Average Morning of Working in the City

The wind is far too strong for my liking. But such is life in the City. I am used to it, I muse to myself as I pop my leather jacket’s collar flat against my neck and zip it the rest of the way up. The one block between my apartment complex and the garage’s entrance is always rough, especially on waste disposal days. The stench of the incinerators burning would be bad enough even without the whipping of the wind through the towering buildings making everywhere in the City somehow downwind of everywhere else in the City.

Walking along the ground, on the old, cracking sidewalks of the City, one of the locals comes up to me. “Chance,” he says to me, his voice tired from a long night of working, “Anything I should know about?”

I smile, a grin that echoes with both pride and judgement. “Harry, you know I can’t tell you anything,” I remind him. He’s always fishing for more information, it is one of the many things I appreciate about him.

“I know,” he replies, lowering his voice into a hushed tone, “Like I couldn’t tell you about how nervous the Ripper’s friends in middle management have been moving of late. Especially when family in the West Side of East End might have come up. If you knew that, you might have people watching, and that could be bad for my clients.”

I smile. The other of the many things I appreciate about Harry. He knows where his bread is buttered. “Right,” I reply in an equally hushed tone, “And I couldn’t tell you about some problems that have been reported in the Undermarket district. Because if you heard about that, you might make sure your friends from work were taking this evening off, and then we wouldn’t round up as many problems in the bust, and our bonuses wouldn’t be as high.”

Harry smiles, knowing exactly what I meant. We get each other. See, he and his ilk are friendly, useful, and don’t hurt people. Physically, hurt their wallets, sure, but I’m no mall-cop. And so, in return for a heads up about when actual problems might be happening around the City, I am more than happy to give him heads ups about Vice busts. He knows better than warn anyone not trustworthy, and I know how to use his information without giving my source away. Not that anyone would push back too hard against either of us. We’re too valuable to our individual elements of the city. Harry continues to walk past me, heading over to the cheap, towering apartment building that we both live in.

I continue to walk across the ground, through the stench, and make my way into the garage. Waving my hand across it, the door unlocks and opens for me. I head in, and walk over to the elevator. My bike is on the twelfth floor. Some days, I walk the stairs up. But not today. I press the call button, and begin to wait. Mae comes in as well, and looks at me. “Oh, it’s you.”

I sigh. I hate taking the elevator with people. I wonder if I should just take the stairs, but then the doors open. I head in, pressing the button for the twelfth floor. She presses the tenth. As the door closes, I add, “You’re checking your sales, right?” mostly as a joke. If she was more willing to chat, to share, she’d be in the same boat as Harry. She is, probably, good for the city. But she hates what some of our ilk stand for.

“Never. I trust my customer base implicitly. Unlike some people,” she says. She’s lying of course, she’s not an idiot. A part of being an effective fence is knowing how hot each item you buy is. Only way to know when and how you can sell the items later. The elevator slows to a stop. “Have fun shooting people,” she says sarcastically as the doors open.

I sigh. “Unfortunately, today I have to do a bunch of paperwork,” I jokingly complain, “Your customer base is safe another day.”

She shakes her head at me as the doors start to close and she heads towards her truck. The elevator continues up two more floors. It was mostly a joke, but I do have a lot of paperwork to fill out. Yesterday, I arrested someone on a corporate management track on a manslaughter charge. Which is technically within our rights, but it does mean that every single line of the paperwork has to be checked and double checked, because any little flaw in the documentation will be exploited by the corporations to help its higher-ups, no matter who it might hurt. The elevator opens back up on the twelfth floor of the garage. My bike is on the other side of the garage, too, but inside the garage, the air is slightly less flowing, which means the smell of the burnt garbage is less intense, but also more stale, hanging in the air around me rather than rushing past me. I hurry my way across the garage.

My bike sits in a corner, under a ramp. My ideal spot, as no one notices it too much. I press my badge against the field, and it drops, letting me climb onto the BlackBullette. Holding down the starter button, the bike begins to hum as it lifts from the floor. Reaching into the seat, I pull out the oxygen mask, putting it on so that I don’t have to breathe the air outside. The feeling of breathing in fresh oxygen is so refreshing, almost a druglike high. With my legs, I back the bike slowly out of the space, and lock it down once more. Then, I take off, driving the bike to the hangar door on this floor, then heading out into the City’s early morning traffic.

Even in the morning, the City’s sky lanes are filled with cars and trucks, making their way through the streets, either heading back to their homes or heading to work. Which would be a problem if I cared about following traffic laws, or was driving a full-sized car. On my bike, I weave through traffic, up and down, going between lanes, between levels, and even between vehicles. Anyone else has to worry about traffic patrols pulling them down to the ground and fining them for breaking the regulations on air-traffic. But the traffic patrols all know my bike. And they don’t want to risk pulling me down when I’m actually doing some important business.

It takes me twelve minutes to drive my way into the station. The station’s parking lot is below the station, so that bringing in subjects can be done in private, and in a secure location. But I don’t worry about that. I take my bike right through the rooftop door, and down to my desk. My boss, Sergeant McMichaels, looks at me and sighs. “Detective Bonheur, what have I told you about riding your Bullette into the station?” she asks, disappointed at having to repeat it.

I take off the oxygen mask. “Sorry,” I say, “But I really didn’t want to breathe in any more of the trashburn today.”

She shakes her head. “That’s strike two for this week,” she informs me. Strike one was probably drawing the attention of the mall-cops with the arrest.

I nod, before lightening the mood. “So, is it three strikes then I’m out, or am I out on the third strike? I never did watch any baseball.”

She groans and closes her office door. I know what the implication of the statement actually was. If that corporate arrest doesn’t hold up, I’m going to be moved quietly to desk duty for a bit, long enough to lose heat. Which would mean I become less effective, and my friends start to wonder about going another way. Which means I need to make sure the paperwork is impeccable. Maybe even find pressure points to keep the lawyers hesitant.

My partner looks over at me as I sit down at my desk and turn on my computer. “You have to stop pissing off the boss,” he says. Detective Martin Wilton is a week from retirement, and has been for the last two years. I’m convinced the only reason he hasn’t retired is he’s worried about the next poor soul that gets stuck as my partner. Martin became my partner after my previous partner left the force to become a mall-cop. Double the pay for half the scruples. Unfortunately for that partner, he ended up mysteriously disappearing. Second ex-partner for that to happen to. See, being my partner means getting to know a lot of people and learning a lot of secrets, and when people who lack the discretion necessary leave my tender care, they oft try to use those secrets to their benefit and instead end up on the wrong end of a one way trip. Martin isn’t the sort to do that, he lacks the ambition. But he knows most new detectives each year are not so passively inclined.

“What’s she going to do, fire me?” I joke.

He sighs. “No, but she could do a permanent desk reassignment.”

I shake my head. “No, she’s too smart for that. I’m only valuable to this department because I’m out on the streets. Putting me in the back room would be wasting department money.”

“Fair, but she could give you a stickler after I retire,” he counters. He’s right, too. That’s what she’d do to actually punish me. Because if I had a real by the book partner, it wouldn’t negatively impact my performance much, but it would irritate me.

“Or worse, someone who likes rich people,” I reply.

Martin feigns offence. “Hey, I like rich people,” he insists jokingly, “In theory at least. None of the ones I’ve met yet, sure, but I’m not going to write off an entire percent of the population just because the first hundred or so I’ve run into have been terrible.”

“Speaking of terrible people,” I reply as I open up the files for the arrest, “Anything from our friends over in Narco?”

He shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, “Only real news I’ve heard is that Homicide thinks there’s a serial. Oh, and IA is looking into Vice. I assume that’s your fault.”

“Not directly,” I say, “At least, not in the way that you think. Should I chat with them?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not, it isn’t like it’ll go anywhere. Only real thing they might stumble into is them finding something pointing to Narco’s dealing to that scene.”

“Well, that’s only good in my book,” I say. “What’s this about a killer?”

Martin nods. “Just a few bodies, a bit too similar. Only two for the moment, so it’s still up in the air, but they’re on edge just in case, and treating it like one.”

“Do you think you can get me their board?” I ask.

Martin looks at me. “Should I?” he counters.

“I’ve got a long day of filling out forms and rechecking them, and talking with corporate lawyers, and talking with our people. Please?” I reply, rather than answering his question, because the answer is obviously no.

Martin sighs. “Fine, but if you lose me my bonuses before I retire, I’m going to be grumpy.”

I smile. “Thanks, but that’s just way too hard. I mean, making sure you keep getting monthly bonuses for the next decade?”

Martin storms off in a huff, because he knows I’m too close to being right. I settle in, getting to work on the files. As I do, I also send out a quick message to a friend of mine who has a lot of contact with members of the corporate elite, and not in the way that Harry does. ‘GG,’ I begin the message, ‘Wondering about Mor-Elec malls, anything fun? -CB’

After sending that message, I focus on my forms. If Grace has any information on Morana Hydroelectric’s corporate security, she’ll ask me to meet up. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to do the herculean task of trying to stop the power of corporate management through legitimate means. And I’ll really need that pick me up of hunting down a possible serial killer before Homicide is able to.