Taking the Highway Read online

  TAKING THE HIGHWAY

  BY M.H. MEAD

  * * *

  First Ion Productions Edition / December 2012

  Copyright © 2012 Margaret Yang and Harry R. Campion

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously

  This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the reader. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  Cover Design by Streetlight Graphics

  Ebook Design by JW Manus

  to Elizabeth and Chi

  for everything, forever

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  THE POLICE

  ANDRE LACROIX—Detective Sergeant, Robbery/Homicide, Detroit

  DANNY CARIATTI—Detective Lieutenant, Robbery/Homicide, Detroit

  CAITLIN EVANS—Captain, Robbery/Homicide, Detroit

  SOFIA GAO—Detective Sergeant, Robbery/Homicide, Downriver

  JAE GEOFFREY TALIC—Special Liaison to Homeland Security, Detroit

  GREER KOSMATKA—Organized Crime Unit, Detroit

  HANSON QUIGG—Detective Lieutenant, Internal Affairs, Detroit

  DELANDRA KELSO—Coroner, contracted with the Detroit Police Department

  THE JEFFS—Assistant Coroners, contracted with the Detroit Police Department

  JORDAN ELWAY—IT Specialist, contracted with the Detroit Police Department

  THE POLITICIANS

  MADISON ZUCHEK—Detroit City Manager

  SHONNA SMITH—Mayor of Detroit

  IAGO BERNSTEIN—Economist, contracted with the city of Detroit

  OLIVER LACROIX—Member of the Detroit City Council

  TOPHER PRICE-POWELL—President, Council for Economic Justice

  SANDOR BAY—Vice President, Council for Economic Justice

  WILMA RILEY—Tech support, Council for Economic Justice

  THE FOURTHS

  MATTHEW DAVIS SHEPLER

  ARTHUR YALNA

  HOMER CARCASSI

  DOUGLAS MING

  RUSSELL VAN SLATER

  BOB MASTERSON

  WALTER GLASS

  HUGH INGERSOL

  NIKHIL LACROIX

  “GETTING CROWDED HERE THESE last few weeks, hmm?”

  Andre LaCroix murmured polite agreement, wishing the man would go talk to someone else. The fact that he was right didn’t matter. Chatter among fourths betrayed anxiety and the need to fit in, a hallmark of the two-bits. Talking didn’t help you get the ride.

  “I’m considering working the ramp at Wixom.”

  Too far in, Andre thought, though the sound he made was non-committal, supportive. He remembered the other man introducing himself several weeks ago. Charles. Andre was good with names, they were an important part of his job—both jobs really. He wished he could stick out a hand, call Charles by name, offer the poor guy something. But that would only encourage more conversation. Downtown? Sure. In the suburbs, never.

  A year-old Ford Pegasus slowed as it approached the parking lot where they waited. Andre’s unwelcome shadow turned like a puppy anticipating the throw of a ball. Two-bit. At least he’d stopped talking. It was easy to feel sorry for fourths like this, want to see them get chosen, pick up a little more experience. On the other hand, Andre getting the ride set a better example. Maybe chatty Charles would learn something.

  The Ford’s passenger window lowered and a man with a too-dark tan and too much hair raised a hand to beckon Andre past the others.

  Bon chance, Charles. Andre leaned into the car. “There and back?” he asked.

  “We were hoping.” The man’s face broke into a smile, revealing model-perfect teeth. “What’s your rate?”

  The smile told him what he needed to know. Here was a carpool that knew what to expect from a fourth. There would be some lingering annoyance at the missing piece of their commuting puzzle, some blame for the inconvenience and additional expense. Most fourths would be happy to sit and take it—particularly complaints about the fee.

  Andre decided to roll the dice. “Why don’t you decide that on the way down?”

  A pindrop of silence from the man, then the woman behind the wheel crowed, “Sold!”

  “You have a fourth.” Andre slid into the seat in a single, fluid motion, then took his time with the seatbelt configuration. He used those three seconds to assess the two young women in the car. Late twenties and early twenties. Business flair. Andre recognized girl-on-a-budget designers. The car carried no perfume, coffee, or other loud smells. Somebody was allergic to fragrance and the driver was fussy enough to enforce a ban on food in the car. He filed it all away for later.

  He offered his badge for scanning, politely declined. The Pegasus moved toward the highway on-ramp with a brief crunch of gravel and the smooth hum from the tires. A mechanical voice spoke from the companel. “Overdrive is now engaged.”

  The driver said, “Our first drop is at Woodward and Montcalm. That work for you?”

  All the way downtown. He challenged their expectations by bitching good-naturedly about being too far from work, asking if they could drop him at Wayne State as they got off the highway. Fourths weren’t supposed to complain about drop points; you took what you could get. Exiting the car at the university would still put him twelve blocks from police headquarters at Cityheart, but mentioning that would raise far too many questions. A fourth riding with a powerful handgun hidden beneath the exquisite tailoring of his suit tended to make paying customers nervous.

  Introductions followed, first-names only. Shaggy-haired Philippe offered an over-the-shoulder handshake. Barbara—late twenties, riding third—allowed a brief pressure on fingers bearing an array of silver rings. The driver, Margot, settled for a dimpled smile. Andre thought of them as a unit. Margot-Philippe-Barbara. They’d be appalled at being lumped into a single person, but it was the best way to remember them for the short term, and forget them once he left the car.

  The Overdrive system chimed a gentle tone as it moved the car into a new lane, transferring them to Interstate 96. A pan-directional holo ad loomed over the cloverleaf. With a trace of irony and no small measure of hypocrisy, Mayor Smith wagged a translucent hand and advised them to “Make it Tangible.”

  Barbara craned her neck to watch the ad. “Are they going to trot that out every election?”

  “They might actually make it law this time.” Philippe turned sideways in his seat. “When was the last time you saw someone look anything but embarrassed when their phone rang in public?”

  Barbara raised eyebrows at him. “Andre, would you support a public communication ban?”

  And here was the test. Would he earn his fee today? His first few weeks on the job, Andre would rush to find a point of agreement, grabbing the first thing anyone said and sucking it up so hard that by the time the passengers dropped him off, they had to squeeze him out of the car like an oily weasel. He knew better now, but he also knew that waiting too long would get him labeled a dullard. He had no choice but to jump in. He could backpedal later if he had to.

  His riders were young, middle-class, suburban. Of course they would like the comm ban. They might be full-blown techshuns. He hadn’t seen a single datapad. They hadn’t scanned his fourthing badge. They didn’t even have music in the car. Agreement would be easy, but hardly interesting. Time for a little measured honesty. “I’m afraid the bill is unenforceable as written. Tech is always one step ahead of legislators. Two steps, as often as it can manage.”

  Philippe gripped the seatback. “Yeah, but if you’re holding a datapad, at least I can see it.”

  Andre never mentioned the subcutaneous phone implanted behind his right
ear. Like the gun, it tended to make paying customers nervous. “What if someone needed to call for help but they were in a public blackout area? I’d feel terrible.”

  “Society existed for years without everyone being able to communicate all the time.” Barbara said. “It survived.”

  “Besides,” Philippe said, “the bill distinguishes between those making frivolous calls and the truly necessary.”

  Andre raised an eyebrow. “I can make every single one of my calls sound necessary.”

  Philippe scoffed. “Most calls are crap.”

  “Everyone can do it. Your wife calls to tell you that the baby ate peas and carrots for lunch.” Andre held an imaginary datapad in front of him. “You have to say something like, ‘I think in this situation, you can join the President’s motorcade.’ Now, let’s say your long-winded friend dials while you’re at work.” He held the invisible datapad to Philippe.

  “I’d disconnect.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You’d say, ‘How long can you keep the kidney on ice?’“

  Margot was wearing dimples again. “No! You cut the blue wire to disarm the bomb.”

  Barbara pretended to take the pad from Margot and spoke into it. “The most important thing is not to get it in your eyes.”

  Philippe smiled and reached for the datapad. “Well, if that’s what it takes to save an entire species.”

  “Now the school is completely under water.”

  “I don’t care what the mayor is offering.”

  “How much do you need for bail?”

  “Now move the scalpel to the left . . . No, your left!”

  Andre laughed along, hoping he could keep them happy for at least five more minutes of travel. Long enough to take the highway through the disincorporated zone, past the walls and over the shallow canals that separated zone from city. Staying in the car all the way downtown should be worth at least fifty bucks from each passenger.

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador, the price of world peace—”

  [ATTENTION. ATTENTION.]

  It took all of Andre’s years of experience to keep his face blank as a voice that only he could hear sounded behind his inner ear. Even so, he missed a little of what Philippe said and had to trust that his laughter was appropriate.

  “Sergeant LaCroix, please respond.” The dispatcher kept her voice neutral, but Andre could swear he heard a note of mischievous challenge.

  He reached up as if to scratch his ear, sent the single pulse that meant acknowledgement, and tried to get back into the flow of the conversation.

  “Sergeant LaCroix, either respond or signal an emergency.”

  Barbara passed him the invisible datapad.

  Everyone in the car looked to him, waiting. He glanced out the window. They were still in the zone, far from anyplace. He tried to think. Hospital? No, they’d already used that one. He made his voice a panicked whisper. “No, I swear. They’re following me right now.” He handed off the pad.

  The implant spoke again, the dispatcher’s voice replaced with the impatient gravel of his partner. “Quit screwing around, LaCroix. We have a body at Pinecrest and Fullerton Streets and I need you five minutes ago.”

  Andre sent a double pulse—negative—and laughed along with whatever Margot had come up with.

  A cool female voice sounded near his ear. He recognized that voice, too. The captain. “Detective Sergeant LaCroix, you will respond verbally to the request for communication or you will be suspended until you’re old and ugly.”

  He swallowed, cleared his throat, and spoke clearly. “This is Detective Sergeant LaCroix acknowledging receipt of orders. I am proceeding to the location given.”

  “I love it!” Barbara squealed and slapped her thighs. “Do another one.”

  “I’m not joking. I’m sorry.” Andre fished out the laminate stick that projected his police shield. “I’m going to need you to take the first Detroit exit and drop me off.”

  Margot’s mouth formed a soundless “oh.” She signaled, pulled to the right, and made for the exit ramp.

  The Overdrive system released their vehicle. Margot settled her hands on the wheel. Philippe sighed as he turned to face the front. There was no other sound in the suddenly silent car.

  MARGOT PULLED THE FORD Pegasus into the lot of a run-down drugstore on the city side of the disincorporated zone. “Police or not, this is as far as I go.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Andre said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you all the way to work.”

  Margot fumbled in her purse. “Well, here. At least take this.” She handed him twenty dollars.

  Andre thanked her and exited the car. He didn’t ask about a ride home. They would find another fourth, a downtown stray, for the afternoon commute, probably for a bargain. He peered into his pocket, flicked on his datapad, and stole a glance at the map. The address Danny had given him was five blocks away, perhaps more if he encountered a long stretch of border. He started jogging in that direction. When he neared Fullerton Street, he made a sharp turn and left the city for a different world.

  Windows and doors were barred where they weren’t covered over with plywood. Ambitious weeds poked through cracks in the street. What had once been lawn was now a tangle of weed and scrub, running from broken porches, across walks, and down into dry swimming pools in junglesque profusion.

  As with many neighborhoods in this not-quite-urban ring around the city, this area had once been part of Detroit, a fashionable ellipse of upper-middle class homes. Now, smack within the wasteland surrounding the shrunken city, this was part of what was officially called the disincorporated zone. Unofficially, everyone called it the oh-zone. Outside of the city’s new, smaller footprint, unclaimed by the suburbs, the oh-zone was a wild place. It had its own customs, its own language, its own dangers. And of course, its own cautionary tales. “Where did this happen? . . . Oh.”

  There were places where the city bordered the suburbs quite elegantly. Other places, the ring of the oh-zone was several kilometers wide. Still, Detroiters could pretty much look in any direction and see unspeakable poverty squeezing the city like a noose. Even Windsor, across the river, felt like an extension of the zone sometimes, especially in comparison to the glittering beauty of Cityheart or the green serenity of the northern suburbs.

  Pounding footsteps from behind put Andre on guard. He spun around to see the petite form of Delandra Kelso hurrying down the street. The coroner never parked her car in the oh-zone if she could help it, even at a taped-off crime scene. He waved, but Delandra pushed ahead mumbling, “I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead.”

  Andre caught up to her. “Coroner humor? I mean, your patients are dead.”

  Delandra raked her hair off her face. She had masses of the stuff, black and gray waves, which she usually wore pinned tightly to her head. Now it flowed over her shoulders and down her back, the breeze blowing ribbons of it across her cheeks. “I turned my phone off last night.”

  Andre clicked his tongue. “Naughty, naughty.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “I turn mine off every night. Who can sleep with that in your head?”

  “Yeah, but I forgot to turn it back on until, like, five minutes ago. Don’t get too close. I haven’t brushed my teeth.” She grabbed a fistful of hair at her shoulder, catching less than half of it. “Do you have a rubber band or anything? I can’t work like this.”

  Andre slowed his footsteps, stopping on a weedy patch of pavement. “Don’t worry. As long as you’re not the last one there, you’re not late. There’s a drugstore about four blocks back. I’ll get you some elastic, be ten minutes behind you, make you look like you’re on time.”

  Delandra touched his elbow to urge him forward. “Yeah, and Cariatti will bust your balls instead of mine. I can’t let you do that.”

  Andre shrugged. “Danny is used to it.”

  “You mean you’re used to it.”

  “That is something you never get used to.” He turned to walk back the way he’d come, gesturing
for Delandra to go on.

  “Get me some mints too!” she called after him.

  Choosing the perfect hair elastics took slightly more than ten minutes. By the time Andre returned to the crime scene, his shirt was stuck to his back and his collar was wilting from his sweaty neck, but there was still a gap between the line-bots. Technically, he was not late.

  He walked past the crash car and nodded to Delandra’s two assistants. They had the same first name and so were always just the Jeffs.

  Danny stood inside the scene perimeter, glaring at the empty street. In the city, a cordon of line-bots and holotape acted as a magnet, and they’d have to pull in patrol officers to keep gawkers away. Here in the zone, police presence was a signal to go to ground. Nobody was supposed to live here. In reality, a lot of people did. The police would never see any of them. The entire disincorporated zone looked like ten years after a zombie attack.

  “About time,” Danny said.

  Andre eased himself into the gap between bots and closed the holotape behind him. “Don’t tell me that Del-Kel is done already.”

  “Waiting for an essential piece of equipment.”

  “Ah. That would be these.” Andre caught Delandra’s eye and handed her the hair elastics. They were the kind meant for little girls, pink and yellow and cute.

  Delandra opened the package and sighed at the impossibly small bands. “Men.”

  “What?” Andre asked, all innocence.

  “Nothing. Thank you.” She divided her hair into sections and bound one into a tiny loop with a plastic duck on the end. Andre waited until she had a second section done and had started on the third before holding out the other package he’d bought—elastics both large and plain.

  Delandra snatched it out of his hand and tore into it. “Smartass.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want the mints?”

  Danny cleared his throat. “If the two of you are done playing beauty parlor, can we get this going before the body decays into the ground?”