Alan Dean Foster (5 page)

"An identical round was used in the shooting of a Newcomer named Hubley, two days ago."

A surprised Sykes turned to see that the voice belonged to the alien cop whose nose he'd mashed. He wasn't particularly pleased to see him again, but wishing wouldn't make him go away. He had as much right as Sykes to be where he was. Maybe more. And he had some information.

The detective's response was automatically belligerent. "Yeah, so what?

That still doesn't explain why the extra firepower here. "

'Me alien considered briefly. "Perhaps because even the larger-caliber handguns aren't always effective against my people. "

"That's no bullshit. " Natuzzi made everything he said into a grunt. "I seen one take five hits once and keep on coming. Even a Magnum'll sometimes only slow 'ern down."

Sykes wasn't listening to the other policeman. He didn't want to get friendly with this Newcomer cop, but he wanted information badly.

"You're saying that the slimeballs who did this wanted to make sure the old geezer behind the counter was gonna be dead? I don't care what anybody says. A handgun would've been enough to do in an old fart like that." He said nothing about the alien robber firing a second shell into the proprietor after he'd fallen to the floor. Let Forensics earn their pay.

"It is possible," the Newcomer admitted.

Once Sykes's brain got revved it was impossible to turn him off, no matter how bizarre his thoughts became. "So maybe-what you're suggesting is that there's some connection to this other homicide you just mentioned?"

"So both killers had some BRI's," Natuzzi observed. "Coincidence. Stuff like that's on the street all the time."

"So maybe baby," Sykes growled nonsensically. He wanted the alien's opinion, not Natuzzi's.

Before the Newcomer could respond, the female cop who'd been wrestling with the widow stepped up. "Hey,

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gimme a hand with this woman, willya, Samuel? We've got to get her down to Division for her statement and she won't budge, and I sure as hell can't make her. "

The Newcomer cop nodded at Sykes. "Excuse me."

Sykes was reluctant to let him go. "So, you think there's a connection, or what? Hey!"

But the alien Samuel was already walking over to the proprietor's wife and speaking in smooth alien sing-song. Sykes was left to draw his own conclusions from his own thoughts.

There wasn't much upstairs to work with, and the memory of Bill Tuggle lying dead in the street kept getting in the way.

It wasn't much brighter inside his apartment building than on the street outside. He parked the slugmobile, made sure the alarm was set, and hauled himself to the front door. The double lock yielded to his magnetic key. He stood there, thinking. Tommy's down the street was still open.

He could spend the rest of the night there and feel better about everything. Tomorrow would still be waiting for him, however, and he was on duty. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the hangover. With a sigh, he gave the door a resigned shove inward.

Anyone seeing the interior of his "home" would have instantly divined that it was the maid's decade off. Not that Sykes was a slob. Just indifferent. Also, he had no taste, which was one reason why he and Tuggle had gotten along so well. Tug had enough taste for three cops. The room was decorated in Sears Primitive: functional and nothing more.

His hand reached out to automatically slap the rewind/ playback switch on the answering machine. It whiffed as he advanced on the kitchen, he and the machine the only signs of life in the apartment. One time he'd put a funny greeting tape on the machine, a gag gift from a fellow officer. Only trouble was that his mother had called once when he'd been out and had been forced to suffer through the tape's bouncy barrage of four-letter words. All copspeech, unsuitable for mentally stable civilians. Now the machine requested its messages in a noncontroversial monotone.

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The hidge didn't stink because he remembered to keep open boxes of baking soda on all the shelves. You always got something out of a marriage, he mused. He'd taught Edie how to load and fire a .38 and she'd taught him about baking soda. Fair enough.

Unfortunately, there were only so many recipes that called for baking soda, and there wasn't much else occupying the stained glass shelving. Leftover takeout pizza carton. Leftover takeout Chinese in little cardboard boxes with wire handles. Leftover takeout burger wrappers. Perfectly normal. His life was a succession of leftover memories.

One of them jostled his brain even as the empty fridge was jostling his gut. The answering machine had finished its rewinding and now spoke in his daughter's voice. As he listened, he removed an ancient carton of milk and set it on the counter. The beer was in the back and the cow juice had been in the way.

His daughter talked steadily, her voice full of youth and life and love. He listened as he tried to track down a semi-clean glass.

"Hi, Daddy, it's me. I'm over at Danny's parents' house. We're all talking about Sunday, natch. There's so many things to do, so many arrangements to make, it's unreal. I don't think I'll do this more than once."

She laughed then and the sound of it made his fingers clench unconsciously against the beer can.

"I thought maybe you'd be home by now. I guess not, but talking to the machine's better than not talking at all, right? Besides, you can play it back as often as you want. You're never home anyway, you work such crazy hours." She laughed again. "You know me. I can't ever remember things. So I have to get them out when I'm in the mood. I just keep going on and on, always something new, like you've always told me.

"Anyway, it's really nothing. Not important. I just wanted to call and say hi, and tell you that I love you. I love you, Daddy. "

He made himself relax his fingers. Where were those damn glasses?

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She'd been giggling to herself. Now she stopped. "Uhoh, I shouldn't a done that. Knowing you, you'll probably pull this tape out of your machine now and save it, in that same drawer where you keep every card I ever gave you.

And all my old baby teeth! Gross! Anyway, Daddy, don't save this tape. Use it again because that's what they're for and I bet they're expensive. I'll buy you more tapes if you want. But I do love you, and I'll talk to you again before Sunday. "

The glasses were hiding behind a big empty pot. The pot was clean because he'd never used it. Like he never used a lot of the things in the apartment, because they were part of his "share" from the divorce and he couldn't bring himself to use them. The last time they'd been touched, she'd touched them.

Kristin wasn't through. "Oh, Tug and Carol came by and met Danny last week." That made him stiffen despite his resolve. Tough guy you are, he thought. Sure. "Danny thought Tug was the greatest, but then, who doesn't?

Anyway, love you, talk to you soon. I gotta go. Something about picking flowers. Bye. "

Behind him the machine finished with a crackle-pop. Sykes took the glass and the bottle of vodka--the Russkies still made the best vodka in the world, even if they didn't drink near as much of it as they used to---and shambled back into the living room. On the way to the couch he switched off the humming answering machine.

Halfway past the bedroom he stopped, staring off into the distance. Then he turned and thumbed the eject switch on the machine. He studied the tiny cassette for a moment, then pulled it out and tossed it into an open drawer full of similar tapes. Cards and opened envelopes provided a clean bed for the tape collection.

He didn't bother to put a clean tape back in the empty machine.

The squad room the next morning was the usual olla podrida of busy cops coming on duty, night personnel bumping exhaustedly off walls and each other like lost steel

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balls in an arcade game, bored hookers waiting to be bailed out by their pimps, druggies and drunks settling down for their morning naps, and clerical personnel doing their best to ignore everything except the precious papers they carried protectively in both hands or beneath their arms. Nobody paid the slightest attention to Sykes, which suited him just fine.

He'd managed four hours' sleep, which under the circumstances was reason for half a dozen Hail Marys. His brain was up and alert while the rest of him was still going through the motions. Though awake, he looked like the heavyweight contender's latest sparring partner. The pintsized Styrofoarn cup whose contents he was stiffing mechanically steamed like a ghost snake.

Check-in was perfunctory and automatic. Ignoring the duty board and his own desk, he moved straight for Fedorchuk's. Its owner was bent over some paperwork, his brow furrowed. Fedorchuk always said it was the heat in the station house, but Sykes knew the man was paranoid about his reports.

Fedorchuk could contract cancer of the colon from a mistyped heading.

It was a lousy beginning to an undoubtedly lousy day-tobe, and Sykes wasn't in the mood for small talk. So he didn't waste any time.

"So what've you got on Tuggle's killers?"

Fedorchuk responded with a pained expression. "Jesus, Sykes, it's been less than ten hours. Me and Alterez are on it, okay?" Alterez turned from the file cabinet whose contents he was ruffling and smiled thinly. "I promise you, we'll keep you updated."

Sykes gulped coffee. It burned his throat and warmed his belly. "Which says to me that you don't have squat."

"Ten hours." The grumbling Fedorchuk squinted over at his inquisitor. "You ever try to make a case in Slagtown? The list of Newcomer informants is about as long as the list of Mexican War heroes. Nobody talks to nobody down there, and they sure as hell don't talk to us. Half of them don't speak English and the other half only when it suits them. They're real nice and polite when you run into one

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somewhere else in town, but down in the Slag sometimes they ain't so nice."

"I've been there. You got a short memory."

"The hell I do. What I'm saying is that you were just doing routine patrol.

You haven't had to do any legwork. When you want information it's different from hauling in drunks or passin' out tickets. This is gonna take some time. "

"Yeah, I know it's gonna take time. Like until the Ice Capades opens in Hell, with you two in it."

Alterez looked back from his filing cabinet and glared across the room. "Up yours."

As he usually did, Sykes had the perfect comeback. He wasn't given the opportunity to deliver it because the Captain's door banged open on the other side of the room and Warner emerged. He studied the squad room intently, like a trainer inspecting his lions and tigers, before his deep voice boomed out. It sounded clearly above the morning chatter and the hum of computer terminals.

"Nobody wander off! I got an announcement. Get your asses back here where you can hear."

That was Captain Warner, Sykes ruminated. Quiet and thoughtful. At least you never had to ask anybody else what he meant. The detective sipped at his cooling coffee and chose a spot near the back wall where he could see clearly, hear clearly, and get the hell out of the room fast without being noticed if he so desired.

A pair of younger detectives on their way out stopped at the declaration and turned to pay attention. Probably afraid Warner had already spotted them. If he had, the Captain wouldn't say a thing. He'd just ignore possible deserters while making his announcement. But two weeks, or a month later, the duo who'd tried to flee would find themselves pulling patrol duty in the worst part of town on graveyard shift, without ever being able to figure out why they'd been so unfairly singled out.

A crowd assembled in response to Warner's klaxon. The Captain was holding up a single sheet of typeout fresh from the maw of some overworked printer.

Nobody offered him

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the microphone that rested, powered up and ready for use, beneath the big display screen. Warner didn't need one.

"I'll make this short." Somehow he managed to read and scan the room simultaneously, missing nothing on paper or on the floor. "This is a directive from Chief Evaner, who is acting on orders from the Mayor, who is under mandate from the Federal Bureau of Newcomer Relations. As of nine o'clock this morning, one Newcomer uniformed officer has been summarily promoted to the rank of Detective, Third Grade."

Moans of anguish rose from the crowd. A few others let loose with more descriptive and less polite commentary. Warner didn't wait for the disaffected to finish.

"And we've got him, people." This provoked further groans of dismay from the assembled men and women. "Volunteers for duty with the new detective should see me in my office. It's a guy, by the way." Somebody near the back of the squad room offered an exceptionally obscene comment. Warner's gaze sought him out and the offender was instantly silenced. "If no volunteers are forthcoming," he finished, "I'll choose one myself. That is all."

Ignoring the discontented rumble that was mounting behind him, he turned and disappeared into his office. After a few moments of animated, angry discussion, reality returned to the squad room. There were assignments to be carried out, reports to be collated, leads to be pursued. The crowd splintered into smaller clusters, the clusters themselves then fragmenting as officers and civilian employees alike returned to their work, their temporary outrage at Warner's announcement subsumed in the crush of morning duty.

Sykes hadn't moved. He leaned against the wall while gazing thoughtfully toward the Captain's office. The walls were double-thick bulletproof glass, nice and clean so the office's occupant could keep a steel eye on his people outside. It also allowed the detective to see inside.

He straightened away from the wall. Warner wasn't alone. A thin, balding man in a severe suit was speaking to him. But that wasn't what had caught Sykes's attention.

Standing off to one side and dominating the office by his 37

sheer bulk was a Newcomer in a gray suit. His shirt looked freshly pressed and his skin was immaculate. The russet patterns on his bald, rising skull were more distinctive and memorable than most.