Good Guys

“What else?”

  “Shotgun, three to the chest, just like the PO-lice say. From under a foot away.”

  “How did the shooter cut through the air?”

  “Uh, what?”

  “If time has stopped, surely that means the air molecules are also stopped? So how did the shooter get past them?”

  “Oh. According to Marci, a time-stop field takes effect an inch or so from the caster, otherwise he’d have stopped himself. I hadn’t thought about the air movement thing.”

  “An inch from the caster, Mr. Longfellow? But the barrel of the gun is farther away than that.”

  “Yeah, I asked about that. If the caster is in contact with the gun, the gun is part of the field; otherwise it wouldn’t fire.”

  “I see. Ms. Sullivan. It sounds like she’s working out.”

  “It was her first case. But yeah, I think so. She knows her stuff.”

  Becker was silent for a moment, then said, “Take me through the events.”

  “All right. I’m going with ‘he’ for now, because a man is more likely to use a shotgun. Marci didn’t get any personality indicators—which says something by itself. Anyway, yeah. He arrives, walking, at about six fifty PM local time. No sign of magical travel of any sort, although after two days that doesn’t prove anything. He casts a time-stop from about twenty feet from the door. He goes in. Dining room has seating for fifty-six, and it’s about half-full. Or half-empty, in your case, Mr. Becker.”

  Becker didn’t appear to hear that; Donovan went on.

  “He walks up to the table and shoots three times. Now here’s the thing: Marci figures that as soon as the slug clears the barrel, it hits the time-stop. Like, if you’d been able to watch, you’d have seen the slug freeze in midair, and then the next, and then the next. Which is why it looked like the guy didn’t move when he was hit—in effect, when the time-stop released, all three slugs hit him at the same instant.”

  “And yet, you said the time-stop was released gradually.”

  “Gradually, Mr. Becker, meaning over the course of about a second subjective time.”

  “I see. And speaking of, is there any way of knowing the elapsed subjective time for the shooter?”

  “Marci says that time-stop, at best, doesn’t last very long, and takes a lot of concentration to maintain. I can’t imagine he spent more time than he had to. And there are no reports of anyone in the place having a watch that’s suddenly off. All in all, I’d guess about a minute. Not more than two. I should add, this is from historical reports; she says that no one has been able to perform that spell in over two hundred years. It’s a fluke talent, like direct flying or becoming discorporeal.”

  “Thank you. I believe I’m caught up.”

  “Have you managed to learn anything about the victim?”

  “Yes, some things have come in.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Becker may have nodded—it was hard to be sure. “Our victim wasn’t a very nice man, Mr. Longfellow.”

  “Very not nice?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we might be dealing with a personal grudge, or a vigilante?”

  “Either one is possible. We know that the deceased, a Mr. Lawton-Smythe, emigrated from Bristol, England, ten years ago and took a tenure-track position at the University of Toledo. Married to a professor of modern languages, two children, aged fourteen and eleven.”

  “What did he teach?”

  “English literature and philosophy, with a specialty in Heidegger.”

  “Sounds pretty evil.”

  “You’ve never heard of Heidegger, have you, Mr. Longfellow?”

  “Not as such. Does it matter?”

  “Probably not. More significantly, Lawton-Smythe had ties to the Roma Vindices Mystici.”

  Donovan sat back. “Why would they want someone in western Ohio?”

  “Why would we want someone in New Jersey?”

  Donovan took the point: They didn’t particularly want someone in New Jersey—that’s just where he lived.

  “What sort of ties?”

  “He was a sorcerer. Not especially strong, but still. A sorcerer, and one of theirs.”

  “Do we have him for anything?”

  “In England he was responsible—indirectly, of course—for random beatings of Pakistanis, and some football hooliganism.”

  “Football hooliganism. Is that a thing?”

  “It’s the game you would call soccer, and yes.”

  “Did he have a reason? I mean, other than being a prick?”

  “If by ‘being a prick,’ Mr. Longfellow, you mean being an extreme racist, none we are aware of.”

  “What’s he done since he came here?”

  “Nothing we’ve found so far, but we’re still looking.”

  “You said he wasn’t very strong.”

  “Just mental and emotional effects—suggestions, mood altering. But good at it. In England, you might say he did a great deal of damage on a small scale, if that makes sense.”

  “What did he do for the Mystici?”

  “We don’t know exactly. If I had to guess”—Becker said this as Donovan might say, If I had to stick my hand into sewage—“I would say that they brought him in when they needed subtle manipulation done.”

  “All right. So, how do I find the shooter?”

  “You’re asking me, Mr. Longfellow? That’s your specialty.”

  “All we know is that he’s willing to throw away a shotgun. I need something to go on.”

  “Such as?”

  “A sorcerer who can do a time-stop over that much of an area must have left traces somewhere. Where did he get his training? Or, to put it another way, is he one of ours, one of theirs, a renegade, or a weirdo? Odds are good he’s one of theirs—Marci is sure we don’t have anyone with that talent. If that’s true, it’s one of theirs attacking others of theirs. That means talking to them and convincing them to cough up information, and that’s your department, Mr. Becker. Although one other possibility comes to mind.”

  “Go on.”

  “A powerful spell, cast half a mile from the nearest grid line, using a spell no one has been able to do in generations. What does that suggest to you?”

  “Ah. Yes. It is possible. Good idea, Mr. Longfellow. I’ll have our people look into it, though we’re unlikely to have a positive quickly, and of course we’ll never have a definitive negative. What will you be doing in the meantime?”

  “I’ll be sleeping, Mr. Becker. After that, my niece is having her sixth birthday, and I haven’t gotten her anything.”

  “Please, Mr. Longfellow.”

  He shrugged, even though Becker wouldn’t see it. “We got what we could get. Now we wait for you to find something, or for something else to happen.”

  “Something else, Mr. Longfellow? Such as what?”

  “Another killing, Mr. Becker.”

  “You think there will be more?”

  “I have no idea. It’s a trade-off, I guess. More killings will make our shooter easier to find.”

  “You are very cold-blooded sometimes, Mr. Longfellow.”

  “You would know, Mr. Becker.”

  It seemed on the screen as if Becker may have smiled a little. Donovan closed Skype, then stared at his computer’s wallpaper—a British Columbia lake reflecting mountains that looked like it should be on a beer can—for a good five minutes. Then he got up, found the milk, sniffed it, and put it in the refrigerator.

  * * *

  Manuel Becker stretched his legs, then stood up. He could have phoned, Skyped, emailed, or sent a memo, but he always preferred to ask favors in person. He took the elevator up to the Burrow. Many Foundation members, over the years, had remarked with amusement that the Burrow was actually on the second from the top floor; Becker was not one of them. Many had also, on the way to the Burrow, stopped to admire the view of Paseo del Prado through the window opposite the elevator. Becker wasn’t one of those, either. He just stepped out of the elevator and went do
wn the hall to the room labeled, in Spanish, German, English, Russian, French, Mandarin, Farsi, and Hindustani, “Artifacts and Enchantments.”

  The department secretary, a young man named Anthony, did a credible job of appearing to snap to attention without moving. “Mr. Becker,” he said in American-accented English. “How can I help you?”

  Becker had years ago given up on trying to convince him to speak Spanish; it was one of few things he had ever given up on. He nodded. “Hello, Anthony. Is Ms. Ramirez available?”

  “I’ll check, sir.”

  Anthony picked up the desk phone, punched a button, and waited. After a moment he said in Spanish, “Julia? Mr. Becker from the Ranch—I mean, from I and E—would like to see you, if you have time.… All right.”

  Anthony hung up, and said in English, “Just go on back, sir.”

  Becker nodded and did. Julia Ramirez stood up from her desk as he approached. She was wearing a red dress that matched some of the appalling fake gemstones on her glasses. “Mr. Becker,” she said in a thick but pleasant Catalonian accent. “Please, have a seat.”

  Her L-shaped desk held a computer with a pair of monitors, and a picture of her husband and their two boys, both in the eight-to-ten range; the picture was new since the last time Becker had been to see her. He did not remark on it. He sat down opposite her and said, “Thank you for making the time, Ms. Ramirez.”

  “Of course. How can I help Investigations?”

  “We have an unusual case, Ms. Ramirez. A sorcerer has used a time-stop to commit murder.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Go on.”

  “It was cast in a place far from a grid line. This makes us wonder if an artifact or a device of some sort could have been used.”

  Her brows—pencil thin and artificially darkened—came together. “We have no such device, nor the capability of making one.”

  “Yes. My understanding is that none of our people are able to cast it.”

  “That is correct. If the Mystici do, they are keeping the secret well guarded.”

  “I understand. But something from antiquity?”

  “Well, of course, it’s possible. But I’ve never heard of anything with that enchantment on it.”

  Becker nodded. “Could I trouble you and your team to do some research? If there is, or was, such an item, and it has been found, it could help us identify the individual responsible.”

  She flashed a quick, uncomfortable-looking smile. “Of course, Mr. Becker. We’ll start at once.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Ramirez.” He stood up. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  He gave her what hoped was a friendly smile, and left, only vaguely aware of how the entire room seemed to emit a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.

  2

  GOOD-BYE, MR. BLUM

  Next on the list was Richard Nathaniel “Nate” Blum. He had an office in the MetLife Building. He used a town car to get to and from his condo around the corner from a restaurant called At Nine, where he liked to eat. I could have done it there, but outside the building was too convenient, and crowded, to pass up.

  He worked a little late that night, but there were still a lot of people leaving the building when, just twenty feet from his ride, he gasped, clutched his chest, and fell to his knees. I was the first one to him. I squatted down facing him and said, “Heart attack. That must really suck. Tell me, does it make you wish you’d lived a better life?” He looked at me, his mouth open, but of course he had no idea who I was.

  A crowd gathered quickly and someone knew CPR, so I got out of the way while various people did chest compressions until the EMTs arrived. Charlie had said that would likely happen and not to worry about it, so I tried not to. I examined my feelings to see if there were any, and, except for a certain satisfaction, there were none. I was fine with that.

  It took a while to figure out which train would take me back to Brooklyn, but I did, rode it, then took a cab to my hotel. I settled into my room and started looking at flights out of Newark because everyone says LaGuardia sucks.

  * * *

  When Donovan stepped out of the shower, the beeping from his computer informed him he’d missed an important call. He studied the screen. Becker. Donovan finished drying himself and got dressed before returning the call; Becker wouldn’t have cared either way, but Donovan did.

  Becker appeared instantly. Donovan tried to remember a time when Becker hadn’t, but couldn’t think of one. Did the man never use the bathroom?

  “You called me, Mr. Becker?”

  “There may have been another killing, Mr. Longfellow.”

  “May have been?”

  “This one isn’t as clear-cut as the Lawton-Smythe matter. It appears to have been a heart attack. Late twenties, good condition, no history. Of course, that happens.”

  “But?”

  “But he is connected to the Mystici.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Becker, tens of thousands of people are connected to the Mystici.”

  It seemed as if Becker may have bowed his head—as close as Donovan had ever seen him come to a gesture of regret. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow. I should have said, close ties to the Mystici. From the amount of communication between him and London, we assume he was an actual agent, as opposed to an occasional asset like Lawton-Smythe. We do not know what he did for them, however.”

  “I see.”

  “Again, perhaps it is only the heart attack it appears to be. But we feel it is at least worth bringing your sensitive to the scene and looking it over.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “It’s still fresh, only a couple of hours ago. If sorcery was used, there should still be traces.”

  “What can you tell us about the heart attack guy?”

  “Nate Blum. Iraq War veteran, Marine. Honorable discharge in 2013. Divorced, three children aged three, four, and six. He lives with the oldest, a boy; his ex has custody of the other two. No job, but he keeps—kept—a nice apartment in Greenwich.”

  “Is that what the PO-lice would call ‘no visible means of support’?”

  “That is exactly right, Mr. Longfellow.”

  “But he worked at the MetLife Building?”

  “He had an office there that he went to every day; we aren’t aware of anything he actually did except communicate with London a great deal.”

  “Maybe I’m just crazy, but shouldn’t we find out?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Donovan exhaled slowly. “All right,” he said. “What else?”

  “There are indications that he’s been responsible for the disappearance of reporters looking into government corruption.”

  “Indications?”

  “Same time and place more than once. It could be a string of coincidences, but it seems unlikely.”

  “A sorcerer?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, Mr. Becker.”

  “I’ll email details of the location.”

  “All right. I’ll get the team on it. What time is it there, Mr. Becker?”

  “One-oh-six AM.”

  “And you’ve been hanging around the office waiting for me to call? Maybe you should go home.”

  Becker signed off without further comment, and Donovan started placing calls.

  * * *

  Two hours later, just after 10:00 PM, Donovan stood outside the MetLife Building in Manhattan with Marci and the hippie chick. This time he’d used mundane travel—PATH across the river to the MTA. The others had had farther to travel, so he’d authorized slipwalks for them. It was late, but there was a lot of traffic, and people kept moving to and from the station directly below them. He was aware of the attention he was attracting—standing on a public street with two white women was going to get him noticed—but so far the attention was subtle, and not overtly hostile. And, as always when out in public and not in his own neighborhood, he had the Face on.

  “Oh,” said Marci.

  “Hmmm?”

&
nbsp; “The dress code. I get it.”

  Donovan nodded and turned his mind to the case.

  “Somewhere around here,” he said.

  Susan said, “You’re sure this is our business?”

  “Nope. That’s the first thing to check.”

  “Why do you suspect?”

  Donovan explained Becker’s thinking; Susan and Marci nodded.

  “How long this time?” asked Marci.

  Donovan pulled out his cell and checked the time. “A bit under four hours.”

  She nodded and, with her arms at her sides and her palms out, she closed her eyes and turned in a slow circle. She got a couple of glances from passersby, maybe waiting to see if she was about to do a street performance, but this was New York, so they just moved on. After a moment, Marci opened her eyes and said, “Nothing. How sure of the location are you? I mean, the precise location.”

  “Not very. He came out that door, was heading in that direction, toward Forty-First. Somewhere in between he collapsed. But with the amount of power you detected last time, if there was anything you’d pick it up, right?”

  “If it was another time-stop, yes. Let me do a couple more checks; then we’ll call it a day.”

  “All right.”

  She moved around and repeated her exercise, while the others waited. It was strange watching Marci work. Her face was usually so animated, every nuance of emotion expressed in the twitch of a lip or the furrow of brows. But when she was sensing an area, she was like a fine marble sculpture before the artist had finished the face. There was nothing, except that, if she found what she was looking for—

  The third place she checked, just past what Donovan thought of as the cement garden, her body went rigid, only her hands moving, slowly curling into fists and then uncurling again.

  “Fuck,” said Donovan, hitting the k particularly hard.

  Susan nodded.

  After about twenty minutes, Marci’s face returned to normal. She blinked, shook her head, and walked up to the others. “Yeah,” she said as if they hadn’t just seen.

  “What can you tell us?”

  “It wasn’t big like the time-stop. It was something subtle. Heart attack fits. The sorcerer just stopped the guy’s heart.”

  “Is that hard to do?”

  “Not terribly.”