“I concur. Lead the way.”
I threw down some change to pay for the food — both mine and Allen’s. Hopefully Martha would just think I’d had two helpings. I’d rather she not worry herself over this sort of anomaly. We stood and walked toward the door, Allen moving ahead of me.
Just as Allen went through the door, the young man at the booth beside it knocked on the table ever so subtly.
Two times, twice.
He pulled the newspaper closer to his face before sliding a slip of folded paper across his table. I took it before Allen noticed. Opening it up revealed an address, the one I had mentioned to Allen several minutes ago while sitting in the booth. The font was neat, square, and legible. On the back was a message written in cursive.
Be quick.
She was as impatient as she was informative, I supposed, so I’d best not keep her waiting. I followed Allen out of the diner, stuffing the paper into my pocket before we got into my vehicle and headed out.
From the diner on Delancey Street, we drove to Hell’s Kitchen, reaching an apartment building that was several dozen yards from the bottom of the Plate. It was a quarter to seven in the morning, and the liquor had finally kicked in, making it even harder for me to steer the Talbot. I nearly swung into oncoming traffic more than once. Allen kept its mouth shut for the ride, either scared for its life or trying not to criticize my driving while I had questions that needed to be answered.
I parked the car in the multi-level garage, which was as tall as the apartment building itself, then exited the car and crossed one of the bridges that connected the parking levels to different floors of the building. There were too many entrances to this place. It made me uncomfortable not to have control of the battlefield. For all I knew, the cop could be watching out for someone, ready to hightail it out of there the moment he heard the elevator arrive at his floor. Hell, we didn’t even know whose apartment this was. It could have belonged to any of the three men whose names Jaeger had given us: Belik, Morris, or Stern.
But none of them was expecting me.
The landlady for the set of floors was a quaint old woman, at least seventy, who seemed caring and tolerant. However, the holster and the .44 by her waist told me this area had seen better days and tenants. While Allen informed her why we were here, I noticed how steady her hands were. She must have been one hell of a shot. I showed her the apartment number on the slip of paper. She smiled a gummy grin and led us to the elevator.
My mind faded in and out during the ride. I thought I saw the number thirty, or forty.
“Has he ever acted suspicious, or caused discomfort in the building?” I was glad Allen was doing the talking. It felt to me like the elevator was spinning while we rode up.
“Oh no, he’s been a dear. He always pays his rent in advance, brings me flowers every birthday. He’s never been a bother.”
“Any shady characters ever swing around his place?” I piped up, though I felt like that was all the talking I was capable of.
“Now listen, whatever he’s done, he is a good man. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding. Hopefully looking through his place will prove that to you.” She thought of him like a son. Cute. She seemed convinced he was the golden child of this building. Maybe he was — but he might still have blood on his hands.
We exited the elevator and approached his apartment, the landlady taking her key out and shoving it in the lock. She remained outside as Allen entered first. I followed behind.
The apartment itself looked clean, respectable, quite polished. I hadn’t seen an apartment this clean in a long time, which made me even more suspicious. I switched on a few lights and we started to search for anything incriminating.
The kitchen was pretty barren, but used enough to suggest a single occupant. The bathroom was clear — maybe a few too many blood thinners and pain relievers stood on a shelf, but that wasn’t a crime. The living area contained a radio a few years older than what was currently on the market. The couch looked well used. Perhaps he often had guests or used it for sleeping as much as I did. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in my bed, so I could relate.
Overall, things checked out. Allen elected to check the bedroom. It was there that things got odd.
“The bedroom is locked, Detective. Do we get her to open it?”
“No need. I doubt she’d have the key.” I swung myself at the door. The wood splintered as the lock tore off of the door and I fell to the floor, landing on something that felt harder than I’d expected the wood flooring to be. Getting back up, I noticed Allen staring.
I soon realized what it was looking at. The bedroom was stripped bare save for a bed, a crude dresser, and several tables. Every surface, from the tabletops to the mattress, was covered in electronics and machine parts. Automatic parts.
Arms, legs, chassis, servos, Neural-Interfaces, reprogramming equipment, even a shoddy terminal no doubt stolen from some back-alley dealer auctioning off old GE hardware. Under some of the items were loose sheets of paper with signatures and wads of cash, all addressed to the tenant, Andrew Stern. It was a gold mine for a racketeering charge and evidence enough that we were on the right trail.
“This is concerning, Detective Roche. Keeping this volume of parts for the purpose of selling them illegally could be incriminating. I do not believe anyone in the police force could afford a licence to sell
