“I hate those guys,” Murdock said.
“Yeah, I wish I had them as my crew, too,” I said.
Murdock allowed himself a smile. “She’s got her hands full with that. It looks interesting, but it’s going to end up all press conferences.”
That’s Murdock right there. He’s a smart guy who wants to stay a cop. Not a police officer. Not a department flunky. A cop. Cops enforce the law and solve crimes. Everything else is bull to guys like him.
I like the attitude, but I have to confess to a certain ambivalence. Most of us get into law enforcement because we want to make the world a better place. I could have gone the scholar route and run with the Druidic College crowd. Or the diplomatic route and gone to work for the Seelie Court. But I chose the Ward Guild because it gets to do stuff that produces results you can see. And, I have to admit, you sometimes get your picture in the paper. I miss the glory. I’ve been too busy working on purging my old arrogance to give up my vanity.
We pulled up at the first murder scene. The body had been removed, and the medical examiner had left. Just a couple of beat officers were wandering the field taking notes. Murdock turned the car around and drove up to the Avenue.
“Looks like I’ve got paperwork to start. What angle do you want to take?” Murdock asked.
I considered for a moment. We really didn’t have much to go on. Multiple unknown essences and a possible gang connection. “I think I’ll start with the gang angle, see if anyone knew of anything going down last night.”
He nodded. “I’ll set you up with some profile. I’m going to try and ID the kid and work his associates, check a few sources.”
Murdock turned down Sleeper Street. I was glad I didn’t have to ask him outright for a ride. Cabs don’t like to pick people up down near the Tangle, and even if I expensed it, the fare would cut into my meager cash flow until the reimbursement check came in. Boston P.D. accounting is wicked slow.
I got out of the car. “I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
“Yep,” Murdock said and pulled away. He never says good-bye, not even on the phone.
I let myself into my building and felt the security spell as I passed inside. It’s one of the disability benefits from the Guild. Since I lost my abilities in the line of duty, they at least had the decency to provide some protections. Small compensation for kicking me out of my job, but at least I have some chance against some idiot who might come looking for revenge. I can open or close the door with a vocal command, even seal it, if I feel I’m in danger. I haven’t had to activate it, which is fortunate, and, frankly, I would use it only if truly necessary. The Guild would have to come and reset it on-site and that would be a little humiliating. There’s my vanity again.
I entered my two-room apartment and surveyed the mess. I sleep in the living room because I like using the bedroom as an office. An unmade, slept-in futon with a view of the kitchen can be depressing, but it’s mine. The clock on the counter blinked 11:14 A.M. Not even noon, and I had had to look at two dead bodies. That’s my surreal life in the Weird. For the start of the mundane part of my day, I made some desperately needed coffee.
Chapter 3
Coffee is not something that keeps me awake. It just keeps me alive. Whenever I end up working on a case with Murdock, it seems I never get enough sleep. After a short nap, I sat in my study, staring out the window at the planes taking off from the airport. I had dreamed of wandering lost through a field of bones.
For the past few months, I had been having prescient dreams. Lots of fey do, but I never did until recently. They’re not visual in the sense of watching a movie. They involve personal metaphors, and you have to figure out your own. I’m not very good at understanding them, mainly because the ability seems weak. When you’re fey and live in the world where Freud existed, it’s even more difficult to decide if a field of bones is a symbol of a dead kid in a vacant lot or the ruins of a battlefield. And, of course, spicy food gives me nightmares, but I love pepperoni.
After another fortifying cup of coffee, I threw on the trusty leather jacket and went out to make rounds. The neighborhood was in day mode, tired faces running the usual errands. I caught snippets of conversation here and there as I paused at corners or lingered near storefront windows. By far, the major topic was the death of Alvud Kruge. Whether or not Keeva wanted to keep his name quiet for a while, it didn’t matter down in the Weird. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who knew Kruge. No one mentioned the dead kid.
I made way back to the field off Old Northern. The cops had gone, leaving behind nothing but footprints and fluttering crime scene tape that, first, would keep no one out and, secondly, was pointless. The afternoon sun had melted the frozen ground into a muddy slop. Any evidence that had been missed this morning was likely sunken in the muck, leaving any hope of trace evidence gone for good.
I strolled the perimeter of the field, trying to get a sense of the scene. As I had noted earlier, not a single building on the block appeared occupied, at least not legally. Most of them had the standard complement of broken windows and boarded-up doors. Some foot traffic had been through since the cops left. I could sense fey, mostly dwarves. Nothing unusual. No mysterious figures lurking in doorways. No black-cloaked man rushing away. No woman with big dark sunglasses leaving a single rose. Just one very pink, excited-looking flit descending toward me.
“Here you are!” he said.
“Hey, Joe.” Joe’s an old friend. Real old, as in been around since I was born. His real name is Stinkwort, which he doesn’t like to use for obvious reasons. As one of the diminutive fairies known as flits, he has enough hassle over his size and his pink wings. When you’re a foot tall, you manage what you can.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Have you heard? Alvud Kruge is dead!” He soared around me, his eyes lit with excitement.
“I know. I saw.”
“You did? I heard he was exploded. Was he exploded? Was it gross?”
I nodded. “That’s a fair description, and, yes, it was gross. How did you find out?”
He did a back loop right in front of me. “Oh, some flits got in before the Guild put up an essence barrier. No one can get in now. I just keep bouncing back.” He paused in a hover and leaned in confidentially. “They’re getting good at that. I’m going back tonight to find a work-around.”
For want of a better word, flits can teleport. They have their own word for it, but it’s in Cornish and doesn’t flow off the tongue easily. It translates roughly as “I am here, and I want to go there in the time of the now” or something close to that. Ergo, teleport. How they do it is another matter and a mystery. Of all the fey that came through from Faerie after Convergence, the flits have apparently remained as they always were—secretive, happy, and a little crazy. They have little interest, no pun intended, in furthering scientific investigation as to how they exist.