"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.
"I'm Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski," I said, as calmly as if I was meeting someone at work. "This is Detective Paul di Napoli." Keep everything cool, that was the idea. The fact that my pulse was pounding in my ears like a crazed conga drummer didn't matter. "Whaddaya say we try to work this out? There's no need for anybody to get hurt."
The clerk had already been hurt, I knew that. But I decided not to mess up my pitch with inconvenient facts.
Goblin voices always remind me of fingernails being scraped across a blackboard. The one coming from behind the counter was no exception. "What you want?" it screeched.
"I want to talk."
"No talk – want car. Get car or we cut humans."
Most goblins don't speak English real well, and the only phrase of Goblin that I know translates as "Your mother mates with trolls under every bridge in town."
"Don't cut humans," I said. "Talk instead. Talk better."
"Talk no good. Want car, go away far. No prison."
"Why come here? Why rob?" Talking to gobs always made me sound like some nitwit in an old Tarzan movie. Can't be helped, though. Simple words and syntax are all they understand – in human language, or their own. Goblins aren't real bright.
"Money. Lots of money at liquor place."
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye as something shifted in the parking lot outside. I hoped the uniforms out there weren't getting t."
A full breach almost always results in casualties. Sometimes those include people caught in the middle.
"Why money?" I asked. "Goblin not need money."
Living near dumps, goblins usually forage for what they need. Sometimes they barter with other goblin tribes for stuff they can't find on their own.
"For powder. For powder, need money much. Want powder. Need money."
Just as I'd figured. Meth-head goblins, Jesus.
"If I give powder, let humans go free?"
"You get powder? Shit talk. Cop got no powder."
"Cops find lotsa drugs. Take during arrest, for evidence. You want powder, or no?"
I heard some whispering going on behind the counter. Behind me, Paul muttered, "I hope you know that the fuck you're doin'."
"We get powder, let one human go. Then give car. Need car."
"I give powder, you let both humans go."
"One human. One!"
Hysteria was rising in the voice, making it even uglier than before. "Okay, one human," I said. "I go get powder now. Back soon."
"Get quick, or we cut."
As we hurried back to the police lines, Paul said, "I ain't gonna ask if you're fucking nuts, cause I already know the answer to that one. You're gonna try something tricky, right?"
"I hope so," I told him. "Whether it'll work depends on if she's on duty tonight, or Dispatch can find her."