STAR TREK - TNG - A Hard Rain

It was raining in the city by the bay.

A hard rain. Hard enough to wash the slime out of the streets and back into the holes they crawled out

of. The radiator behind me cracked and popped as it fought the valiant fight to keep the cold and damp

out of the office. Beyond the single pane window, the deep sounds of a far-off ship’s horn echoed

through the fog and rain, crying out like a lost animal in the night.

I loved the city, every stinking thing about it.

I nestled my fedora down tight on my head and pulled the collar of my coat up around my neck as I

glanced one more time around my office. The single wood desk commanded the room. The empty chair

behind the desk sat with its back to the city beyond the window, as if what went on out there on those

damp streets meant nothing.

But that wasn’t true.

The city was like a dame, demanding attention, taking what it could and giving back even more. But for

the moment, it would have to wait. I had just finished one case. I wanted to savor the feeling of putting

the creep behind bars, where he belonged.

With one last glance at the cars splashing water on the black streets below my window, I turned and

said, “Computer. Door.”

Then with a few steps I left room 312, my office, the office of Dixon Hill, Private Investigator, and

strolled onto the perfectly lit, comfortably warm corridors of theEnterprise.

Little did I know that I would be forced to return to those cold, wet streets of 1941 San Francisco much

sooner than planned. And for a reason much more deadly than any simple Dixon Hill murder case. . . .

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

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This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license

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ISBN: 0-7434-1927-8

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For the wonderful mystery writer, Kris Nelscott. Dixon Hill and I thank you.

A HARD RAIN

Chapter One

A Hardboiled Life in the City

Section One: On the Hunt

IT WAS RAINING IN THE CITYby the bay. A hard rain. Hard enough to wash the slime out of

the streets.

Dixon Hill thought back over the words of his friend, Mr. Data, as the radiator behind him cracked and

popped. It fought the valiant battle to keep the cold and damp out of his office. It usually lost.

Beyond the single pane window the deep sounds of a far-off ship’s horn echoed through the fog and

rain, crying out like a lost animal in the night.

He listened. Many days he had just sat, feet up on his desk, and listened to that deep, mournful sound.

Now it faded, replaced by the honking of cars and swishing of tires on the wet pavement of the street

below. He loved the city, every rotten, lustful, dark thing about it.

But right now he wished he could make the whole stinking place just go away.

Dixon Hill sighed and listened as the ship’s horn again moaned its plaintive cry. So far he had been lucky

in this world. He doubted his luck was going to hold.

He nestled his gray fedora tight on his head, straightened his tie, and pulled the collar of his tan raincoat

up around his neck. Then he touched the scarred top of the single wood desk that commanded the room.

The empty, wooden chair behind the desk sat with its back to the city, seeming to say that nothing out

there meant anything.

But that wasn’t true.

The city demanded attention, taking what it could like a hungry beast always searching for food. He had

still not finished one case, had not managed to put the creep who had killed Marci Andrews behind bars

where he belonged. She had been a great actress, and was gunned down at her stage door, and Dixon

Hill had wanted to find her killer.

He had not done so, and that bothered him.

But now he had to get to work on something far more important. He had to find the Heart of the

Adjuster. The Adjuster itself was a device not much bigger than a loaf of bread. The Heart of the

Adjuster was what made it important. The Heart, a small, golden ball that rattled around inside the

Adjuster, was what made the thing work. Without it, like a human without a heart pumping blood, the

Adjuster was worthless.

Now the Heart of the Adjuster had been snatched without anyone leaving so much as a clue. But Dixon

Hill knew that with any crime, there were always clues. You just had to know where to look.

And Dixon Hill was a master of turning over every rock and finding those clues.

He moved so that his nose was close to the cold glass of the wet window. Out there somewhere, hidden

in the large city, was the Heart of the Adjuster. But where?

Hill’s breath fogged the window, reminding him that he was still alive, for the moment. The stakes of this

heist were even higher than a simple murder case. This time the lives of hundreds rested with his ability to

dig out what had happened to the Heart of the Adjuster, shovelful by shovelful, until he had moved

enough dirt to expose the worms that lived in the dirt and grime of this city. Only then would he find who

had taken the Heart, where it was hidden, and end all this.

No one stood below, on the sidewalk, in the rain, waiting for him.

Good. It was time to go.

He made sure his notebook was in his pocket, then turned and headed for the door.

Granted, he had his doubts about his ability, more so this time than any case ever before. He hoped he

was as good as everyone said he was. Because if he wasn’t, the price was going to be high. Failure this

time meant the wet streets of San Francisco would swallow him like somuch garbage, taking the

hundreds of others who depended on him down as well. For without the Heart, nothing would last long.

Once before this world had endangered everything, in his very first venture here, when he was working a

case he called, “The Big Good-bye.” But this time it wasn’t just some alliance that was at stake. It was

lives.

His and everyone else’s.

He had to be Dixon Hill, the best P.I. in the city by the bay, to solve this case. He would do that.

And be that.

He had no choice.

He closed the door to his inner office hard, like a period on a short sentence, closing off the doubts.

Then he headed through his outer office toward the stairs, squaring his shoulders to meet the city, pushing

the last shreds of questions to the bottom of his mind as if trying to drown them in a shallow pool. He

would have to hold those doubts under, kill them without remorse. Weakness was never an option on the

streets of this city.

A cat streaked down the hall and out of sight around the corner, silent and alone in its dealings. He felt

that way as well. Alone, stalking his prey through this manmade jungle.

He closed the outer door, rattling the glass with his name etched on it.

Then, without a glance back, he went down the stairs.

Dixon Hill was on the case.

Thirty-one hours before the Heart of the Adjuster is stolen

Captain’s Log. Personal.

My hope is that with more than eight hours remaining before theEnterprisereaches the area

nicknamedthe Blackness,I will have the time to solve the fascinating Dixon Hill case I have

nicknamed “Murder at the Stage Door.” If I succeed, it will be the tenth Dixon Hill case I will

have solved since my first visit to this strange holographic world. And I am proud to say that each

case has been progressively harder than the one before it. Dr. Crusher tells me the challenge and

the change of scenery improve my mood and efficiency and I am in no position to argue with her.

After all, she is the ship’s doctor.

Nevertheless, the challengeisengrossing. And the change of reality, from my shipboard duties to

being a private detective in old San Francisco, is attractive to me. Being able to change reality so

simply is a luxury I have not taken for granted.

I, as Dixon Hill, have only two real suspects in the death of actress Marci Andrews. The first, her

husband, producer Arnie Andrews, seems the most likely candidate. The second, her spurned

lover, Brad Barringer, seems far more upset than he should, considering the circumstances.

On the surface, the case seems so simple: jealous husband, tossed-aside boyfriend. Yet my

instincts tell me that Cyrus Redblock, crime boss of the city, is involved. Ijust haven’t made the

connection yet. But in the next eight hours I hope to do just that.

Section Two: A Friendly Greeting

Dixon Hill listened to his own footsteps echoing between the dark buildings.

Click. Click. Click.

The hard heels of his dress shoes made the wet pavement ring like a drummer keeping perfect time. He

made no effort to silence the beat. For the moment the rain had stopped, leaving the city black and shiny

under the streetlights, yet at the same time pitch dark and forbidding between each island of light.

In perfect time he moved from darkness to light, then back to darkness, never slowing.

A swirling fog drifted just overhead, threatening to lower a blanket of gray onto the street at any

moment. The air smelled of dampness and fish from the docks. Again he pulled his collar up against his

neck, trying to get it tighter to hold out the air’s thick, heavy feel. It felt like a force that he had to push

through.

Click. Click. Click.

The cadence of his shoes echoed so loud in the narrow, building-lined street that he knew no one was

following him. He would be able to hear them like a drum corps marching in a parade.

He reached a major street corner and turned onto a bright active area, lit like a stage by the yellow lights

in the windows and signs flashing with garish colors.He paused for a moment before stepping onto that

stage, then pushed the doubts away and moved into the light.

Cars sped past, the sounds of their engines filling the background of the place like thunder from a distant

storm. No one paid him any attention, as he hoped would be the case. His own steps were lost in the

music of the night and the performances going on around him.

Late theater patrons, mostly couples arm in arm, hurried past him, heading for their cars, the streetcars,

or maybe a nearby after-show dinner.

He watched them, wishing for the freedom they enjoyed. He and the elegant Bev had taken in a show

along with dinner one night just a month before, leaving Mr. Data to guard a warehouse while waiting for

the arrival of Cyrus Redblock.

As they often did, Mr. Data and Bev had been helping him work a case he called “Murder under the

Bridge.” He had solved it in three days’ time. Easy as pie, as Mr. Data would say. After that one night on

the town, word had got around that she was his steady squeeze. He let it spread. He could do worse.

The image of the Luscious Bev that night flashed back to him. Her tight red dress, her hair long and full,

her lips painted red. He had never remembered her being so beautiful. Yes, he could do worse. A whole

lot worse.

Some night he planned on taking up his friend, Detective Bell, on his offer to bring the Luscious Bev over

to meet his wife and kids. If he, and the rest of thisworld, survived this case, he would do just that. He’d

been wanting to meet that wife Bell kept bragging about.

Now, the Luscious Bev, Mr. Whelan, Mr. Data, and a number of others were helping him on this case.

He had a hunch they were not going to be the only ones.

Dix pushed the image away and focused on the task at hand. He knew that finding the Heart of the

Adjuster was going to take all of his people, especially if they were going to find it in time to save this

city. And everyone beyond the confines of this wet, dark world.

Ahead, three parked cars away, a man stood, his back against a light pole, his jacket open like he

welcomed the wetness. The burning ember on the end of a cigarette hung like a beacon, orange against

the black shadows.

Dix studied him like an art collector studying an interesting painting. The guy had been waiting long

enough to burn through five cigs, the butts pressed into the wet pavement around him.

The man pretended to pay no attention to anything, as if he were only waiting for time to pass.

Dix almost laughed. He knew the guy had seen him by the slight jerk of his head, and by the way he did

everything in his power not to look in Dix’s direction.

It was Dix he had been waiting for.

But for what reason? That was going to be the bigmoney question. Maybe right now, right here, Dix was

going to get his first clue as to who took the Heart.

Dix didn’t recognize the guy’s mug, but the way the city and the world around Dixon Hill had changed

over the last number of hours, that didn’t mean anything. The guy was good-sized, with bulges in all the

wrong places under the brown raincoat. It was easy to see the guy’s guns by how he leaned against the

pole, pulling his coat tight against them.

The guy was stupid. Dumber than the streetlight he was leaning against. Or maybe that saying was

nowhere near as bright?Dix sometimes confused the sayings of the day. Mr. Data and the Luscious

Bev were always correcting him.

Dix didn’t vary his pace.

As he got within a step of passing the man’s position, the guy reached into his coat to pull his gun from

the holster bulging under his arm.

Real slow and real stupid.

The guy didn’t get the piece clear of his armpit.

Dix spun, stepped toward the guy, and put his fist squarely against the side of the guy’s jaw, swinging

through as if trying to hit a spot just out of reach beyond the weak chin.

The big lug became as loose as a rag doll, spinning around the pole and landing facedown on the hood

of a blue Dodge with a loud thump, denting the metal. The guy’s big gun clattered on the sidewalk and

ended up in the water in the gutter.

Dix flipped the bag of flesh over, then grabbed himby the front of his shirt and coat and hauled him up

close. The guy’s gray eyes read dumb, and his legs were playing at good imitations of wet noodles.

But stupid boy wasn’t done being stupid yet. Stunned, he still had enough left to try to struggle.

Real bad thinking.

Dix pounded him hard in the stomach, his fist sinking into the soft flesh just above his belt.

The guy doubled over with a choking sound, like a cat trying to cough up a fur ball. Dix stepped

sideways to make sure nothing from the guy’s dinner ended up on his shoes.

It took a moment, then the guy caught his breath as if coming up from trying to swim a lap of the YMCA

pool under water.

A couple moved to the inside of the sidewalk to avoid the scene, keeping their heads down and walking

past quickly. Smart folks, keeping their noses clean.

Dix grabbed the guy’s lapel again and hauled him back to a standing position. For a second time Dix

brought him up close, staring into the gray eyes.

“You want to tell me why you were about to pull a gun on me?” Dix asked, his voice as low and as cold

as he could make it, his nose just inches from the other man’s nose. “Spill it.”

Dix could tell the guy was going to have a sore jaw for a week. He moved it before speaking and the

smell of garlic filled Dix’s face like the air blowing from an Italian restaurant exhaust fan. Dix held his grip

and his ground and kept staring into the man’s dull eyes.

“Orders,” the guy said, finally, wincing at the pain as he spoke. “I’m supposed ta put ya on ice and bring

ya ta my boss.”

Even through the Italian-rot breath, Dix knew the guy was telling the truth. The eyes didn’t move, the

body didn’t jerk.

“And who is your boss?” Dix demanded, not allowing himself to blink.

The guy’s eyes shifted right, then left, making sure no one was listening. “Benny da Banger,” the guy

said, the garlic adding intensity to the words.

Dix shoved the guy hard against the hood of the car, denting it again. He was clearly too stupid to be

lying. He really did work for someone named Benny the Banger.

Dix had never heard of anyone with that name.

“So what does thisBennywant with me?”

“Benny wanted ta make sure ya stayed out’a his way when he takes over the city,” the guy said, leaning

against the Dodge while rubbing his jaw with the back of his hand.

Dix laughed. “I think Cyrus Redblock might have a problem with that idea.”

The guy snorted. “Ya been on vacation or somethin’? Redblock’s out of the picture. Someone snatched

him. City’s up for grabs and my boss wants a part of it.”

Dix kept his face calm and straight, not letting it show the surprise he felt. If Redblock was gone, that

meant finding the Heart of the Adjuster was going to be that much harder. And that much more

dangerous.

“I’m cuttin’ ya loose,” Dix said. “Tell your boss I won’t get in his way if he doesn’t get in mine.”

Still rubbing his jaw, the guy nodded.

Dix turned and headed down the dark, wet street toward where he was to meet the Luscious Bev and

Mr. Data on their stakeout.

Behind him he could hear a soft cussing sound as Benny’s goon picked his gun from the dirty water and

held it up like a day old fish. Swimmin’ in the gutter couldn’t be good on a piece.

Twenty-seven hours before the Heart of the Adjuster is heisted

Captain’s Log. Personal.

TheEnterpriseis still four hours from theBlacknessand none of the crew seems to have any more

information about what it is than they did four hours ago. It seems we have a major mystery

facing us.

As Dr. Crusher has ordered for my mental health, I spent the hours relaxing on the holodeck as

Dixon Hill. I have just returned from a very interesting chat with Cyrus Redblock, the crime boss

of the city. He had paced in his plush office on the second floor of a warehouse, his coat off, his

hat on the hat rack, his face red from the movement of his solid frame back and forth. He had

told me, in no uncertain terms, that he had nothing to do with the murder of the actress Marci

Andrews. And he didn’t know who did.

Period. End of story, is exactly what he said.

But he let slip one important detail. Just as I had enjoyed Mrs. Andrew’s shows, so had he. I have

the gut feeling, from his comments, that he had cared for her more than as just a member of her

audience.

But if that is the case, I have even less reason to suspect that he was involved with her death.

The case of “Murder at the Stage Door” is turning out to be a fascinating case that may take

until after our exploration of theBlacknessto solve.

One mystery at a time.

Section Three: War Ain’t Pretty

The fog rolled in like an unwanted visitor demanding to be noticed. Dixon Hill turned off the brighter

main thoroughfare onto a dark and narrow side street. The gray mist closed in around him, making the

nearest building seem impossibly distant. It was as if he’d stepped into another world.

He felt alone.

The swirling fog blocked even the traffic sounds behind him. One streetlight fought against the black

shadows and lost.

He kept moving, not letting his pace change. His steps now sounded like they were coming from

someone else a long distance away. His face was wet from the mist, and the smell of the fish houses on

the docks clogged his nose.

He couldn’t see it, but he knew that ahead on his right was a warehouse that up until a few minutes ago

he thought had housed Cyrus Redblock’s gang. Dix had been in the plush office on the second floor of

that warehouse a number of times, the most recent while working on the murder of the actress.

After the Heart of the Adjuster had been taken, Dix had ordered Mr. Data, Mr. Whelan, and two others

to go to a location across from this warehouse to watch and wait. Bev had joined them with even more

help a short time later.

But if Redblock had been snatched, as the goon working for Benny the Banger had claimed, it was

going to throw a monkey wrench into all of Dix’s plans. And they didn’t have much time for too many

delays.

A shape appeared out of the fog just in front of Dix, drifting through the mist as if his feet didn’t touch the

ground. The man’s white hat and pale skin seemed to glow in the faint light as he moved silently forward.

“Sir,” Mr. Data said, “No one has left or entered the building.”

“Thank you,” Dix said. “And Mr. Data, address me as Dix, or Dixon Hill while we are in here. No sirs.

Understand? No point in causing any confusion.”

“Yes, s—, uhh, Dix.”

“Get the others,” Dix said. “We’re going in.”

Without a sound Mr. Data turned and vanished into the fog like a ghost moving through a wall.

Dix walked on down the street toward the side door of the warehouse, his heels doing a distant drum

roll on the pavement, muffled, without an echo.

Normally one of Redblock’s men would be outsidethe door, leaning against the wall, smoking one cig

after another. But as the door appeared through the fog, Dix could tell something was very wrong. There

was no guard, and the door stood open, a black, yawning hole no doubt leading to more problems.

Dix paused and waited until Data and the others appeared out of the swirling mist, moving across the

street toward him. Data and the Luscious Bev led the way, followed by Whelan, Carter, Stanley, and

Douglas.

A small gang for the moment. Others were getting ready to join them. Dix hoped he wasn’t going to

need the help.

He had no doubt he was.

“I’ve been told that Redblock’s been snatched,” Dix said. “But let’s not take any chances. Go in slow

and easy.”

“Snatched by who?” Bev asked, her voice low and sultry as she moved to stand beside him. She was as

beautiful as ever, even with the moisture pushing her hair against her head under the wide brim of her hat.

“We find that out,” Dix whispered, “I suspect we find what we are looking for.”

“Ready, s—, uh, boss,” Data said.

Dix nodded. “Mr. Data, go to the right, Mr. Stanley and Mr. Carter, you go left. Mr. Douglas and Mr.

Whelan, you remain out here on guard. I don’t want to be surprised in there.”

Everyone nodded.

“Find some lights and get them on,” Dix said. “And let’s be careful. These bullets can kill us just as fast,

and just as completely, as any weapon we’ve ever seen.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Data said. Then he hitched up his pants and stood in his gangster posture. “As Mack

Bolen once said, ‘I can only die one death at a time.’ ”

Dixon Hill just stared at his friend until finally Mr. Data nodded and stepped silently through the door,

followed at once by Stanley and Carter, their guns drawn.

The mist swirled between Dix and Bev as they waited, mixing the sound of his own breathing with the

silence of the narrow street. The fog so dampened the sound that it seemed impossible that they were

standing in the middle of a major city.

Suddenly the yellow of a faint light framed the doorway, casting a square of light into the street.

Dix nodded to Whelan, then stepped through into the high-ceilinged warehouse.

And into a bloodbath.

The space was stacked with wooden crates, all sealed. A half dozen cars were scattered around, all

pointed at the closed main door of the warehouse, as if poised for a quick getaway that clearly hadn’t

happened.

Dix recognized the cream and white of Redblock’s car. The man never went anywhere in the city

without that car. Yet there it sat.

Dix took his time as he studied the large room. Bodies were everywhere, scattered around like dolls

thrownby an angry child. From the looks of them, all had been Redblock’s men, gunned down in what

appeared to be a very intense fight.

Bullets had torn up everything, including the side of Redblock’s car. The place smelled of gunpowder

and blood.

Too much blood.

Dix studied the scene, noting the details and where some of the men must have made a stand against a

large force coming in from the back of the building. This hadn’t happened that long ago. Maybe two to

STAR TREK - TNG - A Hard Rain

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