“But I thought he’d had Automatic partners before.”
“I gave him Automatics to tag along. I never said they were official partners, just ride-along buddies. He wasn’t too pleased with me those times. He wouldn’t take my calls for weeks afterward. The important point is that this isn’t a widely talked about subject. Everyone in the 5th knows: you don’t talk about Roche’s past. Not to him. Not behind his back. It’s a no-go. You wouldn’t have known that, but now you do. Just … keep it on the DL, you know?”
“Yes, thank you, Commissioner. Though it was concerning when he became obsessed about the killer in this case being an Automatic — specifically, a Swinger model that had been Red-eyed.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Robins rubbed the bridge of his nose again. “This is the fifth time this has happened. He’s chasing a ghost, Allen. He imagines James is alive and well somewhere, or maybe that it was salvaged and Red-eyed and used by the Mob. He’s confident almost any Swinger model in the city is his old partner.”
“He did hesitate to kill one such Red-eye during the raid this evening …” Allen thought back to firing down at the Automatic that would have killed Roche, had Allen not screwed up the courage to jump from the Rotorbird. “Has Roche ever investigated the location where his old partner was killed? At least to see if it was taken?”
Robins hesitated and thought. “I have mentioned it to him a few times, but he was always adamant that James wasn’t there any longer. I doubt he even checked …”
After a while, Allen stood up, leaving his half-full snifter on the desk. “Thank you again for the information, Commissioner. You’ve helped me very much.”
“It’s no problem.”
He stood, wobbling a bit from intoxication. But he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders, now that he knew more about Roche’s past. He would never understand the detective’s pain, but he could do his best to fill the void Elias had endured for almost five years. He turned to leave, feeling what might be a smile forming on his metallic face. Maybe he could stay on here. Maybe Robins was right.
As he opened the door, he turned to bid Robins farewell. The commissioner smiled … then his face paled in an instant. Allen turned to see Roche standing in the doorway, his face and clothing covered with blood. He was panting for breath, and in one hand he held a briefcase that looked like it weighed a ton.
He walked past Allen, nodding at him, then slammed the briefcase onto Robins’s desk. He unlatched the case to reveal it was full of gold bars. Pocketing five of the bars, he piled the rest of them on the desk. Finally, he slammed a bloodstained note onto the table, grabbed Allen’s glass, and chugged the rest of the brandy.
“You don’t need to pay me. You were bought out. Keep that ten grand you owe me for a rainy day. And keep the gold, too. You’ll need it. Oh, the addresses listed are for three other gold drops. Keep them or send them to me, I don’t give a fuck.”
Both Allen and Robins looked at Roche with a combination of curiosity and horror. After a long pause, Roche said, “I’m going home for a shower. Be back tomorrow to see how things are. I need sleep, and maybe some bandages.”
With that, Roche walked out, leaving Allen and Robins staring at the empty doorway, the trail of blood, and the pile of gold bars on the desk.
“What happened to him?” Allen asked.
Robins finally spoke. “I don’t … I haven’t seen him like that in a long time. But, as you can see, Allen, that’s why we hire Elias Roche: you get results. You get justice.”
CHAPTER 19
THE ROOFTOP THAT MASTERS was using as a helipad belonged to an old apartment complex in the Meatpacking District that had recently been condemned. The floorboards inside the building were cracked, there was mould and garbage strewn everywhere, and I was fairly certain that I’d caught the smell of a decomposing body. I stashed the Neural-Interface and the briefcase under the concrete stairs and headed up at a quick pace, determined to reach the top before Masters’s Rotorbird appeared.
My watch read ten to seven. Sinclair had better be here.
The door to the roof was ajar, the wind swinging it on its creaky hinges. I pushed it open to reveal the flat surface of the roof. Agent Masters — still dressed in black — stood looking at his watch, watching the Plate in anticipation. I approached, pulling out my Diamondback and pushing the mechanism back to single-action. He must have heard the click of the hammer; he turned around slowly, a gun of his own pointed at me.
“Detective, you’ve been busy. I saw you coming from a mile away.” Even with his back against the wall, he was acting smug. Lanky fuck, I thought.
“I wasn’t trying to hide. I’ve got a score to
