Super City Cops --Undercover Blues Page 2

  Apollo got to his feet. Spiros rose a second later.

  Putting his hands on Spiros’s shoulders, Apollo looked down at him with his insane, blue eyes.

  “Welcome, loyal subject! Be you at the Helios Trust warehouse near the docklands this evening!”

  With that, Apollo turned his back on Spiros and walked to the back of the room.

  David quickly walked over to Spiros and said, “Time to go. Be at the warehouse at six – can you swing that with the halfway house?”

  Spiros nodded. “Yeah, I got it taken care of. That’s on 1st and Giacoia, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay.”

  As Spiros moved toward the staircase, David called out to him: “Oh, and bring a bag or something to put your clothes in!”

  ***

  Lieutenant Therese Zimmerman, the head of the detective squad of the Super City Police Department, looked at her Zap – a ZP500 smartphone – and saw that it was already ten after eight.

  Where the hell is he?

  She’d been standing on the roof of the parking garage on 3rd Street and Potts Place, and was seriously considering bagging it and going home when a beat-up sedan pulled onto the roof.

  The man who got out of the driver’s side of the car after it pulled to a stop next to Zimmerman’s SUV was not dressed the way the lieutenant had been expecting.

  “Why are you wearing a toga?” she asked him.

  “The meeting ran late, and I didn’t have time to change and still get here on time.”

  “You aren’t on time, you’re ten minutes late.”

  “Which is why I didn’t take the time to change. Anyhow, it’s not a toga, it’s a himation. That’s what the ancient Greeks wore – less bulky than togas, and more period.” He shook his head. “The things I do for this fucking job.”

  Zimmerman chuckled. “You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Elias. Or you want me to call you Phil?”

  Detective Elias Vondelikos just glared at his boss. “Bad enough that Bandaloukas and Apollo are calling me Phil Spiros, I really don’t need you doing it. Hate that name.”

  “Spiros already had a sheet. It was easier to just use that ID again than start a new one.”

  Vondelikos shook his head. “I know, I know, it’s just annoying. After the last time …” He shook his head. “Whatever, anyhow, we’re all set. The job’s later this week.”

  “There is a job, good.”

  Giving Zimmerman a look, Vondelikos said, “C’mon, Zim, there’s always a job with these guys.”

  “Maybe, but nobody’s been able to actually catch Apollo doing anything – not the costumes, and not us. That’s why we spent the last six months angling to get you into his gang.”

  “Oh, we’re not a gang. We’re his ‘subjects.’”

  Zimmerman grinned. “Which explains the toga.”

  “Himation.” Vondelikos shuddered. “Trust me, I got ten minutes on the differences between the two when I made the tactical error of asking why we had to wear togas.”

  Before the undercover detective decided to provide that ten-minute diatribe for her, Zimmerman quickly asked, “Where’s the job?”

  “Robinson Airfield. There’s a private jet coming in with a shit-ton of diamonds at four p.m. on Thursday. It’s a surprisingly smart hit for a crazy guy – Robinson’s all private, so they don’t have anywhere near the security that you have to deal with at Nocenti.”

  “Yeah.” Zimmerman still had nightmares about the time they’d gotten a tip about a costume battle that had been going down at Nocenti International Airport; coordinating with TSA had been horrific.

  Vondelikos added, “I’m driving the getaway car.”

  “Good.” This was finally paying off after half a year of Vondelikos reestablishing the Spiros ID. “Out of morbid curiosity, what’s your take?”

  “Five percent, payable in gold coins.”

  “Seriously?”

  “According to Apollo, paper money is the work of Ate.”

  Frowning, Zimmerman asked, “Which one is Ate?”

  “Goddess of mischief and folly.” Vondelikos blew out a breath. “Look, I gotta find somewhere to change. We’re covered at the halfway house, right?”

  “Yup. And I’ll get Singh started on a tactical plan,” she said, referring to Lieutenant Mike Singh, who commanded the Emergency Action Team, or “EATers” as everyone called them. “Good work, Elias.”

  Vondelikos grinned. “You’re just saying that ’cause the himation makes my legs look sexy.”

  At that, Zimmerman snorted. “Get back to the halfway house already. And change your clothes!”

  “Talk to you soon, Zim.”

  They both got into their vehicles and drove off, Zimmerman optimistic about the undercover operation for the first time in six months.

  CHAPTER 2

  Detective Kristin Milewski had never expected to visit this address ever again.

  She and her partner, Detective Jorge Alvarado, had been summoned to a brownstone on 73rd Street just off Kitchen Avenue to investigate a murder.

  “Geez,” Alvarado said as he exited the Chevy Malibu they’d driven to the crime scene. “How often does this happen?”

  Milewski gave her partner a sidewise glance. “Us driving to a murder scene? That would be every day.”

  “Wiseass. Nah, I mean we catch a body in Eisnerville. First time for me.”

  “Not the first time for me.” Milewski looked at the ten-stair stoop, on which two uniforms, Officers Paul Fiorello and Trevor Baptiste, were talking to a witness, Baptiste scribbling furiously in his notebook. Milewski was grateful that Baptiste was the one taking notes, as Fiorello had shit handwriting.

  The crime-scene tape was covering the waist-high fence just to the right of the stoop, and more cops and crime-scene techs were milling about in the patio area in front of the door under the stoop that led to the ground-floor apartment. “Not even the first time at this address.”

  Alvarado shot her a look. “Seriously? Landlords must hate this building.”

  Milewski said nothing, instead walking up to Officer M.C. Cunningham, the uniform closest to the ground-floor apartment door. “What’ve we got?”

  Checking her notebook, Cunningham said, “Vic’s a white male, late forties, name of Oliver Reinoehl. His name’s on the apartment lease, too, but so’s a woman named Gloria Reinoehl. I only mention that because the guy definitely lives alone.”

  “Motherfuck,” Milewski muttered.

  Alvarado meanwhile asked, “And we’re sure this is Amethyst again?”

  Cunningham nodded. “Next-door neighbor, upstairs neighbor, and a lady walking her dog all confirmed that a black-and-purple-costumed guy flew in and out.”

  “Sonofabitch. So that’s three now.” Alvarado then said, “This is gettin’ scary, huh, partner?”

  But while Milewski heard Alvarado speak, she was too lost in thought to acknowledge him.

  “Yo, Detective Mi-lew-skee.”

  That got her attention. “Fuck you, Alvarado, it’s Mah-lov-skee.”

  “You are awake.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” She shook her head, then looked at Cunningham. “I can’t believe Reinoehl’s still living here. Why you say he definitely lives alone?”

  Shrugging, Cunningham said, “No women’s clothes in the closet and bureau, all the toiletries are men’s, and the seat’s up.”

  Milewski snorted at that last one, recalling the pitched battles she and her mother had with her brothers and father to get them to put the seat down.

  “You know the vic?” Alvarado asked.

  “That last murder here? Was Gloria Reinoehl, the other name on the lease.”

  “Wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck.”

  Milewski sighed. “We thought the husband was good for it. She was killed with a .38, and Oliver had a .38 registered in his name, but he said it had been stolen and we never found it. We never had enough to indict him, much less convict. Case is still open.”

  A crime-scene tech gave them gloves and booties before they walked into the apartment. Dr. Ajay Prakesh from the medical examiner’s office was kneeling over the body lying in the middle of the living room floor. A lot of the furniture had been upended.

  “Looks like he put up a fight,” Alvarado said as he put his gloves on.

  Milewski, having done the same, just nodded.

  While the body had a large hole burned in the center of it, the face was intact, a look of shock and confusion frozen on it forever: Oliver Reinoehl.

  “Mac and I stared at that face across the interrogation room table four damn times. He kept insisting he didn’t do it.”

  “Your old partner?”

  “Yeah, Peter MacAvoy. That was our last case before he took his thirty and retired.”

  “Shit. He went out on an open case?”

  “Technically, it’s my open case. He didn’t want to be the primary on his last call in case it went past his retirement date, so I got stuck with it.” She looked at Prakesh. “Same as the other two?”

  Standing upright, Prakesh said, “Yes. Burn patterns in the chest look to match those of Lincoln and Mayfield.”

  Amethyst’s two previous victims had been a member of the 89 Gang, and the super-villain known as the Swordfighter, real name Kent Mayfield.

  One of the crime-scene nerds called over from the turned-on-its-side couch. “For what it’s worth, Detectives, we’re picking up the same residue on this couch that we’ve seen at other scenes Amethyst has been at.”
/>
  Alvarado shook his head. “Witnesses all said he was here, so – yeah. Whoever this new Amethyst is, he sure as shit ain’t living up to the ‘hero’ part of superhero the way the last few did.”

  Milewski and Alvarado had solved the murder of the previous person who’d made use of the purple gem that gave the Amethysts their powers. But the gem had disappeared out of evidence control and there was a new Amethyst working in Super City.

  Never before had the hero going by that name been the prime suspect in a murder – much less three.

  “Excuse me, Detectives?”

  Turning, Milewski saw Baptiste poking his head in the doorway.

  “Yeah, Trev?” she prompted.

  “We just spoke to the upstairs neighbor, a Ms. Overton. She said she heard the noises and came out onto the stoop.” Baptiste looked down at his notebook. “She said she heard someone with a strange voice say, ‘You ain’t gettin’ away with murder no more.’”

  Milewski frowned. “O-o-okay. Thanks, Trev.”

  Nodding, Baptiste went back outside, not having actually crossed the threshold. Milewski couldn’t blame him for not wanting to put booties and gloves on just to deliver a quick bit of evidence.

  “I don’t like that look,” Alvarado said.

  “What’s wrong with my look?”

  “That look makes it seem like that comment was a bigger deal than it sounded to me.”

  “It is.” Milewski blew out a long breath. “Gloria Reinoehl’s murder wasn’t a press case. Outside their immediate family, and the cops involved, nobody really knew much at all about it. It was just another domestic gone bad, like all the others. Didn’t involve the costumes, so it never made the TV news.”

  “So?”

  “So how the fuck did Amethyst even know about it? I mean, a banger, sure, a costume’d deal with those assholes on a regular basis. And the Swordfighter’s just another bad guy. Killing ’em’s extreme, but still in the right wheelhouse for even an Amethyst who’d gone nuts.”

  “This don’t fit the profile,” Alvarado said.

  “If there even is one for this kind of thing.” She looked around at the cops and techs. “I don’t suppose anyone found a .38?”

  Everyone shook their heads. Cunningham said, “I found an ammo box with .38 slugs in it in the bedroom closet, but the box had dust on it.”

  Alvarado looked at Milewski. “That tracks with the gun being stolen.”

  “Which he never reported. He said it was because he didn’t want to worry Gloria, which Mac and I both thought was purest horseshit. Anyhow, the murder was months ago, that dust could’ve gotten on it since he killed Gloria.”

  The pair of them just stared at the body of Oliver Reinoehl for several seconds.

  Alvarado finally broke the silence. “Okay, here’s the big question, partner. We know who did this. We got ironclad evidence that this was Amethyst. We got witnesses at all three scenes, we got forensics that show that he was here.”

  Milewski glared at him. “You promised me a question.”

  Grinning, Alvarado said, “Right.” His face got serious again. “How the fuck are we supposed to arrest him?”

  Staring down at the permanently frightened face of Oliver Reinoehl, Milewski just shook her head and said, “Damned if I know.”

  ***

  Baptiste went back to the stoop, where Fiorello was waiting.

  “You tell ’em?”

  “Of course I did. How could I not?”

  Fiorello shook his head. “Yeah. But just what the lady said, right?”

  “Yes, Paul.”

  “Good.”

  The two partners said nothing until they were dismissed from the crime scene, which happened after the detectives released the body to Prakesh and it was put in the ME van.

  Baptiste got into the driver’s side of the blue-and-white while Fiorello fell, more than sat, in the passenger side.

  As Baptiste pulled out onto Kitchen, Fiorello snatched the radio. “PCD, this is Unit 2202 with a signal ninety-eight.”

  “Roger, 2202.”

  Then Fiorello hit the roof of the car with his fist. “This is totally fucked up.”

  “Yes, it is. But we are between a rock and a hard place. If we reveal that Sean is the new Amethyst –”

  “Yeah, we’ll be asked how we know. And that rock you just mentioned is what the bosses’ll hit us with. Hell, if I know Krissie Milewski, she’ll shoot us both in the gut.”

  “We should have said something right away.”

  “Shoulda coulda woulda, Trev. Too fucking late now. It’s been a goddamn month.” Fiorello shook his head. “Besides, he’s my fucking partner.”

  “No longer. Sean O’Malley has ceased to be a police officer – both literally and philosophically. He took his disability pension and retired, and his behavior as the new Amethyst has proven that he no longer has any interest in upholding the law.”

  “Fine, whatever. Look, I get it, he ain’t my partner no more. Shit, I ain’t even sure he’s really Sean no more, y’know? I’m thinking that gem did something to his head.”

  “Perhaps.” Baptiste turned the blue-and-white onto 68th Street. “I think we should come forward with what we know.”

  “No fucking way. We’d lose our shields, at the very least.”

  Baptiste was livid. “And what is the alternative, Paul? We simply sit by and let more people be killed?”

  “Oh, spare me the bullshit, will you please? These ain’t people, they’re fucking humps. The 89 Gang’s been dealing and doing protection racket shit for years. They lose a member once a week whether they need to or not. Swordfighter’s only not in for attempted murder because the search warrant got fucked up, and Oliver Reinoehl’s a goddamn wife-killer.”

  Feeling his temper rising, Baptiste tamped it down, using Fiorello’s last comment as a way to, if not change the subject, at least move it temporarily to an aspect of the subject that was less fraught. “I heard someone mentioning that at the scene, but I don’t recall the case.”

  “I was still humping a desk, and I wound up processing most of the paperwork on that one for Krissie and Mac. That was Mac’s last case before he took his thirty. That fucker killed his wife, but they couldn’t put together enough evidence. Mac bitched about it at his going-away party at Manny’s.”

  Baptiste nodded. “I did not attend that.”

  “You should’ve, it was epic. Wacks threw up, Cunningham actually danced on the table, and Mac passed out in the middle of his speech.”

  An awkward, empty silence followed that comment, as Baptiste found he had nothing to say in response to Fiorello’s description of Peter MacAvoy’s retirement party that wouldn’t be insulting.

  The radio squawked. “All units in the vicinity of Kirby Park, north lawn, crowd control needed for costume assault.”

  While Baptiste turned onto Zeck Avenue, Fiorello turned on the siren and grabbed the radio again. “Unit 2202, signal four.”

  “Roger, 2202.”

  As he sped down Zeck toward Kirby Park, Baptiste said, “Look, Paul, I will do nothing without your consent. If you do not wish to report the truth, I will stand by you.”

  Fiorello’s shoulders slumped, and Baptiste got the impression that he was letting out a breath he’d been holding since they got to the Reinoehl apartment. “Thanks, Trev. I mean it, thanks. That means a shit-ton.”

  “You are my partner. But as your partner, I must urge you to reconsider.”

  “No fuckin’ way. I ain’t getting us put in the jackpot, and I ain’t lookin’ for a new career after they take our shields for this. Fuck that.”

  Baptiste sighed as he weaved the blue-and-white around slow-moving and double-parked cars.

  ***

  Much later that night, Fiorello stumbled out of a bar on 29th Street.

  He had drunk enough that he had completely forgotten the name of the bar.

  He had drunk enough that he couldn’t manage to turn his head around to look to ascertain the name of the bar.

  He had drunk enough that he knew he was going to be hungover as fuck tomorrow, and thank Christ he had the day off.