Something hot and heavy hit Sykes from behind, knocking him sideways. Perfume and flesh: Cassandra. Sykes fought to recover his balance.
Seizing the opportunity, Watson gave the off-balance and still dazed Francisco a shove that sent the detective careening into the desk, sending papers flying. He sprinted through the open door and turned up the hallway.
There was a window at the far end. Wrenching it open, he clambered out onto the fire escape outside. Sykes tried to keep an eye on him while he wrestled with Cassandra. She wasn’t trying to seduce him now, but while she was nearly as strong as he was, she knew little about fighting, and nothing about fighting human males. She kept jabbing him under his right arm, looking frustrated and surprised when he didn’t react.
A disheveled Francisco appeared in the doorway, ready to give chase but ignorant of the path their quarry had taken. Sykes yelled at him while trying to knock Cassandra’s legs out from under her.
“Fire escape! End of the hall!” She hit him in the stomach and he winced as he tried to pin her arms.
Francisco nodded tersely as he took off up the corridor. The window at the far end was small, but he managed to squeeze through the opening, found himself on a steel platform outside.
Meanwhile Sykes managed to get one handcuff on Cassandra’s wrist, the other around a pipe sticking out of the wall. She was screeching and cursing in her own language as he collected the Casull and rushed off in his partner’s wake. He left her with a few parting words.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but you’re wasting your breath. It all sounds like a broken boiler to me.” He grinned mirthlessly. “What are you so upset about anyway? I thought the idea of being handcuffed was supposed to turn you on?”
She added something undoubtedly vile and insulting, sounding like a cross between a stiffed hooker and a berserk python.
Francisco was moving like a runaway eighteen-wheeler as he pounded down the fire escape. He saw Watson reach the lower level, shinny down the bottom ladder, and take off fast toward the parking lot. Muttering under his breath, the detective ignored the ladder and vaulted over the final railing. He hit the ground hard and the shock went all the way up into his hips. But everything still worked. Shutting out the pain, he took off in pursuit.
Watson looked back, saw the huge detective closing in on him. He zigzagged desperately through the parked cars. Francisco followed silently, occasionally cutting across rows as he tried to make up ground between them. Once, he vaulted a Corvette’s hood, but Watson turned a different direction and he actually lost ground.
Sykes came rattling down the fire escape, far behind but moving fast. He duplicated his partner’s fifteen-foot jump to the pavement, bending his knees to cushion the impact. He still would have lost track of both aliens if not for the fact that Francisco’s high, bald skull stood out like a forlorn basketball above the roofs of ranked cars.
He couldn’t match his partner’s stride, and he was older, but he’d always had fast feet and stamina. Dodging through the vehicles required more agility than pure speed.
Watson reached his Alfa Romeo and fumbled with the lock. Flinging the door open, he threw himself inside and fought to insert the key in the ignition. The engine finally rumbled to life.
Francisco heard the engine catch and skidded to a stop ten feet behind the car, aiming his pistol carefully. In his massive hands the gun looked like a toy.
The backup lights winked on on the Alfa and the car started to move. Francisco stood like a rock, the gun leveled, and hesitated. Because the shooting of a fugitive by a Newcomer cop would make headlines. Because there might be another, better way to do this. Because he was running on education but not experience.
While he hesitated, Watson floored the accelerator, tires screeching as the sportscar wailed in reverse. Francisco threw himself to one side as the car sped over the spot where he’d been standing. Relieved, the assistant manager of the Encounters Club jammed the five-speed into first and looked for the nearest exit.
What he saw instead was Sykes, standing right in front of him. Again he thromped the gas. The detective jumped, but not to the side, as his partner had done. Instead, he threw himself spread-eagled onto the hood of the car, blocking the driver’s view.
Trying to see around the grim-faced detective, Watson lost control of himself as well as the car and plowed into a couple of parked sedans before picking up much speed. Sykes slid halfway off the hood, scrambled to his feet and around to the driver’s side of the stalled car.
He was delighted to find that the panicky manager had forgotten to lock the door. Watson’s head had struck the steering wheel and he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. A big, gnarled fist reached through the open window and grabbed a handful of expensive suit, yanked hard.
The manager stumbled out of the Alfa reluctantly, started to gather himself when he saw that his captor was only a mere human. He drew back a huge fist to flatten the detective. As he did so, Sykes swung both arms around in a couple of wide arcs, his fists parallel to the pavement. Both landed squarely on the nerve centers beneath Watson’s arms.
The manager let out a dull “oomph” and clutched at his armpits as he fell to his knees. Sykes stood over him, both fists still clenched, panting hard and ready to strike again. It wouldn’t be necessary. Right now Watson had no interest in fighting, or trying to run, or much of anything else except working through the pain that had paralyzed his body.
“I’ll be damned.” Sykes sucked in cool night air. “It worked.” Noticing motion out of the corner of his eye, he looked up sharply, relaxed when he saw it was only Francisco. “How’d you like that, huh? Whammo! Both barrels. Dropped him like a sack of cement.”
Francisco studied the immobilized Watson for a moment, then spotted something lying on the ground next to the Alfa. Walking over, he bent to recover the manager’s wallet, flipped it open to examine the contents. Sykes looked on, keeping a wary eye on the kneeling Newcomer.
“Who is he, anyway?”
Francisco spoke absently while flipping through the wallet. “Todd Watson. The assistant manager of the club.”
The individual Sykes had downed was still crouched over clutching his armpits, trying to draw enough wind to speak. “I don’t believe this. Who the hell are you guys? What do you want with me? Look at my suit. Look what you made me do to my car! Do you have any idea what bodywork costs on those Italian jobs? I’m gonna sue your whole damn department.”
“Fine. The LAPD’s got a whole herd of lawyers sittin’ around looking bored ever since they settled the Handley accidental murder suit. One of ’em will be glad to accommodate you.” Sykes shook his head in disgust. “Your girlfriend put up a better fight than you did, pal.”
Watson grimaced up at him. “What makes you think she’s my girlfriend?”
“Gimme a break, Todd. You don’t bowl over a cop holding a gun unless you’re trying to protect somebody who’s more than a casual acquaintance. I’d take real good care of her if I were you. That’s some woman, even if she is bald as a bat under those wigs she wears.”
“This small talk is most enjoyable,” Francisco commented evenly, “but we have business to discuss.” He tossed the wallet to Watson. “We are looking for your employer, Joshua Strader.”
Watson tried to stand, found he couldn’t quite make it yet, and hunkered over to wait it out. “He’s out of town,” he muttered glumly.
“Why should we believe you?”
“Because it’s true, and there are ways you can check up on it. Besides, what else would I be doing working out of his office?”
Sykes made a rude noise. “Trying to get the feel of the boss’s chair?”
Watson glared up at him. “It’s easier to take phone calls and run the operation from there. That’s all. What do you care?”
“I don’t.”
“Why did you run?” Francisco asked him calmly.
“Because you two were chasing me.”
Sykes shook his head sadly. “We were c
hasing you because you ran, you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Look, I don’t know about you, ss’loka’, but when somebody comes sneaking up on me I react defensively, especially if he’s carrying a gun. And if he and his buddy start chasing me, I run.”
“When will Strader return?” Francisco refused to let the injured Watson change the subject.
The assistant manager shrugged. This time he managed to rise, breathing deeply as he straightened. Slowly he let his hands fall from beneath his arms.
“Who knows? He’s the boss. He doesn’t have to check in with me.”
“I find it difficult to believe,” the Newcomer detective went on, “that your employer would go off and leave the operation of his enterprise to his assistant without so much as hinting where he might be located in the event of an emergency.”
“Strader’s like that. Every now and then he just takes off without telling anyone where he’s going. I think it’s a weird way to run a ship myself, but what can I do about it?” He smiled wanly, seeking sympathy.
He wouldn’t get it from the likes of Sykes. Sighing wearily, the detective adopted his best lecturing tone. “Watson, this here’s my partner’s first coupla days on the job after making Detective grade, and he wants to make a good impression. So he’s being real polite to you, sort of handling you with kid gloves like, you understand?
“Me, though, the way I feel, this could be my last day, know what I mean? I could show up to clock out tonight and find an early retirement notice waiting in my box. Or I might just decide to chuck the whole rat race and take early re voluntarily, catch the red-eye for Miami or the Bahamas or someplace.”
The Newcomer manager frowned at him. “I don’t follow you.”
“What I’m sayin’, Slag,” Sykes told him as he took a belligerent step forward, “is that if I don’t start getting some real cooperation out of you right now, I’m ready to rain on you like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.”
Watson swallowed, glanced in Francisco’s direction. To his credit, Francisco’s expression did not change. This added to the alien manager’s increasing discomfort. Who knew what an edgy human might do when pressed, especially a half-mad policeman?
“Look,” he said placatingly, glancing around as if someone might overhear him in the middle of the parking lot, “Mr. Strader hasn’t been around for a couple of days. I’m telling you the truth. He didn’t tell me where he was going or when he’d be back. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it is. I swear it.”
Sykes locked eyes with the Newcomer for a long moment before turning to his partner. “What do you think?”
Francisco’s tone had not changed at all. “I believe very strongly that he is most probably lying.”
Sykes nodded agreement. “Through his ass.” He turned back to Watson. “Next time you see Strader, tell him to call me. Unless you want us to keep coming down on you like a bad case of herpes. Or whatever it is that you guys get.”
Walking over to the bigger alien, he shoved a business card into Watson’s breast pocket, flicked a little dirt off the expensive material, and smiled up at him before turning away. Francisco followed.
Watson followed their departure with his eyes, then staggered over to his battered Alfa and slumped against the dented hood.
As they made their way back to the waiting slugmobile Sykes suddenly felt very tired. He ran over the events of the previous hour in his mind: the interview with Cassandra, his rejection of her advances, prowling the club, trying to bail George out only to let himself get knocked silly by an alien broad, and then the race down the fire escape and through the parking lot. His legs were throbbing from his calves up to his ass, his throat was raw, and the end result of the evening’s stress and strain was little more than zero.
Francisco noted his partner’s mood but didn’t have sense enough to keep quiet. “Matthew, I feel that I must point out that you do not look at all well. Would it be impolite of me to inquire how you are feeling?”
“Not at all, George. I feel like old shit.” He favored his partner with a lopsided smile. “Satisfied?”
“I wish it were otherwise.”
“Thanks for the sympathy. I wish I was ten years younger. How you doin’?”
“I am doing well, thank you, though I am frustrated we could not learn more. I still think he was lying.”
“So we agree on a coupla things. Watson was lying and I look like shit. And we got nothing for our trouble. Cripes.” He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.
“What does procedure suggest we do about it?”
Sykes looked sharply at him. “Procedure?” Suddenly he found himself grinning. “Official procedure—or Sykes procedure?”
Francisco considered the choice thoughtfully. “Following official procedure has not produced much in the way of results this evening, has it?”
“No, George, it ain’t.”
“Then I would think it would be in order to try any alternative.”
Sykes looked pleased. “’That’s real good, George. Real good. You’re learning.”
“I am a fast study, Matthew. So they told me at the Academy.” He opened the door on the passenger side and slid in.
“One more thing, George.” Sykes flopped down behind the wheel. His lower back was killing him again, but he didn’t have time to visit the chiropractor.
Francisco eyed him expectantly. “What’s that, Matt?”
“From now on you handle the women, you mind?”
He put the slugmobile in gear and pulled out of the lot, not bothering to check his mirrors to see if anyone was interested in staking a claim to the same piece of pavement.
Watson heard them leave but paid no attention. He was far more interested in the damage to his Alfa. The right front side was crushed in, and the door on the passenger side had buckled in response. Damn! Broken glass everywhere, both headlights gone, the windshield popped, and he’d probably have to order a whole new paint job to make any of it match. And no telling what was busted beneath the hood. Sss’malki’ cops!
The sound of footsteps reached him, but he didn’t bother to turn. He could care less what anyone might think if they saw him bent over his ruined car. Which was too bad, because if he’d shown more interest he might have been able to avoid the butt of the shotgun before it slammed into the back of his skull.
The assistant manager crumpled like used foil. Five figures surrounded the unconscious form, gazing down at it like handlers in a meat-packing plant. Four of them were human.
The other wits Kipling.
The human in charge was named Quint. Without having to wait for orders, he gestured to his companions. “Okay, scrape him up.”
One of the men grunted as he hefted a heavy alien leg. “You want us to be careful with him or not?” He took his directions from Quint, but he put the query to the Newcomer.
The alien was holding the sawed-off shotgun loosely by its stock, handling it as easily as a human would a handgun. He studied the limp body of the club’s assistant manager.
“Take it easy with him—for now.”
VIII
California beaches are occupied around the clock except during the winter, and even in cold rainy weather an occasional beachcomber or necking couple will claim a section for their own. The farther from the city one travels, the less chance there is of running into any of these hardy sand-lovers.
Zuma Beach lay on the fringes of the great metropolis, north of Malibu and a good drive from the San Fernando Valley. This morning the waves were rolling in from the Central Pacific unobserved by any save the crabs and gulls.
There was no one to see the big black limo as it oozed down the narrow access road that led to the lip of the beach itself. It was the northernmost end of Zuma, the part of the beach least likely to be visited on a good day, much less this early in the morning when the moon still usurped the sun’s position as dispenser of light and the fog hung cold and damp over the driftwood.
r /> The limo cruised past a lookout car occupied by two aliens who could have been kin to the types Sykes and Francisco had encountered in the X-Bar, except that this pair was alert and well-dressed. Acknowledging their presence, the driver took the limo right down to the sand’s edge, parking alongside a nondescript late-model van.
Cutting the engine, he emerged and opened the rear door on his side, allowing William Harcourt easy egress. Polite as always, Harcourt thanked his driver and walked over to the waiting van. In order to get ’round to the rear he had to walk through some sand. Interested in everything new, he studied the granulated surface with fresh delight.
Kipling, Quint, and the rest of the little gang were waiting for him behind the van. Watson was there also, chained to the van’s back bumper facing the rumbling sea. Quint held a bloodied tire iron in his right hand. Anyone wishing to know the origin of the dark stains could have easily divined them for themselves by taking a look at Watson’s battered face. Quint prided himself on his work. The assistant manager was bloodied but still conscious.
Harcourt ignored the unhappy victim of Quint’s attentions as he addressed his tormentor. “Any progress?”
The human rolled a shoulder, gesturing with the iron. “My arm’s getting tired and so far we got zip. He’s either real stubborn, real tough, or real dumb.” He stared down at the sullen, frightened Watson. “Me, I’d guess the latter, but maybe you know more than I do, sir.”
Harcourt smiled pleasantly. “I would consider that a rhetorical question, Mr. Quint.” He turned to his assistant, raised an eyebrow.
“He is ss’verdlatya ss’alo to Strader,” Kipling informed his boss.
Quint’s expression contorted. “What’s that mean?”
“Duty-bonded,” Harcourt informed the man. Not that he owed Quint any explanations, but an ill-informed employee was an inefficient one. “His allegiance to Strader is above pain or life. It is not something you would be likely to understand, though friends of mine who have made a study of human history have found societies where such a concept would not only be understood but would have been valued. Your present-day society is not among them, however.”