Murder in New Eden

by Charles C. Cole

Table of Contents

Chapter 22: A Spy in Costume

Welcome to City Operations, evening edition. All the ceiling lights are on. Most of the banks of monitors tied to the city’s security cameras are near-dark and show little or no activity. Wayne and Nakamura have been busy converting some underused workspace in the back of the large room into a micro-gym, or mini-dojo. They are dressed in loose, gray athletic wear with their hair pushed away from their faces, held in place with brightly colored headbands. They pay no heed to the familiar flickering red light in the corner of the ceiling, unaware that the dayshift officers have brought one additional camera on line, one that has never worked before.

Wayne seems a bit put out, less than committed. “Did you bring a towel? I forgot a towel.”

“I brought two.”

“Promise me, Lucy, he’s coming here first. I can’t waste all night rolling on the mats with some sweaty soldier, tempting as it is.”

“There are worst ways to kill some time,” Nakamura says, looking like the proverbial cat who eats the canary and doesn’t feel guilty about it at all.

For a moment, Wayne’s jaw drops down and hangs loosely. “I don’t want to hear about it. He’s a total stranger. For all you know he’s secretly suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, waiting for something to set him off. And with the late hours you two hang out together, I probably won’t be around to save you from yourself.”

“You need to spend more time with him. He’s a dedicated peacekeeper who’s willing to sacrifice himself for all of us.”

“Why? Ask yourself that. I would sacrifice myself for you, because you’re my best friend. He’s not from here. I know: he’s from an older ‘here’, from before our parents were born. But he’s got nothing to lose. Loved one killed in friendly fire incident: oops. Civilians ripped apart from collateral damage: couldn’t be helped. Government building collapses on children playing dodge ball: sorry. I’m not saying he’ll go out of his way to hurt and maim his witnesses; it’s just who he is.”

“And he’s also a helluva instructor. Who needs automatic weapons? Eartha, I kicked a guy’s butt. I think I broke his nose. Blood spurted everywhere! It was awesome!”

“Okay, I admit it sounds tempting,” admits Wayne. “And, in some particular cases, long overdue.”

“Answer me this: Why are we here instead of waiting to meet up with the guys to train at the high school gym?”

“Because I’m not good at it yet,” concedes Wayne, “and I don’t want their advice or their teasing. I’ve got to do it my way.”

“Exactly. And who is the one person in all of New Eden who’s going to make you our number one secret weapon?”

“The Good Humor man.”

“Eartha!”

“Fine. Your too-good-to-be-true former-popsicle of a boyfriend.”

“You’re damn right!”

* * *

At the end of the long shift, Police Chief Leo Schiavelli stands in his narrow galley kitchen, still “mostly” in uniform: his shoes off and his shirt completely unbuttoned with a white ribbed t-shirt exposed. He opens his recently stocked fridge and grabs a can of still-warm beer. The chief pops the can and listens to the soothing fizz of his much anticipated, much welcomed libation. As the can reaches his waiting lips, someone unexpected knocks on the other side of the door to the main hallway.

Sgt. Cody is scheduled to be training the troops in after-hours hand-to-hand defense in the high school gym. Though a tough-sell at first because of longer hours and physical exertion, interest in the class has been building: everyone has seen his swift, decisive moves. Many have been on the receiving end and are silently counting down to the mythical event known as “payback.”

As for Lois, even here, she would barely pause between knocking and entering. Hopefully, she would be with her family at this hour. The mayor and Petrillo probably don’t even know where the chief lives. Wayne and Nakamura know better than any man, in his experience, how to walk away from the day’s unfinished business and take the night off. Which leaves who? The knock repeats, a little louder and more insistent.

“You make a lousy spy, you know that?” says the chief, narrowing down the suspects by process of elimination. He grabs a quick swallow of his beer.

“Can I come in?” asks a whispering male voice.

“Do I have a choice?” Schiavelli slides his belt off and holds it over his shoulders like a jump rope, in the off-chance he needs a weapon to defend himself against his intruder, a simple maneuver taught by Cody. “Would you like me to turn the lights off for privacy?”

“Are the curtains closed?”

“They’re closed.” He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t know for sure. He’s humoring his demanding guest; it’s less effort.

“Then, no.”

“Then get your butt in here, Toby, before my neighbors get scandalized and start poking you with broom handles.”

The door creaks. A dark figure in a trench coat and low-riding fedora, with a brim dipping below his eyebrows, sidles in. He closes the door and takes barely a step, when his coat snags and pulls him backwards.

“You want to try that again, ace, without embarrassing yourself this time?” asks the chief.

Pelkey opens the door just a crack, steps quickly away from the entrance, and recloses the door behind him, without a hitch.

“You have to be, without question, the worst spy in the history of spies.”

“Good evening, Chief,” says Pelkey. He starts to remove his hat but notices the curtains facing the city street are not completely closed. With a wall switch within easy reach, he turns off the nearest overhead light with a lucky swat.

“I thought you said they were closed.”

“They were closed when I last looked,” the chief lies, “when I got up this morning. Blame Cody, my new roommate. He’s still a little hazy on the rule if the house.”

“Someone could be watching. Someone probably is watching.”

“Toby, Dom knows you’re working for me.”

“He only suspects.”

“He told me so when he met me at the mayor’s earlier today.”

“He was just guessing, seeing how you’d react. Why was he at the mayor’s?”

“You’re my spy; you tell me,” says the chief.

“Can I sit? It was a long walk. I kept looking over my shoulder.”

“No. Let’s keep this brief. I’m tired.”

“Can I have a beer?”

“No, I’m running low,” the chief lies. “Answer my question.”

“He was casing the place, looking for vulnerabilities,” Pelkey guesses. “When he creates his revolution, you can count on it, that will be his new home-on-high.”

“That could be, but that’s not what we talked about.”

“What did he say?”

“That he wants half of the super-soldiers, because it’s fair, but he’d be okay with just one.”

“What did you tell him?” asks Pelkey.

“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions? I’m not used to being on the receiving end of an interrogation. I told him to go jump in the lake. The shocking part is I’m pretty sure the mayor was tempted to go along, just to send him on his way.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Thank you for your sound advice. Why ever did we banish you to the underworld? Oh, yeah, because you were a self-serving backstabber.” Schiavelli is nearly foaming with sarcasm and impatience.

“You moved them, didn’t you? The soldiers.”

“Yes, I did,” lied Schiavelli. “I had to.”

“That was smart.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Nobody knows where they are but you.”

“More or less true,” says the Schiavelli. “Did Dom send you to gather information? Is that what this is about? Are you a double agent?”

“What?! No, I’m your spy.”

“My spy would stay where he belongs, undercover on assignment, and quit coming to topside to scare little kids in the park with his Invisible Man get-up. If you don’t want Dom to suspect that we’re communicating, stay away from me! Do whatever he wants. Get him comfortable with having you in his inner circle. Call me colorfully bad names, and the mayor and Petrillo. You might try spitting on the floor when he mentions me. Accumulate intel. Find out what makes him tick. Determine his weaknesses. Accumulate more intel, like who doesn’t like his leadership style. I’ll find a way to get your notes. But don’t come up here again! Do I make myself clear?”

“This is hard work.”

“I’m sorry, really I am, but you sort of put yourself in this predicament when you went behind my back with Dr. Valdez to steal a hi-tech weapon with a mind of its own that ended up killing Valdez and nearly ended up bulldozing through my home-on-high because of some epic miscommunication on your part.”

Pelkey attempts to defend what remains of his honor. “Valdez was the brains. I keep telling people that.”

“I don’t care. You want back into my good graces, go back into the water treatment plant and be my eyes and ears. Don’t trust anything anybody tells you in confidence but write it all down anyway. I’ll decrypt the disinformation and alternative facts from the logistically important stuff. Now go!”

“Maybe a beer for the walk back.”

“No!” Schiavelli steps right up to him.

Pelkey, expecting some sort of violence, maybe recalling his frightening introduction to Boyer, shrinks against the wall. “Don’t hurt me!”

The chief reaches beyond him and flicks on the ceiling light. It’s bright, and Pelkey scurries out into the dim hall, away from the light like a panicked rat.

From the hall, a muffled voice adds, “Good night, Chief. I really am on your side.”

Schiavelli locks the door and finishes his beer. He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself smiling.

* * *

Late at night in the lab, sitting in an armless swivel stool at a long steel counter, Eartha Wayne is playing mad chemist, carefully mixing and remixing minute amounts of the chemicals she’s found in the apartment of Dr. Valdez. She wears an apron and long blue latex gloves. As is her preference, she has most of the overhead lights out, except the bare minimum for what she needs. She has a rack of test tubes before her and adds roughly two tablespoons of water to each from a glass measuring cup, then caps them, and toggles a switch to shake them all at once. And then she waits.

A black rotary phone mounted on the wall rings. Wayne tries to ignore it, finally turning and glaring at it, as if the unit might somehow be unnerved and stop. When that doesn’t work, she picks up a box-cutter knife on the counter and steps over to the phone with grim determination. On second thought, she merely unplugs it. The ringing stops immediately. She steps back to her counter to resume her work. A couple of the mixtures are actively foaming. Behind her, someone coughs to announce himself just inside the door.

Without turning around, she replies, “We’re closed.”

“It’s Director Petrillo.”

“We’re still closed.” She puts on safety goggles, already hanging around her neck, and leans closer into her work, more as a gesture of “I’m busy” than out of any particular necessity.

Petrillo persists. “I was looking for some information.”

“I’m all out. You should have come earlier.”

“About the recent promenade murders.”

He has her attention. She looks up and lowers her goggles. “Shouldn’t you be at Sgt. Cody’s self-defense training?” It’s a veiled reference to his rumored tough-love bruisings at the weapon-like hands of the former assassin and guest instructor.

“Shouldn’t you, officer?”

“Actually, Lucy and I are in the advanced class, so don’t get too close; I have hair-trigger reflexes now.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Petrillo enters, stepping out of the shadows, but stopping a pre-calculated safe distance away. As always, he is wearing attire too formal for the occasion: a tailored pinstripe suit, including a delicate red scarf with matching pocket square. “Is this okay?” There’s a strong hint of flirting afoot.

Wayne has played this game with Petrillo before, never voluntarily. He hasn’t won yet, but he keeps coming back. Perhaps he doesn’t like losing or perhaps he admires her striking professionalism.

Wayne offers an ambiguous threat. “Do you want to find out?”

The director responds with the bold brush of humility, a tried-and-true countermove, to get in her good graces. “Look, I apologize for stopping by unannounced at this late hour.”

“Not the first time.”

“But it’s only because I knew you’d be here, because you’re as committed to the job as I am.”

“More,” she corrects him.

“It goes without saying.”

“No, it doesn’t; you can say it. Feel free.”

“Even more,” he concedes.

She ups her demands. “And I’m the smartest person you’ve ever met in your life.”

“And you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life.” He inches closer.

“Close enough.” He stops. “Nicolas, not that I’m interested, what are you looking for?”

He pauses as he considers a romantic opening, but he eventually moves forward well within his comfort zone. “Bernie Ketchum’s weapon. I believe it’s called a tommy gun, or a Thompson submachine gun. No one seems to have seen it at the station. It’s not in the evidence room. Somebody picked it up.”

“It’s probably in the armory vault with all of the other ‘bad’ guns.”

“But what if it’s not? What if was lost in the excitement or somebody took it home as a sort of souvenir? It might still be loaded. It could still hurt someone.”

Wayne sighs; his worries quickly wear her out. She tries to deflect his concern with psychobabble. “Only if the amateur gangster is currently being medicated on Dr. Valdez’s home remedy for grief abatement, which seems to have been the fuse for the recent aggression. And we recalled everything he’d distributed.”

“So, you’re okay with this?”

“With what? There’s nothing to be okay with.” She pulls her goggles’ strap over her head and removes her gloves: the workday has ended. “The chief doesn’t have it, I promise.”

“And Sgt. Cody?” Wayne escorts him to the exit.

“He wasn’t around yet, remember? Just a happy bouncing green blip on a monitor. Nice try. Out you go. I’m locking up the place.”

He stops in the doorway. “You live alone.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with that, but that’s not entirely true; I have a small litter of kittens I attend to. They are literally all I can fit. Have you seen my place?”

“Not yet.” A shot over the bow. More direct than usual for him. Her cheeks blush.

“My point is there’s no place to hide anything. From what I hear, my humble home is smaller than the mayor’s tennis court.”

“That would be pretty small,” he concedes.

“You’ve seen the mayor’s tennis court?!” She’s offended by his experiencing the purported opulence she has only so far heard about. Petrillo has been moving up — fast.

“Not to play tennis!” Petrillo is defensive, feeling exposed. He forgets how dramatically his world has changed since the recent violence and the tidy demotion of Toby Pelkey to a world he hopes never to see. “The mayor uses it as an office sometimes. Funny thing. It helps him think clearly, to get outside the walls. I’m just there to write down his thoughts as he yells them out between swings, while he’s volleying with his personal trainer. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Get out, Nicolas. I’ve heard enough for today.” She means it. “Come find me tomorrow if you think I’ll change my story, but I am officially off the clock as of right... now.” She shoves him, backwards, through the door and follows him out.

Proceed to Chapter 23...

Copyright © 2018 by Charles C. Cole

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