Authors: Alex P. Berg
“Right,” I said. “So anyway, Bock said Scar Face…err, I mean, Cedric, accosted him in one of the World’s Wonders Fair bathrooms. Punched him and beat him. He’d brandished a knife and told him if he screamed he’d kill him. Then he gagged him and slapped the sack on him, and according to Bock, his next breath of fresh air—heck, the first time he even knew where he’d been taken—was when we de-hooded him in the middle of his own factory.”
“Wait a second,” said Quinto. “So according to Bock, Mitchell managed to transport him from the middle of the fairgrounds all the way to the industrial district without anyone wondering why he had a gunny sack over his head?”
Shay hopped onto the corner of my desk, the fabric of her pants stretching as it pressed against her skin. “Well, that’s one of the many interesting things about Bock’s version of the events. He also claims he
thinks
he and Mitchell took a rickshaw out to his factory, but he doesn’t fully remember. He was too
terrified.”
Quinto and Rodgers shared a look.
“Exactly,” I said. “Anyway, Bock claims he’s never met Mitchell before, and he has no idea why the man kidnapped him. He said he assumed he’d make a monetary demand sooner or later, but Mitchell didn’t say anything of the sort to him. According to him, Mitchell didn’t say much of anything, but Linwood wasn’t particularly forthcoming with answers when we questioned him. He refused to go into any detail without his lawyers present, and once they showed up, his answers became even skimpier.”
Quinto stroked his chin. “Well…I guess the part about Mitchell’s silence at least sounds believable.”
“It does?” I said.
Scar Face had remained unconscious for the vast majority of our return trip to the precinct, but when he’d finally awoken, he’d flipped out. We’d tightly bound his arms and wrists, and with Quinto holding him in a vice-like grip, he couldn’t inflict any physical damage, but that hadn’t stopped him from spewing as much vitriol as humanly possible.
At first he’d stuck to the usual prisoner fare—insults, including plenty of choice bits about our mothers and what we could cram into our various orifices, but that didn’t last long. He’d quickly ascended into shouts of a different nature: threats, mostly, peppered with cries for help from passersby. Then he’d gone silent. When he spoke again, he’d tried to appeal to our sense of civic duty, or something along those lines. ‘It’s fine, take me,’ he’d said, ‘so long as you hold Bock in custody as well. At least for a few days. Please.’ As if us holding Bock would’ve made him feel better about his own failed plans. Eventually his varied appeals died off and turned into raving mumblings of the ‘I was so close…’ variety.
“Yeah,” said Rodgers. “Apparently Mitchell’s chattiness was a one time occurrence brought on by the loving caress of your truncheon. By the time we’d let him simmer in the interrogation room and gone to question him, he’d reconsidered his legal strategy. I’ll give you one guess as to the only question he answered for us.”
“His name?” I said.
Rodgers snapped his fingers. “And that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m raking it in compared to the rest of you. That’s why I’ll be able to afford a new jacket in a year or three.”
“Like you’d ever willingly replace that old piece of leather,” said Shay.
I smiled and shrugged.
“So,” said Quinto. “Speaking of your deductive prowess, I seem to remember you had a theory that explained all of this.”
“More or less,” I said. “But it’s all pretty obvious at this point, isn’t it?”
“Oh, um, of course.” Quinto crossed his arms and shrugged them a little as he averted his eyes. “But, uh, why don’t you tell us your version so we’re all on the same page.”
Shay snickered, causing Quinto’s cheeks to turn a delightfully rosy shade.
“Sure,” I said. “Keep in mind the evidence to support this is only circumstantial, but I think it’s pretty clear Linwood Bock hired Cedric Mitchell to murder Buford Gill. And not just kill him, but murder his entire family and use that knowledge to inflict even more pain upon Gill before his eventual death.
“I mean, think about it. It was Bock’s intimidation of Gill that sent him into hiding in the first place. Clearly Gill took Bock’s threats seriously—and why wouldn’t he? The man mocked Bock mercilessly at every opportunity, and Bock’s an incredibly powerful man. And let’s not forget Bock paid Mel a near fortune to locate Gill. I don’t think he did that for kicks and giggles.”
“But if you’re right,” said Rodgers, “why did Mitchell kidnap Bock?”
“Because Mitchell isn’t as crazy as he’d like us to think he is,” I said. “Vicious? Yes. Bloodthirsty? Yes. But crazy? No. He probably realized a man with Bock’s wealth and pull wouldn’t leave a loose end like him lying around. That after completing the hits on Gill’s family, he’d be expendable. Maybe Bock wouldn’t kill him, but he’d at least find a way for him to end up in our clutches with Gill’s blood still fresh on his hands. So he preempted Bock’s double-cross and kidnapped him in an extortion attempt to get his snuff money.”
Quinto frowned, and Rodgers sucked on his lips.
“It would explain why Bock’s version of the kidnapping doesn’t add up,” said Quinto. “Because he knew his assailant. He probably went along with Mitchell willingly, to start.”
“And only later realized he was being kidnapped,” said Rodgers.
Shay rapped her fingers on my desk as she peered at me. “You know, Daggers, the scenario you’ve laid out is definitely plausible, but there’s one glaring, outstanding issue with it.”
I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath, letting the air out through my nose slowly. “I know. The evidence, or lack thereof. We won’t get a confession out of Bock. He’s too smart, and even if he wasn’t, his lawyers are. And I doubt the man left a paper trail tying him to Mitchell. Which leaves leveraging Mitchell as our best shot, but he’s a serial murderer. He’s not exactly a credible witness. And on top of that, if his silence during your interrogation is any indication, he’s already realized he’s screwed. He knows he’s going to jail no matter what, and he might’ve come to grips with the fact that opposing Bock will just cause him more trouble in the long run. I doubt he’ll admit the truth of the matter to us, either.”
“Well, yes, there is that,” said Steele. “But I was referring to Wyle. We still don’t know how he fits into any of this, or how he knew where to find Mitchell and Bock.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have some ideas you’ve yet to share…”
I sighed. “I wish. I know, I’m usually an endless font of crazy, unfounded theories and wild possibilities, but I honestly can’t explain Wyle. Maybe if we talk to him, just once more. Now that we’ve apprehended Mitchell, maybe he’ll change his tune.”
I glanced at the break room. I didn’t have the heart to stuff him back in the holding cells, but the sitting room had been occupied by Bock, so I’d told Wyle to enjoy our fabulous coffee and asked a beat cop to stand guard at the door to make sure he didn’t make a break for it. But as I glanced at the room, I didn’t spot anyone there—neither Wyle nor the guard I’d assigned.
My heart sank, and I suffered a horrible sensation of fear. Could I have been wrong about him? Had he played me like a fiddle? Had he somehow masterminded the entire ordeal and now that I’d finally learned to trust him, at least to a degree, he’d bailed on me?
As my mind struggled with the possibility, the Captain’s voice erupted behind me.
40
I turned, and, luckily for me, the bulldog’s company precluded my oncoming heart attack. At his left stood a middle-aged man with unkempt finger-length blond hair and a stubble beard. He wore a heavy gabardine trench coat over his shoulders and a practiced scowl-and-frown combination on his face. Between him and the Captain stood none other than Harland Wyle, alternating his glances between the bulldog and the guy in the trench coat, a bewildered look in his eyes. The new guy wrapped a meaty hand around Wyle’s upper arm, grasping him in a way I sensed had more to do with function than friendliness.
The Captain eyed the four of us gumshoes. “Gentlemen, Steele, and Daggers—” He said that last part with a gleam in his eye. “—let me introduce Detective Marcellus Ledbetter. He’s with white collar crime downtown. I think he’ll be able to shine some light on one of the…
sticking points
of your current case.”
Ledbetter gave a curt nod. “Detectives, first let me commend you on your handling of the Bock case. Losing someone of his stature could’ve left a black eye on all of us for months, but instead you’ve helped instill a little faith into the populace. Faith that we can and
will
stop nefarious plots in their tracks, and that we’ll pull out all the stops in the protection of our citizens—so long as said citizens are uber-wealthy business tycoons.”
A smile escaped Ledbetter’s scowl following that last part. “But beyond that, detectives, you also have my thanks. If not for the publicity of the Bock case, I never would’ve found out you had this man, who’s been presenting himself to you as Harland Wyle, in custody.”
Wyle glanced at Ledbetter and the iron grip he held on his arm. “Um, my name
is
Harland Wyle.”
“Sure it is,” said Ledbetter. “Just as it’s also Tank Richards, or on occasion Harold Drambuie. But none of those monikers have much of a lasting appeal. Isn’t that right, Mr. Turtledove?”
Wyle raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Ledbetter shifted his gaze back onto us. “This man, whose given name is François Turtledove, isn’t who he pretends to be. Let me guess, detectives—he presented himself as a mystic? Or a seer? Or perhaps something more lavish? A scientist on the verge of a portentous discovery with as yet undiscovered technology at his disposal?”
“He said he was a time mage, actually,” said Steele.
“That’s because I
am
a time mage,” said Wyle.
“Stuff it, François,” said Ledbetter with a jostle of Wyle’s arm. “As it turns out, Mr. Turtledove here isn’t any of those things. He’s something much more mundane. A corporate spy. Isn’t that right?”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Wyle. “And could you please let go of my arm?”
“You want to keep playing this game?” Ledbetter’s scowl deepened. “Alright. I guess I’ll have to do the talking then. You see, me and my partner have been after Turtledove for years. He’s what I like to call a roving spook. Goes wherever the money takes him. And for the recent past, the money’s taken him in the direction of one of Mr. Bock’s largest overseas competitors, a corporation by the name of the Fleetwood Conglomerate. They’re a decent company—they have a solid manufacturing arm—but they don’t have the same technological innovations and expertise Bock Industries does. Isn’t that right?”
Wyle stared at Ledbetter, then turned his eyes to the floor and blinked twice. Then he looked at the Captain. “Can I get a lawyer, now?”
Ledbetter ignored him and kept talking. “You see, Mr. Turtledove’s been trying to steal trade secrets from Bock Industries for well over a year—anything that could be used to give the Fleetwood Conglomerate a fighting chance in the upcoming industrialization arms race. But Turtledove couldn’t get his mitts on anything valuable. At least, not until he caught wind of the lingering feud between Buford Gill and Linwood Bock.
“As it turns out, the folks over at Fleetwood are pragmatic. They don’t so much care about being better than Bock Industries, they just don’t want any competition. So they figured, as good as it might be to produce better products than Bock, it would be even better to have Bock exit the picture entirely. So they instructed Mr. Turtledove to fan the flames between Gill and Bock, hoping the resulting quarrel between the two would incriminate Bock and shutter his business. At the very least, it would irreparably stain his reputation. But as you wove your tangled web of lies and deception, you didn’t know it would lead to murder, did you Mr. Turtledove?”
“Ok, seriously,” said Wyle. “I have no idea what this man is talking about. Daggers, come on. Help me out. I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I helped you find Buford Gill. And Bock—”
“And how exactly did you do that?” asked Ledbetter.
“Um, by…following the time streams,” said Wyle sheepishly.
“Sure you did,” said Ledbetter. “And I’m sure a jury will believe that.”
“What?” said Wyle. “You can’t be seri—”
Ledbetter cut him off again, yanking on his arm as he did so. “Detectives, thanks again for your help. I don’t entirely understand Turtledove’s connection to Mr. Bock’s kidnapper—what was his name? Mitchell?—but I plan on finding out. In the meantime, I’m transferring him downtown to the Grant St. Precinct for questioning. Captain? I owe you one.”
“Not a problem, Detective,” said the Captain. “Grab one of our officers at the door to help you with the transfer. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”
Ledbetter dragged Wyle toward to the door, who couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He turned his head toward us to plead for assistance. “Detectives, please! I don’t know who this man is! He could be a serial killer, or a nutcase. You can’t leave me with him!”
Quinto grunted. “Nutcase? Doesn’t he see the irony in that?”
As Ledbetter wrestled Wyle out the precinct’s front doors, the Captain’s harsh bark brought me back to attention.
“Detectives,” he said. “Good work today on the Gill case. You didn’t catch Mitchell before he notched a couple more victims, but you got him before he brought harm to Bock, and trust me, the commissioner won’t forget that come time to hand out commendations.”
“Or raises, I hope,” I mumbled.
The Captain snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up, Daggers. Now go on. Get out of here. You can finish the paperwork in the morning.”
With that, he turned tail and headed toward his office. It wasn’t much of a thanks, but given the Captain’s heart had been surgically replaced with a sack of rocks, it was about as good as we were likely to get.
“Well, he doesn’t have to tell me twice,” said Rodgers. “I’d better get home before Allison kills me. See you guys tomorrow.”