Finding the Evidence and Rounding Up a Posse

Knowing that the laptop was hidden on the rooftop of the gym by someone on the move made finding it fairly simple. Hidden might even have been a bit of an exaggeration. Sitting under some bushes along the edge of the rooftop, the laptop was hidden in a case with basic dynamic translucency camouflage. But staying out of sight and low profile does mean that, rather than look at the laptop there, I just stuff it under my arm and drop back onto the Bullette. I need somewhere private to look at this.

Don’t want to head home. Too risky if there are eyes on me. Need somewhere without cameras, and somewhere people won’t question why I’m there. Already used the toilet excuse today. Dinner isn’t private. I ride the Bullette down into a garage, deep in Undermarket. Don’t bother locking it, no one here is dumb enough to steal my bike, and head down into the booths of the live peep show. If people know why you’re there, no one will question it. Entering and locking the booth, I cover up Walter’s cameras with some electrical tape. He has three in every booth, mostly for blackmailing the rich people that swing through here. I put the money in, but don’t open the viewing window. Instead, I open up the laptop.

It doesn’t seem to be special for this purpose. Seems that Lex just used their own laptop. He’s out of the game of late, I suppose. I go through the most recently updated folders. One is named today’s date. I check the clock. Yep, still today for another two hours. Opening the folder, it seems fairly innocuous. Photos and selfies. Except they aren’t all taken today. And they’re all taken around the same block of the West Bay Docks. Clever. Unfortunately, it does seem like the pictures are romantic. I’ll have to find this woman and tell her what happened. After settling scores, though. Just in case she’s the one who leaked the meeting happening. Never be too careful where love is concerned. But still, I snap a quick photo of her face on the screen, to track down later.

I focus on the background of the images. What Lex was actually trying to communicate, in all likelihood. It is all on a single block. I can see some people coming in and out of one of the warehouses on that block. Can’t see faces, but they’re dressed like they don’t want to be noticed. No proof of anything. One of the selfies shows a face. Too young to be someone directly involved with the WBC back in the day, unless they were a real hard six-year-old. One of the couple photos shows a garden. Freshly planted within the last month in the photo, which the file metadata says was taken around a month ago. Lines up with the timeline. I pull up the retirement sheet on O’Loughlan. And best guess the dimensions. Need to get eyes on to confirm. Unfortunately, no proof of anything. Just suspicion and conjecture. Which means I need to get some proof of my own. If not enough to call in the vans and helicopters, enough to stop the gang war decisively. Which means I’m heading to West Bay.

I don’t remove the tape, though I leave a tip and an apology note about the inconvenience before heading out. I can see Walter shaking his head as he heads towards the booth. I give him an obnoxious smile before dipping. Climbing back on my bike, I take off, and head back to the West Bay. I keep my lights off, weaving through the several lanes of flying traffic. No one is going to stop me, after all, and as I approach the West Bay, traffic starts to thin. The tension is too high in the region. Everyone knows something is about to happen. I need to make sure it isn’t war.

Parking the bike in an alley about six blocks from the warehouse from the pictures, I walk the rest of the way. Low profile. I may be recognizable to some, but that’s just because people know my face and my bike. From afar, I’m just like any other asshole wandering the streets. As I get across the street from the warehouse, I step into an alley and head up the fire escape to the upper landing of the building. Or, more accurately, the maintenance substructure lining the underside of the upper landing. Scootching through the scaffolds to a comfortable vantage point, I take out my camera and start to examine the warehouse from this angle.

My eyeballing was correct. While it is not nearly as fresh, the garden is the correct dimensions. Also it has grown well enough in the few months that it is certainly well fertilized. I take a picture, but suspicious-sized offset-gardens are not enough to get people moving in force. Looking through the windows, again there is little evidence of actual crime. Plenty of pictures to be taken though. Mostly of peoples’ faces. Because one or two of them I recognize as old WBC leadership. More circumstantial evidence, but nothing linking them to the kidnapping. I take a couple photos of the room with the curtains closed. An office of some kind, in the corner of the building. And the cars. But time is passing and nothing else is happening. They’re waiting. Because they want a war to start. Frustrating. I head back down and start walking towards my hover-bike. As I search my own digitized notes for the cars, most aren’t in them. One of the vans is, though. And I realize I need to call up Marty.

It barely rings. “What is it this time?” Marty asks. Clearly, not being able to help out the sarge while she’s in the hospital is getting on his nerves.

“So nice to talk with you, partner. Mind finding somewhere private and putting Keighlee on the line?” I ask nicely. Or obnoxiously, depending on how people feel about me in the moment.

Clearly, Marty sees both sides of the question. “Are you sure she wants to chat? Last time she kinda beat the crap out of you.”

I shake my head, and insist, “Hey, she threw me into a wall, but she didn’t beat me up. Don’t go making up stories.”

“But making up stories is like half my job, where you’re involved,” he jokes back. There are some quiet noises as he likely muffled the phone to get Keighlee. Then after a few moments, he adds, “Here you go.”

“What is it?” Keighlee asks, clearly equally frustrated by not doing anything.

“Tell Marty to step out of the room for a bit. You’re alone, right?”

“He says get me some water, Detective Wilton,” she says to Marty, then to me, adds, “Yeah.”

“Great. So you got back as the van was leaving,” I say, not really as a question. It was in her report.

“That’s what I told you assholes,” she replies.

I shake my head. “But you also said you didn’t realize what happened until you got inside. By the timing of things, I’m guessing you called Jess, and then us.”

“Yeah,” she doesn’t bother lying. She knows me, and knows I don’t really care.

“But that was a bit of a long call, in the timeline. You wouldn’t happen to have left anything out, though,” I say, knowing she likely did, “Like the fact that you did recognize the van. And that call wasn’t necessarily the friendliest.”

“What do you want?” she spits, clearly seeing that I know something.

“I want you to confirm that a BK van was used in the ‘napping,” I answer honestly.

She pauses before replying, “To you, sure.”

“On the record?” I ask.

“Can’t. Van can’t be connected to us. Because of its other uses.” Of course not. The universe has to make my life harder.

“Jess knows it was involved?” I ask.

“Said it was nicked a couple weeks ago.”

I shrug as I make it to my bike. “Probably was; this has been in the works for a while.” I can hear the door open back up. Marty took as long as he could without drawing suspicion. “Tell Marty I might need some eyes on later tonight,” I say before hanging up.

First stop, 3rd Road Auto Body. The Cruisers are on high alert. They heard what happened and figure something is about to happen. I park the bike in front of the shop. The youngsters outside are tense, but don’t stop me as I start to head inside. More disciplined than the BK kids at least. Or since they’re in the open, they don’t want to draw attention. Quincy slides out from under his own car. Old school, proper wheels and everything. Doesn’t even hover. He sees me and sighs. “You think we did this shit?” he says, clearly exhausted by the tension.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here. Not alone,” I reply.

“So why are you here?” he asks, sensibly.

I smile. It’s a bit of a cold smile, but I try to keep it friendly nonetheless. “‘Cause someone else thinks you did, and the only way I can see to show otherwise is you both working together to solve the problem.”

“What do the ‘ken want?” he spits.

I shrug. “Probalby war,” I reply honestly, “But because they don’t want to piss everyone off, they’ll settle for retribution.”

“And why should I care?” he adds.

I let my smile become slightly more sinister. “Because I know you don’t want war. Not right now, while Lin’s cooped up with the Mono.” I let my smile fade as people around are growing more tense, adding, “We both know that, even with her, you’d probably lose an outright war with the BKs. I mean, with Lin, you’d do a bunch of damage, but you’d still lose. Without her, you don’t stand a chance.”

One of the other people here, his lieutenant Davis, asks, “And why do you care? We know you, you aren’t the type to stick your neck out for us.”

I grin. “You are absolutely right. But the Handshake Deal of Twenty-One-Seventeen is the only thing standing between me and a lot of new paperwork,” I reply to Davis before looking back at Quincy, “And we all know how I feel about paperwork.

Quincy laughs. “Alright. If Jess is in, I’ll go along with it. Hit me up with when and where, I’ll bring some soldiers.” He hands me a note with a burner number on it.

I smile and nod, taking the note before getting back on my bike and heading back to Classless Bar&Grill. It’s closed, but people are still milling about inside. Readying themselves for war. Good. The lock on the side door is a joke. I head on inside. As I enter the back room, in surprise, a bunch of guns get drawn, one or two even successfully pointed at me. “Hi Jess,” I say with a smile.

She’s genuinely surprised. “That was quick.”

“We both know why,” I reply. She’s definitely heard about the shooting.

“Wasn’t us,” she states. I look over at the young man with a gun pointed at me, the same young man from earlier today. She sees the look and says, “Angelo, out.”

He goes to object, before her withering look sends him out of the room. I smile. “I love it when you get all mean,” I joke.

“What is it?” she says, ignoring my comment.

I shake my head. “I got proof, but I can’t use it. Which means we’re going to be using you. Well, you and the Cruisers.”

“Why would I do your job for you, or work with Quincy?” she replies.

I smile, dropping her the picture of the BK van in the lot. “Because I already got the Cruisers on board, and if we go without you, they’ll see what I see. A BK van used in a kidnapping that the ‘ken were going to use as justification for a war.” Some of her people look concerned.

“Not involved in that, either,” she states, her voice not changing.

“I know. But if you’re not helping kill the bastards who were, is Quincy going to believe that?” I ask.

“I hate you,” she says. “Who is it?”

“Everyone’s least favorite gang corpse,” I joke, replying, “Seems the West Bay Cartel is trying to make a comeback.”

Her face drops into cold anger and any semblance of hesitancy is gone. “When do we head out?” she asks.