Baker Street shakedown
|
The Adventures of Opco Boone, Legal Ace™
|
Officer Cadet Lloyd T. Graeber, III, sat shotgun in the parked-up cruiser, drumming fingers on the dash. Hot damn, Melvin was taking his sweet time.
The two-way burbled, like it had been all afternoon, like it did every afternoon. and Graeber paid it little mind until this: “All units, this is an A.P.B. on a suspected cache of financial weapons in a late-model silver GMRA, headed northbound on Baker between Blandford and Dorset.”
For a moment, Graeber forgot about his coffee. He glanced up at the cross-sign — Dorset — then sat up like a ram-rod. He snatched the radio, juggled it, lost it, snagged it again and breathed, “copy that, dispatch,” into his CB. In the flinch of an eye, Officer Cadet Lloyd T. Graeber, III was fully present, clicked in and running all-sense hyperscan mode.
He didn’t have to scan long. At that moment the peaceable street-scene adjacent his squad car ruptured into commotion: screeches, squeals and squabbles of honks, slides and lock-ups culminating five wobbling sedans skew-whiff across the four-way. From their angry midst, a shark-grey coupe cruised through on the red, exiting the intersection with the same unruffled poise as it had entered it.
Graeber sure as shit wasn’t having that. He leapt out and waded into the road, waving his baton. The shark rolled up. It pulled over easy. The driver’s window lowered a crack. A burly face peered out through mirrored aviators and came on all nice as pie.
“Good morning officer.” A hint of gentility underlay a southern drawl.
Graeber placed it as Cornish. He pulled himself up. “Good morning, sir. Are you aware you ran a red light back there?”
The driver feigned shock. “A red light? Did I?”
Graeber narrowed his eyes. The shades made it hard to tell but the apology vibed greasy and insincere.
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, officer, I can only thank you, deeply, for being good enough to bring the matter to my attention. I assure you I shall be more vigilant in future.” There was that gentility again. The powered window raised. The driver gunned the engine. “Good day, officer,”
“Hold on, there, sir.”
The window dropped. “Are we okay, Officer?”
“We are just fine, sir.” Graeber glared. “May we see your KYC papers, please?”
“Is this really necessary?”
“It is just a routine inspection, sir. I promise you it won’t take a moment.”
“Now listen here, officer. My client is an important man. He is on his way to an important meeting. He is now late. While I would love to stop and chat, but today, alas, there just isn’t time. Now, if you—”
“Papers, please.”
The driver sighed, ostentatiously apologised to his passenger, and fished his papers out from his visor. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Officer Cadet L. T. Graeber.”
“Just my job, sir. To protect and serve.” Graeber tapped his badge.
The driver read it off. “ES-2423. That’s Eagle Squad, isn’t it?”
“It is, sir. Academy, sir. Would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”
“You what?”
“The trunk, sir. Please open the trunk. Routine inspection.”
The rear window lowered six inches. A silver-haired man gave a celebrity smile, as if Graeber should know who he was. Graeber smiled back, as if to say he did not.
“Can I help, officer?”
“Certainly, sir. You can help by directing your driver to open the trunk. We are following up on an all points bulletin, sir.”
“But surely, you are not suggesting —”
“I am not suggesting anything sir. If you would kindly let me see your trunk, I am sure you can be on your way.”
The trunk popped. Graeber wheeled around. The driver was out of the vehicle fast.
The chrome of the weapons lit Graeber’s face. He whistled. “Well, now, this is interesting.”
“Do you have a licence for these?”
The driver looked flustered. His passenger said, “I do. I’m a collector. These are antiques. Their closeout triggers have been immobilised.”
The driver nodded, slowly. Next to him was an androgynous, alien, but icily beautiful youth of indeterminate age.
Officer Graeber did not recognise him. But he thought he recognised the kid, at least by type. He knew a vega hooker when he saw one.
“I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”
“Why, you little —”
In a fluid motion Graeber hauled the driver out of the car, shunted him across the bonnet, unholstered his piece and pressed its muzzle into the man’s neck and began to read him his rights. Let’s have your KYC papers
The silver-haired passenger had emerged from the car. He said, “An un-netted ’92 L.F.C. nice piece —”
“It’s an antique. I'm a collector.”
“Lloyd, what’s going on? What the hell’s going on?”
Eagle Squad Cadet Wayne Melvin LLB (2nd class) was standing on the pavement, clutching polystyrene cups and a paper bag of donuts, and regarding his partner with horror.