Super City Cops --Undercover Blues Page 4

  Before Frank could make with the clippers, however, Vondelikos was again startled by a sudden loud noise. But it wasn’t a plane this time. It was a voice.

  “YEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAW!”

  Oh, fuck, no.

  Zimmerman had alerted the Superlative Six and the Terrific Trio and Major Marine, and she said she was going to alert the Bruiser. And the latter two would probably spread the word among any others they might have come across. The costume fraternity was pretty close-knit for the most part.

  But there was one guy who was never seen to work with other costumes, who drove the police nuts, who drove the other heroes nuts, but whom the people loved.

  The Cowboy.

  He swung down from a building across 104th on one of the seemingly infinite number of lassos he had and landed right on Frank, who crashed to the sidewalk.

  The Cowboy got to his feet with ease. Frank lay on the ground, bleeding from the head.

  Fuck fuck fuck. Vondelikos had no idea what to do. He didn’t have a phone on him – Apollo didn’t allow any equipment beyond the van, what Frank needed to get through the fence, and the AR-15s – and even if he did, he could hardly call 911 when he was in the midst of committing a felony.

  But we haven’t committed the damn felony yet.

  Helplessly, Vondelikos watched the Cowboy take stock of the situation. He wore a white cowboy hat (of course), a blue domino mask, a denim shirt with a leather vest over it, jeans, and cowboy boots with spurs and a fancy pattern on them. Where a real cowboy would have had a gun belt, he had a flat, wide leather belt that held a mess of lassos.

  Right now, he was whirling one of those lassos over his head and throwing it at the two gang members closest to him, who were still trying to figure out what was going on.

  The lasso wrapped around the two of them and tightened so that their arms were pinned to their sides.

  The Cowboy then threw them right at the cargo van. The pair flew through the air and collided with the van, rocking it.

  “Mendicant!” Apollo cried. “How dare you interfere in the divine purpose of Apollo!”

  “Sorry, varmint, but it’s time for your last roundup.”

  Vondelikos was starting to think his best bet would be to drive away. If nothing else, he’d be spared the nonsense that both hero and villain were spewing. Can’t believe these are two human beings talking.

  The other three guys got their shit together and aimed their AR-15s at the Cowboy, but the costume leapt into the air with the bullets slamming into the airfield fence.

  This is a damn disaster. Where’s Singh and the EATers? Technically, they were under orders not to move until Apollo committed the theft, and he hadn’t even done the breaking-and-entering part yet. But this was rapidly turning into a blown op. Maybe we’ll be lucky, and Apollo will win the fight.

  Somehow, moving incredibly fast, the Cowboy took the three gunmen down. They lay on the 104th Street sidewalk, moaning and bleeding.

  Then Apollo finally struck as he raised his arms and lightning struck the pavement.

  It only didn’t strike the Cowboy because he again leapt out of the way. Whatever else Vondelikos thought of the sonofabitch, he could move.

  “Curse you, mendicant!” Apollo raised his arms again and more lightning struck –

  – right by the van, which then went flying into the air, flipping upside down.

  Shit!

  Vondelikos tried to hang on, the seatbelt pressing against his chest as the van flipped over.

  The side of his head collided with the steering wheel, and the whole world went dark …

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  CHAPTER 4

  Officer Paul Fiorello tried very hard to focus.

  He was pretty sure that he was on the 29th Street sidewalk.

  He was also pretty sure that he had passed out.

  Pushing his hands against the cold sidewalk, he managed to sit upright at least.

  “Jesus, Paulie, you okay?”

  Again, Fiorello tried to focus.

  All he saw was a head covered in all-black.

  “Paulie, you all right?”

  “The – the fuck?”

  Then the black head shimmered and became the face of his ex-partner, Sean O’Malley.

  Finally, his drunken brain put it all together: it was Sean, who was also Amethyst, whose costume was a full-body all-black outfit that covered everything.

  But Amethyst could make parts of the costume go away at will, and now his face was revealed.

  “Fuck me, but y’fuckin’ ugly, Sean, y’know ’at?”

  “Yeah, and you’re drunk, Paulie.”

  Fiorello giggled. “Yeah, but inna mornin’, I’mma be sober.”

  “Fucking hilarious, partner. C’mon, let’s get you up.”

  A purple band of – well, something – wrapped around Fiorello and picked him up off the sidewalk, placing him in an upright position.

  Once it disappeared, Fiorello stumbled, but managed to steady himself on the wall of a building.

  “Fuck.” Fiorello actually felt his head start to clear. And also start to hurt like a motherfucker, but at least he could form words. “Man, I feel like shit.”

  “What the hell, Paulie? Since when you get trashed on a school night? Hell with that, since when you get mugged?”

  Fiorello almost spit on O’Malley. “I dunno, partner, since when you a murderer?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you, Sean!” Wincing, Fiorello put the hand that wasn’t on the wall to his forehead. “Jesus.” Lowering his voice, he went on: “You’re goin’ on a fuckin’ spree!”

  “I didn’t murder nobody! I took care’a business. Look, Lincoln got kicked ’cause he was busted without probable cause, Swordfighter’s search warrant got borked, an’ Reinoehl? That motherfucker murdered his wife and got away with it!”

  “You know you’re a fucking case now, right?”

  O’Malley stared at him. “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

  “I mean Krissie and Jorge are on the case. Your fucking case! Lincoln and that Swordfighter asshole and Reinoehl are now Krissie’s cases, and they’re going after you, you stupid shithead!” Again he put his hand to his head. I really need to stop yelling.

  “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Bitch Milewski can eat my dust all she wants. See, y’know what I learned since I got this gem, Paulie?”

  “That you can fuck your friends in the ass?”

  “No, asshole, that the cops don’t got the power in this town.”

  Fiorello shook his head, an action he immediately regretted. “An’ you got the power?”

  “Damn right.”

  Then O’Malley laughed. Fiorello had heard his erstwhile partner laugh any number of times, but never had the laugh been as cruel as what he heard out of his mouth right now.

  “Y’know what, Paulie?” O’Malley said as he walked away from Fiorello. “I was gonna tell you to warn Bitch Milewski and her new partner to stay away from me, but I don’t really give a fuck. Let ’em do what they want. They can’t fuckin’ touch me.”

  With that, O’Malley let the face mask cover his entire head again. He wasn’t Sean O’Malley anymore, he was Amethyst.

  Maybe he wasn’t O’Malley at all anymore, face mask or not.

  Either way, he flew off. As he did so, he said, “By the way, I left the fucknut alive. Figured you’d want your own crack at him. Later, partner!”

  Fiorello watched as Amethyst flew into the night. He was out of sight pretty quickly.

  Then he looked down at the sidewalk, and saw the guy who helped him to his feet only to try to mug him lying moaning near a lamppost.

  He also saw the knife the would-be mugger had used, over by the wall.

  Picking it up, Fiorello put the knife in his back pocket and went over to the asshole, grabbing him by the lapels of his denim jacket and hauling him to his feet.

  The man’s face was covered in contusions and blood. “No – no more, p’ease …” he muttered.

  For half a second, Fiorello thought about finishing what O’Malley – what Amethyst – had started.

  For another half a second, he thought about using his powers on the bastard to get him to go to SCPD HQ and turn himself in.

  Both notions made him sick to his stomach.

  Or maybe it was the booze.

  Either way, he let go of the man and walked away.

  “Hey!”

  Fiorello turned around. “Don’t push your luck, shithead.”

  “I jus’ wanna know’f I c’n have m’knife back.”

  “Seriously? Do you have any idea how close you came to getting your stupid ass killed tonight? Do you?”

  “C’mon, I paid a lotta money f’that knife!”

  “Jesus.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Fiorello continued down 29th toward his apartment.

  ***

  Lieutenant Therese Zimmerman stood at the foot of the staircase that led to the second floor of SCPD HQ. At the top of those stairs were her office, the detectives’ squad room, and the interrogation rooms.

  From here at the bottom, she had an excellent view of the main desk, where Sergeant Karen Taylor ran the place. The uniforms all had desks here, and this was where the captain’s office was, as well, in addition to some more interrogation rooms.

  And right now what she saw did not please her.

  Four EATers were surrounding Apollo, who had been handcuffed with damps – power-dampening shackles that SCPD had been given by the Terrific Trio in order to incarcerate super-powered perpetrators. The five of them stood at the booking desk while Taylor got the paperwork started.

  Lieutenant Mike Singh walked over to Zimmerman. Singh was far too even-tempered to ever actually be pissed off – it was one of the reasons why he was a good choice to be in charge of the Emergency Action Team – but he did look a bit nauseous, which was as close as he ever got.

  Zimmerman deliberately stood on the first step. Between that and the fact that Singh was only five foot five, it allowed her to loom menacingly over him.

  “What the hell happened?” she asked as he approached.

  “The Cowboy. He just zipped in and started roping people, and beating people up.”

  Zimmerman waved her hand back and forth. “Yeah, I know that part, what I need to know is what you didn’t say when you called it in – was it before or after the theft?”

  Singh flinched. “It was before they even broke in.”

  “Shit. So what do we have him on?”

  Glancing back to make sure they were out of earshot of the desk, Singh said, “I dunno, unlawful assembly? Incitement to riot? Indecent exposure? His goons all were carrying AR-15s, but the man himself was unarmed.”

  Zimmerman sighed. AR-15s were illegal to carry within the city limits, so there was that. “Where are the goons, anyhow?”

  “Kane Memorial. Cowboy did a number on all of them. Including, I guess, your UC?”

  “Yeah.” For security, Zimmerman and the commissioner were the only ones who knew which of Apollo’s “subjects” was the undercover cop.

  “And there was someone from the Robinson ground crew on the other side of the fence who looked like he was recording it all on his Zap, so figure that video’s gone viral by now.”

  “Happy fucking joy.” Zimmerman put her head in her hands. “I assume you Mirandized Apollo?”

  “Yeah, and the first thing he did was take me up on his right to an attorney.”

  “Great. I was worried there might actually be some good news. Thanks for that.”

  Singh shrugged. “Sorry, Zim. Look, you did everything you could. But Cowboy’s a loose cannon. Always has been.”

  “Yeah. Did he give a real name?”

  “Cowboy?”

  Zimmerman snarled, and Singh flinched again. “No, Apollo!”

  “Oh. No, he didn’t, but the sergeant will run his prints.”

  “Good. When he’s processed, put him in Interrogation Two until his lawyer gets here.”

  Nodding, Singh went back to the desk.

  Zimmerman went upstairs to her office. The first thing she did was call Kane Memorial and ask for the health status of all seven people brought in by the police in connection with the Robinson Airfield fight. She ignored the other six, but was pleased to hear that Phillip T. Spiros had only received mild contusions and abrasions, but was being held overnight for observation due to showing symptoms of a concussion.

  Next, she checked online to see if that ground crewperson had indeed uploaded the video of Cowboy trashing Apollo’s gang.

  Not surprisingly, it was all over the internet, from social media to costume-themed blogs and web sites. Zimmerman figured it would hit the news sites within another hour. If they were lucky, it was too late to get on tonight’s News 6 at 6, but it would for damn sure be the top story tomorrow morning.

  Her phone rang, and the display told her it was from City Hall.

  Considering and discarding the notion of letting voicemail take it, she picked up the phone with a due sense of anticipation and dread. “Zimmerman.”

  “Hold for Commissioner Dellamonica, please.”

  Zimmerman sighed. Why did the commissioner have to call her to give his daily dose of shit to the lower ranks? Why not the captain, like usual?

  A moment later, Enzo Dellamonica’s voice boomed over the phone. “You seen the latest from the Cowboy, Therese?”

  “Just watched the video. And Apollo’s being processed right now.”

  “Isn’t that the op we started six months ago with Vondelikos?”

  “Yup.”

  “Damn, that’s what I thought. The mayor’s creaming himself, he’s so thrilled. I just read what he’s gonna be saying at his press conference, and there’s a lot of stuff about how great it is that heroes like the Cowboy are stopping crimes before they can start.”

  Zimmerman bit back the snotty reply she wanted to make, and settled for clicking a pen on her desk half a dozen times. “Did you perhaps remind the mayor that if the crime hasn’t started, it’s damn near impossible to prosecute it?”

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that nuance’d be lost on him. Everyone loves the Cowboy. He’ll probably get another damn parade. Besides, he saved Robinson from getting busted into. You know how many campaign contributors have private jets at that airfield?”

  “Yeah.” Zimmerman threw the pen very hard at the wall of her office. It clattered to the floor. “The whole op’s toast.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Zimmerman frowned. “What do you mean, what am I talking about? Enzo, we’re done. We went to all this trouble, and there’s no crime. Apollo even lawyered up, so unless his representation’s as crazy as he is, he’s gonna walk. I mean, I’ll go through the motions and take a shot at an interrogation, but –”

  “Of course, you should. But once he walks, he’ll just set up his next job. And Vondelikos’s cover wasn’t compromised, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t, but –”

  “Then we’re fine. C’mon, Apollo’s bound to get a new gig going soon.”

  “Maybe. But this was targeting a specific airplane with a specific shipment of diamonds that are long gone now. A third of it is with a dealer in Eisnerville and the rest are en route to Los Angeles.”

  “Then he’ll hit something else. I’m not seeing the problem here, Therese. Get it done.”

  Before Zimmerman could reply, Dellamonica hung up.

  Just as Zimmerman slammed the phone down, Detective Pedro Cordova stuck his head into her office.

  “What’d the phone ever do to you?” he asked with a cheeky grin.

  “Had an asshole on the other end of it.” Then she matched his grin. “Just like my door right now.”

  “Hardy-har-har. Apollo’s in two with his mouthpiece – it’s Bonnie Katz.”

  “Perfect!” Throwing up her hands, Zimmerman got to her feet.

  As soon as she walked into the interrogation room, she saw Katz sitting next to Apollo. The costume definitely looked the part: blond hair, blue eyes, Mediterranean nose. Plus, of course, the silly outfit.

  Katz smiled sweetly from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Well well well, Lieutenant Zimmerman.”

  “Ms. Katz.” Zimmerman sat down across from the two of them.

  “Why are we here, Lieutenant?”

  Zimmerman leaned back in her chair. “Wow. That’s a very intense question, Ms. Katz. I mean, the philosophical implications alone –”

  “Very funny, Lieutenant. I mean, why has my client been arrested?”

  “He was breaking into a private airfield.”

  Putting a hand to her cheek in a mock-aghast expression, Katz said, “Oh, my goodness, really? You mean he was … committing a crime? And of course there’s evidence to support this accusation, yes?”

  Zimmerman leaned forward and folded her hands on the desk. “Come off it, Ms. Katz, your client and his goons were at the back end of the airfield carrying AR-15s and wire cutters.”

  “I have no idea what ‘goons’ you’re talking about. And neither does my client. He was just floating along 104th Street minding his own business when that Clint Eastwood rip-off assaulted him for no reason.”

  Cocking her head, Zimmerman said, “Eastwood? Really? I see him more like John Wayne. I mean, Eastwood was always the stand-and-squint type. The Duke was more the man of action.”

  Now Katz was glowering at her over the top of the horn-rims. “Regardless of which old white guy you want to liken him to, the Cowboy is the one who should be under arrest, not my client.”

  “So you expect me to believe that those seven guys on 104th just happened to be dressed the same as your client?”

  Katz shrugged. “It’s a free country, Lieutenant. If those gentlemen – whoever they might be – wish to wear togas, that’s their business.”