Bone Wires by Michael Shean

Bone Wires: Chapter 4

Bone Wires by Michael Shean

Published by Curiosity Quills

www.curiosityquills.com

All Rights Reserved.

The return to the Hilton was entirely without incident; nobody reported violence, and the satellite that the company had tasked to check in on her from time to time hadn’t registered any activity that would read as suspicious. There were six company-owned Walleye satellites in geosynchronous orbit over Seattle, each one able to track various citizens throughout the city. Satellite time was costly, especially in the case of advanced miniature sats like those, so tracking a stripper’s whereabouts wasn’t exactly the way money would usually be spent. Given what she was mixed up in, however, Administration wasn’t fucking around. According to their watchful eyes, Angie had simply gone home, slept, and come back to work – or at least, that’s what the conglomeration of their watch-windows had read. There was always room to miss something when you only looked in every hour or so.

Arriving at the Autumn Heights, Gray had put on his game face and bellied up to the bar.  The bartender was there, the same guy from before – only this time, the fear that he’d wore the first time he’d seen Gray had been replaced with a species of defiance. “Angie ain’t here, Detective,” he said before Gray could get a word out. “Why don’t you go head back downstairs?”

“I got a satellite read that says she is,” Gray replied, his narrow brows knitting together. “You’re not trying to put one over on me, are you, Citizen? That would be unwise.”

The bartender’s jaw set, thin like a triangle. “If you don’t have a warrant, you need to vacate.” When Gray simply stared at him, he clarified. “That is, get the fuck out.”

“I could do that,” replied Gray with a nod. “You’re perfectly within your rights to eject me, Citizen. But if I have to come back, I’m coming back with Bud Moody.”

If there was such a thing as the Devil in the land of Vice, it would be Bud Moody. Big as a house and solid as concrete, Moody was a senior detective in Vice Management. He was a Tier V, the old monster of the department, and there was a reason for it: he never lost a case. If you were put on his radar, you had either done something really bad, really stupid, or pissed someone off in ways you most likely couldn’t imagine. If Moody thought – or was moved to think – that you were up to something, he didn’t rest until he found something. The fact that there actually might not be anything to find wouldn’t matter; by the time he was done, you’d find yourself on charges. Most likely every family secret you ever had would also be aired, and many lives ruined in the process.  You didn’t mention Moody’s name so much as you invoked him.

Such unholy invocations had not yet lost their power, it seemed, as the bartender’s face froze as Gray spoke. “Hey, all right,” the bartender finally said, the blood having all but drained from his face. “All right. Jesus. What do you want this time?”

“That’s between Miss Velasquez and myself,” Grey said, giving the bartender a satisfied smile. “Direct me.”

Gray found her in the VIP room. She was naked and grinding on the lap of some asshole suit, who was clearly straining against the club’s no-touching rule. When Gray appeared the suit  sat up, as if he were about to bark something angry, but the production of Gray’s  Shield shut him up.

“Out, Citizen,” Gray barked. “Police business.”

The suit blanched, but left. Angie stood there by the velvet-covered sofa where he had been, hands on hips, resplendent in her beauty. No shyness in her lovely eyes, only muted fury. “God damn it, Detective,” she hissed, lips drawn back in anger to show neat rows of white teeth. “Do you know how much that asshole tips when he comes in here?”