We headed into the building’s ground-floor foyer, which was far dirtier than the upper floors that we’d seen previously. We gave the perp a few minutes’ leeway before ascending in the elevator. If he was smart, he’d see that someone had tossed his apartment, and he’d start packing. If the landlady had secured the floor as she’d agreed to, the only way in or out was this elevator. Still, too many ifs. I nervously fidgeted with my revolver in its holster. Allen eyed me as he heard the cylinder spin. I pulled the gun out, cracking the breech to see how many rounds I had to play with. One shot spent, another six loaded. If things went south, I’d need only one more.
“Where did you acquire the Diamondback revolver, Detective?” Allen asked as I slid it back into the holster tucked in my vest.
“Took it off a dead Kraut in the War. These things were valuable back in the day, and a lot of veterans sold them. But I kept mine. I made the calibre smaller, fitted it with a seven-shot cylinder instead of the six it came with, and made it my official police pistol.”
“Those are quite curious modifications. How did you get such specific work done to it?”
“I have some contacts around the city.”
With that, the doors slid open on the dingy hallway we’d first visited almost twenty-four hours earlier. Floor 37 — Allen had remembered.
Stepping out, I peered left and right. No sign of our perp. A few dozen steps away, I noticed that one of the doors was slightly ajar, with light creeping out from underneath. I gestured to Allen to stack up on the other side of the doorway.
I approached, grasping the handle. I lifted the handle — and therefore the door — as I pushed, keeping the hinges from squeaking. Inside, the place was more ransacked than when we’d left it. It was obvious Stern knew the jig was up and was doing his best to pack. All the landlady’s work to tidy up had been undone. The kitchen was strewn with glassware and circuit boards, the couch was torn to pieces, and the hallway leading to the bedroom echoed with the sounds of zippering and scrabbling. Allen was on my heels as I skulked down the hall. The bathroom was also a mess, and a trail of debris led back to the bedroom. Allen edged ahead of me, peeking between the door frame and the door for several moments before coming close to whisper, “Stern is packing. Several suitcases, and judging by the displacement of the mattress, they’re filled with some of the Automatic parts we observed previously.”
“Good.” I nodded, and Allen stepped back as I rushed ahead of him, throwing myself into the room. Stern turned, freezing when he saw me standing there, my finger half squeezing the trigger of my gun, which hung by my side. The expression on his thin, sunken face changed from surprise to horror.
He looked like he was freshly out of college, though his file said he was just shy of his midthirties. His clean, tailored suit was way out of the budget of a legitimate cop. He carried a basic .38-calibre pistol, probably loaded with heated rounds for taking out man and machine. Clean-shaven with a flat-top hairdo: standard issue for the 5th’s boys. Yup, another faceless cop. If you needed to hide, you did it in plain sight.
“Oh, fuck … Roche, just wait a minu—”
Stern was interrupted by the butt of my gun striking his cheek. With my other hand, I grabbed his collar and pulled him hard, making his legs bend. Down he went on his knees. Allen grabbed the cuffs and locked them over Stern’s wrists. I pulled hard to force him back to his feet, dragging him out to the kitchen. Allen grabbed a chair, and I sat Stern on it. I tossed my revolver to Allen. Didn’t expect the metal man to use it, but Stern didn’t know that.
“Roche —”
“Shut up.” He snapped his lips shut, giving me the floor. “Give me one good reason not to blow the grey out of your fucking head for killing those two cops.”
“I-I never killed anyone! Who’s dead?”
“Don’t play stupid. All your files pin you and them in the same boat for years after the Jaeger case, which made your careers. Ring a bell?”
He sat there with a glazed expression before speaking. “They’re dead?”
“Fuck this.” I needed this interrogation to go faster. I had no time to deal with his shit.
I pulled him from the chair, bringing him to the sink, grabbed some nearby towels to plug the drain, and began filling the basin with the hottest water the faucets could muster. Stern struggled and begged, but a quick connection of his forehead to the countertop silenced him for a good moment. Once steam floated up from the half-full basin of water, I shoved Stern’s head into the sink. Allen began running up, but I put up a hand to keep it from interfering. Stern struggled, pushing against the countertop. Bubbles rose up through the water as he screamed.
I pulled him out and threw him onto the floor, where he coughed up water, his face red and spotty. I put my foot on his chest, and his eyes soon refocused onto mine. “Start again. Be smart.”
“Travis Barton and Bill Ewing. Partners for fifteen years, through the War. I didn’t kill them, I swear it. I had no idea they were dead until yesterday, when I got the message.” He spat,
