Chapter Four
I was on my way to Hell's Kitchen. I had taken a cab to the edge of the district and my cabbie refused to take me any further. Not even the offer to triple my fare was enough to convince him. What a pussy. I'd been in and out of Hell's Kitchen all my life, and I didn't even have a clockwork implant to show for it. Thankfully.
The slum hadn't changed much, it was still a neighbourhood for the underprivileged and the poor. It had regressed from the trendy neighbourhood the city had tried to make it into, back into it's original cesspool of violence and destruction. Hell's Kitchen was notorious for crime; robberies and beatings were the most common. I'd been called down to the Kitchen more times than I'd cared to recount back when I was on the force. I'd seen my fair share of horrors come outta that neighbourhood, more than I'd seen good go back into it.
Most of the residents of the Kitchen were poor; it was the most affordable housing in New York, and most of the buildings were illegal lofts. There were a few good Samaritans, like Doctor Jones, who took care of the street kids and did what they could to get them back on their feet and back on their way to becoming productive members of society.
For all the good it was doing on the grand scale of things, it seemed like a major waste of time. Doctor Jones was one of the small group of people who thought that they could change the system for the better. I'd seen the corruption of the police and the government firsthand. In my opinion it was like trying to change the flow of the Hudson river by scooping out water with a Dixie cup.
Good Lord, I'd turned into a cynical bastard in my old age.
Doctor Jones' place was on the edge of the Kitchen, closer to the nicer side of town. Somehow, I wasn't surprised by this. I didn't think that he was so naive as to allow these kids to know where his home was, or to let them live with him. From what we found on this guy, he owned a few properties that he'd turned into halfway houses throughout the Kitchen and it was from these halfway houses that he did most of his work. I wasn't sure where his medical practice was, though. Not that it mattered. I was here to make a delivery, not to ask the good doctor about his work.
I walked down the street, my entire body thrumming with nervousness. I'd been nearly mugged once on patrol in the Kitchen. Not even the uniform of a police officer gave you much protection down here. It had gotten worse in the past few years, too. The influx of kids from troubled homes, or who had just decided to run away from home, mixed with the gang lifestyle and surge in the popularity of illegal body mods and the addiction to painkillers that seemed to go with it, made for a volatile environment. The need for money and jobs ran rampant here. There had been more calls to the Kitchen in recent years than there ever was back when I was on the force.
I still listened to the police scanners sometimes, just to keep myself up to date on what was happening. Jackson did too, even if Trixie didn't like it. To be honest though, I was usually the last hope of the people who walked through my door. If I was able to get a little bit of inside information from the cops by listening to their chatter on the squawk box, then why not? It wasn't like it was totally illegal. And I hadn't been caught. Yet.
The Doctor's house was right on the dividing line between Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea, up on 34th street. Still just on the cusp of being in a decent part of town and in close proximity to the Kitchen, it seemed like a prime spot for the Doctor to live. I walked up the street, the cool evening air blowing in off the Hudson was pleasant, even if it did smell of rotting fish, garbage and fast food. My boots made a comforting click up the paved streets and the neighbourhood was remarkably quiet for an early evening in the Kitchen. I supposed it was technically a work day for most people, and I wasn't in the roughest part of the Kitchen. Still, the Irish in me tingled at the notion that this was where my ancestors probably lived and died in squalor.
I pushed all the negative thoughts away from myself, I had to focus. I was in a dangerous part of town, making a delivery for a dangerous corporation. I wasn't a cop anymore, I didn't even have the uniform to offer any potential attackers the barest hint of self-control. I was just happy to have Nadia tucked at my side and a knife in my pocket. Just in case.
The grimy, poorly maintained streets of the Kitchen soon gave way to cleaner, friendlier and better lit pavement. The houses changed from ramshackle things into what could have been considered estates. The dirty concrete was replaced with brick facades. Wrought iron balustrades poked up from the ground between brick arches and front lawns with properly maintained flower gardens attempted to hide the odorous air.
I felt like I'd just been teleported into a different city altogether. I hadn't been up in Chelsea for a long time, I tried to avoid Manhattan and the Kitchen as much as I could when I wasn't working. I hadn't realized how nice everything had become. I supposed that the re-imagining and rebuilding of the neighbourhoods surrounding the Kitchen had actually gone a lot better than I had thought. The news hadn't really made a big point of it after it was completed, and I was content with my crappy apartment building in the main city.
I checked the address on the envelope again. I was getting close, that much was obvious. I still couldn't believe how different this place was compared to the grime in the Kitchen. It was shocking, to me, that so much crime could go unpunished and unreported just a few blocks away. More shocking, I suppose, was the weird kind of self-imposed barrier that the people in the Kitchen had created. Sure, there was crime that stemmed from the Kitchen in other parts of the city. People travelled, whatever. It was just weird to see this street completely untouched by the crime and poverty of every day life that existed in the Kitchen. It was like gang turf that you just didn't cross if you knew what was good for you.
The entire concept was unsettling. It gave new context to the phrase 'you don't shit where you sleep.' I wondered how far that sentiment went and what the penalties were if you broke the taboo and committed crime along the border of Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea.
It didn't take me long to find Doctor Jones' place. The house was cookie cutter like all the other ones. A large, brick estate. Two stories, with a chimney and everything. A well-kept path led up from the wrought iron fence to the front door.
I pushed open the gate, expecting it to stick, or squeak. It did neither.
I sighed to myself, this seemed somehow anticlimactic. I'd worked myself up for something and now it was all going off without a hitch. It still didn't explain why I was feeling so nervous, and why my 'cop sense' was still on red alert.
My boots clicked against the slate pathway and I allowed myself half a moment to admire the greenery in the front yard. There wasn't a lot of plant life around my neighbourhood, and Central Park was too crowded all the time to make me feel entirely comfortable hanging out there. The grass looked freshly cut, the box hedges around the edge of the property were neatly trimmed and even the flower beds were miraculously weed-free. I looked at the flowers as I walked up the pathway – daffodils, irises and narcissus with bright orange tiger lilies for contrast. It was a really nice garden, I decided. Jackson would have been jealous.
I walked up to the massive front door. Doctor Jones was obviously making a good amount of money for tending to sick and needy kids in the slums to be able to afford a place like this. I pressed the doorbell, hearing the chimes through the door. Not soundproof, I noticed. Seemed odd in a neighbourhood like this, and in a house like this. I waited for a long moment. No one arrived to answer the door. I pressed the button again, hearing the musical chime coming from inside. I sighed to myself. Maybe the Doctor wasn't in? I checked my watch. It was after six, the information we'd found said that he didn't keep his clinic open after five, but did make calls to the halfway houses for emergencies.
I reached out to press the doorbell a third time when I heard a noise through the door. I leaned forward a little further and pressed my ear against the door. It sounded like shuffling feet. I frowned to myself. It didn't sound like the shuffling was getting closer. And it sounded like there were a few too many feet to be j
ust one person.
I hesitated ringing the doorbell again, the embarrassment I'd visited upon Trixie still fresh in my mind. I didn't want to do the same thing to Doctor Jones and his... wife? Partner? Hooker? I didn't know, we didn't look that deeply into the file. I struggled internally, trying to decide the best course of action when I heard a noise that no one wants to hear.
The wet, heavy thump of a body hitting the floor.
I was lucky that the house had big bay windows and the curtains were sheer. I leaned over the railing that edged the front porch and pressed my face against the glass. I was just in time to see Doctor Jones finish tumbling down the flight of stairs that led from the front hall up to the second floor.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed.
I pulled myself back up to the front door and pounded my fists against the wood.
“Doctor Jones?” I called. “Doctor Jones? I'm a detective! I'm coming in!” I shouted, desperate to have him, or his neighbours, hear me. The last thing I needed was a breaking and entering charge brought up against me. Jackson wouldn't be impressed if his cut from this job got eaten away by legal fees.
I tried the doorknob.
Locked. Of course.
There wasn't time for me to pick the lock. I wasn't a machine, and while I was skilled, I was nowhere near as efficient at lock picking as Jackson was. I made a snap decision.
It took me two well placed kicks below the doorknob to break the door open. They certainly didn't make deadbolts like they used to. I shouldered the door open, making a mental note to offer to replace the door and seeing my cut of this take flittering away. I let myself in.
“Doctor Jones?”
His body was at the foot of the stairs when I stepped inside. He was lying face down and sprawled out on the floor, nearly spreadeagled. I tucked my envelope into my pocket and rushed to his side. I wasn't a medic by trade, but I knew enough to make my way through life.
“Hey? Doc?” I said quietly, crouching down next to him. “My name is Blaze Tuesday. I'm a private investigator. I was asked to deliver something to you, I'm gonna help you, okay?”
No response. I placed my hand carefully against his shoulder. Still no response. There was no blood pooling, so that was a good thing, I assumed. I slipped my hand carefully from his shoulder to his neck, checking for a pulse. No pulse.
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
Carefully, I rolled the Doctor over, intending to check more thoroughly for a pulse. Unfortunately for me, when I did, it became abundantly clear that there was no need.
The Doctor's body was dead weight as I rolled him over. At first, I hoped that it was because he was unconscious, but the way his eyes were glazed over told me otherwise.
“Shit,” I muttered again, settling back on my heels as I crouched over him. I was at a loss for words.
My cop's instincts were still screaming at me and a thump from upstairs was more than enough to set me over the edge. I stood quickly, drawing Nadia as I did. I wasn't about to take any chances. Cautiously, I made my way up the stairs. I'd rang the doorbell twice, so whoever was in here knew that I was around. The carpet on the stairs muffled my steps and the floorboards didn't creak. I was lucky and I was more than thankful for the additional stealth. I was positive that anyone up here would have been able to hear me coming from a mile away. My breathing was not as steady as I would have liked, and my heart was pounding in my ears. It wasn't like I'd never seen a dead body before, but this was unexpected.
I crept as quickly as I could, making my way up the stairs. I had no idea where I was going, or what I was expecting to find. Another thump sounded from a room at the end of the hall and I made my way towards the sound.
Nadia's weight in my hand led the way. I kept my arm outstretched this time. Unlike when I was sneaking up on Trixie in my office, I wanted to be able to shoot first and ask questions later. I made my way down the hallway, keeping half an eye on the body at the bottom of the stairs. I was thankful for the open concept layout of this house. That was the one good thing that came out of the twentieth century. I was able to see everything from the upper hallway. It was like a Juliet balcony with a bigger purpose than vanity.
I stopped just outside of the room. Barely thirty seconds had passed since the second thump.
I reached out with my left hand and opened the door.
“Don't move!” I demanded to an empty room.
Dammit.
The window was open and the cool evening breeze filtered through, blowing the curtains gently. I moved forward, checking the room to make sure no one was hiding behind the door or under the desk. The closet was open, so I didn't worry too much about that. I crossed the room and stuck my head out of the window.
The window opened onto a slanted bit of roof that could easily be stood on. There was a tall, sturdy looking tree at the edge of the roof that led off onto the neighbour's property. A few of the shingles had been pulled off, and I assumed that it had just happened, as the broken bits were still sitting on the slanted rooftop. There was no one on the street.
I pulled my head back inside and peered around the room. It was a small office of some sort. The desk took up most of the right wall and the open closet on my left was filled with filing cabinets. A bookshelf filled the rest of the space by the door. This would be the first place the police looked when they arrived.
I sighed and slid Nadia back into her place at my side. I knew that I was gonna need to call the cops. I'd just gotten into something way over my head. Someone had been in here moments before I had arrived. They'd escaped out the window. I assumed that they had been the one to push the doctor down the stairs. I took a deep breath and I walked calmly back out of the office and down the stairs. I stopped at the foot of the stairs, staring for a long moment before I steeled myself and crouched back down by Doctor Jones' body.
The doctor was white. Not entirely uncommon in the Kitchen. It was a melting pot of races and cultures nowadays, not just a dumping ground for the Irish and the blacks. His eyes were brown and he was balding. He was a little older than I was, according to the file we'd read at my office. He was a little bit heavyset, but nothing that would make him be considered obese. He was wearing house slippers, the kind with the rubber soles that you could walk down the block in and not be looked at funny. His grey trousers were wrinkled, I noticed, like he didn't care about appearances. I looked him over and noticed that his shirt was torn under the collar. There had been a struggle.
I leaned a little closer to him, checking his hands without touching, the last thing I needed was to get my DNA all over the body. I didn't see any defensive wounds, but his sleeves were buttoned around his wrists and I didn't want to compromise the evidence any more than I already had by rolling him over to check his vitals. I didn't see anything under his nails, either. I assumed that he had either chosen not to fight back for ethical reasons, or he had been caught by surprise. His neck had swollen out from the top of his collar and his skin had turned a violent shade of purple. I wasn't a doctor, but I was willing to hazard a guess and say that his neck had been broken. What I couldn't say was if it had been broken in the fall, or if the fall had been a clever cover up.
I leaned back on my heels and frowned to myself. This hadn't been a robbery; his watch and the ring on his right hand were still there. If you were robbing someone, you don't kill the guy and leave the valuables. That makes no sense. I ran a hand against my chin, thinking and realizing that I needed to shave in the process. If anything, I was talented at multitasking my thoughts. I looked around the room again, nothing seemed out of place except for the broken door and the dead body.
I pulled myself to my feet, staring sadly at the corpse that had once been Doctor Jones. It seemed a waste, really. The guy was just trying to some good in the world and now he was dead for it. It really got my knickers in a twist. The good guys always seemed to get screwed in the long run. Good guys never “finished” last; but they sure as shit died first.
I tried to push my a
nger aside, but it was hard. I was already blaming Wayside for this murder, and I was gonna get stuck in their services for a lot longer than I had intended.
For the record, I had no intention of returning their ten grand. I have a no refunds policy that I was putting into place retroactively, just for Wayside. I stared at the envelope still in my hand and wondered if this was what the murderer had wanted? Did anyone know that I had been hired to make this delivery? Was the good Doctor expecting me?
I didn't like this train of thought. It was a dangerous one, for sure. I tucked the envelope under my arm and took a longer look around the room.
I was standing in the middle of a crime scene. No, sorry, a murder scene. There was no one else here and I had kicked in the door. Shit, there were two strikes against me already. I huffed a sigh to myself and knew that if I ran, it would look worse for me in the long run. I decided that I would call the cops and report the murder.
This was one of those times that I wished that I had kept my contacts more intact on the force than I had in the five years since I told them all where to go, and quit. I had a few friends left, old cops, good men, really. But I doubted that any of them would be the first responders.
I groaned again and ran a hand through my hair. Things were definitely not looking good for me.
I walked back towards the door, looking for a telephone so that I could report the murder and potential robbery when I heard sirens from down the street.
“You've got to be kidding me!” I muttered, stealing a glance out of the front window.
I was in super close proximity to the Kitchen, maybe the sirens were responding to some other call?
The first multicoloured flashes of light bounced off of the surrounding brownstones.
“Shit,” I muttered.
Yeah, someone nearby had called the cops. What? Was I in the neighbourhood full of all the Good Samaritans?
“No, Tuesday, you idiot,” I chided myself aloud. “You kicked open the Doctor's door and shouted at the top of your lungs while doing so. Someone reported a break in.”
God, I was dense.
This close to the Kitchen any strange activity would get reported. Especially on this street. This was the turf that the hooligans in the Kitchen wouldn't touch. And it looked like I had just broken cardinal rule number one.
I didn't have much time. The sirens were getting louder. I gave up my search for a telephone and decided that protecting my ass was a better use of my time than trying to make a phone call. Jackson already knew where I was, and the news would cover this in a matter of hours. As soon as the murder was reported, or more likely, picked up on a CB scanner, reporters would descend on the neighbourhood like the pack of vultures that they were. I knew that Jackson always watched the evening news, no matter what he was doing. It was good for me, it meant that I didn't have to watch it; the news was always so depressing. It also meant that since he knew where I'd gone, he would be rushing down to the station to check up on me.
My biggest concern was what would happen to the supposedly sensitive materials that I was holding on to if the police took them as evidence.
I had to find a hiding spot for them as fast as I could.
Jackson and I had several hiding spots that we used on a regular basis. We also had codes for each one, just in case something like this happened to one of us. It was a smart system and it had saved my ass more than once. It was Jackson's idea.
I knew I kept him around for a reason.
I spotted a chair in the front hall parlour thing. I suck at naming rooms. It was a plush high backed thing that matched the small seating set that was just off the front hall. It wasn't a mudroom, exactly. It was open and it looked like a small sitting area where you could wait for a taxi or something. I briefly, vaguely wondered if the doctor hadn't used it as a waiting room when he had appointments and if he actually did do some of his medical work out of his own home.
Now wasn't the time for speculation, though. The sirens were getting closer.
The cops never checked furniture without a reason to actually tear the pieces apart. This was one of our usual hiding places. Jackson was a smart one. I don't think I'd ever worked a case where searching through furniture was important, as a cop or as a private investigator.
I picked the wingback chair furthest away from the window as my hiding spot. I pulled the cushion off of it and set it on the floor by my feet. I placed the envelope on top of it, for the moment. Grunting with the exertion, I pulled the chair onto its side, revealing the thin fabric covering the springs inside the chair. I had always thought that I kept myself in decent shape, but I realized then that I had been neglecting my strength training. Undone by a wingback chair. That would look good on my resume.
I slipped my pocket knife from my duster's pocket and cut a slit in the felt-like fabric, exposing stuffing and springs. Carefully, I slipped the envelope inside the chair and quickly hauled it upright again. I replaced the cushion and tucked my knife away. The last thing I needed was for the cops to see me holding a live weapon.
Satisfied that my hiding spot wouldn't be found, I nodded to myself and made my way back to the front door. I carefully pulled the already ajar door open fully and stepped into the cool night air, just in time to see the first two squad cars pull up.
I stood on the front step and raised my hands as two more cars pulled up.
One of the cars was unmarked.
Dammit.
One of the more important detectives had arrived in a puff of steam and squealing clockwork.
I watched as Detective Stringer climbed out of the unmarked car.
Double dammit.
I raised my hands to shoulder height, showing off that I was totally unarmed. Kind of. I flashed the police officers a smile as they climbed out of their parked cars and drew iron on me. Seven sets of eyes, and seven guns all trained on me in unison. I wasn't intimidated in the least. If they shot me now, Jackson could bury them in lawsuits and paperwork.
Besides, Detective Stringer wasn't that much of an idiot, even if he did hate every fibre of my being. And shooting a private investigator as well loved as I was wouldn't look good for anyone. The public outcry alone would demand better working conditions. I assumed.
“Good evening, officers!” I called as I saw Stringer's face light up with a malicious kind of grin. “I'd uh, like to report a murder?”