Free Dead Matter by Anton Strout Page A

area falls outside of your jurisdiction.”
    “Wait a minute,” I said. I pointed to the emblem of the City of New York on my ID. “All of New York City is part of my jurisdiction. I may need a warrant to search private property, but I am getting in here.”
    The big guy shook his head. His partner cleared his throat. “You’re familiar with that whole section of the city over by the United Nations, yes? Where all the embassies are?”
    I nodded.
    “Well, then,” he continued, “think of this area like one of those embassies. They’re off-limits to local police and such. They’re considered to be the sovereign land of the actual countries they represent. The Gibson-Case Center is kind of like that. Other than the public shopping areas, which are closed right now. Either way, you can’t enter. We’re under special permit from the Mayor’s Office.”
    I stood there, silently fuming at their rebuke.
    “Let’s just go,” Jane said, taking me by the arm.
    “Fine,” I said, hissing the words out between clenched teeth. I gave the guards a final stare as Jane led us away down the sidewalk.
    “Get a grip, will you?” she whispered. “You’re so riled.”
    “I want to know who’s messing with my partner,” I said, rationalizing my behavior.
    “That’s all well and good, sweetie, but you’re not getting answers from those brutes.”
    “Who the hell am I supposed to get them from, then?”
    Jane stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, spun in front of me, and suddenly kissed me, deep. After a long and blissful moment, she pulled away and looked at me.
    “Calm now?”
    I nodded.
    “Good,” she said. “Now, as I was saying, those guys aren’t going to give you the answers you’re seeking, but they did say something promising.”
    My mind was swimming from everything, including the kiss. “Do tell.”
    “Now, what did they say?” she asked. “They said the Gibson-Case Center was under special permit with the Mayor’s Office, which means … ?”
    “Dave Davidson at the Mayor’s Office of Plausible Deniability,” I said, feeling a momentary jolt of joy. Finally there would be someone I could yell at to get results.

8
    The next morning I made sure to wrap up my dissolving clothes from the grocery store attack for Enchancellor Daniels. I threw them in my messenger bag and headed out with Jane, hoping to catch up with Dave Davidson at his offices downtown on Centre Street near City Hall. These “real” government offices were huge, ancient buildings that dwarfed everything around them, including those of our hidden labyrinth of fringe government. After about twenty minutes of wandering the empty halls of 42 Centre Street with nothing but the sound of our footsteps echoing out, Jane and I came to a door marked MAYOR’S OFFICE OF PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY. In his role as liaison to the Mayor, Dave Davidson constantly came up to the Lovecraft Café for his dealings with the D.E.A., but given our need for urgency, we couldn’t wait for him to simply show up at random.
    Without knocking, Jane and I tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered. We were met by the sight of David Davidson sitting at his desk. As usual, he was dressed to the nines, this time in a well-tailored dark blue business suit. His tie was knotted perfectly as always and his black hair, gray at the temples, was neatly parted. Startled by our sudden interruption, Davidson bolted up from his chair and was already backing away. Reaching back onto a shelf behind his desk, he grabbed a large Lucite award of some kind and drew it in front of him.
    “Oh,” he said, lowering it when noticed who we were. “It’s only you. Hello, Simon. Jane. What brings Other Division and Greater and Lesser Arcana down here so early? Or at all?”
    I walked right up to his desk. He must have sensed something in my look because he raised the hefty award again.
    “How’s the plausible-deniability business these days, Davidson?” I asked.
    “Good,” he