ambrose hadn’t yielded anything unexpected. Or useful. His apartment had already been emptied. She’d gone through the boxes of what possessions the evidence room did have, but it didn't amount to much. Information on his past was scarce.

  He had no criminal record. His credit and banking records were mundane. He maintained enough activity to look normal, but clearly lived a lot of his life with cash. The apartment was modest, 700 square foot one-bedroom for $2400 per month. His car, a black Audi A4, was half paid off with reasonable payments. His tax return claimed he made $76,000 as a tech consultant, which never set off any red flags. He had even successfully invoiced some “customers,” companies which paid invoices under $500 without looking into them enough to see if the services mentioned were actually rendered.

  His neighbors described him as quiet and courteous. He never threw parties and rarely had company. He helped one of them move in. He loaned milk and coffee. One neighbor had been in his apartment and mentioned thinking the furniture was especially nice and he dressed “fancy.” “Like a rich man’s lawyer,” she suggested.

  The only delivery restaurants with his address on file were nicer ones. No pizza, no bargain Chinese. No credit cards on file, he paid cash. No one remembered if he was a good tipper or not, which at least meant he wasn't a bad tipper. Those were remembered.

  He lived a life with money but he kept it under the radar. Nothing ostentatious. He kept things nice but inconspicuous. It was hard to say how much money he actually did have flowing in and out of his life.

  Not a lot to go off.

  Thorne said goodnight and left the door cracked open behind him.

  Bay City General Hospital was a bigger, more sprawling hospital than St. Mary’s. It was just as busy, the staff a similar mix of helpful and grumpy. She found Martinez in a private room on the seventh floor of the main building. He was awake and poking at the remnants of a plastic cup of pudding with his left hand.

  “Roberto Martinez, hi, I’m Special Agent Rachel Moore, FBI.”

  “FBI, huh?”

  “Yes. Look, I don’t want to bother you, but I think the man who attacked you is someone I’m looking for. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

  “I can tell you some of it.” He put the spoon down and pushed the tray aside. His head was bandaged and his right armthoroughly braced.

  “Whatever you can, Officer Martinez.”

  “How ‘bout Roberto?”

  “Roberto, then. Sure.”

  “I’ve been working my way into that ring for weeks now. Last night was the first time I rode with one of the Boost guys. He also had coke and heroin, but it was the Boost we wanted him for. Him and his supply chain.”

  “Of course.” Boost. The worst drug in the city. She wanted nothing to do with it. Worse than PCP; people high on boost were downright dangerous to arrest.

  “We’d been making sells pretty much all day. We’d made a couple of cash drops already. Probably had like three or four grand when he hit us.” He closed his eyes to think. “We were in an alley, but it had some light. Guy walks up from the front; we watched him in the headlights. Walks right up to my window, like he’s done the same thing plenty of times before. Confident, not all skitterish like a first-timer.

  “Mickey—that’s the guy I was with, he was driving—tells him to beat it, but the guy says something like we have what he needs, and he ain’t leaving without it.”

  “Do you happen to remember exact words?”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. A lot of it’s fuzzy.”

  “I understand, Roberto. It’s okay. Just do the best you can.”

  “So, anyway, he says something about handing over cash, and Mickey laughs. Mickey’s the macho type, so one old guy trying to rob us was just the thing he’d laugh about. Next thing I know, the door flies off and smacks against a wall! We were both kinda, ‘What the fuck?’ Mickey pulled out an automatic and got a shot off, but missed. My ears were ringing after that. Fucking idiot. That must be when he yanked me out and grabbed me, but that part’s just...gone? The doctors said the brain doesn’t always keep the stuff that happens right before a concussion. Anyway, fucker threw me against the wall fucking hard! I don’t remember hitting, but it did all this. Broke my goddamned shoulder blade! How the fuck does that happen?”

  “Told all that to Sergeant Garcia and the sketch guy. I heard some serious shit went down at precinct. All over the fucking news, man.”

  “It is a bit of a mess, yes. Hopefully you and it’ll both get fixed up quickly.” But that’s over. That guy is somebody else’s problem. She didn’t want to be reminded.

  She sat heavily when she got back to her car. Enough for today. Martinez’s doctor confirmed there were no other injuries. He hadn’t been in a fight, other than hitting the wall. Or he’d fallen a couple of stories. Ambrose hadn’t thrown the man hard enough to break a shoulder blade, that was for damned sure.

  CHAPTER 25 – A HAPPY DINNER

  The last place Steven wanted to be was in a sleazy motel by himself. It was about dinner time, so he should go find some food. Restaurant food seemed like such a luxury compared to cold, baked beans. A motel with a microwave would have been a step up, as long as he had something microwave-safe to put beans into. But he had cash and could afford to eat out. Something dine-in seemed infinitely preferable to delivery or bringing takeout here.

  He dressed himself and fel
t much more ready to be out in public. With some water splashed on his face and his hair tidied up he looked far less homeless. He locked the door behind him and moved the key to the bottom of his jeans pocket.

  The air blew cool on his face, and a little damp, but the clouds didn't look like ominous rain-bearers. His coat, lightweight but longer and better fitting than the stolen one, would be warm enough. Even if he wouldn’t feel it he should take care of himself. Good thing it wasn't winter, when he would have no way to detect frostbite in his fingers or toes.

  He walked a few blocks before finding places with things he considered food. First he saw small hole-in-the-wall joints looking too run-down. He came to a cross street as big as the street he was on and noted the names of the two streets so he wouldn't forget where to turn when he came back. Both street names were familiar, but other street names seemed familiar, too. State names, tree names, presidents, numbered streets—none of it was new. He recognized names but none of them meant anything to him.

  Had he spent time around here, or maybe just in similar neighborhoods? Older buildings with weather and age-stained brick, yellow originally, weren’t as tall as buildings in nicer areas. Some had homes—apartments—above narrow shops with old door hardware and signs that hadn't been kept up over years. None drew him to them.

  A ubiquitous liquor store like so many others, this one without bars over the large windows, led a row of other non-descript, barely surviving, small stores. The cell phone store had the only new-looking sign. A cartoonish green alien chased a smartphone that shot red beams at it in scrolling LEDs.

  The cross street led him through a line of car dealerships to fast food restaurants, but he wanted something nicer than that. He guessed he went a mile down the street before he came to a family restaurant boasting the best twenty-four-hour breakfast deals. That would do. He wasn't in the mood for breakfast foods, but it looked a decent enough place and should have a varied enough menu, certainly something would appeal to him.