Cold War

Chapter 8

Detective Schaefer stepped into his own office and stopped dead, staring at the man seated behind the desk.

The stranger, caught off guard, stared back, frozen there with one hand reaching out for a framed photograph. His expression was smothered surprise.

He was a man in a conservative and expensive suit, with a conservative and expensive haircut, a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on Wall Street than Police Plaza. Right now, though, he was at 1 Police Plaza, in the headquarters of the New York Police Department, sitting in Schaefer’s chair, holding a photo of Schaefer and Rasche that was the only ornament on Schaefer’s desk, and staring at Schaefer.

After a moment of utter silence, Schaefer said, “Go ahead, make yourself at home. Take a look around. Maybe you’ll find some quarters under the seat cushion.”

”Ah,” the stranger said, carefully putting down the photo he’d been looking at. “My name is Smithers, Detective Schaefer.” He rose, holding out a hand to shake as he came around the desk. “I’ve been sent…”

Schaefer ignored the hand. He had recognized something about the other’s attitude. “You’re one of those army goons,” he interrupted. “Like Philips and the others. The ones who thought they could handle our friends on Third Avenue last summer:”

”I, ah…” Smithers began, quickly lowering the proffered hand.

He didn’t deny the connection, which was all the confirmation Schaefer needed. Schaefer cut him off. “I’ve got work to do, Smithers,” he said. “Real work. Whatever it is you came to say, spit it out. Then leave.” He pulled off his jacket.

”Yes, I…” Smithers said. Then he saw Schaefer’s face and cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident, Detective Schaefer. An entirely new occurrence. We believe your expertise, due to your previous experience in related matters, could prove invaluable should the event develop beyond current expectations…”

”Jesus, do you people spend your lunch hours memorizing a goddamn thesaurus?” Schaefer demanded as he turned and opened his locker. “Let me guess what you’re actually telling me, shall I? The boys are back in town and you’d like me to check it out, for old times’ sake.”

”Exactly,” Smithers said. “There are some new elements, however…”

”Fuck new elements,” Schaefer said as he hung up his jacket and slipped off his shoulder holster. “I’ve got a job to do here.”

”Of course, we would clear your status with your chief and any other applicable agencies…”

”I’ll bet you would.” Schaefer unbuttoned his shirt, speaking as he did. “You don’t seem to get it, Smithers, so let me spell it out. The Schaefer boys have put in their time as far as Philips and the rest of you are concerned. If you and the rest of your gang of hotshot special agents, or whatever you call yourselves, want to go for another tag-team match with those ugly mothers from outer space, you go right ahead, have at it.” He pulled off the shirt and slid it onto a hanger, exposing a body that would have done Arnold Schwarzenegger proud. “But you can leave me right out of it.”

”But, Detective…” Smithers began.

Schaefer taped a wire to his chest, holding a tiny microphone in place. “No,” he said.

”I’m sure that if…”

Schaefer continued to install the surveillance equipment as he said, “What part of ‘no’ didn’t you understand?”

”Damn it, Detective, will you let me finish a sentence?” Smithers shouted.

”Why should I?” Schaefer asked. “Besides, I just did.” With the wires securely in place, he reached in the locker and pulled out a gaudy pink-and-green shirt, the sort of thing the tackier pimps on Seventh Avenue wore.

Smithers fumed for a moment, then said, “I’d think you’d want a chance to get involved in this.”

Schaefer started buttoning the shirt, then looked at Smithers. “Why? Are they in New York again?”

”Well, no,” Smithers admitted.

”I knew it,” Schaefer said, looking back down at the buttons. “I’d have smelled them if they were here.” He finished buttoning the shirt, pulled a brown leather coat out of the locker, then turned to Smithers and said, “Listen up, army boy. If they aren’t in New York, I’m not interested. I don’t like those sons of bitches, but there are a lot of people in this world I don’t like, including you.” He tugged on one sleeve. “I’ve done my time, Smithers. So did my brother. He lost his entire squad to them; I got my city shot up and lost my partner. We took down a few of those ugly bastards along the way, we did our best, and I’m willing to call it even if they stay off my turf. You tell me they’re not on my turf, so you can just go to hell, and take General Philips with you.” He pulled on the other sleeve.

”Your ‘turf’ is just New York?”

”Damn right.” He straightened the coat. “I may think I’m pretty hot shit, but I’m not up to playing cop for the whole goddamned world. New York’s big enough for anyone.”

”So you won’t consider helping us?”

”I told you ‘no’ once already.”

”That’s your final word?”

”My real ‘final word’ would probably get me arrested,” Schaefer said, giving Smithers a shove toward the door. “Now get out of my office before I sprinkle you with salt and watch you melt on the sidewalk like the slug you are.” He pushed Smithers out and closed the door.

That done, he glanced at the clock. Despite that little chat he still had a few minutes to spare before he had to be in position.

He looked at the closed door. The man in the suit was making no effort to get back in, which was good-but that didn’t mean it was the end of the matter.

Even if Philips and his buddies were willing to let it drop, that didn’t mean Schaefer was. He’d been looking for Philips in his spare time for months, and hadn’t found him-but now he might have a fresh lead.

”Smithers, huh?” he muttered to himself. “If that’s a real name, I just might want to look him up later. We might have a nice little chat about Dutch.” He fished a scrap of paper from the pile on his desk, found a pen, and scribbled a quick note to himself just two names, “Smithers” and “Philips,” with an arrow connecting them.

Schaefer’s brother Dutch had disappeared years ago while working for Philips. Schaefer was certain that Dutch had run up against one of those alien big-game hunters, down there in Central America where Philips and his boys had been playing around in the local politics. Dutch and his boys had walked right into its hunting ground, and the thing had butchered Dutch’s entire team-but Dutch had apparently killed it and gotten out alive.

And then he’d vanished, and Schaefer was pretty damn sure that Philips knew more about that disappearance than he’d admitted.

And after last summer’s debacle Philips had disappeared, too-into the Pentagon somewhere, probably. Schaefer had resented that; he had wanted to have a friendly little talk with Philips.

This Smithers might be able to lead him to Philips, and maybe they could make some kind of a deal. He might just help Philips out after all, if the two of them could agree on a few details. He didn’t like those big ugly bastards from outer space, and despite what he’d told Smithers, a rematch wasn’t completely out of the question.

Any deal they might make would have to be on Schaefer’s terms, though. He wasn’t going to come running whenever Philips called. And sending Smithers here to fetch him had just pissed him off.

Schaefer would deal with Smithers and his boss when and where he chose-which wasn’t here or now. For one thing, he wasn’t going to tackle any sort of serious negotiating here at Police Plaza, with a couple of hundred cops around who might have their own ideas about what was appropriate bargaining behavior. No, they’d meet somewhere private, at a time and place of Schaefer’s choosing, when he was good and ready, and when that happened the agenda was going to start with Dutch, not with those alien freaks.

And it wouldn’t be any time all that soon, because Schaefer had a bust to attend to, one that he and his men had been setting up for weeks. Once that was out of the way, then he’d have time to worry about Dutch, General Philips, and a bunch of bloodthirsty goons from space.

He dropped the note on the desk and left.