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

  “Oh geez, Zach,” she sighed. “You think you’re helping, but you’re really not. I can do this on my own.”

  “I just—”

  Teagan ducked under my arm, gave me a kiss on the cheek and wrinkled her nose. “Take a shower before you go to bed,” she ordered. “You smell.”

  She walked over and grabbed her backpack from the floor by the pantry door. Then she turned back to me and said, “Don’t forget: Tomorrow night, 6 p.m. Graduation dinner with my parents at Chez Suzettes.”

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I replied.

  “I doubt it, unless you come into the Pharaoh. Pulling a double shift after my test.” She turned around and rushed toward the apartment door. “See you later,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Hallway clear, Teagan.”

  “Thanks, Andi,” she said without looking back, and left the apartment.

  I downed the bourbon in three large gulps and dumped the ice, placing the glass back on the refrigerator ledge for a refill. My finger hovered over the manual release button for the ice, but I stopped when I saw my shadowy reflection in the readout. I was filthy.

  Chunks of concrete from the apartment building were in my hair and a fine layer of grime—probably concrete dust—filled the creases in my neck. Thin, brown arcs of filth coated the undersides of my fingernails and along the cuticles. Even my bare legs, pale from the lack of sunlight like everything else except my face and hands, were dirty. Streaks of dried, salty sweat crusted in the hair along the front of my legs and behind my knees.

  No wonder Teagan wanted nothing to do with me this morning.

  “Goddammit. Fine,” I groaned to myself and went to the bathroom for a cold shower.

  TWO: THURSDAY

  I dug my finger under the chinstrap to pull it away from my jaw. The damn thing was cutting into my skin, irritating it. I’d worn the helmet at the direct order of Chief Brubaker, even though I felt like a complete jackass. The beat cops were the ones who wore all this riot gear shit, that wasn’t my job anymore.

  Echoes of chanting bounced off the sides of buildings up and down The Lane as the crowd got closer. In front of me, the uniformed officers made last-minute adjustments to their body armor and the visaluminum shields. Those poor suckers would take the brunt of the protestors’ anger if things turned violent.

  The city’s workers were protesting the loss of jobs to the droids. Reportedly, the organizers had mobilized a collection of vastly different service and labor occupations for the march—all of which were being slowly and inevitably edged out of work by robotic replacements. Food service workers, janitorial workers, prostitutes, farmhands, dockworkers, teachers, bartenders and the like all marched for regulations to slow the spread of the robotics industry.

  I understood where the workers came from, but they were about sixty years too late to stem the tide. Several other industries that used to employ humans were almost exclusively robotic now.

  It’s just the way it is, I grumbled internally as the first of the protestors appeared at the far south end of The Lane.

  The police wall was situated about halfway down Jubilee Lane, which was the main public avenue that ran through Easytown, the city’s sanctioned red-light district. The mayor had conceded that the protestors had a right to peacefully assemble to have their voices heard, but he wasn’t about to let them get on the highway and block the city’s commerce routes.

  The bulbous helmet of an officer turned toward me and I groaned internally. The kid was a rookie cop and he’d taken it upon himself to become the president of my nonexistent fan club.

  “Hey, Detective!” Jake Hannity called. Through the reflection of neon lighting off his visaluminum face shield, I could see the kid’s big, goofy grin.

  I ducked my chin, grimacing as the helmet’s strap dug further into my skin. “Officer Hannity,” I groaned.

  “Isn’t this exciting? This is my first protest.”

  I shrugged, thankful to only have a thick ballistic vest instead of the full anti-riot kit. The kid was so wet behind the ears I’m surprised his helmet didn’t slip off.

  “You get used to ’em. Happen about once a year or so,” I replied.

  “Why you out here slummin’ with us?” an older cop with only one chevron on his sleeve grunted. “Don’t you usually wait for all the bad shit to go down and then prance in wearing your fancy suits and stupid hat to examine the mess?”

  His comment elicited a few snorts of laughter from the officers nearby. I loved my fedora, even if they’d gone back out of style thirty years ago. There was something about a nice hat that made a man’s wardrobe feel complete.

  “We can’t all be old, fat, pieces of shit that have been busted six times so they’re walking a beat at fifty, Tidewell,” I answered. “How’s that rash on your junk?”

  I’d only met Patrolman Liam Tidewell a few months ago when his partner, Hannity, started following me around. For some reason, he and I just didn’t get along. We were the proverbial oil and water—unfortunately, I wasn’t sure which of us was the one that sunk to the bottom.

  “It’s better, thanks,” Tidewell answered. “You should tell your mom to register with the state. She could get in serious trouble for spreading unregulated STDs.”

  I chuckled. “And I should arrest you for necrophilia, you sick fucker. She’s been dead for twenty years.”

  The line of cops laughed once again at what they perceived to be standard cop humor. The difference was that cop humor was based on a bond of brotherhood and mutual respect. I wouldn’t piss on Tidewell if he’d been set on fire. There was no love lost between us.

  “So, uh… Why are you out here with us, Detective?” Jake asked.

  “I’m looking into Carlos Ortega—one of the lead organizers of this little get together.”

  “Oh… What for?”

  I glanced at the other cops. The angle of several heads told me that they were clearly listening to my response. My investigation into a murder of a thumper club doorman pointed to a cover-up and an attempt to tamper with the evidence before I got there. I had a hunch it was one of the cops at the scene. The doorman was also a part-time security guard for Ortega.

  “Just doing my due diligence for a separate investigation, kid. No big deal, but I can’t seem to catch up to him any other way. His secretary always says he’s not around… So, we came to him,” I replied, indicating my partner, Drake.

  “Oh,” Hannity replied, turning back to the front as the chanting picked up in intensity.

  The crowd of laborers and service industry workers had advanced about half a mile closer and were now only four blocks from the line of officers. They carried signs proclaiming their rights to work, condemning the mayor and the city, even a few taking the opportunity to lash out against the president for not mandating federal oversight of the robotics industry.

  The sergeant in charge of the riot police tapped a few keys on his forearm flexscreen and the ten drones that the chief had tasked exclusively for the protest advanced. The appearance of the drones flying toward them caused the lead element of the protestors to stop. From my vantage point, I could see them looking around for guidance.

  It didn’t take long for me to identify a few of the leaders in the crowd. Two men, one appeared to be Hispanic, while the other appeared to be Middle Eastern, passed along the orders of a bearded man to the others, possibly in different languages. A woman that I recognized as a prostitute on The Lane also acted as a conduit for the bearded man’s orders.

  The one who seemed to be providing overall direction for the protestors was a man whose image I’d become familiar with, but I hadn’t been able to speak to him yet. He had black hair, a thick goatee that petered out along his jawline and a double chin. He wore an older style army jacket over a thin frame with a slightly protruding belly. A matching hat sat askew on top of his head. Carlos Ortega.

  He ran a non-profit over in Uptown on the west side of New Orleans that provided food and clothing to the homele
ss. The non-profit also ran a few convenience stores and maintained fueling stations throughout the city. Ortega earned a cool million last year. Pretty good income for someone working a non-profit.

  I’d called several times and visited his office three times over the past week, but had been unable to get in touch with him. Each time, the receptionist covered for him. Seemed to me that he was either avoiding me or he spent too much time organizing protests.

  “Andi, I see Ortega,” I said into my phone.

  “Hold on a moment, Zach. I’m piggybacking onto the surveillance camera video feeds.”

  Andi was damn good. Always at my side, prepared to assist in any way she could. As a bonus, since I was a detective, the cyber nerds who ran the city’s robust surveillance network allowed her to access their feeds. Her ability to analyze data in real time had been a major help over the years.

  “Okay, I’ve got him.”

  “Who are the two guys he’s talking to?”

  “A scan of their credit information says their names are Hector Gonsalvez and Farouk Karimov,” she replied.

  “Any details on them?”

  “There is little information on Gonsalvez. He does not have an arrest record. He is employed as a shop foreman at Pop’s Handmade Furniture, a small handmade furniture company in Leonidas that specializes in wooden and iron pieces.”

  “Wood and iron?” I frowned. “People still buy that stuff?”

  “Hey! Genevieve and me like wooden furniture,” Drake objected. “Our bedroom set and living room tables—hell, our dining room table—all of it is wood.”

  “There is a steady market for replica antique furniture,” Andi continued once Drake stopped talking. “My research shows that wooden décor is also a growing trend among new mothers who shy away from the synthetic polymers that you prefer.”

  “I don’t know what my stuff is made of; I just know it’s comfortable and not all clunky like wood.” I liked the fact that if I ever bothered to clean my apartment myself, which I wouldn’t, I could pick up each piece of furniture with little effort because it was so lightweight. Come to think of it, I believe Amir’s furniture is wood…

  “Sorry,” I said, apologizing for taking the conversation down a rabbit hole. “What about the other guy, uh…” I drew a blank on the Russian-sounding guy’s name.

  “Farouk Karimov, age twenty-seven, with an extensive arrest record. He is a third generation Tajik-American. His family came to New Orleans in 2034 when the government of Tajikistan mandated that their population convert to Sunni Islam. Roughly 200,000 Shia Muslims fled the Sunni Reformation Act. The United States took in 73,065 of the refugees, most settling in New Orleans, Michigan, Sacramento, and Bangor, Maine.”

  “Okay, where does he work, known acquaintances, you know, all the standard stuff?”

  “He’s a stevedore at the Easytown Dockyards,” Andi replied. “He works for the Marie Leveau Shipping Company.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I grumbled.

  “Thomas Ladeaux owns the Marie Leveau Shipping Company in—”

  “I know about Ladeaux, Andi.”

  Unfortunately, I knew all too much about Tommy Voodoo and his business dealings. The police department and the DA were convinced that the guy was crooked, but nobody could prove anything. To complicate matters, he’d personally helped me several times in the past year. Without his help, I might never have solved the two biggest cases in my career—the sex club murders, which turned out to be a diversion to pull police resources during the attempted assassination of the Pope; and the torture tourism case where the mayor of New Orleans was indicted and arrested for illegally cloning businesspeople and political rivals to pave the way for his political aspirations.

  Now, here was one of Voodoo’s employees helping to lead the charge against robots. Interesting.

  “What else do we know about Karimov?”

  “He’s had six arrests in the past ten years,” Andi replied. “Once for burglary when he was seventeen, which netted him nine months on Sabatier Island. Twice for distribution of a controlled substance, with no conviction. He’s been convicted twice for vandalism while disturbing the peace at ages twenty and twenty-one. Each misdemeanor conviction carried a five-month sentence. Finally, at age twenty-three he assaulted a police officer, earning a two-year sentence. He’s a known activist for civil rights, and continues to protest, but has kept his nose clean for the past two years.”

  I looked out over the crowd toward the delinquent in question. He was gesturing wildly toward the police line, yelling something to those around him, spittle glistening in the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds above. “I don’t know why such a fine, upstanding young gentleman would ever be arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  “Both of those arrests were at previous civil rights protests. Video evidence helped to convict him in each case.”

  “So, he’s due an arrest,” I grumbled.

  “Careful, Detective,” Drake warned quietly, pointing a finger at the line of cops in front of us. “Little ears are listening.”

  In a louder voice, he said, “We’ll be sure to keep an eye on all of the crowd, with special attention to known felons and parolees.”

  “Alright, I've seen enough,” I stated casually to Sergeant Dubois, the uniformed cop in charge of the riot police. “This rally will go on without Ortega. Send your line and make a beeline for the leader. I'll be the arresting officer.”

  “Are you sure about this, Detective? That crowd looks like it could get whipped up into a frenzy.”

  “Hero here doesn't care about that sort of stuff,” Tidewell grumbled. “He isn't in the front line.”

  I ignored the patrolman and considered the sergeant's words. There were other ways to bring him in for questioning. He wasn't a suspect—yet. I could try to talk to him after the rally and avoid any additional trouble.

  Choices. Choices.

  In the end, I decided to take the opportunity available to me now. “Ortega is the last known associate of Dale Henderson before he was found dead, full of holes on the floor of his apartment. I need to talk to him and he's not cooperating. Bring him in.”

  “You heard The Man,” the sergeant said loudly, emphasizing his pronoun for me. “Move the line!”

  A group of police drones dropped in behind the crowd several blocks away and trash blew out of the alleyways, indicating that they'd moved into position along the sides as well. Protestors began to look around wildly and to their leaders, who encouraged them to remain strong.

  Shouts of alarm rose from the crowd when they realized that they were effectively boxed in. The police line stood strong, like a wall of iron twenty feet from the leading edge of the protestors.

  I lifted my phone to my mouth and spoke. My voice echoed from the speakers integrated into the twenty-five drones stationed around the crowd. “Carlos Ortega. You are wanted for questioning in the death of Dale Henderson.” Andi had linked my phone to all the droids, so anything I said into the microphone could be heard at any point along The Lane. Can’t say I wasn’t prepared for accusations of non-disclosure to the crowd about what I wanted.

  People yelled back that he was an innocent man, that all he wanted was to advance the rights of the workers. Standard crap like that.

  “Ortega is not a suspect,” I said through the drones’ speakers. “But if he won't come talk to us, we're going to come get him.”

  “We'll never let you take him, pig!” Karimov shouted back at me from behind the protection of several hundred protestors.

  “I didn't want it to go down like this,” I replied. “But, one way or another, I'm talking to Ortega tonight.”

  The sergeant glanced at me and I nodded. It was time to end this.

  “Hold the line!” Karimov bellowed as the line of armored police officers advanced. He was clearly the number two in this little shindig and I hoped that he'd do something stupid that warranted a club to the face.

  “Zach, the police advance is bei
ng carried live on video, broadcast worldwide.”

  “Not now, Andi, this is where it gets good.”

  The police line walked forward into the group of protestors. They'd linked arms to try and keep us away from Ortega. I wondered if that was technically obstruction of justice or not since the man wasn’t even a suspect.

  The cops pushed behind their shields, legs churning on Easytown's uneven pavement, slowly pushing the line of protestors back. A skinny girl, a kid really, was the first one to break her hold on the people to her left and right. She cried out in pain, which made me swivel my gaze in her direction. I saw both of her shoulders dislocate from the pressure in front of her and behind and she passed out. Her partners held onto the limp form and others pushed her body from behind. Now she was simply an obstacle that they needed to keep in place.

  Then they lost their grip and she fell. The police line used the distraction to push forward once more and an officer pulled the girl to safety by her legs underneath the officer’s shields so she wouldn’t be trampled. That’s when the problems started.

  On the periphery of the crowd, I saw people breaking windows and smashing storefront signs along the street. Several cars began to rock as protestors tried to overturn them. After a few tries, a taxi was lifted onto its side and then pushed the rest of the way over to land on its top.

  Chunks of concrete and glass bottles flew from the middle of the crown toward the police. An officer was hit in the head and faltered, creating a small gap in the police line. It was all that the crowd needed as the immense pressure against them relented and they surged into the hole. First one protestor and then it was a tidal wave of humanity as they pushed their way through.

  Most of them simply ran. They’d joined the march to protest for their civil rights and against the expanding role of droids in the workplace, not to get into a fight with New Orleans’ finest. Others weren’t as altruistic. Several protestors turned after they’d made it out of the press of bodies and began to fight with the officers. They swung fists, clubs, and even a few old hammers at the armored riot police.