Alan Dean Foster (6 page)

It was the same alien officer he'd decked in the tunnel.

A few diehards remained in the middle of the room, continuing to argue as Sykes gazed thoughtfully at the Captain's office. Fedorchuk and Alterez were among those hanging on, venting their frustration and anger at anyone within earshot.

"Unbelievable bullshit, " Fedorchuk observed sagely, shaking his head in fresh outrage.

Alterez would've spat if they'd been outside. "How long has this Slag been on the force, anyway? A year, maxright? Couldn't be any longer than that, even including time at the Academy. Less than a year and he makes detective. You know how long I had to slave in a uniform to make grade, man?"

"Yeah, I know. We all know." Fedorchuk's gaze swept over the small group of malcontents. "I dunno about the rest of you, but I sure as hell ain't gonna sit still for this. I'm calling the Union, pronto, and I don't give a shit what the Feds say. We don't have to take this! "

A couple of the others ventured verbal support for this proposed course of action, one quoting the number for the Union office from memory. Another nodded and headed for a free phone. Meanwhile Fedorchuk found himself frowning as he spotted Sykes strolling unconcernedly toward the Captain's office.

"You see that?"

Alterez turned and saw, was puzzled but not upset. "I thought he clocked in on time."

"He did. Where the hell's he going?"

Sykes never hesitated. He knocked on the door, face expressionless, waited a polite moment, and then popped the door and stuck his face inside. Warner looked at him in mild surprise.

"Yeah, Sykes?"

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"Captain, I'd like to volunteer for duty with the new detective. "

It wasn't often anyone caught Warner badly off guard. He tied to hide his reaction but wasn't quite fast enough. He hadn't really expected to get a volunteer, was certain he'd be forced to assign some unfortunate low-ranker with little seniority to the task, and didn't know quite what to say now that his little problem had been so quickly and painlessly removed from his problem file. He never would have expected Sykes.

Especially after what had happened to Detective William Tuggle.

However, as his problem file was always the thickest one on his desk, he wasn't about to hesitate over the offer.

"That's very thoughtful of you, Sykes. Very." He stared as the detective entered and shut the door behind him. Sykes's expression was blank, unreadable. Warner stared at him a second longer, then shrugged mentally and turned to face the massive alien.

"Detective Sergeant Sykes, this is Detective Francisco."

All the aliens had names like that. They'd been assigned them arbitrarily upon arrival and processing through camp. Not one had raised objection either to the procedure or to any of the names.

The Newcomer peered solemnly over at the detective and didn't bat an eye.

"We have met."

Warner's naturally suspicious nature instantly clicked into high gear.

He put a questioning eye on Sykes, who ignored him. Something smelled, and it wasn't the men's toilet up the hall. Even so, Sykes had volunteered, which took a load off Warner's shoulders. But if they already knew each other... '

His thoughts were interrupted by the action of his other guest. The slim gentleman had moved to shake first the Newcomer's hand, then Sykes's. He was smiling cheerfully as he greeted them.

"Victor Goldrup, Mayor's Office, special liaison for Newcomer Affairs.

Congratulations, gentlemen. This is a historic moment in Human-Newcomer relations and a historic day for the Los Angeles Police Department. I am proud to be a

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small part of it. You're both going to find yourselves in the history books.

"

It had taken Warner those couple of moments of introduction to make the connection he'd been seeking. His initial suspicions were well grounded. It was just that everything had happened a tad too fast for him to put it together. Now he glared hard at the uncharacteristically altruistic Sykes.

"You are to have nothing to do with the investigation into Bill Tuggle's death. You know that. Leave that for Fedorchuk. It's his baby, his and Alterez's. I won't have my people butting into each other's business, no matter how noble their motives. "

If he expected an argument he was disappointed. Sykes merely nodded agreeably. "Departmental policy."

"That's right, and don't forget it." By way of afterthought, Warner glanced over at the alien. "You understand too?"

"Yes, sir. " The Newcomer didn't nod. They could, when they wanted to. The lack of a nod bothered the Captain but he couldn't say so. That was also departmental policy. The situation was delicate enough, having a Newcomer uniform on the premises. Going and making one into a detective had potentially explosive ramifications among the rank and file. No point in making things worse. So if he didn't want to nod, fine.

"Good."

Before he could say anything else, Sykes stepped forward, trying not to appear overly anxious. It helped that he was dead tired from emotional fatigue and lack of sleep.

"If it's all right, Cap, considering the uniqueness of our situation and all, there's another case I'd like to take. Sort of start out with something I'm a little familiar with, you know?"

Warner didn't look up at him, but his tone was still wary. "What case?"

"A homicide. Newcomer named Hubley."

Warner pretended to study the papers carpeting his desk. Goldrup was ignoring everyone, off in some bureaucratic heaven of his own. Probably contemplating the potential

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PR. So no one noticed the look Francisco threw Sykes. The aliens weren't always so inscrutable. It was plain that the Newcomer knew his volunteer partner was up to something. But he didn't comment, and Sykes took pains to avoid his stare.

"Granger and Pitts are already on it," Warner said brusquely.

Sykes pressed his argument. "Granger and Pitts have one hell of a caseload.

They're also doing the Wilcox murder, and they've been stuck on the Silver Lake rape for six months now. They might be able to come up with a lead on that, if they didn't have sixteen other things to do. Now you're gonna dump this one on 'em."

"Granger and Pitts are my best investigative team."

Sykes let that one pass. "They're only human, Cap." The humor slipped past his listeners. "They need a break or they won't find piss on anything. I would've thought what with Francisco here being the first Newcomer plainclothes, and Hubley's body being found over in the Newcomer community, it would only make sense for the two of us to take the Hubley case."

"Don't tell me what to think," Warner told him sharply even as he found himself mulling over the detective's words.

The thrust of the conversation had drawn Goldrup out of his daze. "He's got a good point, Captain Warner. That's the sort of thing we should be doing with this early-advancement program. Much better than sending them out on something routine like patrol and search. If we're going to get any airtime out of this we're going to have to go for something kind of exciting, if you catch my drift."

Yeah, I catch it, Warner thought sourly. Right in the ass, where I usually catch dorks; like you. The Captain bore it with the air of the long-suffering martyr compelled to endure yet another fiendish torment.

There was nothing he could say and what the hell difference did it make anyway? Other than the fact that the victim was a Newcomer, the Hubley case was your standard Homicide One, Unsolved. So Sykes was interested in it, so what? Everybody knew

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how weird Sykes was. Around the station, Bill Tuggle had been regarded as a saint for putting up with the guy for nine years. Sykes would be in a nuthouse somewhere, or the gutter, if not for one unarguable fact: he was a good detective.

Obviously his volunteering to work with the Newcomer had something to do with Tuggle's death at Newcomer hands. Just as obviously, he wanted the Hubley case because it also involved a Newcomer. Was that anything to worry about? So long as he kept his nose clean and left Tuggle's murder to Fedorchuk and Alterez, his other motives need not concern Warner.

I've spent far too much time worrying about it already, he thought abruptly. I've got a precinct to run.

He sighed deeply, and recognized it for the acquiescence it was. He tried not to smile.

_1V_

The door that blocked off the bottom of the ground floor stairwell was solid steel, intended not only to keep out aggravated street types and unwelcome media mavens but bullets and fair-sized explosives. It banged noisily against its hinges as Sykes slammed it wide. Francisco followed close behind. Even allowing for the fact they were from different worlds, they made an odd couple. Sykes had slept in and looked it, while the Newcomer in his neatly pressed suit more closely resembled a canvasser for the Jehovah's Witnesses.

They'd spent the rest of the day talking, going over official procedures, doing what was expected of new partners. Because of his recent advancement, Francisco had plenty of additional paperwork to deal with. He handled it adroitly. That surprised Sykes as he watched his new partner at work. Maybe this guy Francisco was real smart. That wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Black-and-whites were pulling out on the evening watch as the two detectives made their way across the parking lot. Sykes was doing all the talking. He'd been lecturing Francisco most of the afternoon, ever since the Newcomer had tidied up the last of his official forms.

". . . And we work my hours. I'll do the driving, you do the paperwork. You gotta learn it, so you might as well do it. I saw you back there. " He nodded in the direction of the 42

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station house. "You handled yourself okay. But filling out personnel chits isn't the same thing as making out an arrest sheet or trying to describe an arsonist's state of mind at the time of arrest."

"I have done my homework." Francisco spoke quietly, smoothly. A moment later he added, in a tone only slightly different from the one he'd employed all day, "Sergeant, I'd like to thank you for what you're doing."

"What's that?" It made no sense to Sykes until he realized what the alien was referring to. "Look, get one thing straight in your pointy head. We're not pals, we're not married, and we ain't gonna take long moonlit walks together. So don't thank me. We're just partners. All we do is work together. The rest of the time we're on opposite sides of the moon, got it?" The alien listened intently and without comment.

"One more thing. Don't call me 'sergeant.' Call me Sykes. Or Matt, if you have to. No, Sykes would be better."

"I understand the significance of being on a first-name basis. I would not presume. By the way, mine is Samuel."

Sykes nodded absently and they continued on until his expression contorted and he called a halt again.

"Wait a minute. Let's make sure I've got this straight. Your name is Francisco. Samuel Francisco?"

The Newcomer nodded.

"Wasn't that a mission padre or something? Some guy who built shit for the Indians and taught them how to make adobe, stuff like that?"

Again the alien nodded.

Sykes shook his head doubtfully. "You look about as much like a Spanish friar as a chilied chicken." The Newcomer didn't react to this sally, not that Sykes had expected him to. Tug, now ...

Forget about that.

"This won't do. Francisco's bad enough, and people are gonna start whistling the same old tune at you. I'm damned if I'm gonna run around calling you 'Sarnuel.' That's not gonna carry the right weight if we have to use the radio." He shook his head, grinning to himself.

"I've heard some good ones for you guys. Humphrey 44

Bogart, Harley-Davidson. Could'a been worse in your case. I guess the people at Immigration got a little punchy after awhile, coming up with names for a quarter of a million of you. Samuel Francisco might cut it for a mortuary worker, but not for a cop. Understand?"

"It sounds too much like a familiar California city."

Sykes nodded vigorously. "Besides the padre business. So you're not a total jerk. Good. The Francisco can stay, but the Samuel's gotta go."

"My true name is SS'tangya T'ssorentsa'."

"Gesundheit. I'd call you ST, but that's too close to another bad joke. How does 'George' strike you?"

"Strike me?" The Newcomer was puzzled. If only they had external ears instead of those damn holes, Sykes thought. Then they wouldn't look half so bizarre.

"How does it sound to you? Any objections?"

"Why should I object," the alien replied blandly, "when the name Samuel Francisco was not one of my choosing either?"

"Fine. Glad you understand." Sykes completely missed the implied bitterness, which was just as well. "George it is, then. Nobody can object to that. It still sounds a little silly, but not half as silly as the other. Anyway, what's it matter to you if we think it's funny, right?

Whatta you care?"

"That is quite correct." The alien's face was devoid of expression, which was fortunate in the light of what he said next. "it is like your own name.

Sykes."

The detective frowned slightly as he scanned the parking lot. "What's wrong with Sykes?" There was the slugmobile, right where he'd left it. He turned to his left.

"Nothing-.-as far as you are concerned. I'm sure it doesn't bother you at all that it sounds like 'ss'ai k'ss', two words in my language which mean respectively 'excrement' and 'craniurn.' "

Sykes paused on the driver's side after unlocking the internals. He wore a perplexed look, so the Newcomer took the liberty of elaborating.

"Shit-head."

He climbed in, squeezing his bulk through the too-small passenger door on the other side, leaving Sykes standing

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there alone. The last vestiges of the smirk the detective had been wearing all afternoon were falling rapidly from his face.

There was plenty of traffic, most of it law-abiding. Sykes ignored the violators. He wasn't interested in maintaining the speed limit or ticketing Valley housewives whose taillights had burnt out. He wasn't even interested in pausing to verbally flay the pair of teenagers they'd caught vandalizing a vacant house. He had only one thing on his mind, though it took him awhile to get around to discussing it.