Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Knight Surgeon (Special Edition) Read online

  Chapter Three

  I stopped on the corner to read the instructions that Ratty had given me. I realized that I never did catch his name. I chided myself for that and made a mental note to be sharper next time. I scanned the typeface nonchalantly, reading over the instructions carefully.

  There had been a small key inside the second envelope, it was a key to a safe deposit box at the bank up the street from my office. I was familiar with the bank, as I had my accounts there. They'd obviously done their homework before sending Ratty all the way across town from the Wayside headquarters. According to the letter, the bank manager was expecting me to arrive and ask for the box. Inside I would find another envelope addressed to the person I was supposed to be delivering it to and fifty dollars for cab fare.

  The whole thing seemed a little hokey to me, but ten grand was more than enough to set us all up nicely for a while, and I knew that Jackson and Trixie could use a couple of days off. Maybe even a few days off together. Three grand each would allow for the firm to close down for a weekend without anyone starving. I briefly considered sending my partner and my secretary away for a weekend, but then remembered that I couldn't live without coffee and the machine that creates it is as much of a mystery to me as why Stonehenge was built.

  I shoved my idle thoughts away as I approached the bank. The building was a disgusting sandstone mausoleum that looked out of place on the dingy streets of New York. The huge dark wood doors were open and lines of people milled around in and out, going about their business as usual. I felt a tug of paranoia and agoraphobia as I forced myself up the steps. This was my bank. I'd been here every week for the past five years. There was no reason to be feeling paranoid about it, I insisted. The fact that the safe deposit box had been set up here, of all places, by Wayside felt like an unwelcome breach of privacy. I felt sullied somehow. Like my sanctuary of monetary deposits had been taken away from me suddenly.

  It made me wonder exactly how much else Wayside Firms knew about me and my habits. I decided I was gonna take up smoking, just to throw them for a loop.

  I walked into the bank and tried to ignore the throngs of people looking at me as I passed. I nodded tersely at a lady wearing the biggest petticoat I'd ever seen under a corset that made her waist almost disappear. She'd have been pretty if she wasn't so terrifyingly disproportionate.

  I glanced up at the huge clock that stood its vigil over the tellers. It was four o'clock. I had half an hour to get what I needed and the lines for the tellers were longer than I cared to wait for.

  “Mister Tuesday!”

  The voice was male and far too chipper to be talking about me. I turned around hesitantly, hyper aware of Nadia's comforting weight against my side beneath my canvas duster.

  “Yes?” I drawled slowly.

  A spry, wiry man with an abnormally healthy glow about his face and tiny round spectacles perched on his narrow beak of a nose approached me, his hands were clasped in front of him, his long fingers entwined together. He was wearing a dark vest with the chain of a silver pocket watch draped over his flat stomach, a white, pinstriped shirt with what looked like a garter on his bicep. He looked like a strangely happy bookie. He was taller than me, which is uncommon in this day and age, and his slender height made him look like he'd been stretched out. He was all willowy and moved with a fluid grace that hid a deeper awkwardness. Like a baby giraffe.

  “It is very good to see you today!” The bookie looking guy said, his accent making his lack of use of contractions somehow charming. “I assume everything is well with you? I must say, I am glad that you made it in before we closed today. They said to expect you quickly.”

  My lip quirked, I couldn't help it. “I'm sorry, who are you?”

  “Wilson Arthur at your service,” the bookie replied. “I am the manager of the bank.”

  Well I felt like an idiot. Of course the manager would be expecting me today. Ratty knew I wouldn't wait. Wayside was probably banking on my impatience to get out of their pocket as fast as I could, so they'd told this Wilson guy to expect me today.

  Dammit, when did I get so disgustingly predictable?

  I shook hands with the manager. “Yeah? Good, sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  Wilson shook his head and waved his hand. “It is quite all right, I assure you, Detective,” he said amiably. I had to admit that I liked this guy a lot more than I liked Ratty.

  “So I guess you know what I'm after then?” I asked, shoving my hands in my pockets.

  “The Wayside safe deposit box they had set up for you,” Wilson said with a nod. “Yes, if you would follow me, we can go and you can have a look right away.”

  I nodded and fell into step behind the gangly Wilson. I'd never been into the back room where the safe deposit boxes were held. I didn't have one, I had never felt the need to. I didn't really own anything worth stealing, except maybe Nadia, and Nadia lived as close to me as she could. I think that the need for putting something in a safe deposit box meant that you weren't trustworthy and that you were hiding secrets. The banks charged a pretty penny for discretion and secrecy, I'd worked more than one case where something had been stolen that should have been in a safe deposit box. It was never pretty. I didn't trust them.

  Now that I thought about it, it kind of made sense that Wayside would have used a safe deposit box, it was handy for them to store secrets in a public place for me to pick up and deliver, but it was right there – secrets. I didn't like the idea of me transporting something so sensitive that Wayside needed to hire me specifically to deliver it, and it made me wonder if this was actually something that I should give up on before I got screwed too hard.

  But ten grand was a lot of money. And it was kind of hard to refuse.

  The back room where they let you interact with the safe deposit boxes was well away from the main room of the bank. It was past all the offices where you could talk with financial advisers or whatever people with a lot of money did with bankers, and not quite as far back in the building as the vaults. It was a comfortable room, anyway. It was all built for comfort, with a table and padded, high backed chairs and complimentary ice water if you wanted it. The floors were the same dark slate that ran throughout the bank, and the walls were smooth plaster, painted a creamy white that seemed to reflect the orange light of the lamps. I definitely preferred my godawful paisley.

  “Have a seat, I will go and get the deposit box for you.”

  I nodded as Wilson left the room, but chose to stand.

  I didn't feel at ease here. I just wanted to get what I had come for and get out.

  Wilson certainly took his sweet time getting back to me. He returned in what felt like a half hour with two armed guards in tow. He was carrying the safe deposit box in gloved hands and he set it down on the table in front of me wordlessly. I eyed Wilson critically, arching my eyebrow in his direction. It wasn't like I was gonna start anything. I was, after all, an upstanding citizen of New York, wasn't I?

  “Your safe deposit box, Detective,” Wilson said, presenting it to be as though it were a prize of some sort.

  “Thanks.”

  I pulled the key from my pocket and slid it easily into the lock. The guards stood quietly at the door, breathing heavily. I opened the lid without ceremony. I just wanted my package, nothing fancy, nothing suspicious.

  “Huh,” I muttered, pulling the manila envelope out of the box. It had a name and address written in a flowing handwriting on the front. I noticed that Wilson was looking over my shoulder and I shot him a warning look. “Something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. I was simply making sure that I had actually gotten you the correct box?” Wilson said.

  “The key worked,” I pointed out dryly. I peered back into the box's velvet lined interior and spied a second, smaller envelope. Obviously this was my cab fare. I grabbed that up as well and slipped it into my pocket. I would open it when I wasn't being watched.

  “Is there anything else that I can do for you, Detectiv
e?” Wilson inquired.

  “Nope,” I replied, turning the manila envelope over in my hands. It was sealed, so I'd have to be careful to keep it intact until I got to my destination. The last thing I needed was someone claiming that I'd broken the contract. I flashed Wilson a grin and offered him the safe deposit key.

  “Oh, I must insist that you hold onto that for the time being,” Wilson said. “It was part of my instructions. If you cannot complete your delivery, you are to bring the package back here until you can finish the delivery.”

  I frowned. “Well, that makes sense, I guess.”

  No it didn't. I didn't trust it. I slipped the key back in my pocket and tucked the manila envelope under my arm. Something wasn't quite right about this whole thing. I smiled, hoping that it would hide my uneasiness.

  “Well, thank you, Wilson. I will see you soon enough. If, at the least, to return your key and maybe make a deposit later.”

  The guards didn't move as I slipped out of the room and out of the bank as quickly as I could. I had the worst feeling in my gut, and I wasn't trusting it, which made me even more uneasy, if such a thing was even possible. I walked quickly back to my office and stopped outside the door. My hand hovered over the doorknob and I weighed my options.

  I could go back into my office, I could show Jackson what I got out of the safe deposit box. We could probably crack the seal and have a look at what was inside, what was worth ten grand to have me deliver. Part of me thought that this was what Wayside was expecting me to do. I could say screw it and do the job and get it over with and get out of Wayside's pocket again. That was the more logical thing to do in this situation. Or I could take the package back, and the money, and deposit it back in the safe deposit box and wash my hands of the whole thing, and probably sully my reputation.

  This seemed like a no-win situation to me.

  I let my hand drop back to my side and looked at the name and address on the envelope. I was very familiar with the neighbourhood that I was supposed to be delivering it to, so it wasn't a matter of getting lost or bein' uncomfortable. Some things never changed, and the Kitchen was one of 'em. What surprised me, though, is that Wayside would have proprietary interests in the roughest neighbourhoods in New York.

  No, I had to do this job, no matter what. I grabbed the doorknob again and pushed open the door to my offices. I had a feeling that I would want Jackson to know where I was. If this delivery was as rotten as we were both feelin' it to be, I'd rather know that my partner knows where to start looking for me if I went missing in the next twenty-four hours.

  It didn't even register in my mind that the door was unlocked when it shouldn't have been.

  “Hey? Jackson?” I called as I walked into the empty lobby. “Trixie?”

  No answer.

  My gun was in my hand before I even realized it. Nadia's familiar weight was a comforting thing as I heard the rattle of what I assumed was an intruder in Jackson's office. I was instantly in “cop mode.” I stepped around the furniture in the waiting room, and past Trixie's desk, where I placed the envelope I’d procured from the bank. I walked quietly, on the balls of my feet so as not to give myself away. We didn't have a bell over our door for just this reason.

  My gun was held close to my body, at shoulder height, but pointing upwards, the way all good cops carry their gun when sneaking around. I'd rather not risk the chance of having my foot shot off with my own gun if it came to a struggle, and I found a downward motion to be much quicker than an upward one. If I was gonna have to shoot someone, I was all about the efficiency of my shot.

  I made my way across the room. The rummaging noises were coming from Jackson's office, and his office was further away from the door than mine. I could see that his office door was slightly ajar and a flash of movement let me know that, yes, there was someone in there. I crept along carefully, shooting glances over my shoulder, just in case the person in Jackson's office wasn't alone. I reached out towards the door with my free left hand, Nadia's weight settling gently into the palm of my right.

  I counted silently to three to myself and I pushed open the door.

  “All right, dirt bag! Hands where I can see 'em an no one gets hurt!”

  “Holy shit, boss! You scared the hell outta me!”

  I heaved a sigh and lowered my gun. Trixie was standing in the middle of Jackson's office, rummaging through his desk. Her hair was an unruly mess and the already low cut of her blouse was lowered further by the open buttons at the top.

  I stared blankly at her, not too happy about the whole thing.

  “Where's Jackson?” I demanded.

  “Upstairs,” Trixie replied gruffly. She seemed to be about as happy as I was that I'd come back. “Shall I go get him for you?”

  “If I send you up to your apartment are you gonna distract him further with those concealed weapons of yours?” I shot back, nodding curtly towards the cleavage sticking out of the top of her blouse.

  Trixie glanced down at her breasts and then back at me. “At least one of you appreciates them.”

  Ouch.

  I smiled and held my hands up placatingly. “Sorry, doll.”

  Trixie sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. “What are you doin' back already?”

  “Need Jackson's opinion,” I told her. “Can you please go get him for me? I don't think I'd be all that comfortable walkin' into your apartment, and Jackson will definitely be more than a little annoyed if I do.”

  Trixie nodded.

  “What are you looking for down here, anyway?” I asked, a smirk threatening to break the marginally serious moment.

  “Nothin',” Trixie replied, defensively. “Nothin' at all.” She sighed and brushed past me and I caught a whiff of Jackson's cologne mingled with her perfume.

  I smiled to myself, at least they were havin' a good time in the middle of all this craziness. I wandered back into my office, tucking Nadia back in her holster and picking my envelope back up on the way. My bottle of brandy was sitting on my desk, untouched. Apparently, Trixie had convinced Jackson that neither of them actually needed a drink. At least they'd taken my advice and gone upstairs. I wasn't even all that mad about the front door not being locked. I poured myself a double shot of the brandy and sat on the edge of my desk, waiting for Jackson.

  My mind was running on overtime already, and I hadn't even done anything about this delivery job yet. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this at all, really. Aside from the fact that Wayside Firms wanted to hire me to make a delivery for them. Maybe they just didn't want to risk sending any of their own people out into the Kitchen? I wasn't sure about that, but the thought was certainly less than comforting.

  I still wasn't sure why they were sending proprietary information out to someone in Hell's Kitchen. I had never heard of the guy I was supposed to be delivering to, and I made sure to stay on top of the prominent researchers and medical staff involved with Wayside Firms. Most of my cases involved missing people who had been involved in some manner with Wayside at some point or another.

  Well, that and mob cases, but that was a whole other can of worms.

  I stared into my brandy glass and considered what I knew while I waited for Jackson to put his pants back on.

  One: Wayside Firms had hired me to make a delivery of highly sensitive, proprietary information to someone in Hell's Kitchen. Two: they had sent Ratty to hire me, and under his bureaucratic, nerdy, weakling exterior, clockwork enhancements ticked away. He was an enforcer of some kind, had to be. Three: Ratty never mentioned anyone by name, only referred to his “employers” so, in reality, this could be some scary sort of conspiracy to take Wayside apart from the inside. Four: I was paid ten grand. Up front. In cash. That's an unreasonably large sum to hand over in cash before the job was even finished.

  My forehead wrinkled as I took all of this into consideration. Even the bank manager, Wilson, seemed a little bit out of sorts. I'd never met the guy before, so maybe he was always all jittery and high-strung like
that. I'd always just dealt with whoever was available at the tills, and usually I sent Trixie to do the banking.

  I tapped my foot against the side of my desk as I took a slow sip of my drink.

  I was positive that I had been under surveillance from Wayside. Had to have been. At least a week. Maybe longer. They couldn't have known they'd find me here. My schedule was too erratic. I never kept the same hours. The firm did, but I wasn't here from nine to five every day. That wasn't my style, and different cases took different turns all the time. It would've been impossible to have pinpointed a concise schedule for me. Even lunchtime was a relative term in my life. Sometimes lunch happened at six o'clock at night.

  I ran a hand against my lip and chin and set my brandy down. I slid off of my desk and walked to the door. I ran my hands over the solid wood frame, searching. I knocked on the door, making sure it was just as solid as I had remembered it.

  Nothing. Good.

  I checked the doorknob, no signs of tampering. I produced my big lock picking kit from the inside pocket of my duster and picked up the screwdriver. I undid the screws in the doorknob and took it apart in my hand. Nothing out of the ordinary. Also good.

  I dropped the brass bits on the floor and moved on, tucking my toolkit back into my jacket. I ran my hands along the moulding and the baseboards of the walls. I checked the corners carefully. I poked at the familiar air bubbles in the paisley wallpaper, gouging them for good measure.

  There was nothing there.

  I moved towards my desk, checking every surface there was to check. I didn't even notice Jackson had arrived.

  “Do I dare ask what it is that you're looking for?”

  My head snapped up from where I was crouched. I somehow managed to not hit my head, thankfully. I didn’t need to live the cliche, or to have Jackson laughing at me.

  “Bugs,” I replied.

  “Fumigator was in last week, remember?” Jackson muttered under his breath.

  I groaned and forced myself to get up. “No, I mean, surveillance bugs, Jacks!”

  Jackson narrowed his eyes and picked up my abandoned glass of brandy. “What? Like wire taps and miniaturized cameras? No one uses those anymore,” he informed me before drinking the rest of my booze. “That's so 2012.”

  I gave Jackson an incredulous stare. “You've been spending too much time with Trixie, my friend,” I informed him. “It's starting to rub off on you.”

  “There was going to be some rubbing off...” Jackson muttered darkly.

  I snorted a laugh. “You left the front door open,” I pointed out, sitting back on the top of my desk. “But that's not why I came back.”

  “Did you get the delivery done?” Jackson asked, helping himself to another glass of brandy. “Can I have my cut now?”

  “No,” I replied, holding my hand out for the bottle. Jackson obliged and I took a pull straight from the bottle. I didn't intend to get drunk, I just wanted a shot of something to clear my head.

  “So then why did you come back?” Jackson pressed. “Aside from thinking it would be polite to kill the mood for me?”

  I frowned and set the bottle down on the desk next to me. “I wanted your opinion on something,” I explained slowly, picking up the envelope from beside me and handing it to him. “Do you know that name?”

  Jackson took the envelope carefully, turning it over in his hands. He looked at the seal before looking at the name and address on the front. A frown crossed his features.

  “You know it, don't you?” I insisted.

  Jackson shrugged. “It's familiar, I'll admit,” he replied. “But I can't place it right off the bat.”

  “Is there some kind of database you can access?” I asked. I was useless when it came to most technology, and our computer systems were the last thing that I wanted to have anything to do with. I didn't even have one in my office.

  We were unlucky enough to live in an age of recovery. The early 2000's saw a major spike in the consumption of oil and gas and clean energy became a trendy topic. Wind, solar and water power began replacing fossil fuels. The technological advancements of the twentieth century shifted from computers and cell phones to sustainable energy sources.

  After the shift in energy sources became the new competition for the world's superpowers, databases started to get locked away or destroyed. The Internet became highly policed as information that was supposed to be secure was leaked and hackers began destroying websites and sharing top secret things. Extortion and blackmail became pastimes for bored kids with computers. Corporate secrets were sold to the highest bidder and no one could do anything about it. Anonymity became a weapon, so the government took away the weapons. Everything became public to the government, more than it ever was. They took the concept of Big Brother to extremes, going so far as to press criminal charges on people who so much as posted a criticizing comment on any online forums. It was the worst in China, apparently.

  We still had computers, they just weren't as advanced as everyone had assumed they would be by now. The computers weren't sentient. We didn't have robots, but the old concept of cyborgs were definitely a thing that existed in my lifetime. We had technology that scanned your eyes and fingerprints. We had all the same medical equipment that monitored your vitals. We just no longer had free access to information the way they did in the early 2000's. We didn't rely on fossil fuels to get us around. We chose to create clothing that covered us a lot better than some of the vintage fashions my grandparents had shown me. We'd reshaped society, slowly. Rebuilt the laws and the way that we looked at privacy.

  I think that the phrase that would best describe the way society had turned after the oil crisis would be “steampunk” though most people would scoff at you for even thinking such a ridiculous thing. Old science fiction had no place in our reality, even if it really did mirror what had happened when the calendar refused to stop.

  “A database?” Jackson teased. “Sure, I'll go look at the phone book.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just 'cause I don't trust the government to stay out of my computer, doesn't mean that you have to be a jerk about it,” I grumbled.

  Jackson shook his head, smiling. “Sorry, boss.”

  “So the name seriously isn't ringing any bells for you?” I asked hopefully. “I mean, you're so smart, Jacks, I assumed you would know why Wayside is sending me off to Hell's Kitchen to make this delivery to some random guy.”

  Jackson sighed in defeat. I could sweet talk him into almost anything. And I didn't even have the added benefit of having nice boobs.

  “Okay, I'll have a quick look,” Jackson agreed. “If I can't find anything in five minutes, I'm going back upstairs to finish what I started before you so arrogantly interrupted.” He turned, carrying the manila envelope and my glass with him as he left my office and walked across the waiting room towards his own.

  I smiled innocently. “I don't pay you to sleep with my secretary!” I called at Jackson's retreating back.

  I could hear Jackson's rough laugh from across the office. We worked well together, even if we did sound like we hated each other most of the time. I sighed to myself and peered around the room. I still didn't trust that Wayside hadn't somehow managed to infiltrate my personal office. I had the nagging feeling that I was being watched, and I hated it. I sniffled to myself, frowning and regretting my hasty ten thousand dollar decision to get into bed with Wayside.

  My self pity didn't last long as the phone on my desk chirped shrilly. It was the line that acted as an intercom to Jackson's office. I picked up the receiver and pushed the extension button.

  “You found something?” I asked, excitedly.

  “Sure did,” Jackson replied through the phone. “Come in here, you'll wanna get a move on as soon as you see this.”

  I hung up the phone and jumped from my spot on my desk. I crossed the space between our offices quickly, my interest suddenly piqued by the urgent tone Jackson had used with me. I entered Jackson's office, ignoring the potted plant and fish ta
nk that he insisted on keeping, and sidling up behind him. I leaned over, my hand against the high back of his office chair and I peered at the thin, transparent pane of glass that made up his computer screen. Like I said, we weren't technologically stunted in any way, I just chose to avoid what I could.

  The screen held a picture and what equated to a police file floating in the middle of it. I stared, reading the digital words flashing in front of me.

  “This all just popped right up as soon as I typed his name into the search,” Jackson informed me. “No hacking needed.”

  I was impressed. Jackson knew his way around computers better than anyone I'd ever known. He was invaluable when it came to these things. I patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

  “Good job,” I praised.

  The intended recipient of this delivery was a man by the name of Terry Jones. It was a stupid name, I considered, but the man behind the name was anything but. As Jackson clicked on different things, I was treated to a wide array of newspaper articles, and personnel files. Apparently Terry was a doctor, a former employee of Wayside Firms. He had spearheaded a lot of the original clockwork prosthetic projects and was responsible for many of the improvements made to the actual procedures of having clockwork enhancements added to your body. He wasn't the original creator by any stretch, but he was certainly the one to thank for making the surgeries a lot less life threatening.

  According to the articles, Terry had left Wayside, citing ethical differences and now resided in Hell's Kitchen working with underprivileged kids and young adults who had fallen into all manner of nasty things. The articles said that he worked with mostly the subculture of kids who called themselves “Gearheads.” Basically kids who were addicted to having clockwork modifications made to themselves and were turning to the illegal street doctors. It was a sad subculture, to be honest, and the mortality rate among kids who went through the illegal surgeries was staggeringly high. Terry was working with these kids now, offering them safe places to live, and treatment for any complications, infections or otherwise horrible surprises that came from their modifications.

  He was a good guy all around, it seemed.

  So I had to wonder why Wayside was so interested in sending him new, sensitive materials.

  “What are you thinking, Blaze?” Jackson asked, breaking me out of the spell the flashing computer screen had trapped me in.

  “I'm thinking that I had best go and get this stuff to the good Doctor here as soon as possible,” I replied, carefully. “It might just be the thing that saves the next kid's life.”