Before
Midnight plus: 10, Airborne

The transport hums like aluminum cicadas in a steel wool bush. Soft, persistent, hypnotic white noise vibrates straight through me. We’re running dark; the cabin burns red from the jump lights, less of a shock to the eyes when you hit the silk. I’m getting tired, tired of all of this. Which is crazy, most people would kill to be me, to be who and where I am. It’s the same for everyone on this plane, we’re the elite. So why am I fingering the tattered remnants of an old book of short stories, “Trouble Is My Business” by Raymond Chandler, the hero is Philip Marlowe, wishing myself into a time no one remembers? Yeah, these pages are the last piece of my father I can touch, but that’s not why.

We’ve always been around, different times, different names, same story. Use power to stay in power, give a name to the muscle you can flex. Corporate Home Office Protection Operations, didn’t take long for some acronym happy wag to christen us “ChopOps”. It stuck. Because it fits.
 
We're the archangels of this time. But the thing about archangels is there's always a god around someplace to pull your strings, or wings. I want to be Marlowe, pick my own gods.

The cabin floods green as the jump lights fire, time to roll. I cinch up my silk and check my auxiliary chute release, clip on to the jump line, and wait. I look at the faces of the guys, wonder how many are going to buy a one-way to Valhalla tonight. All I know is it ain't gonna' be me. I'm going to be Marlowe, and I'll pick my own gods.

Black Nouveau

1

"Nothing good will come of this."

I let that crack hang there, calculating whether to acknowledge it. This wasn't my problem. Yet.

"You may be right, but I didn't make the call. You've already got a body, if you want to keep the mystery as a keepsake, I've got plenty of clients."

"No, no. If this doesn't stop soon, we'll all be dead, I need you."

"You and your party pals own this town, I don't see where I fit in, why don't you just call your police thugs in?"

"Owning the cops is different from controlling the cops, and if any of this leaks, forget about it. We're powerful, not invulnerable. This requires a delicacy my bent nose blue boys neglected to acquire."

"Delicacy? And you called me?"

"You know what I mean. Discretion, somebody smart enough to see the forest for the trees, and for all your talents 'smart' still sticks out."

"I hate trees. This must be bad. You resorting to compliments? I'll leave in ten, I'll punch up my account on the way out, if the jack is there I'll see you in thirty, if not I'm taking Jenny to dinner."

"It'll be there. And how is your tasty 'assistant', still juicy?'

"Still avoiding rich men and their loveless marriages, but still juicy."

"That girl just needs the right costume."

"Get off my phone, get me my money, and remember the rules. If this starts, it doesn't stop till I'm finished, understood?"

The dial tone buzzed in my ear like an insect, I know he's not foolish enough to think he'll control this, but the more powerful the man the harder the acceptance. I punched the voice panel on the desk, "Sweetie? No stripping for you this Christmas, the Toad is playing Santa, so you can keep the g-strings for personal use." Jenny rushed in, her smile lit the dark office as she ran in and hugged me. "God K.B., thank you, I don't think I could take another stint at The Parrot. There comes a point in a girls life where slapping a guy with your boobs for a living just loses its charm." My laugh is sharp, and genuine, but I'm the reason this sweet little girl was going back to more stable, albeit less appealing profession. "Jenny, I'm just sorry it came so close, I know I've been way too picky with the jobs, and you've sucked it up. Punch up the central account and see if the money's been deposited." She hoisted the flat panel she wore around her neck and accessed the account. Her eyes scanned, then focused hard; lifted to meet mine then went back to the screen. "Jesus Bannister, what're you doing for the Toad, whacking somebody?" she said, only half jokingly. "I wish it was that simple. No, this is some real gumshoe work, just like in the movies. There's a lot more money coming, that's just a "look and see" fee, so buy yourself something soft and sleep tight tonight. You're working for a living come tomorrow." She hustled back to her desk, I heard her talking to the Parrot's manager as I pulled my piece on, slipped on my vintage overcoat and fedora, and waved the lights dead. "Lock up when you're done Jen, and keep your eyes open, this thing could get rough fast." "Sure thing boss, I'd tell you to do the same but I gave up pointless for lent." "As a comedian, you're a great stripper". I duck as the tape dispenser sails by.

I hit the street and the rain is like a slap in the face from a corpse. With my new found wealth I think about taking a cab, but head for the tube instead. I need a little jolt of danger to get my bearings. The latest stats say you have a 35% probability of being the victim of some foul behavior descending into the hole and for me it's like a cup of coffee. The eyes crawl me like spiders; I raise my arm to the strap, show the heater and the spiders stop at the edge of the web. Public displays of weapons brought heat, fast, and if I did it so freely, I was a problem. But they didn't stop looking. My senses properly stimulated, I settle in for my ride uptown, and for the first time this day start to think.

So the Toad (a.k.a. Alphonse Beckha) has a mutilated corpse, a house full of guests and time to call me. I have to admit I'm intrigued, I've known of his strange little demimonde since he tried to recruit me. But I don't wear costumes for anybody. Not anymore. I was top kicker for Chop Ops for six years, and if you don't know the threat implicit in that statement, you've been a good little citizen. But six years of bone crunching, no matter how good the cause, can hollow your eyes from the inside out. Life in the Op taught me a lot, chief among them, I don't like having a boss. And in a world so dangerously polarized between the "not quite starving" and the "filthy rich", the world of private policing seemed too alluring to pass up. And the boys in Op never adjusted to my appearance anyway, seemed to unnerve them in a primal way, good guys but never family. I've been at it for two years, my empty bank is more about my attitude than anything else. The phone rings plenty, I just answer it wrong. If I wanted to be hired muscle I could've stayed in the Op. The street people love to kidnap the sky people, and god knows I could provide protection from the nabs, but Toad's crack about "smarts" hit close to home. I read a book, yeah the paper kind, when I was a kid. "Red Harvest" by a guy called Hammett, and even though it was written more than a hundred years ago, I wanted to live in that world. Black, white, red and grey lived in uneasy opposition and that world seemed more real than the stark colors of my own. I lost the book, but kept the world tucked away. I wanted to be the one who saved the day, unraveled the mystery, confounded the cops, and using my head not my fists, outsmarted the evil, the smug. But that world didn't exist in my own, Chop Ops was the closest I could find, but it was shiny and brittle concerned with imposing truth not it's discovery. How we wound up in this world of extremes nobody seems to know, it just happened, like an ant colony happens. Queens and drones, and the rare middle like me, unique still has pull. Getting close to my stop, need to shake the meditation, clamp on my business face and get down to business.

Coming out of the shaft, the rain harder now, not looking forward to the forensic portion of this night. Not a fan of mutilated flesh, never got to full detachment. But it's amazing how free the dead are with their secrets, if you listen just right. And the stiff's going to be the chattiest partygoer at this soirée, I've dealt with these people before, and always felt like I lost information the longer I talked. An opaque bunch. With the black rain, the brilliant illuminated white of the skyline seemed like a knife cutting a blackout curtain. I never get over the mingled sense of awe and disgust I feel when I see these elegant, art deco fortresses. I understand that the skyscrapers used to be for business, housing thousands of workers, now they're winter homes. Business pretty much stops around twenty stories, easier to defend, but the sky people saw a new playland and built it. Huge buildings with ten or twenty floors carved and sculpted to their whims, the rest to the ground hollowed for controlled access. Pretty soon they wised up and invented short distance aircraft to drift from party to party, and in the process, being the smart rich people they are, replaced wheels on this planet. Well, if you can afford it. I make my way through the ten-stage labyrinth that is the common security access to the sky, the purgatory of their heaven. Finally I get to the maglift, and wonder why I didn't take the air cab. These damn lifts are way too smooth for my tastes, always feel like I'm going to shoot though the roof. But I grit my teeth, and smile at the final security ape, he doesn't smile back. Whoosh, 62 floors and I'm there, hooray for me.

I check my lipstick, open my coat to let the red dress talk, and use the long leg stride to give the stalking lioness vibe. The boys do what they're supposed to, they look. The atrium holds two more security bulls and, to my surprise, detective lieutenant Coleman and his knuckle dragging subordinate Lincoln. Cops, Jesus, I don't need this.

"Coleman, how charming to see you, a little unexpected though I was under the impression this was my blacktop. I guess I'll be leaving, ta."

"Hold it Bannister, I'm just here to bag and drag the stiff for Mr. Beckha, he's made his lack of trust quite clear." He steps in close turning on the menace, his eyes just below mine, love these heels. "But I don't have to like it. And I don't have to like some Op spook poking around my blacktop."

"Does all that tough talk turn you on? 'cause its doing nothing for me." I lean into him; my boobs push into his chest, love how they try not to notice. "Now, be a good civil servant, or is it just 'servant' these days, wait till I'm finished and you can do what you're paid for." His fists ball, veins I hadn't noticed before appear, and his thin mouth curls to reveal pretty nice teeth but a fairly lame grimace, for a moment I actually think he'll take a poke at me. I can see it in his eyes, the exact moment he remembers who I am, and what I'll do, he even forgets how good my chest feels on his. Good boy.

"Kat darling!" The Toad makes a timely entrance. "My, you are the very vision of Diana in red, my huntress, my savior. Come, please, and save me from this unpleasantness." I'm not sure if he's talking about his party, or the butchered body that I'm saving him from, but I'll find out after I get Coleman's smell out of my nostrils. As Beckha leads me from the small maglift vestibule, though the ornate onyx inlaid main entrance, what I see next I'm not prepared for.

2

The Super Heroes. Yeah, that's what they call themselves. I prefer "out of control freaks", but I doubt they'd like that. What can I say? This will be a night longer than my patience.

How to describe what I see? I'll just give it straight, it was like the most beautiful bedlam, an asylum where the mad have taken control, and brought set designers and art directors. Let me start with Alphonse Beckha's home, this foyer is white and black marble, six pillars deep about ten yards, two stories high. Two corridors lead from left and right, forming a "T" with the foyer. Beyond, the space expands to four stories of open space, backed by a wall of glass, where the city skyline works like a huge painting. Not purely open, there are catwalks and balconies that split and segment the airspace into a hypnotic checkerboard, where light and structure form negative spaces as real as the structures themselves. The Toad's living room delivers, delivers big. I've been here before, but never at party time, and always in daylight. And now I know, this was built to be seen at night. As amazing a space this is, the creatures that populate it seem bred to fill it. This isn't a living room, it's an aviary, and the birds are beautiful. The crowd isn't huge by some standards, perhaps a hundred "guests", but I'll give 'em this they know how to fill a room. I notice a few of them swing from catwalk to balcony to floor on thin rope, simply to refill their glasses. This is a three-dimensional gathering. And everyone, everyone, is in "heroic" costume. Comicbook hero costumes, beautifully designed, perfectly tailored, and perfectly nutty. Don't get me wrong, if this were a costume party, I'd be impressed. I'd zip from group to group, complimenting the amazing imagination of the designers, give sincere compliments on how beautiful they looked in them, particularly the men. Very male, very alpha, and I'm a girl who likes her men well groomed. If I wasn't working, I could get into some tasty trouble, but that ain't gonna happen. As pretty as these boys are, and they are pretty, they aren't at a costume party they're at "work" and my bedroom is eccentric-free. I also like my men natural, and from where I'm standing, these boys look cut, surgical retreads with calf implants. Much better to look at than touch, those implants feel wrong, no matter where they put 'em. Well, I could sit here all night and make fun of my betters but that's not why I'm here.

"Alphonse? I don't want to seem crass, but shouldn't we chat about the corpse?"

"Kat, will I never get you to play? Will our intercourse always be all work?"

"If we ever 'intercourse', I assure you it would be all work, cut the euro-trash flirtation. You were close to losing your bladder before on the phone, Beckha, has something dulled the urgency?"

"No. No my dear Kat, I fear I'm just in denial, closing my eyes so the monsters go away."

"They don't leave, you just die blind. Get me out of this nut house, get me some scotch and tell me what's going on."

He leads me back through the foyer, to the long left corridor, the walls are white with black marble trim top and bottom. There are no recesses in the wall, you need to look hard to see the seams of the doors, the effect is that you're looking at a simple perspective drawing of a hallway, like I'm in a cartoon. Another corridor bisects about a thirty yards up and the black trim in both hallways cause another simple perspective trick. The Toad stops in front of what appears to be nothing, leans his palm to the wall and the wall swings in. He gestures with open palm for me to enter, always the gentleman, and I enter another of his worlds. The fireplace ignites as we enter, deep red cherry paneling reflecting flames wraps me like a flannel sheet, as sterile as the hallway is, this is warm and soft. And the books, rare paper books, fill the shelves and the air. I sink in the overstuffed black leather armchair, like a peanut dropped in warm caramel. I glance at Alphonse fiddling with the scotch, and for the first time notice his sweat, he's gathering himself. He's not attractive, but he is fascinating to look at, like some exotic animals are. A man either approaching or in the throes of middle age, Beckha is the offspring of a Panamanian mother and Hungarian father, and his behavior reflects both cultures. About 5'8'', his body reminds me of an enlarged adolescent, the proportion just a little wrong for an adult. The black hair that is combed straight back, is as perfect as it is immobile, and has an unnatural sheen. The sheen continues to his skin, the olive complexion and smoothness seem almost artificial, as if no blood runs beneath it. His jet-black linen suit, black raw silk shirt and black bowtie covers his peculiar boyish body. But it's his face that you focus on, for all his fashion the flesh draws you in, the entire shape is like a triangle as if all his features were being pulled to gravity emanating from his chin. His eyes, the brown irises so dark they give the appearance of being a single large pupil, seem to tilt downward to his nose. A friend familiar with the film history described him once as "Peter Lorre on growth hormones", I've never seen the actor, but it sounded right. He hands me my drink, and sinks into the twin of my chair, I think the train's finally reached the station.

3

"Besos" he says as he raises the scotch in toast, the sound of our glasses touching is like an angels song, quite unlike the sound my jelly jars make when put to the same task. Besos, "kisses" in Spanish, Beckha's stock salutation, it was my smart girl Jenny who made the natural connection and dubbed him Toad. As in "I'd rather kiss a...". It stuck. I let the single malt slither over my tongue and crawl slowly to my tummy. I let the comfort of the chair, this wondrous room, the promise of unlimited wealth wash over me, my girlish dreams of a gentle prince provider peek up from the folds of memory and I'm a warm kitten for a second. But just a second, none of this is mine, the Toad's a freak, and if I ever get this boy off the dime I'm going to be eyeballing nightmarish carnage soon. After his toast, Alphonse hasn't uttered a word, he's just sitting there swirling his scotch. If he looks any harder it'll start boiling, and as uncomfortable as he may be with his secret, I'm twice as uncomfortable waiting for him to spill. I still have no idea why Beckha's so spooked, beyond the obvious, I mean a lifeless body can put a good spook into anybody. . I decide charm may work better than fear to loosen his oily tongue. I lean my hand across to his chair and stroke his forearm though the soft fabric of his jacket.

I say "Alphose, dear, I know you're scared, at least unnerved by this, I can see it in your eyes, who wouldn't be? That's why I'm here, your protector, your Diana didn't you say? But I can't protect you if we don't start, and I need you to focus, and talk. Don't leave anything out, just start from the beginning and keep talking till you get to the part where you called me. Don't hold back, don't hold back anything, I decide what's important. Ok?"

His dark deep lidded eyes grew darker; this little guy is really wound up, tight. His body and eyes show a storm of fear, betrayal, loathing, disappointment getting ready to break. I've seen this look on others before, however the others were always about to die a death they didn't want, and this got my attention.

Alphonse was fully inside himself at this moment, he'd taken the time to gather all that had happened and it was time to let loose. He leaned his torso forward and rested his elbows on his opened thighs, his drink cradled between his interlaced fingers. His eyes were fixed on the blank space between him and the wall, he was creating a screen to see his memories, and then he'd describe them. This may sound bad, but at this precise moment I realized I'd better go grab the bottle of scotch or there wouldn't be an appropriate moment later, and my gut told me we'd both need it to get through story.

"The Nexus is rupturing, and a white heart is gone black." he said to my back as my fingers tightened on the bottle and slid back into my chair, silently placing the bottle on the table between us.

"The Nexus? This is your group of, what is it you call yourselves, Heroes?" I bite my lip to avoid slipping in "freak".

"Yes chica, 'Heroes'' it sounds so foolish from your lips, but don't mistake your opinion for ours. What is a fantasy dress-up game to many, just as many have taken the position of noblese oblige, of protecting the unprotected."

I hadn't heard this before, I'll need to hear more later, but I need details now and he's waxing philosophic, "Alphonse, go to the beginning. When the Nexus started, just walk me through it so I can understand it."

"Si, Si Katherine, the beginning."

I let the leather swallow me, leaning back, enjoying my last few moments of comfort.

He sucks some sweat from his upper lip, and begins, "It was a little over three years ago, three years two months to be precise." He coughed a small cough, caught scotch, and smiled at his remembrance "We celebrated the anniversary, it was spectacular, such joy. But that was before the problems."

Oh yeah, "problems", you have to love the rich, in my neighborhood homicides evoke a little more chat.

"But you want the beginning, no?"

"Do it Beckha, this night's too long as it is." I give it a little harsh, but I never know when Alphonse is trying to seduce me, and I need to keep him on track.

"My apologies." He says, it's not sincere, I'm not concerned.

"It was Susan Interland's idea. As you know, our parties are like competitions, displays of wit and excess. The motif's or themes had become almost a fetish, perhaps a justification designed to make us forget that we're simply bored and safe, socializing with the bored and safe." He brings his glass to his lips, I remember meeting Ms. Interland, beautiful, glamorous and well spoken in a controlled sort of way. For some reason I'd really like to smack her.

"Susan had the most glorious invitations printed, hired an illustrator to craft a lovely card depicting all manner of wildly colored and clad comic book heroes, inviting us to 'be a hero', create a costume, create a story, create your own 'secret identity', 'join the Nexus'." He looked me in the eyes, for the first time, and I saw something I took seriously. "It struck like a bolt, I've no idea why, I'm no psychiatrist, but we all devoured the idea. Some for the most prurient of reasons, a simple opportunity to act out dominance and submission fantasies, narcissism and exhibitionism. But some, and I'm one, reacted differently." He touches my arm for emphasis, his eyes desperately seeking my understanding. "We knew. We knew even in our daily lives, that we didn't have...'identities'. Not the kind you have Katherine, forged by choice and chance. And here, this 'party', was a slap in the face to remind the thoughtful among us of our transparency. We had inherited wealth, some had titles, we had well crafted education's, social position and exceptional tastes for pleasure. But who were we?"

I hate it when Alphonse gets all human on me, tugs at something maternal in me; he looked like he was going to cry. I have a feeling I don't appreciate what's going on here, or simply don't want to, there's something about these dilettantes 'finding themselves' that smacks of the comical, but it's still sad.

He continues "I won't bore you with our epiphanies, I can see I'm losing you. Suffice to say we began tentatively but willfully to become, I almost laugh at it too when I say it aloud, become 'heroes'. I'm not a physically brave man, as you know well, but I'm not without moral instincts and I do own the largest banking conglomerate on the planet. Which caused me to think. 'If I were a hero, what, who would I be?', and it came to me, I'd be a banker. I call myself 'The Bottom Line", I raid the accounts of known criminals, distribute the moneys to the needy. When the transfers are successful I send the evil doers a check, the amount zero, the check signed 'Bottom Line'."

I stifle a giggle, which is hard. I fake a cough. "A banker?" I say with enthusiasm and a smile.

"Yes, a banker, and don't snicker, at least I don't take wages for my actions."

A strange rebuke I think, given that he's the one paying me to be here, perhaps this is some kind of rich guy put down.

"Don't pull this St. Francis crap on me Beckha, you aren't curing cancer here. From everything I've heard your heroism can just as easily be seen as self-glorifying play. You're still fat 'n happy, and partying with the biggest deviants I've ever seen. I'll snicker when I want to, and you'll take it, if you want my help."

There's a long silence, uncomfortable for him, simply long for me. I give him some time to stew, then break it.

"Finish it Alphonse, tell me what this has to do with your hero pals, dead bodies, and tell me why you're so damned scared."

He stands, his body language tells me he's thinkin' of kicking me out and having his pet cops do this, he lifts his glass to his lips and takes a long pull on the scotch. His eyes water and he exhales sharply, his face a study of power and impotence, he looks like he'll implode. He walks to the fireplace stiffly, I watch without moving from my comfy perch, if he does kick me out I'm going to enjoy every moment, I sip my drink and think of how I might snag the bottle on the way out. He's tugging on his ear and staring at the fire when he finally says "Yes, I am scared, scared for so many reasons. I know you'll find what you seek when I turn you loose, and I'm scared you'll destroy all we have made. I'm scared I'll die before you succeed, horribly, like the poor girl I'm going to show you. I'm scared that someone I hold dear is responsible, that I may in some way have caused all of this, by encouraging the others."

I nod, I give a small smile that men seem to love, and say "Let's wrap it up, then turn me loose."

He pulls himself up, straightens and slides a well manicured hands into his pocket, leans on the mantle and continues "After the first two hero themed parties, I began to act on my own accord, it felt good. Doing something good, something different, something a little dangerous. Slowly I began to take others in my confidence, and prodded them to do the same, do some good. There aren't many of us, perhaps twenty-five. Approaching heroism in different ways, some going to the street and defending the weak from the strong in direct combat, some like myself, using our positions and leverage to effect change. But all doing something we'd never dreamed of, and now we dreamed awake. We would nod to each other at the parties, smiling that we were 'real', we were heroes." He smiled the smile of a man with secrets.

4

"Then, after a year, almost to the day came the first attack." He returns to his seat, resigned to a quick telling. " 'Optimus', well Jason Cantwell, was horribly injured in his home while returning from a night patrolling the streets. His right forearm was almost severed completely from his body; the blow struck about two inches below his elbow, whatever it was it was very sharp and hit with tremendous force. Optimus uses gasses as part of his arsenal, and was so heightened from the adrenaline caused by his patrol he had the presence of mind to flood the room with caustic gasses, and his assailant fled."

"What happened to him?"

"Well, first he's engineered the gasses so that he isn't affected by them, so although in great pain was able to contact his evac unit, they were able to staunch the flow of blood and move him to treatment."

"Evac unit?" I ask.

"You don't think we use ambulances do you dear? No, we all have private providers in case of medical or other emergencies that would require our immediate removal."

"You boys know how to live."

"Yes, we do. Jason lived, was able to save the arm. We were all shaken, because we knew this wasn't a fluke, some random thief or assassin. Our security services, even if we weren't involved in our extracurricular activities, are designed to prevent even private armies. Whoever did this, knew us, knew us well enough to circumvent our systems. We thought it could be one of the hangers on, the people we pick up from below, due to their beauty, or simply their pliancy..." his eyes twinkle, I'm relieved to have my slimy old Toad back "...we all have our weaknesses."

"Are we talking boys or girls here?"

"Salmon or veal? As long as the meat is sweet."

"I'm a pork girl myself, just wanted to get the full picture."

"Yes, of course, charming to the last dear. As I was saying, this may be the case, someone from the street driven by some rage, dementia or whatever. It certainly couldn't be greed; it would take a far less sophisticated knowledge to get to the valuables. Truly, if one were beautiful enough, you'd be welcomed in willingly. And given the kind of, rather intimate reasons for their invitations, security within tends to be light. We all have stories of finding some luscious morsel in the rough darkness, waking to find our rooms ransacked, baubles gone. We call these donations."

"You're a prince, Alphonse, a real hero."

He ignores my jab and keeps giving "The next attack was more successful, horribly so, like the poor girl upstairs." He stops, his pause isn't for effect. "That poor girl" he whispers.

He mops his forehead. The words start coming faster, staccato. "It was a killing. Savage, ritualistic, brutal. Charles Kensington, he goes by the name 'Apollo' had, I guess what you'd call a 'sidekick' named 'Eros'. A beautiful young boy. They fought down on the street, though I think Charles may have just been using it as foreplay. Whatever the reason, they'd been doing if for a few months, and if they were to be believed they had indeed been doing good. Breaking up muggings, domestic disputes, rapes. The perpetrators didn't know what hit them, cops are one thing, but seeing these half-naked, crazy men running at them must have been too much to process. And Apollo, well, Kensington, and his protégé were impressive specimens, tall, muscular, and both trained by the finest martial arts instructors. And using some kind of "light cannon" he had his engineers develop for stunning the prey, they had some splendid adventures."

Beckha nibbles the rim of his glass, he's getting closer to scared, which is where I want him.

"They found 'Eros', I never knew his real name, in Kennsington's home. He'd been, well, killed seems too weak a word, but he was dead. I didn't see it, but Charles, still dressed as Apollo, killed himself on the spot. Simply leapt from the balcony and found the pavement. All I know came from the police under my direct control, and they weren't on the call. Eros had been dismembered, his body displayed at odd angles throughout the room. I couldn't grasp the sketchy, antiseptic descriptions until tonight." He leaves the fireplace, refills his glass, and sags into the chair opposite me.

"Yes Alphonse, tonight, what's happened? Why am I here?" I say, getting interested now, I'd forgotten this feeling, been out of the Op too long. I'm going to hunt, and I like to hunt.

"She's was, well, its complicated Kat..."

"Confuse me Alphonse, I can take it."
"Her name is, was, Zoe Dixon, she worked within the corporate accounts division of my operation. I brought her into this world, the parties and outings, she liked the attention and she liked nice things" he hesitates, I push.

"And she wasn't averse to showing her gratitude while naked, was she?"

"Yes Kat, she was my lover, for awhile. But I'm not one for long term involvement, and to her credit, she was quite honest with me about her desire to continue in our circle, and asked me if I would mind if she were to seek out another 'sponsor'. As strange as this may sound, that request, the peculiar respect of it brought us closer in a lovely, platonic way. I became something of a mentor to her, in business, in the politics of our little community, in choosing partners. She was young and beautiful, voluptuous in body and spirit, and unashamed of assuming the role of courtesan. She found many willing bidders for her time, and like an educated consumer, she sampled them for charm and generosity. After a time she chose James Miller, the agriculturist, do you know him?"

"Yes Beckha, I buy my milk." Miller's family controlled one fourth of the world's natural food production, if it grew, mooed or fermented, they probably had a hand in it. Miller himself was a prime cut of blonde beef, like a fantasy lumberjack with a good dentist. If I were up for some whoring, somebody like Jim Miller would take some of the edge off the job.

"For the last two months, Zoe and Jim have been inseparable. I was delighted; she would have her wealth and with the exception of a few missteps on the way, love. They played with being heroic, but mostly because they liked the costumes, they were both too in love with life and each other to risk anything. She told me of some kinky playing, bondage, some exhibitionism, but nothing outrageous. They stopped a robbery once, tied the perpetrators to a fence, and then made love in front of them. Silly really, but it kept them stimulated. They came tonight, smiling that warm smile love brings to lips, and seemed to be enjoying themselves with the others. Miller was called away to deal with an emergency, some kidnapping of his representatives in Congo, needed to deal with the ransom. Zoe kissed him goodbye with a wink, and returned to the party. We spoke briefly, but as host, I needed to keep circulating. I lost track of her, just assumed she'd left for the evening. I was taking a guest to my bedroom when I noticed the smell. I found her."

He choked on his drink, his eyes bled tears. They weren't for her, they were for him. I pat his arm.
"Okay Alphonse, that's enough."

I let silence eat the room as I think of where to take this, the sound of the flames in fireplace howl. I'm still not sure why I'm here and need that clarity. Do I want this? As fanciful and quirky as the Toad has described his play pals, they are the most powerful people on this planet, capable of far more than 'anything'. If had a child or husband waiting in my hovel waiting for me, I'd turn my back now. Short-term money is one thing, a lifetime either long or unnaturally short, being ground by the mills of the gods is another. He was right; nothing good would come of this. But this is one of those moments, the kind that don't come often, where the decision shapes you long after the answer is given. Bolt, and the next time know that you let fear and self-preservation dictate your actions, maybe die old by cowering. Stay, and get buffeted by forces no amount of personal force or violence can affect, maybe die young and smug. But still die. I'm not a fool, often, but I've spent a lifetime not backing down and I'm getting sick of it. These people don't deserve sacrifice from me, but they deserve my fear less. I'll find this freak and drop him, no matter whose son, or lover or industry captain he may be. Goddamn me, I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Alphonse, look at me." I shake him, shake him harder than I should. "Look at me."

His tear bloated eyes lock on mine "You want me to find this killer and stop him, is that right?"

"Yes."

"No matter the consequence? Even if it's your mother, this doesn't stop till I'm done, right?"

He nods his head, still seeing the body in his minds eye.

"Tonight's payment is the daily rate, agreed?"

This snaps him out of his horror, his bankers mind rears up to object, but thinks twice about haggling and nods again.

"Let me see the body." I say.

5

"I'll take you." He says, without conviction.
"No Alphonse, you've seen enough. Get Coleman and Lincoln to show me."
He lifts a communication monitor I hadn't noticed from beneath the table between us, and frees his cops from the foyer. We meet in the spooky white hallway, Beckha doesn't want them to enter his study, I feel honored in a strange way. They look happy to be back in the game, Beckha spoils the mood, saying "Do as she says, she's my voice in this now."
"Let's see it." I say.
We move to the elevator without chitchat, this is business now and we all know it. Alphonse owns us all, I just happen to be next on the food chain. And, to tell the truth, I can't remember why Coleman and I are grinding such an axe. I've got a vague memory of him showing up on a meat truck call I put in, some boys got rough, and I got rougher. That was the first time I met him, and ever since then he's been a real hard guy with me, I must've embarrassed him in front of his boys. Probably gave a sharper than necessary rebuke of a pass, that's usually why men get mad at me, I need to learn to just say "no" and leave it.
We hit the shaft and head upstairs, the doors whoosh shut. Next stop, stiffville. Jesus why do I do this, dead people bug me more than the breathers, they hold their secrets too close. And I really don't want to go through this inspection in silence, and since I can't remember why I don't like these guys, I should probably break some ice. The lift stops before I can start olive branching, the doors whoosh open, the unmistakable smell of copper and viscera attacks my nose. I fight the instinct to crouch and draw weapons, this smell still signals danger, not detachment and analysis. I feel the veins in my wrist and behind my jaw pulse. My police escort exchange a glance, maybe a grin, they must've seen me flinch. Better right this ship before I loose the edge. I punch the "hold" key on the control pad, holding the lift in place with open doors. The light coming from the small space the only thing illuminating the hallway, our shadows stretch like spilled ink.
"Boys, before we put on the hip-waders and hit blood lake in there, we need to clear the air."
Coleman and Lincoln just stare, trying to look tough, Coleman almost makes it.
I say "Okay, I admit it, I can't remember what the beef is between us and it's bugging me. Maybe it's vanity, but I hate forgetting things, and if we're going to be crossing paths while I'm looking for this cutter I need to know why I shouldn't kill you. It's that simple. Sometimes I get jumpy, and when I get jumpy people get checked out, it's just a reflex thing nothing personal." I pause for a second, this speech is meant to sound glib, but the threat isn't idle. I let it sink in, before they can recover I continue. "So, if you think it's possible you might walk unexpectedly around a corner in the next few weeks, tell me why I should see a smiley face instead of cross-hairs on your mugs." I get their attention. I wait.
It takes men forever to figure out the level of danger they're in. I'm surprised when it's Lincoln who speaks.
"Remember that Titan mess last year?"
I nod.
"Sure, you didn't do it to us, didn't even know what was going on. But it still emptied our pockets. If you hadn't iced Burt, Frank and me would've pulled fat coin. And we wouldn't be standing in this dark hallway, following you around like a couple of terriers on Beckhas leash. It don't sit right. Not with me, not with my wife, not with Frankie here either."
"You got anything to add?" I pipe to Coleman.
"You mean besides being robbed of early retirement from hell and maggots? Well, you being so hot don't help if you wanna' know the truth."
His bluntness makes me crack a grin, a small one, but I'm not happy with the shift in balance.
"Don't know whether to thank you or bust your skull." I slough off my coat, give them a good look at how well the red silk finds places to hide, distract them.
"If it means anything to you, I didn't know you were going to pull the bounty on Mr. Burt Titan, and if you'll remember nobody got it. There are a lot of benefits of being ex-OP, but we can't recover public rewards unless we're asked to execute the warrants. Titan pulled a gun in a restaurant where I was eating, I never found out why, don't really care. With due apologies to your dusty wallets, Mama's little Kat makes a bad target. If you can't accept that, figure it out now, and do us all a favor and tell Beckha. You're not the only cops in this city."
It's almost painful to watch these men think, the gears aren't well oiled, and they're both still trying not to look at the spectacle caused by my bra. We both know, outside of their egos, there's no downside to them staying on this case. If I drop the ball, they just shrug and whine about having their hands tied. If I bag the bunny, they're team players and all of Alphonse's wealthy buddies know they can be trusted to be discrete.
Coleman forms the sentences "Bannister, you got a deal. We'll play our roles as official observers and provide you with any departmental intel you request, you don't kill us when we startle you, and if you leave a breathing suspect we're allowed to take possession."
"And the credit?" I ask.
"Well, in the press, sure. It's not like having the proletariat know you did it is gonna' help you much. Beckha's already talking you up to his crowd, and you haven't done anything but paint that dress on yet. Hell, if you crack this you'll never have to take a gig on the street again."
I nod my head, and look down the black hall. "Are we trying to add atmosphere? Where are the lights?"
Coleman smiles "Oh, right." He goes back in the bright cocoon of the lift and barks into the intercom. The lights kill the shadows a few seconds later. For all the smell, the corridor is awfully clean, white as a winter moon.

6

Jesus.

I've seen things, bad things. Things that have caused callused, trained, professional combatants to turn their backs on the world and retreat into their minds, forever.
But I've never seen anything like this. This is wrong.
What I notice first is the amount of blood. It is truly everywhere, and it's not an accident, believe me. Bleeding follows the logic of physics, no matter how you start bleeding, or how violent the cut. This room's been decorated.
The second thing I notice is how clean the body is, all six pieces. The effect is disorienting and I don't disorient. My mind is racing with scenarios, which is exactly what this freak wants, wants you to think about the creation of the piece. How did it happen? I shake off the instinct to play his game, there'll be plenty of time to think later, I need to record this, remember it. I look at the boys for the first time since we entered this slaughter; they're disoriented too. The "how" question is working overtime in their heads, this isn't going to be easy. Lincoln is focusing on the collateral aspects, his eyes sweeping the walls and furniture, the floor. He's squinting, I'm not sure why. Coleman is focused on the girls head, and I can see why.
In a room full of wrong, the head's the 'wrongest'.
Centered on the huge bed, on a mound of black pillows, the girl's very long, very curly blond hair cascades and fans, framing what was once a beautiful face. There seems to be no blood, just a head with beautiful hair, a face flawlessly decorated. Her limbless torso lays about two feet below, centered on the king size, once white comforter. The killer couldn't complete the perfect picture, he tried though, but he couldn't keep the white pure. It's drenched. Her legs are lower and at the corners, thighs lay on the mattress, the knees bent over the edge, both shins bound to the bedposts. Her arms, right and left, lie on the corresponding night stands, her elbows bent in a relaxed "L". Her hands hang limp at the wrists, fingers in a leisurely point to the ground. This has to be a guestroom, it's well furnished but there are no personal items, giving the room clean lines to position the body in. I stop looking. I know what I'll find but move to the bathroom anyway, I need the break. Need to keep my weight centered on the balls of my feet, the carpet so wet in places I could take a header. I use the tip of my gun to nudge the door open, another horror scene of blood and gristle. No weapons left behind, just crimson towels and glass and tile slick with plasma. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected back through the blood on the mirror as I turn to leave.
The silence is bugging me, every movement, every squish, squeak and drip amplified like rain on hot tin.
"Coleman, get your meat team and archive squad in here, full job. I better be able to rebuild this room from the film, every fiber, I'm not kidding. Ride them yourself. Lincoln, seal this building as best you can, I know we can't keep anyone who wants to go, but I want everone else."
They're happy to refocus, you feel pretty useless when all you're doing is looking. Looking at something like this. I'm positive there's no evidence here, the freaks been too thorough.
I think about the costume. I've seen so many tonight, it almost didn't register on me. She was either naked or in another outfit when she was cut. But her freshly scrubbed parts had been re-dressed, the arms, legs, trunk. Even a pretty red sequined mask on her eyes. He dressed her parts. I'm glad Alphonse called me, not for the money or word of mouth, because I'll end this.
I don't where it comes from, but I feel in my bones this killing has nothing to do with the girl.

To Be Continued....