Special thanks to Chanur, he’s gotten me over my writer’s block! Of course, he may come to regret that bit of assistance...
This is a multi-part story, so I’ll let you know when I relinquish my turn :)
********
Paper Tiger
A Fianna vs Chanur riff
I was sitting in my office
on
I took another bite of my donut and stretched. On the street below my window, I knew the traffic was light, nestled in that lull between the morning rush to work and the noon-time rush to lunch. I was in a lull, too, but I didn't mind, since my last case had fattened my checking account to a degree that I could afford the nescessities of life. Like Krispy Kreme donuts, coffee, and stretches.
The black telephone on my desk rang. I could have let the answering machine have it, but then it might be Susan calling, and that would be unchivalrous. I picked up the phone.
"Spenser," the voice said.
"Quirk," I replied. Martin Quirk was a homicide captain in the Boston PD. We went a long way back.
"You working right now?" he asked.
I looked at the donuts. My coffee was getting cold.
"Why do you ask?" I said.
"I got a friend in
"And he called you, and asked you to call the world's greatest detective to come solve it for him?"
"Naw, I just asked him to get you out of my hair for a while," Quirk said.
"The case," I said. "Anything I'd have heard of?"
"The Cochran-Fielding murders."
To my credit, I didn't drop the phone. I no longer cared if my coffee got cold. I had a microwave.
"Who's picking up the tab?" I asked.
"Mauzer's bringing you in as a consultant," he said. "At your usual rate."
"The last time I told you my rate was 1969," I said.
"Damn, should've adjust for inflation then," Quirk said.
"I'll bring
Susan," I said. "She loves shopping on
Quirk was quiet a moment.
"I've seen the crime seen photos," he said. "Leave Susan home. Take Hawk."
"Alright," I said. "Do you have a case file?"
"Sitting on my desk. When should I look for you?"
I counted three donuts left, then calculated the time to microwave my coffee back to a drinkable temperature.
"About twenty minutes," I said, and pressed down on the disconnect switch.
********
The precinct building was a short walk from my office. I took my time, finishing my last donut and coffee on the way. I dropped the paper cup in the curbside trash can by the door. Spenser, enviromentalist.
Quirk hadn't changed in all the years I'd known him. He wore a tailored powder blue suit with a white shirt, and behind the desk I knew his black shoes were polished to a mirror finish. His hair was combed straight back from his face, each lock carefully positioned. His nails were manicured.
The office was meticulously clean. In days gone by, the desktop was bare except for a pencil set and a plastic picture cube with photos of his wife and kids. Since the seventies, though, these had been joined by a white computer screen and keyboard.
"Have a seat," he said, nodding towards one of the two audience chairs. Then he opened the the top right drawer of his desk, took out the file and tossed it to me. I opened it to the first picture.
"Ouch," I said.
"Yeah. The killer took most of the bladder along with the genitals. Report says Fielding bled to death, poor bastard."
I flipped to the next picture. It was Johnny Cochran, mutilated, strangled, his tounge cut out and mounted to the wall above his head.
"Defensive wounds on the arm suggest a curved weapon," Quirk said. "The cuts were parallel to each other, indicating they were all made at once."
The next picture showed a cat-like thing lying on a hospital bed. I blinked. I scanned the report next to the picture. I blinked again.
"That is the prime suspect?"
"'Fraid so."
"What the hell is it?"
"That," Quirk said, smiling broadly, "Is the legendary Hani."
I stared at him.
"The next thing you're gonna be telling me, Bigfoot killed Marilyn Monroe."
Quirk shrugged. "If Bigfoot left his hairs all over the crime scene, like this guy did, maybe I could make the case. The lab has conclusively matched them to samples taken from him."
"So why do they need me?"
Quirk smiled. "Because the guy in your hand is currently incarcerated at the TCATGR Mental Health Clinic, just outside of Trenton, where he's under 24-hour-a-day video surveillance. He hasn't left that room since the Fianna trial ended, and he's on tape the nights of both killings.
"Jesus Christ.”
"Naw, he's got an alibi too," Quirk said.
"So why is he in there?" I asked.
"Nervous breakdown after the verdict came in. His doctor gave a statement, it's in the folder."
"So what you're asking me to do," I said, "Is explain how a mythical creature managed to kill two people in the middle of Manhattan, while safely locked up in the mental ward in Trenton, New Jersey?"
"Soon as Mouzer called, I knew you were the man for the job."
"Thanks alot," I said.
"You're welcome."
********
I stopped at the office and called Susan Silverman and left a message on her machine to meet me for dinner. Then I took my gym bag drove to the Harbor Health Club.
The Harbor Health Club was once a boxing gym, but in later years, as the economy wove it's tangled web, owner Henry Cimolli had diversified. Now, most of the floor space was taken up with Nautilus machines, treadmills and exercise cycles. Most of the patrons were suburban housewives and middle-aged men trying to get back something they'd never had to begin with. But he still maintained a boxing room, with a speed bag and a heavy bag, as a tribute to his heritage.
I caught up with Hawk at the bench press machine. A young blonde woman was lying on the bench, pushing the bar smoothly up and down.
"See? I told you it was easy, you just needed to correct your form," Hawk was saying. I didn't see anything wrong with her form, except for her outfit. I wondered if the blue genie costume represented a trend, and hoped it didn't.
Hawk looked at me, which meant he was acknowledging my arrival. He'd known I was there since I'd first entered the room. He was dressed in a white tee-shirt and gym shorts, the exposed black skin glossy with sweat.
The girl set the bar down and wooshed with exertion, sitting up and toweling herself off. She smiled up at Hawk expectantly.
"Peachy, I gotta talk to my friend here. Why don't you go over to the treadmills and get started?" he said. The girl smiled and got up and walked away. We watched her go.
"Nice form," I said appreciatively.
"Uh-huh," Hawk replied.
"Be more of a challenge if there'd been any weight on the bar," I pointed out.
"A challenge ain't what I'm after," Hawk said. He walked around to the back of the machine and set the stack to maximum, 250 pounds. Then he stretched out on the bench and began moving the weights up and down with slow, fluid movements, as regular as a clock ticking. I counted his reps while I waited. He stopped at 53.
"What's going on?" he asked as he sat up. He wasn't even winded.
I told him. "You interested?"
"What's the pay?"
I told him.
"Hmm."
Hawk got up and moved to the butterfly machine. He took the pin from the stack and slid it into position with the next-to-last plate. He sat down on the bench and stopped and looked at me and smiled.
"Not pro bono, but damn close," he said.
********
I slid the duck into the oven, and went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of marmalade.
"That's cheating," Susan said.
"Only if I'm caught," I answered. I emptied the jar into a sauce pan and added the red peppers I'd chopped earlier while I was waiting for her to arrive. I thinned the mixture down with a few splashes of champaigne, then set it on a low heat to warm.
"You haven't told me what the occasion is," Susan prodded gently.
"There is love in our hearts, duck in the oven and lust in our loins. Isn't that enough?"
"You said you were going out of town."
I tested the sauce, then added a dash of cinnimon and stirred.
"I’ve been asked to consult on the Fielding-Cochran murders,” I said. I turned the heat down on the sauce and sat down at the counter and told her everything. She listened intently, absorbing every word, and when I finished, she didn’t answer right away. A small, vertical line appeared between her eyebrows, the outward indication of the mental energy she focused on this new input, digesting and dissecting it until the pattern emerged.
She said, “It’s the DNA that has them worried. If the forensics team is unable to distinguish between the killer’s genetic code, and that of a harmless catatonic in a mental ward, it casts doubt on every case where DNA was a determining factor. Prosecutors and juries love DNA, because it’s supposed to be fool-proof. Men have been executed because of DNA, others freed after years in prison. If that certainty is taken away, that guarantee invalidated, it’ll be a disaster for the legal system.”
“It’ll make the Fianna video-tape mess look like a dirty bathroom,” I said.
“Are you going alone?” she asked.
“No. I’m taking Hawk.”
Susan was quiet a moment. “I love Hawk, but I hate it when you take him along. It means you don’t think you can handle it alone.”
I looked into her large dark eyes and felt that twinge in my heart, the same one that I’d felt the time I’d seen her, and every time since. The air was richer when she was around, the colors of the world brighter. I’d never met another person like her, and I didn’t expect to.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said. “My strength is as the strength of ten, for my heart is pure.”
Susan smiled.
“After dinner, we‘ll see if your stamina is on a similiar level.”
*******
The next morning, Hawk picked me up and we drove to Manhattan. Flying would have been faster, but explaining our firearms would have made up the difference anyway.
To Be Continued...
Paper Tiger
A Fianna vs Chanur Riff
Part Two
Hawk and I arrived in Manhattan at two in the morning, checked into our hotel and caught some sleep. The next morning, I called Mouzer's office and left a message to pick us up. Then I took my .38 from the suitcase and put it on my hip and slipped a Celtics jacket on to hide the gun.
"When you gonna get a real piece, anyway?" Hawk asked. He had a shoulder rig on, and in the holster, a weapon slightly smaller than an elephant gun. It looked like it fired ship-to-shore missles instead of bullets.
I said, "If I ever need to kill a Sherman tank, I'll let you know."
There was a knock on the door. I looked out the sight-glass and saw a brunette in a light gray suit, holding a badge next to her face. It was a nice badge, very pretty. So was the face. I put on my 1000-watt smile, then toned it down to 800 watts before opening the door. They'd been known to start tearing their clothes off for the 1000 watt.
"Spenser?" she asked, shaking my hand briskly.
"Yes," I said. "Are you Mouzer?"
She smiled. "Hardly. Ric's in the car waiting for us. I'm Carryn Smythe. Who's your friend?"
"Hawk," I said. Hawk was smiling pleasantly, sunglasses on, white suit coat over white tank-top tee shirt and white jeans. He wore a single, thick gold chain around his neck, and tan snakeskin cowboy boots on his feet.
"Hello, Hawk," Carryn said, extending her hand.
"Hello, Miss Smythe," he said smoothly. He took her hand, but did not shake it. Instead, he just held it a moment, let his thumb slide across the back of her fingers, then let go slowly. Carryn took three full seconds to lower her arm after he released her hand..
"Well, gentlemen, if you're ready?" she said, and coughed slightly. "I mean, ready to go?"
I gestured her out the door, then followed her outside, Hawk bringing up the rear. As we walked to the elevator, I slowed down to come even with him.
"I must be losing my touch," I said quietly.
"Naw," Hawk said. "You just outclassed."
When we reached the car, Mouzer was standing outside, leaning on it. He was in his early fifties, and heavy enough to make the sixties look like a dim hope. He wore a tan tweed suit, and after exchanging introductions, we got in the car and drove onto the street.
Mouzer said, "I hope you'll excuse me if I'm a bit short, but I'm catching alot of hell over this case. Two prominent lawyers dead in a week, a judge and public defender in hiding. For a while, they were gonna classify it as a terrorist act, so I'm really hoping you guys can help."
"Where are we going?" I asked.
Carryn said, "To see the suspect and his psychiatrist, Doctor Flessidoria Zhie. She's the head of operations at the TCATGR Mental Health Clinic. Most of their work is on sex cases, but Zhie took this guy in because she knew him before his breakdown."
I said, "Any chance she's covering for him?"
"None. Court psychiatrists back the diagnosis, complete catatonia. Also, the lab confirms the surveillance tapes are good. Nakur Na Chanur spends all day, every day, curled up in a little ball and sucking his thumb."
"And this guy's the killer?" Hawk asked.
Mouzer said, "According to the DNA, it can't possible be anybody else. Besides, how many six-foot three-hundred-pound gold felinoids do you know?"
********
The TCATGR Mental Health Clinic was a study in controlled chaos, only without the control. Patients were lounging around the waiting room, coming on to both staffers and guests. Moments after we walked in, one fellow in a white bathrobe walked up to us and flashed Hawk.
"That's what you get for being a honky," Hawk said, his smile never wavering. The flasher blushed, turned tail and ran off down the hall.
"We're here to see Doctor Zhie," Carryn said to the small troll working the phones.
"Then what the hell are you bothering me for?!" the harpy shrieked. "Get your asses back there. I'm busy!"
"Busy with the Avon catalogue?" I asked.
"Screw you, Boston. I'd come around there and beat the hell out of you, but shit splatters, and I just cleaned this uniform!"she snarled.
I considered shooting her, but decided letting her live was enough punishment. I followed the others down the hall, Hawk in front of me in case the flasher decided to try anything. Mouzer had been here before, so he led the way.
“I told you you weren’t losing your touch,” Hawk said. I ignored him.
Flessidoria Zhie was leaning back in her chair when we came in, feet on her desk top. She was holding a chart in her hand and scowling at whatever it read. She was a cheetah Thunderian, the king cheetah sub-species to be precise. She was tall and slender, wearing a blue lab coat, a white shirt, and black slacks. She had dirty white canvas shoes and no socks.
“Doctor Zhie, this is the consultant I told you about, Mister Spenser from Boston. Please answer his questions the same as you answered ours,” Mouzer said.
Zhie dropped the report and redirected her scowl at me. “Boston, huh? You know anything about psychiatry?”
“I’m banging a shrink,” I said.
“She any good?”
“Harvard graduate.”
“Huh,” she snorted. “I could’ve gone to Harvard, but Snarfria Community College was alot cheaper. So what do you want to know?”
“What’s his condition?” I asked.
"Catatonic state induced by emotional trauma."
“Course of treament?” I asked.
“A heavy dose of jack-shit,” the cheetah snarled. “We’re a sex clinic, we don’t have the resources he needs.”
“Why not transfer him?”
“We’re the only place his HMO covers, and as long as the HMO is covering anything, County won’t take him either. We flip him four times a day to prevent bedsores, and change his diddy when he messes it. Luna gets that detail, and brother, does she bitch about it.” She paused a moment, then said, "You wanna see him, or what?"
"Yes," I said, and then we all got up and trooped out of the office and down the hall. A few minutes later, Zhie opened the locked door of a padded cell and we went inside.
"There he is, people, the mighty Nakur Na Chanur, the legendary Hani," Zhie said.
On the bed was a scraggly-looking shaggy mop of gold fur. The mop never moved or acknowledged our existence in any way.
"How did you know him?" I asked.
"Casual aquaintance. We run in the same circles. After the Fianna trial, some friends of mine found him and called me to see what I could do, which isn't much."
"Any idea what pushed him over the edge?"
"I'm not exactly sure, but you need to know, this guy's been teetering on the brink for a long time anyway. He swears he's a character in a story dreamed up by some guy in Wisconsin named Chris Senechal."
I looked at Mouzer. He shrugged.
"We checked into it, came up dry. Far as we can tell, this Chris Senechal guy doesn't exist, and never has."
********
We spent the rest of the first day going over the evidence in the case, all of it conclusively pointing to the pathetic furball at the clinic, conclusively. Except for the hospital video tape, Nakur Na Chanur would already be on death row. Background investigation had come up dry after the Wisconsin lead dried up. The statements given by his friends in the club he frequented had run along the lines of “sorry to hear it, but not suprised, he was always talking to himself anyway.”
“So what are you gonna do now?” Hawk asked when we got back to the hotel.
“The same thing I always do,” I said. “Poke around, ask questions, and annoy people till somebody spills something I can use.”
“You pretty good at annoying people. Sometimes they shoot at you.”
“That’s why you’re here,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said. “Better keep on my toes. Susan never forgive me if I let you get your dumb ass killed.”
TBC
Paper Tiger
A Fianna vs Chanur Riff
Part 3
I was sitting in the dining room of the underground apartment shared by two of the people on Mouzer's list. The owner was a young Aztec woman named Spark. She had long black hair, and was wearing a black dress, black hose, and black shoes. Her clothes were covered in tiny silver animal charms that jingled when she moved. Among them were lions, tigers and bears. Oh, my.
"I don't see why we have to tell you anything. We already spoke to the police. Anyhow, why does it matter? He's guilty, isn't he? DNA and all that?"
This was from Zhyan Dykhordian, Spark's boyfriend. He was leaning against the wall, looking sullen and aggressive. He was wearing black leather everything, and had bat wings folded in against his shoulders, and purple hair. He also had a british accent, but I forgave him for it.
"I've read your statements, but there's always the possibilty something was overlooked. You may know more than you realize, so I came to inquire in person. And there are other possibilities besides a fake tape.”
“Like what?” he growled.
I said, “Somebody might be trying to set him up.”
"Frame Chanur?" Spark exclaimed. "But why would someone want to do that?"
"Like I said, it's one possibility. With the evidence being what it is, it's a very strong possibility, so I'm following up on it. It's what I call a useful assumption."
She thought about what I said. I could tell because she was a very active thinker. Her lips were moving, her hands were restless, and she was jingling more. At last she said, "He was a nice person, and fun and witty. I drew a picture of him for his wall, did you see it in his room?"
"The one with him standing over a dead deer?"
"Yes, that one. He loved to hunt all sorts of things. Deers, unicorns," she stopped and giggled. "And dogs."
"What about dogs?" I asked.
She said, "You have not met Fianna yet. Go see him next, he and Chanur were great fighters. They always argue over who gets the last laugh. But be wary of him, he is a nincompoop."
"Did Chanur have any real enemies?" I asked.
"No, no enemies. Fianna was a rival, but they did not fight with anger. He argued with some people, like Zhie--"
"Flessidoria Zhie, the psychiatrist?" I asked.
"Oh yes, they had quite a quarrel. You see, she was the ruler of America, and Chanur organized an Atlantean resistance movement. Oh, it was just a game we were all playing, but Zhie was pretty upset."
"Anyone else upset with him?"
"No, not really,” she said, then hesitated. Then she added, “Are you really going to help Chanur?”
“If he’s guilty, no. If he’s innocent, then yes, I will help him.”
She said, “I believe you.“
Zhyan snorted.
********
“I’ve known Chanur ever since his arrival,“ Fianna said. “He’s a real talent, very strong. Someday, he’s going to be a force to be reckoned with.“
I was sitting in the living room of a two-story doghouse about ten miles from the FF. Across from me, on the sofa, was a large green bipedal german shepard with a faint Irish accent. He wore a chain mail shirt, purple pants and black boots. On his lap was a fluffy white poodle. The poodle was glaring at me.
“Nice doggy,” I said. She snarled.
“Honey, remember, Spenser is in law enforcement. You should like him,” Fianna said, petting the dog. She stopped snarling, but continued to glare.
“I’ve heard you two were enemies.”
“Nonsense. We’re rivals, but it’s all in sport. I’d never want to see him hurt,“ he paused, smiled down at his poodle and said, “Well, not too badly, anyway.“
“What can you tell me about Flessidoria Zhie?”
“Doc?” he said, his ears perking up. “She’s solid gold brass, man, tough as hell. She’s gotta be, just look at her staff.”
“I heard she and Chanur didn’t get along.”
“Hell, that was ages ago, and after Rivero shrink-wrapped Wisconsin, it all went away. Chanur even tried to save her life from a Bladerunner a few months ago. There’s no bad blood there.”
I asked, “Can you think of anyone else who might have want to see Chanur hurt?”
The dog was quiet for a minute. “There was some fracas a while ago, something to do with Kamanchee Skah, but I don’t remember the details. Try him next. You can find him at the English Muffin Bakery on King Kat South.”
********
I thanked the Fiannas for their time, then walked out the door and down the drive to my car. It was getting dark early, and the air was thick with dampness. Somewhere in the distance, a low peal of thunder sounded.
I heard footsteps in the grass behind me, and turned around. Coming out of the woods were two men. One was a sabretooth, tall and broad as the caninoid I’d just left behind. The other was shorter and thinner, and he had a fin-like crest on top of his head. Both were dressed in jeans and tee-shirts, wearing jackets. Their hands were in their pockets.
“Are you Spenser?” the bigger one said.
“Yes,” I said.
“My friend and I represent a group of concerned citizens, interested in the Chanur case. Specifically, interested in seeing that damn Hani get what he’s got coming to him,” he said.
“Let me save us all some trouble,” I said. “Your citizens are happy with the status quo, and would like me to leave the situation alone?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“No.”
The big one blinked. The little one looked dismayed. Neither looked like they were used to hearing “no” very often.
“What did you say?” the sabertooth growled.
“I said, no, I’m not quitting the case. In my line of work, if you get a reputation for allowing yourself to be intimidated, you don’t last very long. And I’ve been doing this for a long, long time.”
The ichthyoid’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea who you’re screwing with, smart guy? Just what makes you think you can talk to us like that?”
“I don’t think you know who you are screwing with,” I said. “As for why I can talk to you like that, it’s him.”
Just then, Hawk pumped a round into his shotgun, about six feet behind them. They turned and looked at him, and while they were facing Hawk, I took out my .38 and aimed it at them. When they turned back around, they slowly took their hands out of their pockets and held them to their sides.
I said, “So what’s the interest?”
The big one’s lip curled in a sneer. “Never mind our reasons, but you better think about your own. Nobody wants your help here but Mouzer, and I know you’re not getting paid shit for this asignment. Do yourself a favor, Spenser, and get lost, before we have to lose you.”
They walked away from us to a white mercedes about half a block down the street. They got in, made a u-turn and drove off. I heard Hawk come up beside me as we watched them go.
“Looks like you shook something loose,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Now if I just knew what it was.”
TBC
Paper Tiger
A Fianna vs Chanur Riff
Part 4
"Yes, that's them."
Mouzer nodded and put the mug shots back on his desk. "I thought so. The big one's name is Thunderwolf, the little guy is his partner, Shark. They work for RD Rivero."
"Who's he?" I asked.
"Local mob boss, runs TCATGR, parts of Trenton and Michigan. Mainly, he sticks to Thundercat prostitution and drug smuggling. Cochran was his lawyer, and they were on pretty good terms, so maybe his boys wanted you off the case so Chanur wouldn't get off somehow."
"What about a Kamanchee Skah? Know anything about him?"
"One of Chanur's neighbors, a baker. He's on your list. We questioned him, but didn't get anything useful. Why?"
I shrugged. "His name came up."
I said good-bye to Mouzer and left the precinct house. It was late, and the cloud cover was thick over the city, turning the sky into a sheet of lead. Hawk pulled up beside me and I got in and he handed me a coney dog with pickle relish.
"Is this kosher?" I asked.
"You care?" he said.
"No," I said, and we drove for a while, and ate our coney dogs. While we ate, I told him what Mouzer had told me.
When I'd finished, Hawk said, "Cochran didn't have to piss Rivero off, just needed a better reason to see him dead than alive."
"Still doesn't explain Fielding," I said.
"Mm-hmm."
"Care to take a guess?" I asked.
Hawk said, "You the detective. I'm just here for the coney dogs."
********
I didn't know how late the English Muffin Bake Shop was open, so we drove by slowly. Then we parked down the block and got out of the car and took out our guns. We did this because, even from the street, it was obvious the English Muffin had been broken into. The door stood half off it's hinges, and the frame was bent as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
We crossed the street along-side the bake shop, out of sight of the front door, then moved along the wall to the front. I looked carefully around the corner and into the bay window on the dining room. I could see tables thrown around and knocked over, and the cash register in pieces on the floor. There was no money near it. Nothing was moving.
I covered the glass with my .38 and nodded to Hawk. He crept alongside me, then bolted across the glass to the opposite of the window, taking position in the doorway and covering the room while I followed.
I squeezed through the broken door, trying to keep the glass under my feet from crunching when I stepped on it. I could smell something burning. There was a counter with a display case in front of the opposite wall. To the left of it was a door. Hawk kept his hand-cannon trained on the counter while I crossed the room and put my back to the wall beside the door. I looked behind the counter, and saw nothing. I waved to Hawk, and he slid across the room to me. A cat walking on a shag rug made more noise than he did crossing a tile floor covered in broken glass.
I listened at the door until he reached me, then slowly opened it and slipped inside. The kitchen was hot and stank like burnt toast. A pall of smoke hung in the air like thin fog. I looked left and right, but saw nothing moving. I moved off to the left, and when I cleared the door, Hawk stepped inside and looked around and went right.
Hawk found him, face down
in a bloody heap beside the sink. He waved me over, then covered the rest of
the kitchen while I rolled the victim over. He was dressed in black leather and
some native american trifles. The line of the wooden breastplate he wore was
spoiled by the two bloody bullet holes in it. I took the splintered wood off
and pulled his shirt open and checked for a pulse. I found one. I could hear
air whistling through one of the wounds, so I took a hand towel off the
counter, folded it, put it over the holes and pressed with both hands.
Hawk came back into the
kitchen. I hadn’t noticed him leave. He said, "Rest of the place is clear.
Ambulance is coming."
We waited.
********
I was in the emergency room lobby with Hawk, waiting while Mouzer and Carryn spoke to the surgeon. Since this required no attention from me, I was thinking about baseball.
I asked Hawk, “You ever think about baseball?“
“Never had that problem,“ he said.
Mouzer came into the room then, Carryn trailing behind. He handed me a cup of coffee and said, "If he lasts the night, he might make it."
"Kamanchee Skah?" I asked.
Mouzer nodded.
"See? Quirk told you I was a detective."
Mouzer sipped his coffee. "How did Skah's name came up?"
"I was told he's had an argument with Nakur Na Chanur a few months back," I said.
"Hmm," Mouzer said. "If we'd known that, we might have looked into him a little more. He has a brother, an english national he sponsored over here. We put a call into the INS to get a name. They'll call once they have one."
Carryn said, "It went down right before you got there. The rolls in the oven were burnt, but not badly." She stopped when the cell phone in her pocket rang. She took it out and spoke into the receiver. Then she snapped it shut again. Her face was tense.
"Kamanchee Skah's half-brother is Zhyan Dhykordian. Same mother, different fathers."
I said, "Hey, I think that's a clue."
Mouzer looked at me.
"Holy shit," he said. "You really are a detective."
********
We all drove out to the apartment building, Mouzer and Carryn in their car, Hawk and I in his. We rode the elevator down to the second floor and went to Spark's door. Mouzer knocked, and the door swung inward. We drew our weapons and waited while Mouzer pushed it the rest of the way open.
"This is the police," he called. “Aw, shit,“ he added, and lowered his gun and walked inside. The rest of us followed him in.
Spark's apartment had been ransacked. We swept through quickly, looking for blood or evidence of a struggle, but found nothing. The bed was still made, the dresser drawers were open and empty, and there was no sign of a jewelry box. I looked in the bathroom cabinets. No makeup. I went went back to the living room. Carryn was still in the kitchen. Mouzer was shaking his head, looking frustrated. He sat down on the couch. I went to the telephone and pressed redial. It rang twice before it was picked up.
“Hello?”
“Is this the English Muffin Bakery?” I asked.
“Uh, yes, yes it is. Can I take your order?”
“This is Spenser, I’m working the case with Mouzer. Is there an answering machine on your phone?”
“No, sir, no caller ID either.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.
"They ran," he said.
I nodded. “The question is, why? If they heard Skah being shot, why didn‘t they call the cops? And why did they assume they were next?”
“Maybe you’re looking at it wrong,“ Mouzer said. “Maybe they were waiting to hear Skah being shot, and they’re running from us.”
“Alot of maybes,“ I said.
"I'll fill in the blanks later. Right now, I want those two sitting in a holding cell where I can keep my eye on them." He took out his cell phone and speed-dialled, then waited with the set to his ear until the line was picked up. "Ed? Mouzer. I need a couple arrest warrants, Spark and Zhyan Dhykordian, for questioning regarding two counts of homicide."
Carryn walked into the living room then. She was closing her own cell phone. "Make that three, Ric. They just lost Skah."
TBC
Paper Tiger
A Fianna Vs Chanur Riff
Part 5
"How is it going?" Susan asked over the phone. I waited, letting her voice soak into me before I answered, savoring every syllable.
"Badly," I said, and brought her up to the abandoned apartment. "That was two days ago. Noboy has seen them, and since both of them are foreign nationals, they may well have fled the country."
"Are they suspects?" Susan asked.
"For which case? The Cochran-Fielding murders, or the Chanur conpiracy, or fratricide on an english baker?" I yawned. "I came here to look into one case, now I've got another homicide and two missing persons to consider."
I could hear Susan smile. "Are you close to solving any of them?"
"I have a hunch," I said, "that if I solve one of them, I may just solve them all."
We were quiet for a while. Then Susan said, "You're worried about the kids."
"Yes," I said. "I think RD Rivero is after them, and I don't like their chances if he catches them first."
"If anyone can help them, it's you."
"Thanks," I said, and we said our goodnights and I hung up the phone. Then I laid down on my bed and thought about things for a while. After that, I listened to the rain hitting the window of my room with a sound like a dying man's last request.
I thought about Candy Sloan. She'd asked me to protect her. I didn't fail very often, but when I did, people died sometimes. Candy Sloan had died, the rainwater running pink from the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
"Some bodyguard," I said to the empty room. The room kept it's own counsel. Smart room.
The phone rang. I picked it. "Spenser," I said.
"Good, you're in," the voice said. I recognised it, soft and high-pitched, with a faint trace of Irish brouge to it.
"Fianna," I said.
"I have a message for you from a mutual friend. Hang up the phone and dial this number." I wrote it down as he said it, then thanked him and hung up. I dialed the number. It was picked up on the first ring.
"Spenser?" she said.
"Speaking. Where are you?"
Spark said, "I will not tell you that yet. First, you must promise to me that you will come without the police."
"Alright, no police. Now where are you?"
She told me. "Be careful you are not followed, because an evil bad guy is after us."
"I'm a pretty bad guy myself."
She was quiet for a moment, then said, "Yes, I know this. It is why I called you." Then she hung up the phone.
********
The rain was sheeting down when we pulled up in front of the house. I looked at my watch. 11:32. Nobody up but us evil bad guys. We got out of the car and walked up the porch to the front door. I knocked.
"Spenser?" Spark called through the door.
"Yes," I said. "And Hawk."
The door cracked open, and Spark's left eye peeped out. The door closed again, and I heard the chain rattle loose on the other side. She opened the door, waved us through, closed and locked it again.
The interior of the house was pitch black. Spark turned on a flashlight, smothering most of it with her hand, leaving just enough to keep from tripping as we crossed the room. The curtains were closed, and there was a dusty country-western motiff. There were a few faded posters on the walls, advertising "The Man from Snowy River". Dust covered everything, and floated lik ash in the erratic light from from Spark's torch.
To the left was a stairway leading up, but we passed that and headed for a door built into the wall beneath the stairs. Spark opened it and gestured inside. I looked at Hawk.
"I'll keep watch," he said.
"No, you also," Spark snapped, pointing downstairs. Hawk just looked at her.
I said, "If you feel like you can trust me, then trust him. Otherwise, we both leave."
She considered this for a few moments, then nodded and headed downstairs. I followed, and Hawk vanished into the darkness behind us.
The basement was done up as a rumpus room, with cheap panelling and cheap carpeting. The windows were covered in several layers of black plastic trash bag. There was a low table, a couple of cushions sitting beside it, and a lit oil lamp sitting on it. Next to that was a stoneware pitcher and a couple of glasses. Zhyan Dykhordian was sitting on one of the cushions, a pump-action shotgun across his lap.
“Fugitive chic,” I said.
“Better than post-modern funeral parlor,” Zhyan said. “Have a seat.”
I sat. “Is somebody after you?”
“My brother’s dead, what the bloody fuck do you think?” he snapped.
“Zhy, please,” Spark said, taking a cushion beside him.
Zhyan grimaced, his face twisting in anguish, and then he slumped forward, his head resting on the Azteca’s shoulder. He shook, and choked, and she stroked his hair and made soothing sounds that were not words. After a while, he quieted, but did not move away from her.
“Forgive him,” Spark said. “He has not slept in days, for fear of me.”
“Of something happening to you?”
“Yes. To us both.”
“And you want me to help you?”
“Yes, as you said you could help Chanur, so we wish you to help us.”
I said, “Alright, I’ll help you. But before I can, you’ve got to tell me everything you know.”
Spark nodded. Zhyan sat up, wiped his eyes and said, “Sorry about that.”
I smiled, sympathetic and encouraging.
“You’ve heard of our club, TCATGR?” he said. When I nodded, he said, “Well, TCATGR the club doesn’t exist. It’s all a front for RD Rivero’s catnip operation.”
“Are all the members involved?”
“Most. Our group, that is, mine, Sparky and Chanur’s, was responsible for the grow operation. Our leader has a particular talent for plants, you see.”
“Chanur was brought in as an enforcer, something of a bodyguard. His job was to protect the crop, and us, from rival groups like the Spotface mob or Slinky’s gang. But Chanur is pretty smart, and before long, he was getting very cozy with Peachyra.”
“Peachyra?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s on a seed-buying trip in Boston right now, but damn do we wish she was here. Anyway, Chanur began hinting around that Rivero wasn’t paying us a tenth of what the crop was worth, and we should begin organizing ourselves, putting a little squeeze on him.”
I said, “And Rivero didn’t like that.”
“No, but he couldn’t move against us. Peachyra has security sewn up tight around the place, and Chanur is a match for anyone in the group, size and strength-wise.” Zhyan sighed. “We got greedy, I suppose. Thought we could have it all. Then Chanur had his breakdown at Thunderwolf’s house--”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought Thunderwolf worked for Rivero?”
Zhyan shrugged. “This week he does. He and Shark are free agents, and at the time of the Fianna trial, Rivero hadn’t hired them yet. But knowing our Hani was discomfitted only made their rates drop. Less difficulty.”
“So after Chanur was in the clinic, Rivero started squeezing you back.”
“Yes, he,” Zhyan paused, and looked at Spark and then looked back at me. “He made threats. RD Rivero is not a man to be taken lightly. We were no match for him without Chanur, and everyone knew it.”
I nodded. “And so did he. So he took steps to ensure Chanur would stay out of the way permanently.”
Zhyan nodded. “I don’t know if it was Thunderwolf or Axelle that carved up Cochran and Fielding, but the hair samples wouldn’t be hard to come by. That bloody cat sheds like an Atkins dieter.”
I said, “But since it was a clinic, not a high-security place, he didn’t think that anybody would be taping Chanur in his room. So after killing two prominent attorneys, and framing Chanur for the murder, up pops this air-tight alibi.”
“Precisely,” Zhyan said.
I thought about it for a few
minutes., then said, “So why kill Kamanchee Skah? Why come after you?”
Zhyan opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a rasping groan, and he doubled over and put his face in his hands.
Spark put her arm around his shoulders and said to me, “It is the same thing. They tried to make Kamanchee tell where we are, and they killed him when he refused.” She hugged Zhyan close and said softly, “He was a simple baker, nothing more, no part of this. For this, my Zhyan blames himself.”
“So why come after you?” I pressed on. “The catnip?”
“We do not know,” she said. “We hid after you left, because Zhyan argued with Chanur once. We called the bakery before leaving, and somehow they knew.”
“Ah-ha,” I said.
Spark stared at me. “What is, ‘Ah-ha’?”
“It’s something detectives say when we find a clue,“ I said. “When you left, did you lock your door?”
“Yes, as always.”
“And you left the apartment in a neat and orderly comportment?”
Spark blinked. “Yes, it was neat and orderly. What is ‘comportment’?”
“It means condition, but in this case, it means that after they tore up your place, one of Rivero’s thugs had the sense to press redial on your phone and got the bakery, and that led them straight to Kamanchee.”
Zhyan turned around, crawled away a few feet, and vomited on the floor. It was an ugly sound. Spark did not move or speak. I poured a glass of water and handed it to her. She took it to Zhyan, and gave it to him. I heard him rinse his mouth out and spit back into the cup. Then they came back, leaving the cup on the floor beside the vomit.
I decided to go back to the only common link in the whole thing. “The arguement you had with Chanur,” I said, “What was it about?”
Zhyan’s voice was thick and quavering. “It seems so stupid now. Kam got dressed up as me once, to play some pranks on a few friends. To pay him back for it, I did the same thing to him. Somewhere along the line, Chanur got it into his head that I was always Kamanchee in disguise, and he jumped all over me. We had a huge fight.”
“About whether or not you existed?”
Zhyan hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
I said, “Jesus Christ.”
TBC
Paper Tiger
A Fianna Vs Chanur Riff
Dedicated to Robert Urich, Spenser forever...
Part 6
We dropped the kids off with a lady Hawk knew in town, and would be safe until we had the situation resolved, and headed for King Kat Avenue. RD Rivero operated out of a taxidermy shop on the north side of Trenton, and the time had come to pay him a visit.
We pulled up in front of the store and got out. Hawk went around to the trunk of the car and opened it, and took out a twelve-gage shotgun. He pumped it once and let it down along his leg. I took my .38 off my hip, and we walked quickly across the street.
We hit the door of the shop. Behind the counter was an old hispanic with thinning gray hair and a name tag that said "Etreum". He looked up, and I pointed my gun at him. He put his hands up and stepped away from the counter without saying a word. We swept past him, and through the swinging doors into the back room. We stopped in front of the first door on the right, and I kicked it open.
The walls were a yellowish ivory color, the acoustic ceiling a lighter shade of the same. The carpet was red, and bore numerous small brown stains. The only furniture were two old audience chairs, a dented and rusty filing cabinet, and a The office was small and windowless. Thunderwolf and Shark turned when we came in, reaching into their jackets, then froze when they saw the shotgun. Between them, kneeling on the stained brown carpet, was a small man in a white blouse and short blue skirt, blubbering and coughing. Beyond them was a desk that looked like it had been lifted from the rubble of a bombed-out elementary school in Lebanon.
Behind the desk was a latino male, young, his thinning black hair oiled and combed straight back from his forehead. When he stood, I could see he was average height and weight, and his dark green suit was custom tailored. His hands were manicured, and sported a number of gold rings. His expression was one of annoyance.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but have you ever thought to simply knock?” he asked. The only accent in his voice was Jersey.
“Guns,” I said. Thunderwolf
and Shark looked at each other, than at Rivero, who nodded patiently. They
slowly took the weapoons from under their arms, laid them on the floor and slid
them to me. I picked both of them up and put them in my jacket pockets . Beside
me, Hawk was whistling softly between his teeth. It sounded like Yankee
Doodle Dandy.
“I want to make sure we understand each other,” I said.
Rivero looked at his hired guns and said, “Wait outside. And take this so-called demon with you.”
Hawk and I stepped away from the door, keeping our guns on them. Thunderwolf grabbed the man by the arm and said, “Come on, Sailor Scout. Time to make a real woman out of you.“ He and Shark laughed uproariously while they dragged the whimpering man out of the room.
When they were gone, I put away my gun, and Hawk went to the corner of the room by the door and rested the shotgun on his crossed arms. Rivero looked at us and said, “I gather you have business with me?“
“Wow,” I said. “Are you sure you’re hispanic?”
Rivero smiled. His teeth were white and even. "Right down to my Cuban cigars. Have one," he said, and opened a box and took two out and held them towards us. Hawk stepped forward and took both of them.
"He don't smoke," he said, nodding towards me.
"Neither do I," Rivero said, closing the box. "I simply can't tolerate the government, Castro's or Bush's, telling what I can do. For that matter, I am not well-taken with any servant of civil obedience. So tell me why, given the trouble you've caused me already, I should allow either of you to leave here alive?"
I said, "Because you're smart. Killing creates more problems than it solves, and you don't know who knows we're here."
“If I am as smart as you claim,“ Rivero said, “then I have no difficulty discerning that nobody knows you’re here, least of all that pest Mouzer, since he would never stand for such cavalier antics. Be that as it may, why have you come?“
"I want to talk a deal with you."
"What are you offering?"
I said, "Normalization. Spark and Zhyan want back in, and we leave. You can resume business as usual."
Rivero only considered a moment. "It's true that this interruption in supply has been costly. But organization among the labor could be more costly still. I can always set up another grow operation."
"There is the second consideration," I said. "We know you had Cochran and Fielding killed to frame Chanur, but you didn't plan on the tape. Smart guy that you are, though, you had a backup plan already in place."
Rivero smiled broadly. "A fascinating piece of fiction. Do tell?"
I smiled back. "Frame somebody else for the frame job. You knew Zhyan Dhykordian had fought publicly with Chanur before, and why. The 'I'm real' on the walls worked either way. The only obstacle was Dhykordian and his girlfriend, since they would deny everything, and probably spill some interesting information about your operation in the process. For the plan to work, they had to disappear."
Rivero shrugged. "And when they ran away, I sent someone over to inquire with the brother, and that ended tragically. That about sum it up? Of course, you haven't a shred of evidence for any of this."
"What we have," I said, "is Spark and Zhyan, and a solid idea of what happened. We can keep digging, and eventually, we'll find what we need to lay all three homicides on you doorstep. Make the deal, we go home."
Rivero considered for a few moments, then said, "What do you want?"
"Two things. First, your personal guarantee the kids will be safe. They seem to think it will be enough. But just in case, I've got statements from both of them detailing your entire operation. If I get word anything's happened to either of them, my next call is to Mouzer."
Rivero frowned. "That's quite a demand, Spenser. I trust that Nakur Na Chanur does not fall under your blanket of blackmail?"
"Settle your business with Chanur however you like, but leave the kids out of it," I said. "Second, there are three men dead because of this mess. The lawyers are their own lookout, they know what they’re dealing with. But not the baker. Somebody has to go down for killing him.”
Rivero laughed. “A public prosecutor and a high-powered attorney are dead, and all you care about is the baker. You are quite a piece of work, Spenser. But since it means so much to you, fine. The murder weapon is in your right front pocket, repleat with finger prints. Enjoy.”
Thunderwolf’s gun. “You always have such an easy time selling out your own?” I asked.
“Don’t be absurd. TW won’t be incarcerated for more than a few hours. I,” he paused and smiled broadly, “have a terrific lawyer.”
********
When we got back to the hotel, I called Susan and told her everything.
“You sound disappointed,” she said. “Don’t be. If you had kept the pressure on Rivero, he would have gotten to the kids eventually.”
“I know,” I said.
“When is the indictment?” she asked.
“Next week,” I said. “But the lawyer already got Thunderwolf released on bail.”
The line was quiet for a moment, then Susan said, “For a capital murder case? How the hell did he do that?”
I smiled ironically at the reciever.
“You’ve never seen Richard Shapiro work, have you?”
The End
********
Your ball, poofywoof!
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