Max Collins - Before the Dawn

“Why don’t you arrest them?”

“We do,” Rush said. “But every mook in this neighborhood who ain’t into crime is a defense attorney.”

So that’s what they mean by “Neighborhood Watch,” Lydecker thought.

An attractive thirtyish honey-blond woman in an off-white slacks outfit answered the bell. She seemed to recognize Rush, and — without identifying herself (whether she was hired help or the man’s wife or girlfriend remained a mystery) — led the little group to a large room off to the right.

The walls were pale yellow, the trim all white, the carpeting thick and heavy, also white. This might have been the living room, but Lydecker supposed it was a music room of sorts, since the only piece of furniture was a white grand piano where a man who just had to be Johan Bryant sat on the stool, his hand resting casually over the keyboard.

The man at the piano didn’t rise when the trio walked in, Rush in the lead, Lydecker laying back. Tall, blond, and chiseled, Bryant might have been a member of the Hitler Youth if it hadn’t been for his long hippie-ish hair ponytailed back.

“Rush, Davis — how’s it hanging?” he asked, his smile wide and unrealistically white, the same shade as his white slacks; he wore a yellow V-neck pullover and sandals. A glass of clear liquid with a lemon floating in it sat on a coaster on the piano.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Bryant continued affably, looking past the two cops at the unimpressive figure in the gray zippered jacket.

“Not yet,” Lydecker said, with a smile.

“Uncle Sam needs you,” Rush said to the dealer, pointing to the colonel.

“Not the Policemen’s Health and Retirement Fund, this time, huh?” Bryant said, noodling softly on the keyboard.

“Zip it,” Rush said tightly.

Bryant smiled faintly, ironically.

The detectives approached Bryant at the bench. Lydecker was on the other side of Bryant; he withdrew the photos from inside his jacket. The dealer continued playing a meandering tune on the piano.

“We’re trying to locate a suspect,” Lydecker said. “It’s not a narcotics matter.”

Bryant noodled.

Lydecker said, “This individual uses tryptophan.”

The dealer said, “You can get that at pharmacies.”

“Pharmacies have to record sales of that nature. Customers have to sign. This individual wouldn’t like that. Look at the pictures.”

Bryant noodled some more.

Lydecker held one of the photos of the male X5 in front of the dealer. “Have you seen him before?”

Bryant said, “No,” but he was looking at the ivories under his fingers.

Grabbing onto the man’s ponytail for leverage, Lydecker shoved Bryant’s face into the piano keys, making dissonant nonmusic, accompanied by a surprised, pained scream.

The woman came running, and she had a big gun in her little hand. But Davis plucked the weapon like a flower and walked her out of the room, disappearing with her.

Lydecker stepped back to allow the dealer to sit up, and compose himself; the man was touching his face — really, there were just a few cuts and welts, his forehead crying tears of blood onto his yellow sweater. Awkwardly, the dealer started to get up.

But Rush put a hand on Bryant’s shoulder, holding him down. “Interview’s not over.”

Bryant glared back at Rush, who shook his head. Lydecker took this to mean the dealer and these cops had an arrangement... but this matter was not covered by it.

The dealer sat down again, his hands going automatically to the keyboard — but no more noodling.

Lydecker gave the man a handkerchief and Bryant dabbed blood from his forehead, saying to the man who’d caused the wounds, “Thanks.”

“Would you mind taking another look?” Lydecker asked.

The dealer swallowed and looked at the photo Lydecker was holding up. “Yeah, now that I take a closer gander... turns out I have seen him before.”

“Do you remember where?”

“Yeah... yeah, I can help you in that area. Glad to cooperate.”

Lydecker twitched a sort of smile, patted the dealer’s shoulder, gently. “Always a pleasure to meet a civic-minded citizen.”

Bryant said, “If... if I tell you where he lives, will that be the end of it?”

“For you, yes,” Lydecker said.

And with any luck, he thought, for that rebel X5, too.

Seth was still snoring on the guest room bed when Logan came in with the news.

Logan turned on the bedside lamp and carefully shook the boy to wakefulness, trying not to startle him — he would not like to be the alarm clock this sleeper took a swipe at.

“Com... computers come through?” Seth asked groggily, sitting up, yawning again.

“Patience has its rewards.” He gave Seth a sideways grin. “So does bitchin’ software.”

Seth was alert, wide-awake now. “What did you find out?”

Within seconds, they were sitting in the living room, on the leather couch, Logan holding up a sheaf of papers. “When you copied that disc, my friend, you got us everything. ”

“Everything? What everything is that?”

“Smoking-gun everything.” Logan tossed the papers on the coffee table. “The kind that includes dates, times, paintings, amounts... every damn criminal thing Sterling and Kafelnikov have been doing together.”

“No shit?”

“It’s all here, Seth — every sleazy transaction... including the next one.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “You know what they’re going to do next?”

“ We know, Seth.”

“Where and when?”

“That’s right. It’s just a matter of calling the FBI now.”

Seth’s eyes tightened to slits. “Say what? ”

Logan shrugged. “American Masterpieces Act violation — we’ll call in the feds, have them arrested.”

“Logan, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Eyes Only cooperate with the feds? They’re fuckin’ corrupt — you always say so yourself.”

“There’s corruption,” Logan allowed. “Widespread. But I have contacts with honest individuals in federal law enforcement.”

“Yeah, and I’ll introduce you to the virgins down at the strip club.” Seth shook his head. “Listen, Logan, we got the chance to do two things here. We can stop these creeps Sterling and Kafelnikov, and we can come away with the nest egg I need.”

“The last time you ‘stopped’ a ‘creep,’ Seth... you killed him.”

“So that’s what this is about... Logan, I wouldn’t whack either of these guys, not right now, anyway — they’re our Manticore connection. And anyway, Jesus! Manticore is the federal government — Lydecker is a goddamn fed!”

Logan knew Seth was right; but the blood on the cyberjournalist’s hands, from their last episode together, was still clinging and damp.

“Look,” Seth was saying, “we intervene when their next deal goes down, save some great slice of Americana for your conscience, Eyes Only exposes the racket with a big bad bulletin, and we help ourselves to a major contribution to the Seth Survival Telethon.”

Logan, shaking his head, rose and plopped into one of the side chairs. “You lose your head again, I’ll be responsible for another death... maybe more than one.”

Seth leapt to his feet, gestured to himself. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not responsible if I kill someone — I am!”

“We’re ‘partners,’ remember?”

Seth snorted. “Well, let’s dissolve that as of now. From here on out, I work for myself. When we have shared interests, you might throw me a friggin’ bone.”