Rain was falling outside, and the heaters on the Plate spooled up enough to keep the winter chill away from the heart of the Upper City, melting the frozen water into a torrential downpour. Sure, it was unusual to see rain in late November, but it beat shovelling snow, or having the Upper City dump it on us.
“You coming to the next poker night, Roche? Pot is twenty bucks this time, meaning whoever wins has one hell of a good week ahead of them.” Sinclair was enjoying the lull in work, catching up on some rest in his free time.
“Maybe. Depends how much work I got. For all I know, Allen and I could get a surprise Night Call.”
“If I remember correctly, Detective Roche, you receive more than one dozen Night Calls per week, though why you answer the select few is beyond my comprehension.”
To my disdain, Allen was capable of multitasking. Its criticism of me never seemed to end.
“Not the time, Allen.”
Did I really get that many? How many times had the phone rung while I was passed out? At least Allen was there now to pick up the phone now and then. I turned back to Sinclair and continued.
“Besides, I shouldn’t be drinking. That bullet wound is still healing. It took out a piece of my leg that I was quite fond of.”
“I’m surprised you’re even standing, let alone coming into the office. You got some good stuff, eh?”
“Sure is. No clue what it is, though. Spray-on skin, for all I know.”
“Actually, Detectives, the Syneal substance is a latticework of polymer fibres that form a synthetic layer of silicon-based platelets and fibrin threads, decreasing healing time tenfold,” Allen said smugly. Maybe it was showing me up, or maybe it was just informing me. I hoped it was the latter.
“Thanks, Allen.”
“Anytime, Detective Roche.” Allen turned its head and returned to the paperwork without skipping a beat.
“Anyway, Paddy, things have been relatively quiet, but it’s like a tsunami. It all comes back eventually.”
“Don’t worry about it too much. You may be an anxious bastard, but sometimes you shouldn’t question a good thing.” Sinclair laughed.
I leaned against Allen’s desk, folding my arms and trying to relax, if even for a moment. I deserved some relaxation after this past case. It might do me some good.
“It’s almost Christmas,” Sinclair mentioned. “Just over a month left. You got anything planned? Any resolutions for the big three-four?”
“Same as every year. Maybe get a nice imported bottle of Scotch and drink it in front of my window. Maybe get out of the city for the first time in two years. Or splurge and trick out the Talbot. She’s been making some concerning noises.”
Then the tsunami hit with a crash as the doors of the precinct were thrown open.
Three figures entered, their features obscured by heavy coats and rain hats. They brushed past us, the wind from outside swinging the doors open again, rain soaking the floor near the entrance. Robins must have felt some strange vibe, because although it was impossible to hear the front doors from his office, he appeared in the main area before any one of us could blink. I could have sworn I saw his face turn white.
“What did you do, Jeffrey Robins?” asked the figure in the lead. The voice was feminine, but gravelly.
“W-what?” Robins looked surprised, to the say the least.
“You know damn well what! I have no clue what this little conglomerate of idiots has been doing recently, but as soon as your business starts branching into the Upper City, it becomes my business.”
She removed her coat and hat, and finally I got a good look at who we were dealing with. The grey streaks in her dark-brown hair reflected the light from the dim overhead bulbs. She could’ve been in her early fifties, or maybe she was older, and all the fieldwork kept her going instead of sitting and rotting like most other desk jockeys.
Yup … we were in for one hell of a time, with her here.
“Well, first of all, what did I supposedly do?” Robins said, trying to reclaim dominance in the argument without success.
“Well, Jeffrey, I received a report that Agent Ewalt had returned to the Bureau with the team of agents, but his superior, Agent Masters, was missing. We prepared a formal reprimand for our senior agent’s negligence, but then, a Rotorbird pilot mentioned that he’d been instructed to pick up Agent Masters at a specified location two weeks before. However, upon arriving, the area was locked down by a police Rotorbird securing a crime scene.”
Sinclair’s face went white, and he sucked harder on his cigarette.
She continued: “So, we went down there to check out the area and see if there was indeed a crime scene. But no such crime scene existed, nor had one existed within the last six months. We even questioned some civilians, who confirmed that there hadn’t been a police presence in that area on that specific day. We questioned the pilot, and found out the exact location where he was supposed to meet Masters. Lo and behold, in the very building Agent Masters was supposed to be picked up from, we found this.”
One of the Black Hats accompanying her in passed her a folder; she in turn handed it to Robins.
I knew right away that there were pictures in it, and soon got a confirmation when Robins went green. For a split second, his eyes darted to me, then they spun around so the Black Hats wouldn’t get any
