Chapter 7: Old Man

Several Amber PD cruisers with lights off are parked outside the factory. The rain is pouring down, and I arrive just in time to see a big, white car with the words "Amber Morgue" on it lift off and hover into the night sky. They've loaded up the body and taken it away.

I quietly curse Fox and his drink-and myself. But Harland told me the cops had agreed to hold the body until I arrived. Must've gotten impatient. Now, I've missed my chance to see the body. Maybe they'll let me in at the morgue.

The approach of my tall, broad-shouldered frame, half-concealed by shadow and rain, has a few of the nearby officers getting nervous. I take my hands out of my coat pockets and let them hang at my sides. It always makes a cop feel better when he can see hands.

The nearest one, a little guy, adjusts his cap by the brim and clears his throat. "Help you?"

"Jack Tarelli," I say. "Rutherford Harland sent me down to have a look at the body."

His relief is almost comical. He extends his hand. "Wilmer O'Hara, Homicide," he says.

I shake his hand gently. Don't want to hurt the little guy.

"My partner Albright's the one you want," he says. "Go on in."

I pass Wilmer and his associates and walk through the open door of the factory's freight entrance. Inside, I'm given only a partial reprieve from the rain. The place is falling apart, with holes busted through the ceiling so big that the rainwater comes in like a trickle in some places and like a waterfall in others. Nearby, some of the standing water swirls down a storm drain. The rest sits in deep puddles. I try to pick my way through without getting too wet but end up splashing up to my ankles in a few places. Can't imagine a man of Nathan Harland's status ever thought he'd meet his maker in a place like this.

Lighting units have been set up to illuminate the scene, and a few cops are still snapping images. Center stage is a blood-spattered mess. No body, of course.

A big plainclothes cop stands nearby puffing on a cigarette. He's middle-aged, with a high and tight haircut speckled with gray. He's taken off his jacket, leaving his chest holster exposed. He looks sour already, but at my approach, he positively pickles.

"Press found us already?" the big guy growls. He's in charge. Got to be Albright. "Get this inbred out of here."

"Albright, I take it," I say. "I'm the PI Rutherford Harland sent down to look at the body." I take an exaggerated look at the bloodstained floor behind him where the body used to be. "Looks like we've got a second mystery on our hands."

"Rutherford wants his own man on the case, that's fine," Albright says, "but I can't wait around all night for some freelancer to come play detective."

"You were told to hold that body until Harland's man got a look at it," I say.

After one last drag, Albright tosses his cigarette over his shoulder. It lands in the water with a hiss. He makes no attempt to avoid the puddles as he closes the gap between us, never breaking eye contact with me. He's a big guy. Almost as big as me. Almost.

"This is not the night to test me," he says. "I know how you think this works. You act tough enough with us, and we'll bend, right? Cause that's what you do when a jealous husband pays you fifty creds to tail his wife down to a motel in a shady part of town. Well, nobody bends around here, pal. They only break. This is where real work happens. Real detectives. Real stakes. Turn around and go on home, and maybe I won't have my boys rough you up for disrupting a police investigation. Got that? Old man?"

The bored sort of way he says it, like he's giving directions to a lost motorist, gives me no doubt he isn't bluffing. And I remember how we used to do things. Boy, do I. But instead of backing off, I step forward, closer, slowly, and look down at him. We'd be nose to nose if he were a couple inches taller. I widen my shoulders, flex my traps so my coat lifts up, making me look even bigger. Then I lower my voice to a rumble.

"If you or your boys take a run at this old man, you're liable to take that body's place. You got that? Junior?"

Albright doesn't retreat, to his credit. He just stares up at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other cops watching us.