Paul di Napoli had been my partner for just over four years. Despite being too fond of his wife's pasta, he still moved around pretty good when he needed to, and he passed the department's physical fitness test every year. The last time had been close, but Big Paul still managed to make the grade. The fact that his cousin Angie is head of the Officer Fitness Board probably didn't hurt, either.
"Gotta be a supe inside," I said. "All this firepower already here, they wouldn't need us, otherwise." I parked the car as close as I could to the scene, and began rummaging through the gear we keep in a locked box between the front seats. Without looking up I asked, "You see SWAT anyplace?"
The Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit was usually called in to deal with any violent (or potentially violent) confrontations with members of the supe community. They're trained in negotiation. They also know what to do if negotiation fails, and they do it real well.
"Nah," Paul said, "but I ain't surprised. Didn't you hear about the hostage situation goin' down on the South Side?"
"Uh-uh." I stowed several small objects in the pockets of my sport coat.
"Couple of guys from Patrol was talkin' about it just before we left the House tonight. I guess some wizard wannabe had a fight with his old lady, and things got out of hand."
"Doesn't sound like SWAT's kind of problem." I put a vial containing fresh crushed garlic in my shirt pocket. I could either repel a vampire or season some kielbasa, depending on how things worked out.
"I hear the dude's barricaded inside his apartment – and somehow he got his hands on a charged wand."
"Shit. They'll be out there a while, then."
"Most likely. Looks like it's up to us, bro. Whatever it is."
"Yeah, well, 'twas ever fucking thus." I closed the lid on the case, but didn't lock it. I might have to get it open again, in a hurry.
I put my ID folder in my breast pocket, so that the badge would hang over the front. "Let's go join the party."
We ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and headed toward the nearest prowl car. A uniform named Flaherty noticed us first, and came over, a frown on his thin face. "Jeez, what took you guys so long?"
"We stopped to get our hair done," I told him. "Who's the ROS?"
He gave me a look, then pointed with his chin. "Matthews. Over there."
I was glad that the Ranking Officer on Scene was Matthews. He was smart and steady and didn't have anything to prove.
Matthews was on his radio as we came up on him. He saw us, and I heard him say, "Never mind – they're here," and sign off.
We all shook hands, then I asked him, "So, how bad is it?"
"Couple tried to take down the liquor store. A squad car arrived before they could get out, and they decided not to give it up. They've got hostages."
"Goblins?" I heard Big Paul mutter. "What the fuck?"
Goblins are nasty little bastards, but they usually give people a wide berth. You find them near garbage dumps and junkyards, mostly. They don't tend to come into densely populated human areas.
"Near as I can figure," Matthews said, "they braced the clerk with those homemade knives they use, and told him to empty the register. The clerk might've thought it was a joke. Anyway, I guess he told them to fuck off, and so they cut him. I dunno know how bad."
"I bet he gave up the money after that," I said. "So, why are the gobs still in there?"
"Customer in the back of the store, some woman looking over the expensive wine they've got back there. When she saw what was going down, she called 666 on her cell. That's how we know what happened. There was a black-and-white a couple of blocks over. They got here pretty quick."
"And the gobs refused to come out with their claws up," Paul said.
"You got it," Matthews said. "They'd found the woman by then, so she and the clerk are both hostages."
"What I don't get is why goblins are doing shit like this," I said. "It's not their style."
"I dunno." Matthews shrugged. "The first uniforms on the scene say the gobs were acting real twitchy, even for them. Hysterical, even."
Big Paul and I looked at each other. "Meth," I said, and he nodded.
Surprise and anger chased each other across Matthews' face. "Did you say meth? Are you fuckin' serious?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding around?" I said. "There's been rumors the last couple of months that some of the local goblins have figured how to cook meth. Story goes, some big drugstore dumped a bunch of expired OTC drugs, including a whole shitload of cold medicine."
"We checked it out," Paul said. "Since it's not prescription meds, the drugstores don't gotta keep track of it. The ones that are part of a chain, they send the expired stuff back to some central warehouse, and those guys dispose of it like any other trash – at a dump or landfill."
"We called the company HQs of a couple of the big drugstore chains that have stores in town," I said. "They told us they'd be happy to discuss their waste disposal practices with me – right after I showed them a court order."
"Which we can't get, because the corporate HQs are outside our jurisdiction," Paul growled.
"Goblins on meth." Matthews shook his head. "Just what we fuckin' need."
"Maybe we oughta put this bitch session on hold 'til later," Paul said. "There's hostages, remember?"
"Yeah, you're right," I told him. I looked over at the liquor store, the flashing red lights bouncing off its windows like something at one of those rave clubs. "Guess we're gonna need CIs." I gestured with my head toward where we'd left the car. "You wanna…?"
"Sure." Big Paul lumbered off inthe direction we'd come from. Then he stopped, and turned back.
"Vests, too?" he asked.
I shrugged. Goblins weren't shooters, everybody knew that. "I don't want one," I told him. "But if you're feeling wussy, be my guest."
Paul grinned at me. "Yeah, and fuck you, too." Then he pivoted and went back to the car.
Matthews looked at me. "CIs? What the hell d'you need a confidential informant for? We know where the little green bastards are."
"Yeah, we do. That's why he's getting some special cartridges out of our vehicle. They're tipped with cold iron. Different kind of CI."
• • • •
Nobody knows why cold iron works against the creatures of faerie – goblins, trolls, dwarves, and all the rest. Might just as well ask why silver kills a werewolf, or why vamps can't stand sunlight. Some philosopher has probably spent years trying to figure it all out. But as Paul and I approached that liquor store, I was just glad that my Beretta held a fresh clip of 9mm CI slugs.
The weapon was holstered, for now. No point in spooking already jazzed-up goblins. My last combat pistol test showed that I could bring it up to firing position in 1.3 seconds and hit what I was aiming at 92 percent of the time. I figured that would be good enough.
There wasn't much danger of getting shot, anyway. Goblins don't use guns, and if this pair was breaking with tradition, they'd have busted some caps by now. Goblins aren't famous for their patience, even without meth.
The whole front of the liquor store was glass. As we approached, I thought I saw a flash of green from just above the check-out counter. They knew we were here, all right.
I pushed the heavy door open slowly, Paul right behind me. A long gray counter ran along the wall to the left, and we walked slowly toward it, our footsteps loud in the stillness. I stopped about twenty feet away. Big Paul would take up position about fifteen feet back and a little to my right, as always. If I went down, he'd be in a good position to nail the bastard responsible.