“Welcome to my business, Robins. Would you really risk leaving this case to someone who wasn’t devoted to the 5th? Do you think that thing could solve this alone, without someone like me doing the dirty work?” I said, pointing to Allen, who, though silent, remained ever vigilant.
“Commissioner, are you saying Detective Roche is an outside contractor for the police force?”
“You could say that. He’s still part of it … just not entirely,” Robins said.
“Any thoughts, Allen? Even a quip or two about the massacre?”
“I … suppose that the evidence could be misconstrued, though the likelihood of that has diminished significantly. Our best bet as of this moment is to interview the other three police members who initially arrested Jaeger eleven years ago in the hopes that one of them has information leading us to the killer, or to other outcomes and possibilities. There is still a small chance that this has nothing to do with members of this precinct assassinating one another,” Allen stuttered.
“I like the metal man’s thinking,” Robins said. “There’s still a chance. Run that plan, and I’ll do my best from here. I have the home addresses of those boys from several months ago, but who knows if they’ve moved. You’re pretty good at getting recent information, right, Roche?” He winked, causing me to jerk my head over to see if Allen had noticed. No idea if it had or hadn’t, though I doubt it’d think much of the wink either way.
“Will do,” I said. “How often you want updates?”
“That’s the issue. The FBI agents from the Plate will be arriving soon — as in minutes from now — and if they run your numbers and see a dead man’s name attached to them, we’re all in deep shit. So, for now, you’re fully off the books, and so is your partner.” Robins looked at me matter-of-factly. “We’re in a tough bind, so report to me only when you feel it’s absolutely necessary, and try not to cause too much of a ruckus. Everything about this is off the books so long as the Black Hats are here, including arrests, evidence — the works. Forty-One, keep a close eye on him. He’s a snake some days.”
“Yes, sir.”
We turned to leave, only to hear a knock on the door. Robins snapped his fingers, commanding Allen to open the door. Four black-clad figures entered the small room and immediately surrounded us and the desk. They were led by our favourite Black Hat, Agent Masters.
“Robins.” To my ears, his voice was like nails on a chalkboard.
“Agent Masters.”
“Commissioner, if you please, we’ll be getting on with the inspections that Director Greaves insists we take part in.”
“By all means.” Robins leaned back on his chair, lighting a dart as the men and women in black all turned to me and Allen.
“Constables,” Masters said, as if informing us our presence was no longer welcome.
“How’d that shooting investigation go? Any leads?” I asked him. He didn’t return my grin.
“What shooting, Constable? Perhaps you’re mistaken.”
I saw Robins looking shifty. Thank God all the G-men were looking at me. I dropped the smile and nodded. “You’re right, my mistake.”
“I thought as much.”
Without another word, we exited the office and strolled through the precinct. The place was empty. No constables at their desks doing busywork, no one running out to their cars — nothing. I had never seen the place like this. Thank God I was heading out. It gave me the creeps.
Out front, I slid into the Talbot and put my hands on the wheel, frozen in thought. Allen soon brought me back to reality.
“Was that agent unaware of the crime that occurred at Prince and Greene? It would make sense for you to hide it from him.”
“No, Allen, he was right there when Sinclair and I left the scene. He took over the investigation minutes after I saw it.” Allen looked as perplexed as I was suspicious. “You any good at investigating crime scenes?”
“I believe I am.”
“We’re going back there. With any luck, they haven’t moved the Automatic bodies yet. Cops have a nasty habit of letting shells rot wherever they fall.”
But of course, we weren’t anything close to lucky. This was a worst-case scenario, in every way possible.
The exterior of the speakeasy had been mopped and fixed up to a presentable level, though it still felt like I was walking into a corpse. The yellow tape was gone, but the signs plastered across the shop were now red, meaning it was only a matter of time before a construction crew broke it all down and refurbished it. The owner would hardly want to keep running the place known for being the site of a massacre. The door was unlocked. The floor was still slick with blood and alcohol, and the stench made me gag. I supposed the owner hadn’t bothered to have the place cleaned since it was already slated to be renovated.
The fact that there weren’t any agents outside to keep out curious members of the public and investigators was a worrying sign. I was glad that I had my Diamondback with me.
I noticed some things that I hadn’t before, when I’d been hungover. On the upper level, beyond that broken railing, there was nothing but seating space. No exit door or hatch leading outside. That meant that the upstairs assailant would have been waiting for quite some time before Rudi showed up to blow everyone away with the Thompson. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for an Automatic to get past a few screaming, inebriated patrons, but getting past those cops would have been difficult, especially if they’d been armed with shock batons. It would have needed advanced close-quarters-combat programming — more credence to my private theory.
The bodies were still there … interesting. The blood had been mopped up, and body bags lay next to the corpses, ready to carry them out. The dead Automatic, however, was gone, not a single part of its hull left on
