Case of the Claw Page 5

  Turning to MacAvoy, Milewski asked, "What the hell?"

  "What the hell what?"

  "These kids are lying. They're not even lying well. And this is a murder investigation."

  "And these are kids," MacAvoy said. "They were probably doing something they weren't supposed to do, using Frieda's mother's neglectful tendencies as a cover. If it was just guys, I'd guess they went to a strip club, but since girls are involved, I'm guessing they were smoking or drinking or shooting something they shouldn't have been."

  Milewski blinked several times. MacAvoy seemed to be making her point for her. "And we don't tell the principal this, why, exactly?"

  "Because we don't know for sure that what they were doing is any of his business, because this is a murder investigation that's under eight thousand kinds of scrutiny from on high, which means we can't afford to get distracted by side stuff, because school principals always assume the worst, and I'd rather not tell him anything until we know for sure, and because I said so, rook."

  "If these kids did something illegal, we need to know about it, and so does the principal."

  "C'mon, they're just being kids. Experimenting—it's what being a teenager's all about."

  Unable to believe what she was hearing, Milewski said, "Jesus, Mac, you just said they might be going to strip clubs? This is normal?"

  Giving her a pitying look that Milewski just wanted to punch, MacAvoy said, "God, you were one of those uptight girls we always hated in high school, weren't you? Lemme guess, National Honors Society? In the running for valedictorian? On the yearbook?"

  Turning away, hoping she wasn't flushing with embarrassment, Milewski said, "So what?"

  "I knew it." MacAvoy barked a laugh. "Explains so much."

  Right at that moment, Milewski wished she hadn't pissed Zimmerman off, because now there was no way she was going to be able to ask to be reassigned a new partner. Whether or not MacAvoy treated her like shit because she was a woman or because she was a rookie or just because he was a flaming asshole, it still boiled down to her being treated like shit, and she was sick and tired of it.

  Pettitte came in, then, with a manila folder, which he handed to Milewski. She considered that a minor moral victory.

  Opening the file, the first thing she saw was her address, 1220 Roth Street, which would put it right at the corner of 37th Street, just like Alberto said.

  "Well, they got the address right." Milewski scanned the file. "Her father's dead—apparently he was in the ConwayBuilding." That got a shudder out of Milewski. The ConwayBuilding had been destroyed by the Brute Squad while it was filled with office workers. Hundreds had died, and the process of identifying all of them was still going on. "Mother works two jobs, one of which is at a diner, which explains her not being home on a Sunday night."

  MacAvoy frowned, and grabbed the folder out of Milewski's hands.

  "Hey!"

  "Roth and 37th," MacAvoy muttered. "That doesn't make sense. The Jones girl, she said that she saw Monte going down 38th toward Giacoia."

  "So what?" Then Milewski thought it through. "Wait, Monte's apartment's on Giacoia and 34th. Why would he go up to 38th first?" She regarded MacAvoy. "Any strip clubs on 38th?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Well, you're the expert."

  "Please." MacAvoy peered at her over the top of his glasses. "When I'm hungry, I don't watch someone cook a steak. If I'm gonna pay for tits, I wanna touch 'em."

  Charming. Milewski didn't say that out loud, though, because something was nagging her in the back of the head. "Hang on, remember when we were checking the scenes last night, there was a radio call for CSU for a scene at 38th and Siegel, where that condemned building is?"

  "No," MacAvoy said. "And anyhow, that call would've been way after these kids left."

  "It was for a costume fight—the Bengal against somebody. That fight started around ten."

  Shrugging, MacAvoy said, "If it's about costumes, I'll take your word for it." He grinned, showing teeth gone yellow from smoking. "You're the expert."

  "Very funny." She got up and opened the door. Pettitte was sitting outside with two other children; she assumed the girl to be Frieda Jackson. "Frieda, you can come in now."

  The girl, who was smaller than any of the others who'd come in, sat down in the chair facing the two detectives. Like Jay Bond, she kept looking at the floor.

  Putting on the voice she used with her eight-year-old niece, even though Frieda was a teenager, Milewski asked, "Frieda, what were you and your friends doing last night?"

  Frieda looked up for a second and said, "Studying for our history test." Then she looked back down.

  "World War II, right?"

  Without looking up, Frieda nodded.

  "I'm curious, Frieda, did you hear about the fight the Bengal had last night?"

  She looked up again. "What?"

  "It was right in your neighborhood—that condemned building on Siegel."

  In a much quieter voice, Frieda said, "I don't know nothin' about that fight Bengal had with Arachnos."

  One of MacAvoy's eyebrows raised. Milewski had to keep from smiling as he asked, "How'd you know he fought Arachnos?"

  Defensively, Frieda replied, "You just said."

  "No, Frieda, we didn't," Milewski said, thinking, Sometimes it's too easy. "Why don't you tell me what you guys really did, okay?"

  MacAvoy added, "You won't get in trouble. Whatever you tell us stays between the three of us."

  "Among," Frieda said, looking back down at the floor.

  "What?" MacAvoy asked, sounding as confused as Milewski felt.

  Frieda looked back up at MacAvoy. "If it's three people, it's among, not between."

  Now Milewski did smile.

  "Fine," MacAvoy said tightly, "it'll stay among the three of us."

  Frieda looked back down again for several seconds. Just when Milewski feared she had fallen asleep or something, she looked back up, and there was terror in her eyes. "We didn't mean nothin'—we heard the Bengal and Arachnos was throwin' down and we wanted to see! We knew we'd get in trouble if we went to that building—some kids got arrested when they went in there last month—so we all promised we'd say we was studyin'. Monte was the one who came up with that Hiroshima thing, so if anybody asked, that's what we'd say. We said we was at my house, 'cause my Mom's never home. We ain't gonna get in trouble, are we?"

  Amazingly, Frieda said all that without taking a breath. Her expression had gotten more terrified as she went on.

  "It's okay, Frieda," MacAvoy said. "We're just trying to find out who killed Monte."

  "I don't know! We didn't see nothin'! I mean, we saw the Bengal, and we saw Arachnos go after him with all those extra arms he got, but then it was gettin' late and LaWanda and Jody had to be gettin' home, so we left. Monte went off home, and that was the last time I saw him, honest!"

  MacAvoy and Milewski both assured Frieda several times that they wouldn't tell Pettitte what they'd done. They then brought Corey in, who told the same bullshit story.

  "What do you think?" Milewski asked.

  "Oh, now you care what I think?"

  Rolling her eyes, Milewski said, "Come off it, Mac, just tell me what you thought."

  "That's rich—you telling me to come off it. Real funny." He took off his glasses and wiped them with his tie. "Anyhow, I think this was a waste of time. Doesn't matter if these kids studied, saw two costumes beat each other down, or shot up on heroin, they didn't see anything we give a damn about. So we go to the M.E.'s and see if Soohoo finished the autopsies yet."

  "Yeah." Milewski sighed. "Woulda been nice if somebody saw something."

  "They didn't," MacAvoy said. "I knew this was a dead end from the moment the first kid started talking. These are Monte's friends, they weren't about to leave out anything that might find his killer."

  Milewski was aghast. "So why'd you keep going?"

  He shrugged, putting his glasses back on. "In case I was wrong. 'Sides, I k
new they were lying about the studying thing, and I was curious." He walked toward the door. "C'mon, let's get outta this dump. Reminds me too much of when I was a pimply faced kid."

  Shaking her head, Milewski followed MacAvoy out, wishing there was some way to get a new partner.

  3.45pm

  "So she comes up to me, and she's wearing this white tube top that's barely holding in cleavage you could lose a horse in. Hip-hugger jeans that were as far as they could go without giving me cause to arrest her for exposure. And her hair—oh, man, the hair."

  Detective Bart Billinghurst of the Homicide Unit had the drawer to his desk open. He had been resting his feet on it while leaning back in his creaky metal chair and listening to his partner, Detective Marty "King" Fischer, go on—and on and on—about his sexual exploits. By the time he got to her hair, he had put his feet down, and was now contemplating the department-issue Beretta nine-millimeter pistol inside the drawer.

  Looking up at Fischer, Billinghurst said, "Y'know, King, I'm looking down here at my weapon, and I'm trying to figure out what's the best way to use it to put me out of my misery—by shooting myself or shooting you."

  "Gimme a break, Bart." Fischer smiled, showing his perfect teeth. It had always driven Billinghurst crazy, seeing Fischer's straight, white, magnificent smile every day while Billinghurst himself had strained the department's dental plan to the limit with a series of gum surgeries, root canals, and fillings.

  Fischer went on: "I've literally got nothing to do. I'm caught up on paperwork—for, I might add, the first time in my career—and Zim wants us on the phones in case a body falls."

  "Yeah." Billinghurst looked around the Homicide section of the detectives' squadroom on the second floor, and it was unusually quiet. Most of the Homicide Unit was out working the Claw case. Having just closed the triple in Leesfield, Fischer and Billinghurst were next up in the rotation.

  They had asked Lieutenant Zimmerman what they needed to do—since they figured that MacAvoy and Milewski would need all the help they could get on this red-ball case—but the lieutenant surprised them by telling them to stay on the phones. "I don't want a citizen bitching us out for not closing their loved one's murder because they were unlucky enough to die when we were Claw chasing."

  Fischer's main complaint was that it meant they wouldn't be getting the overtime that everyone else was reaping the benefits of. At this point, it didn't matter—in fifteen minutes it would be four o'clock, and they could both go home. Billinghurst planned to pick up the kids from Thelma's. Billinghurst's sister-in-law was house-bound ever since a brick wall fell on her back during a fight between the Terrific Trio and some aliens or other. The Trio's settlement money meant Thelma could afford to stay home (and refurbish her house to make it wheelchair accessible), and she took care of the kids while their parents were at work.

  "So anyhow, we talked for a while—she's a dental hygienist. I say to myself, 'what a time to have good teeth.' If I just had crap molars like you, I'd've been in like Flynn."

  Billinghurst leaned back, his chair squeaking. "Okay, first of all? Nobody, and I mean nobody, says 'in like Flynn' anymore. And secondly, I don't care if this woman was the second coming of HalleBerry, there is no amount of sex in the universe that's worth my dental problems."

  "That, my friend, is a sad commentary on your sex life." Again, the perfect smile, which went naturally with his blond hair and blue eyes. When they were first partnered up, Billinghurst had pegged Fischer as Aryan bastard, but he was actually good police, and he was only an asshole when pretty women were around.

  And even then it was only certain pretty women. He'd learned the hard way that Zim wasn't someone he should be hitting on under any circumstances. Which was why he sat up straighter when she walked over to the desk. Billinghurst leaned forward, straightening his back and making the chair squeak again. He actually had smelled Zimmerman coming before he heard or saw her—she was wearing the Chanel perfume she always put on when she had a date with her socialite boyfriend.

  Zimmerman was holding a Post-It in her hand. "Got something for you guys."

  Fischer looked at his watch. "It's almost quittin' time, boss. Can't you give it to the next shift?"

  "Yeah," Billinghurst said, "I promised Ida I'd pick up the kids today. Besides, she's workin' late, and I don't want Thelma to have to take them half the night."

  "Sorry, Bart. This is SuperCity. I need two detectives on the evening shift doing what you've been doing for the next body that falls, with everyone else on the Claw. So you guys gotta get this one."

  Billinghurst was about to renew his objection, but Fischer talked first. "We get OT?"

  Smiling, Zimmerman said, "Yes, you get OT."

  Thinking about that trip to Florida that they'd been promising Mikey and Kendra for months, Billinghurst relented. "Yeah, okay, fine."

  "Good. Someone called in Amethyst tangling with the Clone Master, and unis just reported a body."

  Billinghurst's face fell. "No."

  "Yup. It's the Clone Master."

  "C'mon, Zim, not again, we got him last time."

  "Actually, no, Mac and Milewski got him last time—that was Kristin's first case."

  Billinghurst put his head in his hands. "Yeah, great way to break her into Homicide, with the nightmare. You can't do this to us, Zim."

  "I can and I will. You know the law, boys—a body falls in SuperCity, Homicide investigates."

  Taking the Post-It from Zimmerman, Fischer said, "We're on it, boss, don't worry."

  "I knew I could count on you two to follow my direct order," Zimmerman said with a grin. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for my date."

  Fischer had a grin of his own. "Ah, another hot date with Mr. Clean?" Billinghurst derived a certain satisfaction from the fact that he'd deduced Zimmerman's date with Marc McLean while his partner had had to have it spoon-fed to him.

  "Go solve your case, Detective," Zimmerman said coldly, turning on her high heels and heading back to her office.

  "You know what I don't get?" Fischer asked.

  Billinghurst still had his head in his hands. Zimmerman's perfume continued to linger in the air like rainclouds before a storm. "Probably."

  "I don't get why she tries to be so secretive about her love life when she's dating SuperCity's answer to Donald Trump. She's the only cop who appears on the society pages." Fischer walked over to his desk, which was perpendicular across the aisle from Billinghurst's. "And I don't get why you're pissin' and moanin' about getting OT on a dunker."

  "It's not a dunker, King. Dunkers are when somebody's standing over the body holding a smoking gun or a bloody knife. Dunkers are when somebody walks in and says, 'I killed my wife and stuck her in the basement freezer and I'm just sick about it, could you arrest me, please?' Dunkers are when the Bolt fries somebody right under a traffic camera. But when a guy who has about a hundred clones of himself all mind-linked to him, and the one that's currently floating around dies, it's not a dunker, it's just us doing paperwork for no good reason until the next clone shows up to exact revenge for his own murder, and then we wind up with an open case under our names."

  Shrugging into his suit jacket, Fischer said, "Yeah, and starting in seven minutes—which is about as long as it should take us to pry a Malibu out of the motor pool—we're getting paid extra to do it. I ain't seein' the downside here."

  Billinghurst opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Life's too damn short, he decided. "Forget it." He stood, put on his own suit jacket, then pulled his cell phone out of the inner pocket. "I gotta let Ida and Thelma know what's goin' down."

  5.45pm

  Emmanuelli's reminded Therese Zimmerman of Florence. She'd first visited that Italian city when she was a teenager, and had been utterly charmed by it, enough to go back four times. Emmanuelli's had the same exposed brick, beautiful landscape paintings, and general continental charm.

  She was almost finished with one glass of red wine—a Chia
nti classico—and was trying to get the waiter's attention to order another when Marc McLean finally arrived.

  The last trip to Florence a year ago was with Marc. It was over a long weekend, and it was glorious. He'd never been, so she got to show him her favorite places. They'd gone shopping on the Ponte Vecchio, they'd spent all of Sunday at the Uffizi Gallery, and they'd had some amazing dinners.

  "Sorry I'm late." He shrugged out of his charcoal pinstriped jacket. He draped it neatly across the back of his chair, then leaned over to kiss Therese. As always, his lips were warm and salty, and the touch of them against hers never failed to calm her.

  "Couldn't get a cab?" she asked with a warm smile.

  "No, just got held up at the office. Some documents had to go out tonight, and they needed my signature, and—well, call me crazy, but I like to read things before I sign my name to them." He seated his six-foot-eight-inch frame, adjusting his glasses and running a hand through his straight dark brown hair. He was wearing an immaculately pressed white shirt and a dark blue tie. Even though he'd run breathlessly into the restaurant, there was no sign of sweat on his person or on the white shirt. His pants, which matched the jacket, were held up by a pair of suspenders the same color as the tie, and he had a clip on one belt loop of his pants that held a Zap.

  "You could've called," she said, swallowing the rest of her wine. "Honestly, every second I'm out of the office right now, I get nervous."

  "The Claw?"

  "Among other things. We had to kick a guy today that the Cowboy brought in. He was the only witness, and without him, we didn't have—have anything to hold the guy on." She was going to say "we didn't have shit," but even though Marc never objected when other people cursed, she felt funny doing so around him. It was like he had an air of purity around him or something. "The deputy prosecutor had us let him go."

  "I'm sure the Cowboy didn't mean any harm," Marc said. "He was just bringing in a criminal."

  How did I know he was going to defend the costume? Before she could point out that bringing in a criminal wasn't enough all by itself, there needed to be actual evidence of a crime, the waiter came over, and spoke with an Italian accent. That was another thing Therese liked about this place, all the staff were first- or second-generation Italian. "May I get the gentleman something to drink?"