Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it in the closet. Clothes went in the hamper one at a time. The hamper was getting full. She should start laundry but wasn’t going to while the bath was filling. No, not tonight. How many nights have I said that now?

  Most of the remaining bubble bath went into the filling tub. She couldn’t even remember when she’d bought it.

  She eased herself slowly into too-hot water. The edge of pain took her mind off the day and made the fizzy moscato seem cooler than it was.

  By the end of the first issue it was time to reheat the water. The second issue and the bottle ran out about the same time. A solid buzz set in by the time the she opened the drain. Horniness crept in through an opening the buzz allowed. She'd forgotten how moscato effected her when she overdid it.

  Loneliness replaced the weight of the water on her body as the water retreated. That dulled the buzz. She stood and reached for the towel always hanging right there; all her hand found was the empty bar. Her arm dropped to her side and more water dripped to the tub. Laundry. She had forgotten to replace the towel when it went in the hamper. She’d never done that before. A long sigh and a string of curses competed for an opportunity in her. The sigh won, and the curses sank back into her stomach.

  She dripped across to the bedroom to her closer and wrapped herself in her big red terry bathrobe. Another sigh, not as deep or as long, snuck out at the sight of wet footsteps on the golden flooring.

  One neatly folded towel from the closet went around her head, and another draped over the towel bar. With a third she knelt down to dry off the floor. The water wouldn’t hurt the laminate floor like it would the oak floors of her youth, but the habit was an old one.

  Smudges on the bathroom faucet became the towel’s next target, and from there she moved on. The more she cleaned, the more order she restored, the better and easier it got. She kept cleaning until she felt better about herself and her life. The covers welcomed her and sleep came easily.

  CHAPTER 38 – AT LAST

  Tuesday, April 24

  Steven finished his lunch and sighed. His morning was a disappointment. He'd spent it searching aimlessly, pointlessly, fruitlessly. Lunch had been a disappointment, but he was unwilling to spend more of the shrinking cash he had left. Desperation and depression tugged him in opposite directions.

  He needed food, water, and shelter, which meant money. He wanted a little more variety of clothes. With more options he could change and wash them more easily. Washing would also take money. He'd paused outside two homeless shelters, but both had too much police presence nearby.

  “Some superhero I am,” he grumbled to himself as he walked away from the greasy chicken place. At least it meant he was also no supervillain. What criminal mastermind would orchestrate his nefarious activities from a homeless shelter?

  For an hour or more he sat on a bus stop bench with his eyes closed, sensing the traffic and pedestrians and cyclists going by. Once he heard police sirens approaching; he didn't bother reacting or moving. Two cars and an ambulance sped right past him.

  His thoughts spiraled around whether being arrested would be an improvement in his life. He had his freedom, but that freedom seemed a pointless, hollow existence. In prison he would have less freedom, but he would have food and clothes and shelter and people to talk to. It struck him how sorely enslaved to money he was. Before the would-be assassin broke into his room—and he'd left his money behind like a careless idiot—his life had seemed far more worth living. Now he sat nearly penniless in diapers that probably needed changing again. The stack of them in his pack would only last so long. Hiding behind dumpsters to change them was about as removed from dignity as he could imagine.

  His only plan revolved around finding drug dealers and robbing them for cash and for leads on Müller. Other than wandering at random, he had no idea where to find them. “Criminal mastermind my ass.” At least in jail he wouldn’t need a plan for anything.

  Those thoughts changed as a fluffy-bearded hipster and a chubby man in a white baseball jersey walked by bragging with each other about how high they were going to get. He waited a couple of paces, then lifted himself to his feet and followed them.

  “Aren’t you nervous carrying this much cash?” Ball-man asked Hipster, who just shrugged, hands deep in the pockets of dark black skinny jeans.

  Steven slowed his pace, worried they might realize he was following them. He paused when they rounded a corner. He didn't need to see them to follow them. Between short blocks and parked vehicles there were more than enough places he could pause to stay out of their sight as he followed them into a more industrial area, with commercial blocks more offices and photography studios than stores.

  The two stopped at a door and Ball-man hesitated. Hipster opened the door and went first, and his friend followed.

  Steven moved closer once the door closed, and followed the brightness of their movements up a long stair. The pair paused at a man waiting at the top of the stairs. They made some kind of exchange and the two walked further inside.

  About forty people occupied the space the two entered. Most of the people sat or lay or lounged about hardly moving. Some of their heartbeats were slower and fainter, others were faster and harder. He theorized the difference might correlate to what kind of drugs each took. A few people milled about the way servers at a restaurant or cocktail waitresses at a casino might.

  Surveying his surroundings, he saw a few homeless people sitting in doorways, some simply resting or sleeping and some fiddling with small radios or phones. Even homeless people seem to have things put together a little more than he did. Some kind of smartphone would be nice. If the homeless figured it out, he should be able to.

  There were other people about in the opposite building, and in buildings on both sides in both directions. Nobody else milled about on the street. He moved into a vacant doorway across the street and set himself down. He figured he looked more than enough the part of yet another homeless vagrant tired of walking aimlessly.

  He watched for a while, sensing people entering but few leaving. All of them proceed up the stairs, had a similar interaction with the big bouncer, and then continued inside. Each would interact with some other people, especially the walking about ones, before settling in somewhere and then mostly not moving much. Some couples and groups writhed around with each other, making out or having sex.

  Little traffic passed by, and drivers that did kept their faces front, blatantly not looking around. In the time he sat and observed the only one to walk past and not go inside was an obese woman who coughed continually as she pushed a squeaking shopping cart full of empty cans along.

  He guessed he sat for about an hour before he lifted himself up, walked across the street, and went inside.

  CHAPTER 39 – ON THE SCENE

  Ringing phones and overlapping conversations grated while Rachel poured dark coffee into a black mug emblazoned with the police precinct’s logo. Desks were still being replaced, so the precinct was still overcrowded, despite the manpower again sifting the streets for Ambrose. The coffee was nasty, and she was pouring sugar when Thorne trotted up, huffing.

  “Ah, there ya are. Oh, keep pouring. Someone double-bagged it.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Bitterer than usual,” she replied. “What’s up?”

  Just past 4:00, it had been a long day. Confirmation this morning that Raul Juarez’s “suicide” was actually an execution, while not at all a surprise, had started the day off on a sour note.

  “Call from one of the vice guys,” he explained. “They’ve got a crew watching a drug den off 111th and Chicory. Shit neighborhood.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “I know where that is.”

  “Anyway, they’re photographing everyone who approaches, or seems to show any undue interest in the den. They’re emailing all the pictures to Central for facial rec. Guess who matched one of them?”

  “Seriously? At a drug den? Not another partial match, I hope?” More vid
eo footage, including a homeless man flagged incorrectly as a partial match by traffic camera facial recognition led to nothing but anticlimactic disappointment.

  “Full match.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “I called one of them to ask just that. He showed up, looked around a couple minutes, and then plunked himself in a doorway across the street.”

  She took a series of long gulps of the coffee. It was right at the edge of too hot for that, but it wasn't in a to-go cup. She dumped the rest and set the mug in the stainless steel sink with a few others and a collection of spoons.

  “Okay then,” she said. “Round up the troops and get the area cordoned off. Keep it a little wide for now. Let’s make sure we don’t spook him too soon. But make it good. I want to make absolutely sure we don’t lose him. I’m going to make a couple calls to the Bureau and get some eyes in the sky. Oh, and give that vice guy you talked to a call and make sure he lets us know immediately if Ambrose does anything. Give them a heads-up that they’ve got a federal fugitive and we’re on our way. I’ll meet you there.”

  On her way to her car she put a call in to Assistant Director West. His assistant took the call, and she left the details she had.

  Once in her car, she raced to the area. Rush hour, starting early, caused some delays but she used her lights and siren to get through what she could before she got too close.

  Her phone rang blocks away. She glanced at it long enough to see Thorne’s name in the caller-ID before she answered it.

  “I’m almost there,” he said. “There’s something bigger going on. They’ve already got SWAT in place. They think it’s a Boost den. Ambrose just stood up and went inside.”

  “Inside the drug den?” she asked for clarification.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m almost there, too. Tell them not to move without us.”

  Two blocks away a pair of men in BCPD tactical gear stopped her and directed her to a side street after she identified herself.

  She parked with a row of other vehicles, not seeing Thorne’s car among them. She grabbed gear out of the trunk and went directly for the largest group she saw gathered. SWAT snipers climbed fire escapes.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  A blonde agent tying her hair into a ponytail nodded, and Rachel followed, finding the one person in the group wearing a suit instead of tactical gear. She introduced herself.

  “Special Agent Laura Finley, organized crime division. I’ve been filled in about your fugitive. He’s still inside. There’s only two entrances or exits, and we have teams watching both. Snipers are setting up on rooftops now.

  “Where’s Thorne?”

  “I sent him to join a team at the building’s rear exit—a fire escape.”

  “What’ve you got going on here, Finley?”

  “We caught chatter about a big Boost shipment coming here tonight. I want that shipment and the courier. We have a guy inside watching. As soon as we get confirmation, we’ll go in both entrances and get my guy and yours at the same time. If your guy leaves before then you can follow him and grab him some distance away. As soon as I heard what you’ve got going on I called A.D. West. My op has priority, I’m sorry.”

  West was her boss, too, and she understood how the man prioritized. Organized crime got more of his attention than her fugitive hunt. As far as he was concerned, he had explained, breaking up the bank ring had been important, but Ambrose getting loose was an embarrassing cleanup issue, more of a police matter now than a Bureau problem. No, West would back Finley over what she needed right now.

  Finley chuckled. “I think we’ve got this pretty covered, Moore. But it sounds like your guy is slippery. Don’t worry, we’ll be careful. He’s not getting away. Your guy Thorne is watching the back, you’re here. This Ambrose guy isn’t going to slip through us.”

  She shrugged into her vest and checked the chamber in her Glock. Finley’s assurances left her still concerned, but Ambrose was boxed in. There was nothing left to do but wait.

  CHAPTER 40 – IT’S GONNA BE LIKE THAT, IS IT?

  The light in the stairway was dimmer than Steven expected. A pair of dangling, bare, corkscrew fluorescent bulbs hung from the ceiling, one about halfway up the stairs and one over the bouncer. Dark brick walls swallowed up quite a bit of light. The hallway itself was wide enough for one person in each direction, although there was only a railing on his right—not that he needed it.

  Past-Steven would have some elaborate plan for this. Maybe infiltrate the place and steal the money surreptitiously. But mugging drug dealers felt good, felt right somehow. Killing Barton had been both revenge and maybe a service to society. Would the cops do anything about someone like Barton? Like this Müller guy? Could they? Steven certainly could.

  How many places were there like this the police did nothing about? How many people’s lives fell apart to keep these drug men rolling in cash? Well, the police weren’t doing anything, and he needed the money. So he’d take care of it for them. He had the power to. No, just stealing the money wouldn’t be enough. If he had to flatten every drug den he could find working his way to Müller, he could do that. Time to shut them down, to tell them, ‘no more.’ Simon says you’re done.

  He ambled his way up the stairway, consciously reminding himself to actually walk up them rather than just ghost up them. He kept his eyes and face a little downcast. Just another junkie.

  The bouncer stood up when he got close. The man was almost a head taller than Steven and weighed at least double. Some of that bulk was just bulk, but the man’s dark tank-top distinctly emphasized muscled arms and shoulders.

  “You got cash?” the bouncer asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Show me.”

  Steven stepped to his right to fling the man down the stairs. Down the stairs was his first thought, but he launched brighter—harder—than he intended. Instead the man sailed through the air with a shriek, smacking and smashing the dangling light bulb with his head. He threw his hands up just before hitting the wall and breaking both arms with an ugly crunch. He fell to the floor before the street-side exit yowling in pain. Steven brightened the man’s head into the wall until the man lost consciousness and the wailing stopped.

  “I guess I showed him,” Steven said under his breath as he opened the door.

  The scene inside was one of languid debauchery. People lounged on chairs and couches and pillows on the floor. Some of them were half naked, some tangled up with each other. Many were alone but quite a few naked either in the throes of sex or in the sprawled aftermath. The closest faces offered vacant stares. The lighting was too dim to distinguish eyes further away.

  A laptop hooked to some speakers provided just enough party music to muffle conversations. No one gave any indication of hearing the bouncer’s startled shriek. There had to be at least twenty people in the room. Four other rooms branched off from it, all of them at least partially occupied. His initial estimate of forty might have been low.

  Not all of the people in the room seemed stoned. A couple of women wearing nothing but red corsets moved around with trays of snacks and drinks; those would be the serving girls he’d ‘seen.’ A pair of men in adjacent lounge chairs paused their conversation. The smaller of them stood up and swaggered over to him.

  “So what’s your flavor? Pills or sex?”

  “Oh, I think it’s the drugs that interest me more. Who’s in charge here?”

  “I can get you what you need tonight,” the man assured him, crossing his arms. “You wanna fly or chill?”

  Steven laughed and then cringed seeing the bouncer fly again.

  “I wanna know where it comes from.”

  “Dude. It’s all locally made, man, now tell me what you want tonight and we’ll get you started.” The man uncrossed his arms, closing one hand into the beginnings of a loose fist.

  “Sorry, I’m new here,” Steven said as the bigger man stood up and started approaching. It had been simpler in his hea
d outside. The man had to step over a naked, masturbating woman moaning and writhing on the floor. Her head banged on the rug over and over.

  “Yeah, no shit. Now stop dicking around and tell me what you want before the price goes up.”

  Perhaps he should have planned this part out more. He had these two men who seemed to be the business manager types, and he didn't actually have a plan for how to get information out of them. There were innocent people all about, chairs, couches, tables, lamps, mirrors hanging on the wall—the space suddenly seemed a little crowded for just throwing people around until they told him how to find the bosses the money went to and the men the drugs came from.

  “Party’s over,” he announced. “I’m here to put a stop to this.” He took in the two closest couches he could see at the same time and flipped them over, dumping people out onto the floor. Someone yelped a girly scream.

  The bigger man gave an angry frown over a patch of beard that only existed on his chin and cracked the knuckles of one fist within the other. The shorter, closer man pulled something out that snapped open into a dark baton with the flick of his wrist. People to both sides of him protested the interruption.

  “I’ll give you one chance to tell me where the money and drugs are, who the drugs come from, and who the money ultimately goes to,” he warned the two men.

  The big man stepped in and tried to throw a punch. Steven put a bunch of additional free momentum into the man’s fist, but sideways. The diverted fist wrenched the man off balance. The other man tried to run at him with the baton, so Steven hit him in the shoulder with one of the emptied couches, plowing the man off his feet and across the room. The couch ended up on top of the man and narrowly missed a couple having sex in a recliner. A nearby corseted serving girl dropped her tray with a startled gasp. He didn't have time to admire shattering glass.