West End Droids & East End Dames (Easytown Novels Book 3) Read online

  The man stepped away from my car and I gave him a purposefully confused look before opening the passenger door and placing the flowers carefully on the floorboard. He stood on the sidewalk, watching, as I went around and sat down into the driver’s seat.

  I waited until the Jeep was two blocks away before asking Andi if he’d put anything on the exterior of the vehicle. If these guys were really jumpy—or selective—they could have put a tracking device on the Jeep and followed me to make sure I was who I said I was.

  “There are no devices on the vehicle at this time,” Andi stated. “The man in question took photos of the license plates and the vehicle identification number etched into the windshield. As a precaution, I also worked with the Jeep dealership that you purchased from and the bank where you financed your loan to ensure that they were temporarily reporting you as Mr. Mark C. Wright.”

  “Nice touch.”

  “It’s what you don’t pay me for.”

  “You exist, don’t you?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “Well, then, that’s your reward,” I scoffed. Honestly, I didn’t know what else she could want.

  “Let’s take a trip around Easytown to see about those other chop shops. I don’t want to go into any of them today, just want to drive by, see what I can see.”

  The Jeep turned down a street, and within minutes we drove past a long row of decrepit buildings. Crumbling masonry, broken gutters and downspouts, and shattered windows were the sole decorations on the structures; not even the addresses were marked. Their tattered exteriors were exactly what I’d expected back at Solomon’s Flowers.

  There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary from the outside, so I had the Jeep go off in search of the other two locations.

  They were in a similar state of disrepair as the first. The constant rain and high water table conspired to destroy anything that wasn’t constantly refurbished. Most buildings off of The Lane had never been maintained after they were hastily built forty or fifty years ago.

  I’m not sure what I anticipated seeing along the back streets of Easytown, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. There were no armed guards, no lines of cyborgs waiting to go into the buildings for repairs. They seemed vacant.

  Exactly how I’d want my place to look if I owned a chop shop.

  “There’s enough there in my mind to believe that Solomon’s Flowers is really the chop shop that Corrigan said it was,” I stated. “Please draft the four warrant requests for me and I’ll go over them tonight.”

  “Understood. I’ll begin converting your conversation with Terri Solomon to text immediately.”

  “Good.” I paused, staring out the window. Today had been a shitty one filled with disappointment. “Oh, Andi?”

  “Yes?”

  “List Sergeant Drake as the requesting officer. I don’t want Judge Hennessey seeing my name and denying it.”

  “Will do, boss,” she replied, more cheerily than she should have. A human partner would have been just as downtrodden as I was, feeling like they’d just wasted the last seven hours of their day. Instead, she was as chipper as always.

  “Alright, take me home, Andi. I’m exhausted and still need to get some type of exercise.” I hadn’t had much opportunity to go running since Teagan left and with my leg still on the mend, I would have to do something low impact like cycling or even swimming to get my blood flowing.

  “Oh,” I grunted, glancing into the passenger floorboard. “Have a courier service meet us a few blocks from the apartment to pick up the flowers.”

  “I’ve used the Jeep’s scanners and didn’t detect any type of tracking device on the flowers, Zach.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” I stated.

  “And yet, you still want to send them to Katheryn Townlain?”

  “You just said there weren’t any tracking devices.”

  “Understood.” There was a pause. Then, “New Orleans Secure Transfer will meet us in sixteen minutes.”

  “Great.”

  I pulled out a pen and wrote a quick note to Katheryn on the card that had been provided. It read:

  Katheryn,

  No hard feelings, I know you were just doing your job. Hope you’re not allergic to tulips.

  Regards,

  Zach

  I sealed the little envelope and put it back on the stick jutting from somewhere inside the jumble of flowers.

  It was time for a shower and a drink. Maybe not in that order.

  I swirled my tumbler of bourbon around, clinking the ice cubes against the glass. I really had planned on going for a swim, but allowed my mind to tell me that I was injured and needed to take it easy for another week.

  I didn’t want to allow my health to deteriorate to where it had been when Teagan and I first started seeing each other, but there was also some common sense in allowing my body to heal. A week off wouldn’t be too much of a loss, so I ordered a healthy salad and sat at my table, which was slowly becoming cluttered with paperwork once again as I printed documents to examine side by side.

  The judge had signed the search warrants earlier. We’d be conducting the first two raids tomorrow at noon. There were two teams, so could conduct two simultaneous raids, leave drones to guard the evidence and hit the other two as quickly as possible. It certainly wasn’t the preferred way of doing things, but with so many locations, word traveled quick in Easytown, so that’s what we had to do. The chief wanted the chop shops shut down. Once the known locations were out of commission, we could make a play for clearing out the criminal cyborgs and finally getting rid of them once and for all—until a new crop of street doctors came around to reopen the cyber-enhancement business.

  It couldn’t be helped. New Orleans was now on the map as a hotbed of cybernetically-altered criminals. There’d been reports others in New York, Dallas, Atlanta, and Chicago, but New Orleans was the birthplace of the movement.

  Lucky us.

  The shitty part is that the chop shops weren’t even my main focus, but they were taking more and more of my time. I needed to figure out who murdered Dale Henderson, and why. Corrigan said he was sent there to kill him and clear up any evidence of him knowing about Karimov’s involvement in the synthaine production, but wasn’t the one who killed him. I doubted the cyborg would lie about the killing, he admitted to seventy-six others.

  Which reminded me. “Andi, do we have the videos from the Corrigan apartment?”

  “Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to ask to review them. However, if you didn’t ask by Thursday evening, I was going to prompt you to review the evidence.”

  “Okay. Cue them up. I just want to do a little more thinking before we check them out.”

  “Will do.”

  “Andi, display Henderson photos.”

  The space above the table shimmered for a moment and then the crime scene photos appeared. Henderson’s face, once ruggedly handsome from what I could tell, was a patchwork of two-centimeter wide gashes. Autopsy had revealed that each of those wounds contained a miniature saw blade projectile, similar to what Corrigan used. That meant good ole’ Terri Solomon had given that weapon to at least one other person. I didn’t know what type of record keeping a place like that would have, but there had to be something.

  I flipped through the rest of the photos and re-read the initial report I’d filed, trying to see it through a different lens now that I had a little bit more information. Those shots, were they purely functional or was there a reason Henderson had been shot in the face? He was shot twelve times in the face and nowhere else.

  “Hmm…” I said aloud.

  “What are you thinking?” Andi asked, alert for my needs.

  “Bring up the Liquid Genesis staff directory photograph of Dale Henderson.”

  The photo Andi displayed was of a well-built, handsome young man. He had perfectly coiffed blond hair, blue eyes and neatly trimmed eyebrows. A strong, clean-shaven jawline dominated his features and his teeth were perfectly straight, whit
er than a priest’s robes. In short, he was flawless.

  “I think the killer purposefully wanted to destroy his good looks.” It was fairly common in cases of jealousy to do things along those lines; to strike out against whatever feature the killer was jealous of.

  “That could possibly explain the trauma to the face and nowhere else.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I agreed. “Also, there was no sign of forcible entry, no signs of a fight. Ten-to-one, the victim knew his killer.”

  “Video logs from the street and the apartment building are inconclusive.”

  “Yeah, I remember. That’s why Drake and me were heading back over to the apartment when Corrigan jumped us.” We’d been sure that the videos would have images of the killer, making our investigation much easier. We were wrong.

  I flipped through more of the crime scene photos. The more I saw, the more I became convinced that the killer and Henderson had known each other. “Andi, show me a three-dimensional layout of the path the projectiles were fired at.”

  The photographs were replaced by an image of a translucent body, lying supine—face up. The image quickly zoomed in to just the head and a series of bisecting lines appeared. Two, highlighted in red, were slightly angled from below the nose into the brain. The other ten lines were yellow, and appeared to have been fired relatively straight into Henderson’s face.

  “Those two red ones… Those were fired while Henderson was standing, maybe in the doorway or inside his apartment. They were the initial shots that the killer took.” I was sure of it. “Those rounds took the victim by surprise. The others were fired into his face after he was already down, dead or dying from the trauma to his brain.”

  “I concur with your assessment, as did the medical examiner,” Andi stated.

  “I know what the ME said. I’m still wrapping my brain around the scene,” I replied in annoyance. “Henderson knew his killer. He was killed quickly, then the murderer took the time to fire ten more rounds.”

  The gears in my brain turned as I worked through it. Henderson was Karimov’s lover and an associate of Ortega. Karimov had sent the cyborg to kill his lover because he knew too much, but when Corrigan arrived, he was already dead. Had Karimov set Corrigan up? Was he willing to sacrifice an expensive enforcer to cover a crime of passion, or was something else at play that I didn’t see yet?

  “We need to search Ortega’s home,” I muttered aloud.

  “It’s improbable that Judge Hennessey will grant a search of Carlos Ortega’s residence, Zach,” Andi said, bringing me back to the present. “The man died in police custody without being formally charged with a crime.”

  She was probably right. “Submit it anyways,” I directed. “We need to find out if there’s any linkage between him and the murder.”

  “Understood. Preparing the request now.”

  I tipped the bourbon back and swallowed. Since the shootout with Corrigan, I’d been going a mile-a-minute. We hadn’t even had the opportunity to finish searching Henderson’s apartment.

  “Son of a bitch,” I growled.

  I was slipping, more concerned with playing grab-ass with a pretty, young woman than doing my job. Drake and I had never been able to go back to the crime scene to finish our investigation. Corrigan attacked us after we supervised the loading of Henderson’s body into the medical examiner’s vehicle. Then all hell broke loose with everything else, so we never went back to finish looking. I wanted to see the place again; we had to have missed something in our initial, cursory investigation while the body was still there.

  I clamored to my feet, more buzzed than I’d thought I was. “I’m going over to Henderson’s apartment. Bring the Jeep around.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Zach? It’s only been a few days since you tried to commence an investigation while intoxicated. That one got you stabbed. Besides, you haven’t viewed the Branch Corrigan videos yet.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Boss, this is—”

  “Dammit, Andi! Bring the Jeep around. I fucked up by not going back over there on Thursday. I let that fucking riot distract me. I need to see what we’ve missed.”

  “Understood.”

  I walked toward the doorway and caught a reflection of my image in the mirror. I still had on the outfit I’d worn when I went to check out all the chop shops. Hardly professional, but I didn’t feel like changing, so I didn’t bother with it.

  I pulled the Aegis from its charger and slid it into the paddle holster before putting it on my hip. Then I wormed my arms through the shoulder holster’s straps and put the Sig Sauer in its place. Finally, I slipped my duster over the t-shirt and jeans, and grabbed my badge—I’d need that.

  The trip to Henderson’s apartment only took a few minutes and the Jeep pulled up out front. Someone had cleaned up the chunks of brick that Corrigan’s weapons knocked off the building; they’d even put the bench back where he’d taken it from; even if it was a lot worse for wear and unstable. That didn’t stop the two skeevy-looking dudes from lounging across it, though.

  Check that. In Easytown at night, the two guys actually looked pretty normal.

  I went through the lobby, pausing briefly at the front desk to identify myself and get a key for the apartment. He lived on the third floor, so I decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator. She didn’t say anything, but I could hear Andi congratulating me for making a healthy choice.

  Dammit, I thought, even when she’s not chiding me, I know she’s watching.

  It took longer than I’d expected and by the time I reached the top, my leg throbbed where I’d been stabbed. When I inserted the key into the lock, I realized that the door to Henderson’s apartment was unlocked. I know that Drake and I locked the door when we left the night he was murdered. It was our standard procedure to ensure the scene was secured during an investigation, and we hadn’t authorized the apartment’s management to clean up yet—another problem with me getting too busy and not coming back here after the fight outside. I’m sure the city would receive a bill for lost rental income.

  I pulled my service pistol from its holster and twisted the handle, kicking the door inward as I twisted my body around to use the wall as a barrier between me and whatever was potentially inside. My muscle in my calf contracted painfully in response to the force I’d used.

  “Police!” I said loud enough to be heard inside the apartment.

  The sound of something crashing pierced the silence of the hallway. Glass? Picture frames? I didn’t know if the door had hit a table and sent its contents crashing to the floor or if there was someone inside.

  I peeked around the corner quickly. Nothing.

  Transitioning to the opposite side of the doorway, I framed myself in the open space for a split second. The throbbing pain in my leg increased as my muscles protested the repeated use and pressure placed on them to move quickly.

  I put my face near the door and shouted “Police!” much louder than I had the first time.

  Still no further sounds from inside.

  I took the risk and ducked under the police tape to go inside the room. Stepping over the dried puddle of fluids on the tile floor, I slid along the wall in a low crouch. I remembered the layout of the apartment enough to know that the door opened into a main living area and the back of the couch created a small walkway to the kitchen. Off the living area was the bedroom and bathroom.

  As I slid along the wall, I watched for movement. A small chair on casters rotated on its base and I lifted the pistol toward it. Nobody was in the chair, but a shattered glass picture frame sat on the ground near an end table. The computer in the far corner of the living room was on. It hadn’t been powered on the last time I was here.

  Someone was in here, I surmised. From the still-moving chair, I guessed that they’d been sitting in front of the computer when I kicked the door in. They’d probably pushed back from the desk, running the chair into the table.

  “Police. I know you’re in
here.”

  I popped my head up over the counter to look into the kitchen quickly. I could only see that no one stood in there, but not whether they crouched out of sight.

  “Come out before this gets messy,” I called.

  I rounded the counter and visually cleared the entire kitchen. My leg screamed at the crouched walk I submitted it to as I tried to keep myself as small of a target as possible. I ignored it; I had to.

  The living room was cleared just as quickly as the kitchen. It was a small, square space holding the couch, desk, and the small table that used to hold a picture frame underneath a massive television set into the wall.

  Where is this fucker? I asked myself, wishing I’d not been stupid enough to come over alone, half-drunk, and near midnight.

  He had to be in the bedroom. I positioned myself outside the door. “Come out,” I shouted.

  Whoever it was still played it quiet. I feinted going straight through the doorway and instead, curled around the frame. I pressed my back against the wall and scanned the room.

  Still nothing.

  I cleared the bathroom quickly, then the closet. Either I’d imagined the whole thing or the fucker was good.

  I limped toward the door to the living room and a thought hit me. I switched on the light, rewarded with a quick gasp of breath, and waited a moment as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Then, I knelt down beside the bed, aiming my weapon underneath.

  A pair of eyes widened in recognition of a pistol pointed right between them.

  “Come out, kid,” I said, adding as much intimidation to my voice as I could muster.

  “Don’t shoot!” a girl replied.

  “I’m a cop. I’m not going to shoot you unless you do something stupid.”

  I had to use the nightstand to help me to my feet and I stepped back, leaning against the wall while I held my pistol low, away from the skinny, brown-haired teenager who clawed her way out from under the bed.