Unquiet Dreams cg-2 Read online

  “So, what do you know about gangs?” I asked.

  Murdock shrugged. “Just the majors. The Sapiens. The TruKnights. HiFlys. A couple of others. I know mostly snitches. I don’t keep close track of the rivalries unless it’s related to a case I’m on. I’ve got good ties with the gang unit, though. I’ll check to see if yellow and black is a known xeno.”

  Xeno was the current catchy moniker for humans, mostly teenagers and early twentysomethings, who don’t like the fey and form a nice little social club whose entertainment involves harassment and, all too often, violence against the fey. The phrase itself doesn’t make sense unless you knew it was evolved from “xenophobic gangs.” Don’t get me wrong—there are plenty of fey gangs, too, that technically meet the definition of xenophobic. But they are seen as the minority, and so their antagonists earned the xenophobic badge first.

  I looked down at the field, then the surrounding area. “Do you know whose turf it is? Nothing’s here but empty buildings.”

  I waited while Murdock flipped through his mental files. “Not sure. I don’t think anybody’s. It’s elves to the south. Human and fairies along Oh No. I think this is a noman’s-land.” Oh No was the local nickname for Old Northern Avenue. You hear the phrase used with everything from fear to laughter.

  “If a gangbanger dies in an empty field and no one is around to hear it, is he a gangsta?” I said. Murdock didn’t laugh. I wasn’t really trying to be funny.

  Murdock blew into his hands again. “I still don’t like this cold. You know I like to rule out anomalies at crime scenes only for good reason. You’re more likely to find out what it was for.”

  “Sure,” I said. I had contacts that Murdock couldn’t necessarily cultivate. For one thing, I was fey. While it doesn’t always produce cooperation and honesty among the fey, simple psychology still applies. Like groups are more willing to extend trust to one of their own. I also lived right in the Weird, and people can tell. Places generate their own essence imprints, and if you stay in them long enough, you pick it up, too. Murdock smells like South Boston, not the Weird. That’s not a criticism. It’s like recognizing someone’s accent. Whatever attributes you assign to that is your own prejudice.

  The sun rose higher, and the temperature went up a little. The erosion of the weather spell seemed to increase. Interesting. That meant sunlight was meant to dissipate it. Whatever it was for, was for last night only.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” I said.

  Murdock’s two-way radio squawked, then emitted a string of gibberish that pretended to be a woman speaking. Murdock cocked his head and lowered the volume. How cops understood those things was beyond me.

  Murdock’s eyes flicked up to my face. “We’ve got another body.”

  Chapter 2

  I moved several newspapers off Murdock’s passenger seat and got in his car. The man is fastidious about his personal appearance but has slob tendencies that manifest themselves in any vehicle he happens to drive. When the heat came on, I detected the faint whiff of chicken wings.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Down Harbor Street,” he said.

  “Harbor? You got pulled off a murder scene for a dead body in the Tangle?”

  He nodded. “Code came in possible high profile. We need to get in and assess before the Guild shows up.”

  If the Weird is the ass end of Boston neighborhoods, the Tangle is the ass end of the Weird. The place gets its name from the chaotic network of streets that twist around each other, a confusing interplay of real and not-so-real lanes and buildings. To explain Boston’s oddly laid-out streets, an urban legend claims they’re paved over cow paths. In the Tangle, the cows apparently were drunk as hell.

  Even I admit that it’s a rough place. It’s no wonder the place makes the news. Drugs and the more esoteric types of body trades are the primary commercial ventures. Gangs rule the streets. Spellcasters openly offer their services for questionable enterprises. An inordinate number of people go missing, or at least were often last seen alive there.

  If the Guild tends to ignore the happenings in the Weird, it positively pretends the Tangle doesn’t even exist. While I’m no longer the Guild’s biggest fan, they do have a point. Lots of people wish the Tangle didn’t exist. But it does, so there’s no excuse to let what goes on there, go on. And, naturally, the Guild only gets involved if someone important gets caught up.

  We pulled onto Harbor Street, not technically the Tangle, but close enough. Murdock just parked in the middle of the street. Police privilege. He wasn’t the first. Two squad cars were already on scene, and an officer was frantically unraveling crime scene tape in a wide arc in front of a building thirty feet away. He looked pale, a little green around the gills even.

  We stepped out of the car into more cold. I looked up and saw the southern edge of the weather spell ripple and shift as the last of it evaporated in the morning sun. We walked toward the cordoned-off storefront, two large plate-glass windows with slogans like HELP US, HELP YOU and WE RISE ONLY TOGETHER. A multihued sign above the door said UNITY.

  The signs reminded me that not everyone was willing to abandon the Weird. Just like I had come to care about the people down here, others did, too. Along with the sinners, a few hardy saints marched down here, struggling to make a difference. Some of them try to persuade people off the paths they have chosen. Some just hand out bandages to get someone through the day. At best, they make tiny dents. At worst, they get themselves caught up in the shifting alliances. I figured that’s what we were probably walking into now, someone who had poked their nose in a little too deep.

  We ducked the tape, and the smell hit me immediately. “Damn, Murdock, I can sense a lot of blood from here. It’s an elf.”

  Two more officers stood just inside the door. One of them seemed to be concentrating on keeping his jaw clamped shut. The other one nodded at us. “Hope you haven’t had breakfast.”

  Not a good sign. The police see a lot, especially in rougher neighborhoods. They deal with most of it with gallows humor. When they openly acknowledge the severity of a murder scene, it is definitely not a good sign.

  “That bad?” asked Murdock.

  “Worse,” said the officer. He pointed inside. “Nine-one-one call came from a phone in the front room. Door was unlocked when we got here. No one here but the victim.”

  Murdock nodded. It is a time-honored tradition to remain anonymous in the Weird. Murdock gave me a quick look and stepped inside. I followed, already tamping down my senses to deaden the scent of blood.

  The front room spanned the width of the building and ran back about thirty feet. Several groupings of cast-off furniture filled the near section, behind those was a Ping-Pong table, and behind that were three old metal desks. The walls were painted a jarringly vibrant shade of yellow and covered with posters proclaiming the virtues of friendship, cooperation, and racial harmony. The cynic in me couldn’t help snorting. Not that it wasn’t all well-intentioned. But this close to the Tangle, it smacked of naïveté.

  Two archways stood on opposite sides of the back wall. “The left side,” I said to Murdock. The stench was unavoidable.

  Murdock went first. He stopped in the archway, blocking my view. “Sweet mother of God,” he whispered. He turned away from the door with his eyes closed. I was not going to like it. I stepped into the archway and froze.

  Half of my brain began objectively assessing what I was seeing. The other half was screaming. The room was long and narrow, no windows, with a closed door at the rear. A desk had been flipped forward to my right. Everything that had been on it had scattered to the floor. Four of the five chairs in the room were either upturned or broken. The fifth was embedded in the back wall. Every conceivable surface was sprayed with blood. Floors. Walls. Ceiling. At my feet lay a left hand with the lower half of a forearm attached. I could see a right arm under one of the chairs. I assumed a separate bloody mangle near the desk was the lower extremities. Gobbets of body
organs appeared to be smeared everywhere. To the right and about eight feet up, a head peered out of a bloody crater in the wall. The face had been flattened. Other than my ability to sense its essence, the only remaining clue to race of the individual was a long, pointed ear that was sticking straight out in the wrong direction.

  I closed my eyes. I could hear Murdock breathing through his mouth. If I was going to help, I had to use my nose. The scent of blood overwhelmed, the elf essence coating everything. Two things jumped out at me, though. At least one troll had spent a lot of time in the room, and I could sense a second. I moved forward a little.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Murdock said. I nodded. Contaminating a crime scene like this would not be looked on tolerantly by anyone.

  I could sense fear. The feeling is more intuitive than technical. I’m not a dog. But sometimes strong emotion seems to color how essence feels to me, like salt or pepper on a steak. The odd thing was, I wasn’t sensing the fear from the elf, which suggested to me that whatever happened to him was unexpected. He literally hadn’t seen it coming. But fear permeated the place, a fear intense enough to announce the presence of at least one human normal. That’s the one thing you can always sense from a human.

  I turned away from the carnage. “We should get in that back room.”

  Murdock led the way back to the front door. “How long ago did this call go out on the wire?” he asked the same officer by the door.

  He looked at his watch. “Probably ten minutes or so.”

  Murdock looked at me. “We don’t have much time. Let’s go.” We broke into a jog out the door, ducked under the tape again, and made our way to a narrow back alley. For this part of the neighborhood, the alley was surprisingly clean. Probably some do-gooder project. The back door to the building was the self-closing type, but wasn’t quite closed. Murdock pulled out his gun.

  I don’t carry a gun. Never did. Once I didn’t need to with all the other abilities I had. Now I avoid them because the metal content messes up whatever little ability I do have. I flattened myself against the wall behind Murdock. He stretched forward and tugged quickly at the door handle, simultaneously pulling back into firing stance. The door swung open, briefly revealed a darkened room, then began to close. Murdock grabbed it before it could lock. He scuttled across the face of the door, pulling it open as he moved to the opposite side. No sounds came out. No gunfire, which was good, and no explosive shot of essence, which was even better. Neither of us was equipped to deal with that. I ducked my head into the opening and back.

  “Empty,” I mouthed to him.

  Gun forward, Murdock leaped into the room to the opposite side again. I could picture him inside, the two of us pressed against the wall between us. I waited a long two seconds, listening. “Clear,” he called out.

  I walked in to find Murdock holstering his gun. He kept the holster open.

  The back room was mainly storage, some stacked chairs and folding tables, boxes and filing cabinets, and some standard office equipment: a fax machine, a photocopier, and some kind of large-size printer. Faint levels of essence from all species permeated the space, in tribute to the apparent ethic of the place. Given that, the strong register of troll and human stood out. The troll was definitely the same one I had sensed in the office space. The human was strong enough to be identifiable, but with the mess in the other room, I couldn’t tell if the fear I had felt there was from the same person.

  “I’d say someone hid in here while the action in the other room went on. When everything went down, they ran out the back door,” said Murdock.

  Made sense to me. It would explain why the inside door was closed and the back door was open. Someone was in too much of hurry to worry about securing the door.

  Murdock’s two-way squawked. It was only one word, so I understood it. “Company.”

  Murdock looked around. “Did you touch anything?”

  “Okay, second time you’ve done that. I’m not an amateur,” I said.

  “Sorry. Guild’s here. Let’s go.” He had the good sense to look chagrined. I let it pass, because at the least it showed why I liked working with him. Murdock paid attention to details. We backed out of the room and left the door exactly how we found it. As we walked back up the building, I paused. More troll essence. It led off to the right, into the Tangle. It didn’t surprise me. If I were a troll and needed to blend in with the scenery fast, that’s where I’d go.

  When we reached the front of the building, the activity level had increased dramatically in a short period of time. Two more police cars, an EMT van, the medical examiner’s car, a Boston morgue wagon and a Guild one, and a black town car now cluttered the street. The interesting action was occurring at the front door, where several people were arguing.

  As we arrived, the officer we had left at the door was blocking the entrance, preventing people from getting inside, including one very attractive and angry fairy. The officer looked relieved when he saw us. “Here he is now, ma’am. Lieutenant Detective Murdock is ranking officer. Sir, this is Community Liaison Officer macNeve.”

  “We’ve met,” said Murdock.

  Keeva macNeve spun on her heel to face us in full intimidation mode. She had her wings unveiled and shot a little essence into them to make the silvery gossamer flicker yellow and white. All five-foot-eight of her projected anger and authority. I love Keeva in a lather. She’s very good at it. She even somehow gets her mop of red hair to undulate. And to her credit, it works most of the time to get her what she wants.

  “You two. I should have guessed,” she said.

  “Hi, Keeva,” I said. “You’re up early. New job keeping you on your toes?” Keeva and I used to work together at the Guild. When I say “work together,” I mean we worked in the same general geographic area trying not to pummel each other as we solved cases. That’s just as much a comment on my behavior as on hers. She recently got promoted to Community Liaison Officer for Community Affairs due to a rather sudden vacancy. It’s a polite title. Internally at the Guild, the job is really Chief of Investigations.

  “We have a major situation here, Connor. This is a Guild case.”

  “We were just securing the scene,” said Murdock.

  “Did you touch anything?” Keeva asked him. I resisted the urge to smirk.

  Murdock smiled tightly. “No, ma’am. Would you like to fill us in?”

  “No,” she said. She turned back to the officer. “Move.” He looked at Murdock, who nodded. Bowing politely, he stepped aside, and Keeva strode through the door, followed by a rather sallow-skinned druid that I guessed was the Guild coroner.

  “Left-hand door,” I called out. Through the plate glass, we watched them cross the room and walk directly to the archway. The coroner backed out immediately, even more sickly colored if that were possible, and bolted through the front door. He made sounds behind his vehicle that we all tried to ignore out of professional courtesy as well as our own need not to join him. I could only guess he hadn’t been on the job very long. After several moments, Keeva reappeared and paused at the archway as she obviously pulled herself together. She lifted her head and came outside.

  “You could have warned me,” she said. I have to give her credit; she still looked more angry than ill.

  I feigned innocence. “You seemed in a rush.”

  “My people will be here momentarily. You need to pull everyone out,” Keeva said. The coroner returned from behind the car with his kit over his shoulder.

  For someone just arriving, she seemed too much in a hurry to get rid of us. “Who do you think the victim is, Keeva?”

  She gave me a long tense look, then relaxed. “You’ll know soon enough. It’s Alvud Kruge.”

  That gave me a “whoa” moment. If someone told me I would find an elf with international diplomatic ties smeared across the back room of a storefront on the edge of the Tangle, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. My gaze went up to the sign above the storefront. Unity. Of course, he would be h
ere. Alvud Kruge has been an advocate for peace for decades, often at odds with his own people in the Teutonic Consortium back in Germany. Had been. He’d even been on the board of directors at the Boston Guildhouse, something that also didn’t endear him to his compatriots.

  Murdock rubbed his eyes. “God, I’ve had better mornings.”

  “How did you know it was him?” I asked.

  Keeva gazed at me without speaking for a long moment. I’ve known her a long time. That look means either she’s weighing how much she wants to share or how much she’s going to lie. “Kruge was a Guild director. His addresses get flagged for security. You know that, Connor.”

  That was true. Guild members have a lot of enemies for one reason or another. The higher up in the food chain you go, the more people you have waiting to knock you down. Above all else, the Guildhouse protects its own. Even though they had the ill grace to kick me out when I was down, they still provided me a fair amount of security. Nothing flashy, but enough to let me sleep at night in my own bed in my own apartment without worrying about spells in the dark. As head of the crime unit, Keeva was at the top of the contact list for anything associated with Guild execs. So she went for the plausible. Nothing I could call her on. Yet. But that hesitation before answering intrigued me. As usual with her, more than the obvious was probably going on. I decided to play on her side for the moment.

  “Someone used a weather spell last night. It extended almost from this exact location back up to Oh No,” I said.