Respect
Miguel's cell rang. He checked around the office to make sure no one was in earshot before answering.
"Yeah, this'z Rubio."
"Detective, it's your friend from County Records."
"Took you long enough."
"If you wanted it in a hurry, you should have said something."
He didn't, really. Miguel was just in a bad mood -- he was always in a bad mood when he was pushing papers.
And it sucked to have to learn everything through private sources. It took too damn long and cost too damn much. But he knew he was being watched, and the minute he started officially looking at Angela, he'd be in deep shit. And so would she, if he didn't get to her before the Russian Mafiya.
"Well, whaddya got? Court dates, new residence address, anything?"
"Okay. The Barrett house?"
"Yeah?" What, was this guy trying to build up suspense?
"She sold it."
Wham. "*Sold* it?"
"Yeah, to the city."
"How? The court takes months to settle probate."
"She must have had help -- pulled strings, greased palms... you wouldn't know anything about that. -- By the way, you know I don't take checks."
"Funny."
So Jason Truman really was her lawyer. And he really was good.
"Papers were executed by a Jason Truman. Some kind of hotshot from down south."
"Yeah, I know."
"So how do you think she swung that? I mean, I thought you said she was broke."
"I don't know."
"Sexual favors, maybe?"
Miguel thought the guy sounded a little too interested. It occurred to Miguel that maybe paying the guy cash wouldn't be as effective an information lubricant as getting him laid.
"I don't know."
"I'd like to. But seriously, it was probably her husband."
Wham. "*Husband*?"
"I keep hearing echoes. Is there somethin' wrong with your phone?"
Wise ass. "Fuck you. She got married? To who?"
"A George Bailey. I looked up the marriage license -- he's from Chicago." Chicago? "One of those whirlwind romance things, I guess."
"I guess." Miguel was frankly speechless. When the hell did she...? Was this some kind of cover story? But why go to the trouble of getting married, why not just disappear? Was it some kind of message?
Miguel saw Captain Ramirez heading his way. "Thanks honey, I gotta go."
"Hey, you need any- wait, 'honey?' ...Oh, I get-" Click.
Ramirez wore a casual, care-free expression; it fit poorly. "Hey, Miguel, what's up?" He didn't usually address Miguel by his first name, either.
"Well, the Carter assault case is stalled-"
"What about Sapphire?"
"It's been two days." What did he expect?
"Yeah. I wonder how far she could get in that time." A lot, apparently. That was harsh. "Who is she?"
"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question."
"Oh, is that what I pay you?"
Miguel let out a frustrated sigh. "I don't know what you expect me to do. This girl is vapor. Wouldn't you be if you were in her shoes?"
"If I was in her shoes I'd be crippled." Well, at least Ramirez hadn't lost his sense of humor. "Hey, I'm not trying to ride you. But I'd be lying if I said your performance wasn't being very closely monitored." His eyes glanced upward, and he wasn't alluding to God.
"I know. And if he's unsatisfied with my performance he's welcome to assign somebody else. Of course, you already tried that once, and all that *he* managed to do was let her go after I'd collared her. So technically I'm just cleaning up somebody else's mess."
"Nature of the job," Ramirez shrugged. "Let me know if you need anything. And try to show a little more above-board effort, okay? Don't make the man upstairs wonder what you're up to."
Miguel caught Ramirez as he turned to go. "Hey, Cap." Ramirez hated the nickname, especially from Miguel, but he let it slide, which underlined the pressure coming down. "What if she just quit?"
"What do you mean, quit?"
"Hung up her cape. Like, fell in love, sold her stuff, and moved off to some quiet Midwestern town to squeeze out a couple of kids and cook dinner for her husband and shit."
"I didn't think she was the type."
"There's a type?"
"No wonder you're single."
"So? What if she's just... Gone?"
Captain Ramirez stroked his chin; tongue rolled around inside his mouth. Lips smacked. "Well, she cost the Russian Mafiya a lot of money, and more importantly she embarassed them. Do you think they'd stop looking for her just because she left town?"
"No, but if they found her, it wouldn't be in our jurisdiction."
Ramirez' face suddenly went dark. "That attitude might fly upstairs, but not with me. We took an oath -- to *protect* -- and for most of us it doesn't end at the city limits."
"Come on, you don't wanna be late for your first night. Well, not *too* late, anyway."
Angela -- Gabrielle -- hustled toward the door; Kat already had the key in the lock. "Sorry," the younger woman said, "I had to find my lucky thong."
Kat just raised her eyebrow as the deadbolt snicked into place.
"You're gonna want some more comfortable shoes. Something with a cushioned wedge, like these." Kat turned her foot sideways for a moment; Gabrielle got a look at the cork wedge sandals. "You don't wanna be walking four blocks every day in stilettos." And then Kat was off; Gabrielle struggled to keep up.
It was already dark outside. The days were getting shorter. It was getting cooler too -- Gabrielle felt the chill of the air. She wasn't used to being outside at night without the warmth of the sapphires.
There was surprisingly little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. A few trenchcoated white-collar workers scurrying to cheaply-parked cars in weedy all-day lots, a few homeless half-heartedly soliciting, and handfuls of mostly-younger urbanites coalescing around funky bistros and coffeestops. Across the street, Gabrielle noticed an old movie theater, glory faded but pride intact, dirty paint but a bright marquee offering titles she'd never heard of, a line of half-yuppie, half-bohemian patrons curling around the side.
And then they turned the corner, and Gabrielle nearly ran over a couple of young women leaning up against the building. "Watch it!"
"Sorry."
It took a few moments for her to realize why they were just standing there. Kat explained anyway. "Working girls."
Up ahead, the blinking neon sign that said "Hotties." And beyond that, just a few blocks and yet a million miles away, the gleaming glass and clean concrete of Oak Valley's economic heart. And Club Ten. And the penthouse at 405 Acorn, where Kostya Moroshkin or one of his minions could be right now, looking down on her.
Gabrielle was reminded of the time she'd gone into Twisted Oaks at night. Well, the time *Sapphire* had gone into Twisted Oaks. These new surroundings weren't nearly as frightening -- or depressing -- but it was strange to think that dirty sidewalks and tired old buildings and colorful residents rubbed shoulders with pristine marble facades and stretched skyscrapers and natty executives. There was a lack of tension here, a sense that no juxtaposition was out-of-bounds, and that was a little unnerving.
"Where you going?" Kat was standing in the parking lot, watching Gabrielle almost walk right past her toward the club's front door. "We use the back door." Kat jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
The back entrance was better lit than the front. Kat rang a bell and then looked up and smiled. Gabrielle noticed a camera looking down on them. Bzzzt! Inside.
The walls were unpainted sheet rock, the paper yellowed and torn in a few places, and marked in several places by squiggles in different colors -- signatures, probably of old dancers. Kat threatened to disappear through a maze of doorways and hallways; Gabrielle struggled to keep up, glimpsing but not really seeing anything as Kat pointed out different things and people. "Whiteboard schedule. Payphone -- don't hog it. Customer restrooms that way -- don't use 'em. Hey Cherry. Private booths through there. DJ booth -- tonight it's PJ. Office. Emergency Exit -- alarm *will* sound. And this is the dressing room."
It was bright. Actually, it was just everything else that was dark. Off to one side, the restroom; to the other, a curtain, with pounding music beyond -- the stage.
It was bigger than Club Ten's dressing room, if less lavishly appointed. A few of the light bulbs over the wall of mirrors were burned out; the opposite wall was crumbly brick, painted flat black. Old acoustic tile ceiling, little perforated squares, most of them water-damaged. Like the ceiling of her kindergarten classroom. Funny what the mind would connect... this was about as far-removed from kindergarten as she could imagine.
"Girls, this is Gabrielle. Gabrielle, this is Blaze, Pandora, and Starr. You met Cherry out in the hall."
"Melody has the night off," one of them -- Blaze -- said. Bronzed, muscular and skinny, brown hair streaked blonde, with spherical breasts that seemed an afterthought.
"Melody has lots of nights off," Starr added with a nasty tone. Blonde and stacked, Pamela Anderson clone. She bent down to snort something.
"Nice to meet you, Gabrielle. That like a stage name?" Cherry was standing in the doorway, tall and slender and small-breasted, with a babyface framed by straight jet-black hair. Gabrielle remembered her own hair didn't look like that anymore.
"Uh, no, it's not a stage name."
"So like do we call you like Gabby, or what?"
"Just Gabrielle, I guess."
Pandora made a face. "Mitch ain't gonna like that."
Kat hushed the girls. "Give her a little room, will you?"
Gabrielle slunk off to the corner; Kat squeezed around her. "Corner's mine, but you can sit next to me."
"Okay."
"Now get those clothes off, and lemme find you something to wear."
Gabrielle unbuttoned her shorts and pushed them off her hips. The tied-off dress shirt went next.
"Nice tits," one of the other girls said.
"Thanks," Gabrielle said, nonetheless moving her arm to cover up; she felt her cheeks burn with her blush.
"A shy stripper. Cute."
"It takes all kinds."
A disembodied voice crackled overhead. "Break's over. Cherry, you're up."
"Gotta go make ends meet. Nice meetin' ya," Cherry said, giving Gabrielle a playful smack on the bottom as she slipped by.
Gabrielle turned around to see Kat holding up a pair of ripped-up denim shorts and a tied-off white top with an exaggerated collar. "This should work, you think?"
It wasn't that different from what Gabrielle had just taken off -- except of course that it covered a lot less.
"Yeah, whatever." Gabrielle reminded herself that she was here to take her clothes off in front of strange men, and that this was not cause for panic.
Kat raised an eyebrow. "*That's* your lucky thong?"
"What?"
"Your lucky thong. Looks... I don't know, I expected something more... flashy. Or is there a story about it you'd like to share?"
Oh. Right. The 'lucky thong' excuse she'd used back in the apartment. Really she'd been transferring her sapphires to the bag Kat had let her borrow.
But now that she thought of it, it was kind of a lucky thong. It was the one Monique had given her that first night -- a simple white lace thing.
"It's what I wore my first night."
"Oh. Right." Kat had gone home early that night. It was partly her absence that had given Angela an excuse to go onstage for the first time. All part of the plan to woo Dino Sinclair and get information that would put the hurt on the Russian Mafiya. Now they were searching for her, and Kat, who'd once threatened to kill her -- and no matter what she may have said later, at the time it had been a very real threat -- now Kat was her only friend.
Lucky thong? Bad luck, maybe. But she hadn't thought to bring another one.
"You go on after Blaze. Throw these on, then let's go see Mitch."
Mitch was the bartender, and, according to Kat, running the place in the owner's absence. Gabrielle vaguely remembered the owner, Lou, from the time she'd come here as Angela to answer an ad for a bookkeeper. Where Lou had been a great big teddy bear, Mitch was a tall, thin man, flesh drawn tight over his frame, salt-and-pepper hair and goatee adding age but not wisdom, every move a calculated menace.
"You the new girl?" Something reminded him to smile warmly.
"Gabrielle," she said, extending her hand. He gave it an indifferent shake.
Kat seemed to recognize someone across the club. "Excuse me," she said, dashing off. Gabrielle felt suddenly uncomfortable. Being mostly-naked in a room of predators could do that to a girl.
"Gabrielle, huh? Too snooty. You got a nickname? What's... Gabby, right? No, can't use that either. Makes me think of a girl who won't shut up, and guys hate that." He looked her up and down. "We'll call you Cindy." He wrote it on a cocktail napkin -- spelled with an S and two Es. Sindee.
Gabrielle hated the name. It was everything she didn't want to be. Misspelled, tacky, suggestive, something a bimbo would be proud to wear.
But she wasn't supposed to be herself here. She didn't really want to be here at all, but she needed the money. She was already hiding behind one name that wasn't hers; maybe adding another one on top of it, especially one that was so not like her, maybe that would help her disconnect.
Not that Mitch was going to give her a choice. He grabbed the phone behind the bar. "Hey, PJ, the new girl's going on next. Her name is Sindee. With an S and two Es. I know you don't care how it's spelled, I'm just sayin'. Yeah. Play something nasty for her; she needs to loosen up."
Gabrielle retreated to the dressing room. She felt anxious. She shouldn't have felt anxious. It wasn't like she'd never done this before. Maybe not in this club, but... men were pretty much the same everywhere, right? There wasn't a whole lot to this job, once you got used to the idea.
Maybe the Glitter was wearing off. What time was it? How long ago did she take her last dose? Well, it hadn't been that long. But it hadn't been a full dose either -- she hadn't had time to mark out two clean lines, what with Kat knocking on the bathroom door every ten seconds...
Another little hit wouldn't hurt. Gabrielle found her vial, knocked a tiny bit into the cap, and inhaled sharply. Barely enough to feel anything, but enough.
"Hey, you're almost on." It was Kat; Gabrielle hadn't heard her come in.
"Oh, hi. Yeah. I'm a little nervous." She felt her nose drip; she sniffled.
Kat looked down at the vial in Gabrielle's hand. "That for energy, or courage?"
"I don't know," Gabrielle answered, blushing. "Both maybe."
"Welp, that's the end of Blaze's set. Batter up!" Kat gave her two thumbs up. It seemed corny -- almost insincere, if Gabrielle hadn't known better.
Echoing guitars strummed experimentally in anticipatory buildup beneath the DJ's voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, this next young lady is new to the area, and this is her first night on stage." The guitars slipped into a loose falling arpeggio. "Give a big Hotties welcome to... Sindee!"
Drums and another guitar joined in. In the background, the rising wail of the lead singer, sounding not unlike a distant police siren.
Gabrielle burst onto the stage, legs pumping her across it like a queen inspecting troops in the field.
Welcome to the jungle
We got fun 'n' games
We got everything you want
Honey we know the names
We are the people that can find
Whatever you may need
If you got the money honey
We got your disease
In the jungle
Welcome to the jungle
Watch it bring you to your . . . knees, knees
I wanna watch you bleed
The energy here was different. More raw than Club Ten. Everyone seemed to have an edge to their stares -- like wolves catching an unfamiliar scent. Gabrielle pivoted and grabbed the pole, executing a neat kick and spin.
Welcome to the jungle
It gets worse here everyday
Ya learn ta live like an animal
In the jungle where we play
If you got a hunger for what you see
You'll take it eventually
You can have anything you want
But you better not take it from me
Blaze before her had danced hard, like an athlete's dawn run through a bad neighborhood. Gabrielle tried to use that same energy, but as she took her top off, she couldn't help but feel intimidated by her surroundings.
And when you're high you never
Ever want to come down
so down
so down
so down
Yeah!
The patrons here weren't afraid to get close to the rail. *Very* close. Some of them even dangled hands over the edge onto the stage. Lines here weren't as clearly drawn. Gabrielle accidentally swept a leg beneath someone's fingers; their middle-aged owner gave her an appreciative sneer, pushing a dollar bill off the rail toward her.
You know where you are?
You're in the jungle baby
You're gonna die
Gabrielle leaned forward, getting as close as she dared to a young hard-looking guy, shaking her shoulders. The guy leaned into her jiggling breasts; when she pulled back in surprise, he just winked at her.
A quick glance toward the bouncer in the corner got no reaction.
So that's how it was here. Gabrielle suddenly felt... vulnerable.
Down in the jungle
Welcome to the jungle
Watch it bring you to your --
It's gonna bring you down!
Ha!
"How was that?"
Cherry made a face. "Maybe you just need different music."
What did she do wrong? She tried to be... raunchier than she'd been at Club Ten. That seemed to be what everybody wanted here. Did she go too far?
Kat was in the doorway. "Mitch wants to see you."
"Damn, girl, you look like royalty up there."
"Thanks." Even though she hadn't really felt like it. Maybe Hotties didn't have the same glorious vibe that Club Ten had. Or maybe she was just feeling stressed about her situation.
"No, no, it's not good. Royalty, like... you're pretty, but such a stuck-up bitch I wouldn't want to fuck you."
The F-word punctuated the insult like a sharp flick to the ear. Gabrielle felt her mouth hanging open; she closed it with a pout.
"That's what I'm talking about, right there. Come on, baby. Loosen up. If you look like you're too good for 'em, they won't give you any money. And they won't buy any drinks. And they won't come back. Talk to Kat, she'll tell you how it works. You gotta be *accessible*."
Accessible.
"Now ordinarily I'd tell you to work the room, get guys to buy you drinks, maybe get in a lapdance or two, but after that stiff performance there's no point. So do me a favor. Go back in the back, put on some more lipstick, get yourself worked up. When Starr is done, I want you to say a little prayer or whatever it is you good girls do and hit the stage *hard*. All right?"
She sighed. It was all she could do to keep from crying. "All right."
Mitch gave her a hard slap on the ass. "Show me you need it."
Gabrielle felt her heart race and her cheeks burn. Somehow Mitch had chased away her confidence, like he'd sucked the Glitter right out of her system.
Show me you need it.
She did need it.
She needed another hit of Glitter.
Gabrielle rushed backstage. Kat was in the corner, looking surprised. She had something in her hand.
The vial.
"I was just gonna borrow a little to help get me over the hump. I'll get you some more tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. But I'm on next, let me use it first."
"Here you go."
Gabrielle wasn't going to bother with a line -- she just needed a quick boost, and Kat was going to get her some more anyway. The shaken girl quickly tapped out a glistening little cone on the back of her hand between thumb and forefinger. A full exhale preceded two quick sniffs -- woah, that was a lot. Gabrielle leaned her head back, feeling something like warm eggwhites slide down the back of her throat. She forced herself to breathe evenly, enjoying the building rush.
"Okay. All yours!" She tossed the capped vial back to Kat, did a quick hair-and-makeup check, and marched up to the edge of the stage. Starr was just coming off.
And then the Glitter rush turned from dry crystal to wet ice. Everything around her seemed to speed up. It was like that time she'd gotten drunk, only she could still see and hear everything very intensely.
Oooooh. That never happened before. It's... nice.
The first song was just another anonymous thumping electronic jumble, but as she strutted and twirled, she noticed the men looking up at her started to pulse with the beat. At first she thought they all had a better sense of rhythm and involvement than she was used to at Club Ten, but the pulsing became more pronounced, as if their heads were balloons being blown up a little bit with every thump of the bass. She shook her head and blinked, trying to clear her vision -- covering up the move with a playful tousling of her blondish curls -- but that just made things worse.
Or maybe better. Smiles seemed to grow impossibly huge, mouths full of ultra-white teeth wrapping all the way around, until the tops of heads bounced to the beat independent of bodies.
Gabrielle felt the slightest twinge of panic -- Glitter had never hit her this fast or this *weird* before -- but it was quickly crushed by a blast of contentment. With the Glitter working this hard, she couldn't be blamed for anything she did. She wasn't herself. She was Sindee.
One of the bouncing-head smile-men held out a big green flag. The smile next to him made a shirt-lifting motion. They wanted to see her naked. That's what they were here for. That's what *she* was here for.
That's better.
Guys were putting little tickets on the edge of the stage. Money. They were giving her money. That's why she was here. Pretty money. They weren't nice guys, but that was okay -- their money was nice. But she'd have to get down on the floor to get the money. They liked it when she rolled and twisted. They really liked it when she leaned out over them. Sometimes they'd sneak a quick touch, even though they weren't supposed to. She didn't like that, but she couldn't stop them or they wouldn't give her any more money.
Where did my shorts go? Oh, the big fat man has them. I hope he gives them back, or I'll have to buy Kat new ones. He's sniffing them. Smile, Sindee, or he won't like you and then he won't give you your clothes back. Go over there and ask him; he's offering you money. Better crawl; the room keeps rocking back and forth. Don't drag your feet; you'll make your shoes mad.
Someone slipped a scratchy new bill under Sindee's thong, working it back and forth, sliding it down, pushing it a little too close to her puss. She spun away, remembering to give him a sultry look. It was hard to keep smiling, but most of them seemed happy with a doe-eyed pout. A deft hand from behind pulled on her thong strap to trap a bill, and pushed the string lower on her hip. Sindee had enough bills to make a skirt; she liked the little grass skirt, but they wanted to see her, not their money; she adjusted the thin straps, letting the money slip free to snow the stage.
The music changed again. Slower. Funky. Nasty. Sindee got up off her knees and strutted back toward the front pole. It began to shimmer, and wiggle.
That's right, pleased to meet you
I still won't tell you my name
Don't you believe in mystery
Don't you want to play my game?
I'm looking for a man to love me
Like I've never been loved before
I'm looking for a man that'll do it anywhere
Even on the limousine floor
She grabbed the pole and spun. She felt it pulse in her hand. A spread-legged squat put the base of the pole between her knees. She was feeling it now, soft, pliable, reacting to her touch.
Staccato hip-thrusts inched her toward the pole, until she felt it against her belly; its touch made her melt, leaning languidly back, hanging her upper body out, barely maintaining her grip.
'Cause tonight living in a fantasy
My own little nasty world
Tonight, don't you want to come with me
Do you think I'm a nasty girl?
Glitter had never felt like this before. The world was dark, smooth, syrupy. She wasn't on top of it, she was deep within it. The world was a single thing wrapped around her. Enveloping her. Caressing her. Squeezing her. Telling her how to move. Telling her to let go, lie back, let them touch her, touch herself...
That's right I can't control it
I need seven inches or more
Tonight I can no longer hold it
Get it up, get it up
I can't wait anymore
It didn't matter what Sindee wanted; she wasn't here for herself. She was here for It. For the Glitter, the new Glitter, that promised to hold her as long as she let it mold her.
Sindee *was* a nasty girl.
And she didn't care.
The notebook and pen bounced off the passenger seat and landed on the floor. The frustrated detective didn't bother to retrieve them. Miguel Rubio was done for the day. It was bad enough getting hassled about Sapphire, but taking statements for a carjacking was beneath him. That's what the uniforms were for. So what if this old bag was friends with the Chief's mom?
And did she have to play that damn Dean Martin album full-blast the whole time?
Miguel slumped down in the car seat. The clouds that had obscured the sun all day mirrored his mood. And they were getting darker.
It wasn't really the shit-duty that bugged him -- Captain Ramirez' comments had been like a rock in his shoe all day. Angela Barrett had managed to screw both the cops and the crooks and then got away clean, and Ramirez almost made it sound like she was a *victim*!
The Sapphire Problem just wasn't gonna go away.
The question was no longer whether he *should* find her. Let her spill her guts about working with him -- It was her word against his. She was a vigilante with a history of obstructing justice, and he was a cop with a stellar arrest record. They'd never believe her. It wasn't like anybody ever saw them togehter, and he'd dumped that phone...
Besides, anyone could see that she was a threat -- to the city, and to herself. It was his duty to get her off the street. And out of his hair for good.
Because the longer he was assigned to finding her, the more he'd be known as The Sapphire Cop. And Detective Miguel Rubio didn't take second billing to anyone, much less some teenage do-gooder with a few screws loose.
A girl that naive and that nuts should be easy to find. But after the thing with the house -- not to mention the *marriage* -- which seemed more like complete bullshit the more he thought about it -- it was clear she was gonna make him work for it. And that *sucked*, especially if he was gonna keep the lid on her identity. The name Angela Barrett was a hot button in the department -- and the last thing his reputation needed was anybody thinking he'd gone soft for some chick. *Especially* that particular chick. Noel Aquino's sloppy seconds? Miguel couldn't think of anything more humiliating.
What Miguel needed was a lightning rod. Something to make her come to him.
But what did she want? What drove her? Besides an unhealthy obsession with catching a car thief nicknamed Crisco, who so far was proving to be almost as silly a dichotomy between legend and reality as Sapphire herself. Word from everybody was that Chris Cogan was just a punk, all talk until a recent string of lucky boosts. He'd gained the respect of a few professionals, but everybody else said that just made him a bigger jerk. And that was before they started talking about his appetite for women. One informant had called him a 'fucking machine' -- and he hadn't meant it as an expletive.
A guy that brazen wasn't too hard to find -- eventually -- but keeping up with him was something different. Miguel had only put the word out on him yesterday and already had almost two dozen addresses. If Crisco was to be used as bait, he'd have to volunteer to be on the hook.
Oh well. Miguel would think of something. He'd had enough for today -- and anyway, he'd left the bedroom window open, and those clouds were looking pretty ugly...
Miguel almost pulled away from the curb before he realized where he was. He'd parked here before, in this very spot. Across the street was a fenced-off lot filled with debris.
GB's. Once an Italian restaurant, as popular for its vicarious connection to the mafia as for its food, now just a concrete slab with the remnants of walls and plumbing.
In a way, it was Miguel's fault the place had been wrecked. Using Gerald Bates as bait to lure Valerie Strain aka The Black Widow into a trap -- only before the trap could be sprung, Sapphire Happened. He still didn't understand what had transpired inside the restaurant that night. All he had were second-hand reports, and those obviously couldn't be trusted, telling as they did of two girls locked in wall-smashing physical combat, pushing back a SWAT unit like leaves in a storm, and busting through a solid concrete wall. Clearly someone had had explosives, though CSI swore there was no trace of accelerant. There was no other logical explanation.
Whatever really happened, in the end the place was wrecked, Bates was damaged but not dead, Val was gone... and Sapphire fell into his lap. Almost literally. He assumed she'd had an equipment malfunction while trying to flee the scene, probably a cable snapped. Her capture was the silver lining of an otherwise ugly cloud -- not that the good fortune lasted, thanks to Noel Aquino letting her go.
He didn't know who Sapphire was back then. Heck, he'd believed that Sapphire and Black Widow were the same person until they tangled here. Who would believe that two different girls would decide to start running around in skimpy outfits beating up dirtbags at the same time?
Whatever. There was only one of them now. And he still had to find her.
If only he could use Crisco to hook Angela the way he used Gerald Bates to hook Val.
He would have gotten Val that night if it hadn't been for Angela. It was a sweet set-up. As far as anyone else knew, Miguel and the officers he'd borrowed to give Gerald Bates additional protection were just in the right place at the right time. Who knew that The Black Widow, who to that point had only gone after small-time pimps, would go after Gerald Bates with such extreme prejudice in such a public place?
Only Miguel knew. Only he knew Black Widow's identity. Only he knew of her uncontrollable hatred for Bates -- the man who'd done unspeakable things to her. Miguel knew because he'd been there. He'd pushed her to help him collar a criminal, a criminal with a weakness for underage girls, and she'd suffered for it.
Funny how history had a way of repeating itself.
Using Angela to get to criminals.
Having her end up at odds with them.
Miguel being the only one who knew who Sapphire was, and being pressed to find her.
And having her nemesis fall right into his lap...
Across the street. Black Mercedes. The same one he'd seen at lunch, and across the street when he'd left the station.
He already knew who it belonged to -- Konstantin Moroshkin.
And he had a pretty good idea who was driving it.
Chris Cogan. "Crisco." Just the man he needed to talk to. If Miguel understood the history between Crisco and Sapphire, he wouldn't need too much convincing to volunteer as bait.
But first he'd have to be put in his place.
Miguel got out of the car and headed straight for the Mercedes. "Hey." The word was sharp, authoritative. He flashed his badge, not for identification -- a guy doesn't follow a cop all day and not know who he is -- but to establish dominance. Trained eyes watched the Mercedes driver: right hand on the wheel, left dipped to his side -- for a weapon? no, to lower the window. Eyes gazed idly down the street, as if Miguel wasn't interesting enough to be worth eye contact.
The guy's voice dripped with amused insincerity. "Can I help you?"
You want to play Too Cool? Let's see how long you can keep it cool, asshole. "Chris Cogan?"
"Yeah that's right."
"Step out of the car, please."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Out of the car. Now." Miguel stood at the front fender, keeping his eyes on Crisco's hands.
"Okay, fine." The door opened. Crisco slid out of the car with practiced ease. Door closed. He probably expected nothing more than a sneering-friendly chat between "equals." Miguel had a slightly different idea.
Crisco was taller by a couple of inches, but Miguel had the better build and the first move -- and it would only take one move. He stepped up and threw a quick hand to Crisco's left shoulder, spinning and pinning him face-forward against the car. "What the fuck?"
"Don't move!" Miguel yanked the right wrist around and deep between the shoulder blades.
Crisco seethed, but kept his cool. "Careful, asshole, that's my shooting arm."
Handcuffs snicked around the pinned wrist. "Gimme your other hand."
"Am I under arrest?"
"The suspect exhibited threatening behavior. I feared for my safety. I was forced to physically subdue him." Miguel yanked back on the cuffs, staggering Crisco into the street before driving him forward and bending him over the front fender. Crisco's face bounced off the hood.
Miguel tensed, ready for a reaction, but Crisco simply relaxed against the car. Miguel was disappointed -- he'd hoped the punk's temper would give him an excuse to go further. But dominance had been established and accepted, if begrudgingly.
Miguel broke silence first. "I'm glad to see you. You're gonna help me with something."
"Maybe we can help each other," Crisco replied.
Crisco probably had a reason for following a police officer around; Miguel thought it might be a good idea to find out what it was. "You first."
"Your name's on a lot of the reports on the Bolsillo Cielo Park thing."
So it was a 'thing.' Better than 'fuck-up.'
Wait, reports? "What reports?"
"Despite the Mad Russian reputation, Konstantin Moroshkin knows how to collect intelligence. I've got copies of the police files. For the park, the docks the same night -- way to piss off the Sultan, by the way... I've even got the stuff on Labor Day weekend, what little there is, and this place too. They're right there on the passenger seat -- take a look."
Miguel looked in the window -- thick manila folders. Could be bullshit, but then again, it wasn't a stretch to believe that Moroshkin had something on somebody in Records. "I believe you. What's your point?"
"Seems like you're in some pretty deep shit."
"I've been in deeper."
"A million dollars deep?"
Wait a second. "Look, I didn't take anybody's money."
"I know. I watched it burn. Still, Kostya's short a million bucks, and you're on the short list of people who made it disappear."
"So are you."
"So is Sapphire."
"Well, I'm a little short this week. You think you can cover me?"
"Cute. But there is a way to get the Russian monkey off your back."
Which was a lie. What he meant was, there's a Russian monkey on your back, but there's a way to keep him from killing you. It was all a set-up. Angela had fucked him. Harder than she probably realized.
This was the part where they said We Own You Now.
"Just give up the girl and we'll call it square."
Waitasec. Give her up? She wasn't a shill?
Waitasec. Square?
Angela really *was* on Moroshkin's shit list.
Miguel took a deep breath. This was deep shit, indeed. He had to be careful how he stepped or it'd get a lot deeper.
Was she working with Dino against the old man? No... Crisco was supposed to be Dino's boy, and he wouldn't be here asking for Miguel to serve up Sapphire if that was the case... So... she'd done it all alone? No... Miss Innocent? Why?
Miguel *really* didn't like being put in this position. But was getting out of it worth handing Angela over to the Russians?
Crisco was still kissing the hood; he couldn't see Miguel's confusion. "Come on, Detective. She screwed you too. And just look at the damage she's done -- she's a public menace. Let us have her. This way everybody wins."
Everybody? No, not everybody.
"How is this supposed to work?"
"I don't know yet. Kostya thinks he can just send a couple of goons to grab her and haul her off somewhere, but we both know that's not gonna work. Just keep tabs on her, and I'll contact you."
"What are you going to do with her?"
"Let's just say you won't see Sapphire again."
Miguel felt his chest tighten. His mind scrambled for traction. He was missing something. He had a better hand to play than this. Maybe if he ran Crisco downtown, held him on... something... the files in the car, that'd be enough until he could get something more... but that just tipped his hand. At least he had a little time while they figured out... figured out what?
"You said you can't just send somebody to grab her. Why not?" The question was mostly asked to buy time to think up a better one. But the answer surprised him.
"Her unique abilities. They make her a tricky catch."
"Her *what*?"
"You know. Faster than a speeding Chrysler. More powerful than a wrecking ball. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound."
Miguel just blinked. Crisco actually *believed* all that crap?
Crisco was facing him now. Looking at him. Forehead creased, as if peering through thick smoke. "Hold on, you don't really believe all that wires-and-vests bullshit you put in your reports, do you?"
Miguel couldn't suppress a laugh. "You don't really believe all the tabloid bullshit, do you?"
"I've seen it myself. Haven't you?"
"Sure. Just circus tricks. Stunts blown way out of proportion."
"You weren't in the car when she..." Crisco trailed off, probably realizing that anything more would be an admission of guilt.
"She's very... well-equipped, but that's all." Just because he didn't have an explanation for every little thing she'd supposedly done didn't mean... well, that she was... that she could... Well, it just wasn't possible.
Crisco snorted. "Look at the mess here. A couple of *girls* did that, armed with nothing more than a pistol and a bad attitude."
"It's not that simple. A lot was going on that night."
"Come on, Detective! Do your job. Ask questions. How did an unarmed girl clear the room of a half-dozen police officers and a canister of tear gas?"
"The SWAT members inside said it was a bomb."
"They said it was *like* a bomb. --Details, Detective, details. Like an entrance through a glass skylight, and a fall while trying to escape -- and this 'bomb' -- how many units of blood did she receive? How many stitches? Any abrasions? How about bruises?"
Miguel was silent. How could he have missed that? Still, maybe she was just lucky -- he'd seen stuff like that before, people walking away unscathed from an accident or a bomb.
"The back wall -- four-inch concrete. Side wall was wood-frame -- you can see the place next door is fine. What did the bomb experts say, shaped charge? Did they ever find trace evidence? Explosive compound, maybe a piece of the detonator?"
No. But--
"Details, Detective. There's not much on the Labor Day Incident -- Feds cleaned that up good, huh? -- but they explained her aerial antics, didn't they? Wire work. You ever see the harness? --Probably hid it under her costume, right? After all, it's so bulky and covers so much. Yeah, a harness and wires. That's why there's no mention of it in the reports on GB's here."
"She was on the ground in the alley when officers arrived. There's nothing in the GB's file because she wasn't using the harness then."
"What about at the big Labor Day Party? I guess you never got close, huh? Never saw her leap across the room? I'll bet that was something."
Miguel thought back... when the speaker tower collapsed... and then she climbed out of it, and Miguel grabbed her, and she insulted him -- "This is just between us girls, *defective* Rubio" -- and ran away. Kind of *jumped* actually... Miguel's brain flashed an image of her soaring through the air, halfway across the huge hall in a single bound. But that was just the power of suggestion. The memory plays tricks, especially after you've heard so many fantastic stories told so many times...
"I never really saw her up close," Miguel mumbled.
"Shame. She is *so* fucking hot." Miguel thought to correct Crisco -- he'd only meant he hadn't seen Sapphire up close at the convention center, which was a lie anyway, but...
Crisco continued. "Doesn't exactly cover it up, either. I've seen her up close. Details, Detective. Details you definitely don't want to miss. I can tell you, she doesn't wear a harness." He said it like undisputable fact, not mere opinion. "What about the cars? You ever figure out what landed on 'em?"
"What cars?" Miguel asked. He knew what cars, but somewhere through Crisco's reeling questions, the detective's instinct fished for an incriminating statement.
"Well, this is just what I heard, but I guess a panel truck flipped over out on the old main drag, and then a couple days later something landed on a Corvette downtown and wrecked it after a hit-and-run, and then a couple more days later the cops were chasing some old tank of a musclecar when something hit it and it went flipping and caught fire."
"Cars wreck all the time. Some people are just bad drivers."
If Crisco caught the insult he didn't acknowledge it. "True, but again, details. Any unusual damage? Like, dents or impacts that don't fit the accident? Lack of paint transfer? Maybe stiletto heel marks."
"Tabloid stories. Exaggerations. People looking for some attention."
"God damn, Detective, do the blinders ever come off? Or is it just hard to see anything when the spotlight's always on you? I can't believe I thought you could find her -- or that you might even know where she is. Fuck, you don't even know *what* she is."
Miguel suppressed the urge to beat the shit out of this punk. Obviously Crisco was trying to rattle him, but the way he was pressing this lame bullshit about Angela, either he was really stupid... or really scared.
"You know, you're right. Something doesn't add up. I tell you what, I've got a deal for *you*. Instead of me bringing her to you, why don't I bring *you* to *her*."
Crisco's reaction was not what Miguel expected. "I'm not afraid of her. I've got a unique talent of my own."
It put Miguel on his heels for a moment; he didn't often misjudge a person.
He reached for a comeback. "Those handcuffs tight enough for you?"
Crisco just laughed. "You wanna see it, don't you?"
"What?"
"You think they call me Crisco because I can wiggle out of some handcuffs?"
"It doesn't matter. I ran a ten-eight in the hundred meters in high school. You think you can outrun me?"
"You think I need to *run*?"
Crisco closed his eyes; he straightened up, as if he was... meditating. A moment later his eyes reopened. And his mouth turned up into a cruel smile.
The clouds suddenly darkened overhead. But it only got darker right where Crisco stood. Miguel blinked; the air seemed to shimmer around his captive as a spotlight of darkness focused on him.
And then the darkness winked out, and Miguel watched his empty handcuffs fall to the ground.
The detective spun around until he was too dizzy to stand, scanning in every direction, finally stumbling to catch himself on the hood of the abandoned black Mercedes.
He eventually remembered to breathe.
Suddenly the shit was a *lot* deeper.
"Well, ain't that a kick in the head."