The Mysterious Case of Betty Blue Page 7

  In his ear Betty was encouraging him, and the music was much too loud, and for a moment Scott felt real fear. More real fear. As if he hadn’t had enough.

  “My name is George.”

  “Yeah, I’m Sluggo. I’m real glad to meet you, George.”

  They must have gone fifty or sixty metres, with Sluggo, what kind of a name was that? Sluggo was leading him along, friendly enough now that he understood the situation. His new acquaintance was drunk as a skunk, high on everything, smelling of sweat and a few other things, but helpful nonetheless. The guy’s breathing was loud enough. He must have been dancing up a storm.

  “I really am sorry about that.”

  “Yeah, well. I guess. You don’t look the type.”

  Scott couldn’t help but smile. Sluggo was referring to the fact that Scott had inadvertently patted him on the bum while trying to negotiate a way through the frenzy of drug-fueled whirling dervishes, several hundred or even a thousand of them between him and the exit to the park.

  Betty was right there in his ear.

  “George. You’re right there. Say thank you to the nice man.”

  “Okay, Bud, here we are…this is the gate. These guys—” Presumably he was referring to security, of which even raves had some, as tickets and alcohol were sold and things could get rowdy sometimes. “These guys will take care of you, okay, Mister?”

  “My name is George. Thank you ever so much—” He stuck out a hand but the other guy didn't take it.

  That's life, eh?

  “Yeah, whatever. I’m Sluggo. And stop grabbing people’s asses. That sort of thing will get you in trouble someday.”

  Scott grinned. Something poked him in the chest and he figured that was just Sluggo’s way of saying goodbye.

  There were people right there, he could hear them talking.

  “Excuse me. I’m a blind man and I’ve lost my cane—”

  “Oh, dear! Yes, sir, what can we do for you?" Again, someone took him by the upper arm.

  He sensed he was the centre of attention, out there on the fringes of the insanity, where the music was a little more bearable in terms of volume and somebody had to stay sober, or relatively sober in order to justify their wages…as opposed to merely partying with the rest of them. That’s not to say they weren’t dancing, or just grooving to the music a little, because for some reason Scott rather had the impression they were.

  He smelled several different kinds of dope too.

  “Just point me to the door, my good fellow.”

  “Actually, I am a trans-gendered individual.”

  Scott grinned in appreciation.

  “See—I knew that. I just wanted to hear you talk.”

  The small crowd out there laughed and made a few comments which they both ignored as best they could.

  “All right, sir, we’re just going to take your hand. The exit is right this way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I call someone for you, sir?”

  “I believe I have a taxi coming.”

  Betty was right there.

  “Union City Cab, Car Eighteen. The number’s on the door.”

  Scott relayed the information as confidently as he could.

  “All right, sir, we’ll just stay with you until it arrives.”

  There was a crowd outside the gates as well, which served as something of a distraction to his benefactors.

  This was a good thing. They answered questions from youthful voices pretty good-naturedly and their attention was elsewhere.

  All Scott wanted was to hear the sound of a car arriving.

  “It’s got to be right on you, Scott.”

  He lifted a wrist and pretended to check a non-existent wristwatch.

  “Where is that pesky fellow?”

  No one laughed, or even noticed, judging by the response.

  “Ah. Here we are.” The hand squeezed his arm and led him forwards.

  “Is that number eighteen? Someone else might have called for a cab.”

  “No, this is yours, sir. Have a pleasant evening.” The security guard opened the car door and helped him find his way in. “We hope you enjoyed the music.”

  Scott paused on the brink of slamming the door closed.

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What…what do you plan to be?” It was obscure, but the guard knew what he meant.

  “I hope to be a girl someday. Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

  It was absolutely deadpan and pretty darned perfect as well.

  “Ah. Well. Good luck and all that sort of thing.” He paused again. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Dave.” This was a new voice, one even deeper than the first guard.

  “Dave? How come you never said anything before?” It was weak stuff, but presumably, he was drunk, stoned and just being silly.

  He sensed the tolerant looks they exchanged, how he knew that was pure cliché of course.

  “Dave’s the strong silent type. Anyhow, thank you.”

  “Thank you, too.” Scott closed the door.

  Yeah, good luck with that, Buddy.

  "Hi, I’m Melvin, your friendly neighbourhood Union City Cab driver. Where would you like to go, sir or Ma’am?" The car's voice sounded like someone had poked holes in the speakers with a piece of wire or a knitting needle or something. "It's a pleasant evening, isn't it?"

  Betty was right there in his ear, and she had an answer for that one, too.

  ***

  Inspector MacBride was at home, in bed, with his wife sitting upright, propped up by pillows, reading beside him. He was just in that fuzzy, cottony-soft state where he was convinced that sleep was indeed possible, this in spite of fifteen cups of coffee over the course of the day, and a flaming row with the eldest son on the inspector’s arrival home from work. Lately his legs ached. The only time he noticed it was when he got into bed. It took a couple of minutes and then it was there.

  It was the end of a long day and he’d earned his rest, and it was right about then that the telephone buzzed.

  It was on her side of the bed.

  “Shit. Honey.”

  Inspector MacBride opened his eyes, sighed deeply and rolled over.

  “Oh.”

  He took the phone.

  Argh.

  He was used to such calls, never welcome but usually important.

  “Yes. MacBride.”

  “Dave Parsons. Eighth Precinct.”

  “Yes?” Gene MacBride struggled with his one free arm to sit up in the bed.

  He snapped on the bedside light on his side and reached for his pen and note-pad.

  Parsons. 8th.

  “We’ve got a funny one here. Assault in a park. Victims say it was a blind man—and a robot.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A robot with long, sexy legs.”

  “Ha.”

  They were getting all kinds of crank reports on this one.

  “Yeah, well, eh. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  Up until now it was mostly just sightings. Crackpot sightings.

  An assault. He liked it.

  “So what happened? I mean, allegedly?” That was a rough neighbourhood down there.

  Parsons laughed.

  “Yeah, I hear you, man.” The voice, a man Gene had never met, although he might know the face to see it, went on. “Apparently these three punks were innocently minding their own business—which in my humble opinion, involves petty drug sales, petty theft, assault, petty extortion if there is such a thing, not above the odd dope-fueled date-rape, making bad porn and grand theft auto. Gang-bangers, anyway, you get the picture. But they say they were jumped by a blind man and a robot, who beat them up pretty bad. Oh, yeah. All for no reason at all.”

  “Really? How bad?”

  “Broken collar-bone, broken humerus, broken wrist, fingers, two victims there, a broken orbit over the left eye, broken cheekbone, broken jaw, broken noses, two, ah, fat lips,
black eyes, cuts, scrapes, abrasions and contusions—the one guy says, ‘she’s real strong, almost strangled me to death’…it goes on, mostly nonsense about how they weren't doing nothing to provoke it.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute…how many victims?”

  “Three, sir. Apparently the blind guy can fight too. They say he’s like fucking Bruce Lee—sorry, sir, that’s a direct quote from one of our, ah, victims…sir.”

  Parsons went on.

  “This is straight from street intelligence. They had to find a doctor and like the fools they are, they went straight to the nearest emerg and started making a lot of noise.”

  He digested that thought. A blind man and a robot with long, sexy legs, beating up three hard-cases for no reason.

  Street intelligence.

  A smart citizen with big ears and an ongoing account with Crime Shoppers.

  Drop a dime and earn a ten.

  But that was the story.

  Yeah, sure they did. I'll just bet they did.

  If nothing else, it was unusual. And the victims couldn’t help but talk about it, of course.

  That was their turf and they ruled it. They'd be going around making a lot of loud talk now, wouldn't they?

  Not.

  They’d be a laughing stock.

  “Where did this happen, exactly?”

  “A park across from a subway station. The incident happened earlier this evening. It was around eleven o’clock, a little after, maybe.”

  “Okay. Any leads?”

  “I can ask around. You probably don’t remember me, but you did me a favour a couple years back.”

  “Well, I sure owe you one now.” Such promises were easily enough made, and kept surprisingly often.

  Otherwise you would be a fool to make them.

  “Other than that, it’s worth checking out. It’s an interesting problem, you know? But they swear up and down it was a robot. I can have a couple of my people ask around. We’ll roll all the recordings from the immediate vicinity.”

  As far as MacBride was concerned, this was his only real lead in some days, and that made Parsons his best friend of the moment. He also seemed willing to do a little work.

  “Thank you, I would appreciate that very much. Where are you again?”

  “Patrol Sergeant Parsons. Eighth Precinct.”

  “Give me a call, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Sergeant.”

  Gene thoughtfully hung up the phone. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a hundred cases ongoing and a thousand more unsolved if he cared to think about it.

  Which he didn’t at this exact moment in time. But this one was just a little bit different.

  That made all the difference in the world sometimes.

  ‘…she’s real strong…almost strangled me to death.’

  Gene MacBride bit his lip.

  Hmn.

  Interesting.

  Chapter Eight

  Gene was barely at his desk. As a youth, he had never been a morning person, but as a mature man he saw the necessity. That’s what he tried to tell himself. His grey eyes watered at the sight of his desk, plastered with notes and reminders all over the place.

  Lately he felt tired a lot of the time, and he really couldn’t account for it. He’d be lucky if a doctor could find anything wrong with him; an odd thought but entirely apropos to the day and the mood. Another rainy day in the city; and idle hands were the devil’s tools. There had already been a few calls, and most of the team was out investigating this dead body in an alley or that other dead body in a car…three dead bodies in a hotel room…the desk phone buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “Inspector MacBride?”

  “Yes.” The voice seemed oddly familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite place it.

  The readout on the phone told him this was Parsons from the 8th.

  Oh, yes.

  His pulse quickened.

  “So.”

  “Yes. Inspector—”

  “Call me Gene.” Parsons wouldn’t have called him back unless he had something real.

  “Yes, sir.”

  MacBride almost laughed but didn’t. It was helpful, though. Today might actually hold some promise. That one came out of nowhere.

  “Anyway, we have some sightings on record. Can I send them over?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okey-dokey—it’s in your inbox.”

  MacBride touched the icon. His internal memos popped up and he saw the Parsons one right at the top. Touching another inset icon, he brought Sergeant Parsons up on screen, seeing a thin, ascetic face, with a scar on the upper lip giving it some strong character-indices.

  The file name was clean and sensible.

  Possible Robot Sighting, and the date, the time, the officer’s name. Precinct and badge number. All with an eye to an eventual prosecution.

  “Okay, what am I looking at?”

  “Shot one. A blind man in the station. According to a security guard, he was waiting for his girlfriend.”

  “Okay.”

  “Subject has been identified as a Mister Scott Nettles. He has no criminal record, and has never been arrested for any reason.” Parsons read off an address. “Check that out, eh. That’s about six or eight blocks from where our hot little robot lady disappeared.”

  A further series of shots were all lined up in a row, stills from cameras along Nettles’ route. Point A to Point B stuff, the stuff convictions were made of. There was little doubt about the identification, or the point of origin. It was a series of sequential pictures, all time and date-stamped. An apartment building squeezed in between other buildings, sharing walls with other relatively nondescript buildings. There was a self-serve laundry on the ground floor, with lofts and commercial offices above. Upper level windows had gold lettering on the first two stories above the street level. Those without gold lettering were either residential or storage, some kind of sweatshop up in the attic maybe. Nothing they hadn’t seen before.

  "Okay."

  There was a link to Nettles’ lifetime file, where his entire record would be laid out, from Point A to Point B. The most recent entry was from a social worker, who merely noted that Mister Nettles was still claiming benefits, hadn’t died, hadn’t missed his monthly employment income reports, which always read ‘zero,’ and that there were no grounds for review. Mister Nettles was off the radar for another two to three years, in Gene’s estimation.

  “Unfortunately, Mister Nettles doesn’t have a mobile, and he was one of last children to be born without being chipped.” Parsons’ voice had an ironic tone.

  Nothing they hadn’t seen before.

  “Ah. Nice.”

  “Okay. Next shot. Gang-bangers in the hospital.”

  “So, what’s the significance?”

  “They talk about the robot, and there’s just more there than I have time to give you over the phone. Next shot. This is one of the few cameras left in the park. It’s real heavy gang territory, and cameras don’t last long in that neighbourhood.”

  Gene cursed gently under his breath.

  They had taken the time, spent the money, found the political will, and wired up the whole blasted planet it seemed, and yet, life being what it was, they had used eight-cent cameras for all but the most prestigious locations.

  “I’m always impressed when a jury of their fellow citizens convicts someone based on these…”

  There was a snort. Yeah, but people wanted justice. In recent years, prosecutors and even judges had banded together, lobbied governments at all levels, and founded any number of innocence projects and integrity review boards. An estimated ten to twenty percent of all prisoners had not only been unlawfully convicted, but were likely innocent of all wrongdoing. This was according to several exhaustive studies, studies which hadn’t been discredited in something like the last thirty or forty years. There had been numerous attempts, of course.

  Where there is smoke there is fire, t
hought Gene.

  Gene watched a man and a woman, a man with a long white stick, a small backpack, and the woman with two suitcases, striding down a paved trail lit by cast iron, ornamental lamp-posts right out of Jack the Ripper’s London, and then into the inky blackness of the night. The male subject was tall and thin, wearing a long white trench-coat. He had a ball-cap and white running shoes, cheap-looking. The woman, their possible robot, certainly looked very athletic.

  All they had was an oblique side-view, transitioning into a rear view.

  “Hmn.”

  Shit.

  “Not much to go on, I admit. But our perps, sorry, I mean victims, described her as wearing…”

  “A slinky blue silk dress….and so was our missing robot, as I remember.” Missus Cartier had described it as a kimono…slinky, cocktail dress, kimono, it was all the same thing by a different name.

  Gene nodded at Parsons.

  “Anyway, these are our official suspects, the only ones, in the assault.” The victims had been, predictably enough, hard to find, but one of them had answered his phone.

  From the pictures, he had confirmed the suspects, seemingly very sure of it, and in the recorded conversation, he was streaming curses and profanities. The gangstas wouldn’t give a hoot about charges and court, thought MacBride.

  All they would want would be names…and addresses. The gentleman seemed quite perturbed by the polite notion that the police were working on it and had no further information.

  He had a few things to say about that, too. He didn’t look too good with the face all puffed up. Even the gangstas wanted justice.

  “Okay, where could they go from there?”

  He pulled his second screen into position.

  Maps. He zoomed in and linked Parsons to his desk. Parsons took over and a red dot appeared.

  MacBride sat back, blinked a bit, not really seeing much, and listened.

  “Yes, sir. That’s where it gets a bit weird. That path goes to the north end of the park. Then it branches off to east and west in curving, winding trails. Theoretically, they should have either taken another trail, or they should have arrived at the street. Any street, sooner or later. The cameras along there are a bit spotty. However there are one or two left intact—on the tops of fortified buildings and such where the gang-bangers can’t get at them.”