Sly Cooper and the Gang in…The Vigilante Police
Chapter 3: All the Comforts of Home
Bentley, Penelope, and Murray strapped themselves into the biplane early the next morning, hoping to take off without being seen. It was still pitch-black outside when they left. They had packed plenty of food, bottled water, and storages boxes in the plane, and now Penelope was running a final diagnostics check before the team took off.
Murray rubbed his eyes groggily. He was used to sleeping far later, and he had not been able to fall asleep early the night before, as Bentley had advised him. Bentley and Penelope, on the other hand, were wide awake, checking the plane to make sure they would have as smooth a flight as possible.
Murray started yawning loudly. Bentley tried to ignore it, but with each successive yawn it became harder and harder for him to keep his patience. Finally, he turned around and snapped at him.
"Murray, if you're so tired, you can sleep during the flight, but could you please stop yawning?"
"Sorry…" Murray mumbled, looking pitiful. Bentley sighed.
"It's all right, Murray." He turned back to the front.
"Looks like everything's a go," Penelope said. "Let's take us up." Penelope pulled back on the throttle, and the engines hummed loudly as the biplane moved towards the open sliding doors. Penelope had to angle the plane just right to move through these doors, as it was a very tight fit and she did not want to risk damage to the wings if they scraped against the doors. The three braced themselves as they approached the opening…
There was a sickening scraping sound as the right wing seared across the doorframe, but the biplane took off without a problem. Bentley and Penelope breathed sighs of relief, while Murray whooped in triumph, the wind waking him up.
"Any sign of damage, Bentley?" Penelope said through an earpiece, as the wind was so buffeting it was impossible to speak to each other normally.
"No, looks like it just scratched the paint. I'll keep an eye on it though."
Penelope smiled. It felt invigorating to be flying again. She hadn't flown since returning to Paris after resealing the vault, and she noticed that she was suddenly calmer than she'd been in months. Tension had been amassing in her for a while, as was evident when she had talked Bentley out of the time travelling machine. Now that she was in the air, the tension seemed to have been left on the ground, and she was cheery as usual.
Bentley noticed the change in her and smiled. He was relieved to see his girlfriend unequivocally happy again.
Murray felt energized and excited for the first time in a long time. This was more thrilling than racing a confined van. This was heaven.
Sly was not having nearly as much fun. He was back in work, now fully devoted to the Loose-Tongued Larry case. The results from the initial ballistics testing would be ready this afternoon, and then he would know what type of guns was used and, more importantly, how many bullets each fired. There had only been three shots, but which guns shot what made all the difference in the world.
Until then, he was back at the crime scene, conferring with forensics specialists and the local law enforcement, trying to straighten what was fact and what was speculation. It was tedious work, made even more so by his isolation from Carmelita, who was looking over the three corpses back at headquarters.
At this moment in time, all Sly was doing was keeping everyone on the same page, which was difficult to do, as so many were firing questions at him all at once. More than once, he had had to correct himself, clarify what he had meant by a certain answer. Many times he gave the right answer for a different question, which caused great confusion and sour moods. Finally, after explaining where each victim was shot for the fifth time, he stood on the hood of his car and called for everyone's attention.
"Okay!" he shouted, waving his arms needlessly, as every officer and specialist was now gawking at him. He stepped down from the hood but stayed in front of them. "I'm going to explain exactly what happened in our initial search yesterday. I need you all to listen and not ask questions until I'm done talking."
"All we know, all we know, is that Loose-Tongued Larry and two of his bodyguards were shot dead. Larry was shot in the head near that wall, one guard was shot in the head in the middle of the alleyway, and the other guard was shot in the back of the head not too far from there. That is the only information of which we are certain.
"There were other things at the crime scene yesterday from which we can make reasonable deductions. Two pistols were found on the ground close to two of the guards, and we believe that they were the weapons used to shoot these three men. Who shot who is still unknown, but we are reasonably sure that those guns were the murder weapons. We will have results from our ballistics team ready this afternoon, and you will all be informed once we are informed.
"Now, if you have any questions, feel free to ask them now in an orderly manner, and I will answer to the best of my ability. Thank you." But Sly had so thoroughly explained himself that there were no questions, just nervous mutterings about what might have occurred. Satisfied, Sly decided to break for an early lunch and then check on the ballistics testing, which intrigued him far more than this banter.
Sly made the trip to the Ballistics Department of Interpol just after lunch. The two experts were named Wally and Joe. Wally was an overexcited iguana; Joe was a reserved chimpanzee. The two of them balanced each other out and made for a nice pairing.
"What have we got here?" Sly asked. Wally tutted impatiently, but Joe turned to speak to Sly.
"Well, our diagnostics of the shells have not yet been completed," Joe said with a deliberate voice. Wally sighed impatiently. "However, more immediate information about the number of bullets fired from each shell is readily available."
"Great. What happened?" Sly asked, stomach fluttering. This was the information he had been waiting for all day.
"Well, Gun A, the one found by the guard shot in the back of the head, was fired twice. Gun B, the one found by the other guard, was fired once. That is assuming both guns were fully loaded before the shooting began."
"A fair assumption," Wally spat, "as bodyguards would generally want their guns fully loaded, wouldn't they?" Joe ignored him, but Sly scowled at the back of Wally's head.
"Strange," Sly said, "why would both of the guns be fired?" The leading theory in the case was that one guard had done all the shooting, so unless he somehow switched guns to kill himself, the theory did not match the evidence. Unless…
"Joe, is there any sign that Gun A stalled?"
"We checked the remaining bullets in the chamber. Both guns were in working order." Now Sly was completely baffled, but secretly he was also feeling just a bit thrilled. It turns out Barkley's theory of one shooter was not going to pan out.
"Thanks guys," Sly said, "and keep up the good work." Wally muttered darkly, but Sly did not hear him as he left the ballistics lab.
The first thing he did was report the new information to Chief Barkley, and his initial reaction was the same as Sly's.
"Why would both of the guards be shooting?" Barkley asked. "That completely goes against our initial theory, unless…"
"Neither gun stalled," Sly said plainly, and Barkley looked slightly abashed.
"Well then, what else could have happened?"
"I'm telling you," Sly said, "I think it was an outside job." Barkley ran a paw through his hair in frustration.
"Cooper, these guards were killed by their own weapons, as you've just assured me! How could a hit man get close enough to swipe the guns out of their paws?"
Of course, Sly thought, that should have been obvious. Sly was still thinking furiously, not quailing under the death glare Chief Barkley was giving him.
"Then it was an inside job," Sly said. "One of the guards was working for somebody else. He killed the first guy and then a hit man walks in, takes that guy's gun, and shoots Larry. Then…" Sly racked his brain, trying to remember the details of the guns, "The same guy shoots the other gun."
"Why?" Barkley asked. "If one of the guards was working for a hit man, why would the hit man just shoot him?"
"Maybe the hit man couldn't pay up," Sly suggested. Barkley shook his head.
"No, there's just too much speculation. I'm sorry, Sly, but unless you can prove to me those three men were not alone at the crime scene, then your theory holds no weight. You're dismissed." Sly walked out, unable to hide his utter frustration. Chief Barkley pulled out a particularly fat cigar and lit it, fuming as much as the smoke now rising stagnantly over his desk.
After hours of flying over the open sea, the three thieves had to admit that the initial euphoria had died off. They had plenty of food and drink, for sure, but the task of flying was now very monotonous, especially with nothing but the blue ocean below. They had long since raised the roof on the biplane to keep the wind from blowing in their faces, but now the air inside the plane was stagnant.
Bentley and Penelope took turns keeping the plane on course, which took very little effort when compared to the takeoff. Murray, however, was the most bored. He had nothing to do, so he tried to sleep on the plane, but the noise of the engines was keeping him awake. Murray hated to admit it, but he was a very light sleeper. He cursed himself for neglecting to bring his earplugs.
Bentley and Penelope were feeling the strain, too, which was evident when Murray had asked bitterly, "Are we there yet?" They had given him such reproachful looks in return that Murray had said nothing to them again for hours.
So, when they saw signs of a thunderstorm ahead, they weren't sure whether to feel nervous about the danger or excited that the monotony of the flight was passing.
"Should we try to circumnavigate it?" Bentley asked. Murray scoffed; he hated it when Bentley spoke with such a high vocabulary.
"Doesn't look like we can," said Penelope, checking the dashboard, "the radar shows this thing is massive, and we're flying right into the middle of it. There's not enough time to avoid it without changing direction completely, and we can't afford to spare that kind of fuel."
"But if we fly directly into it," Bentley said, "are we going to make it out?"
"Well, we should be okay…The plane can withstand lightning…We just have to make sure we're not blown off course. As I said, we can't waste the fuel trying to correct ourselves."
"Can't we just fly over the storm?" Murray asked.
"Sorry, Murray," Penelope said, "but the storm clouds are tall, and the biplane can't fly well at extreme altitudes."
"How about visibility?" Bentley asked, while Murray shook his head.
"As long as we have our compass and altimeter, we'll be all set. I don't expect to run into any other flying objects, not in the middle of a storm."
"Then full speed ahead," Bentley said. They kept the biplane on course.
When they entered the cell of storms, the wind started blowing their biplane to the right. Penelope had to steer hard to keep the plane on a straight course. Bentley helped her as best he could, but he suddenly felt apprehension building within him.
It's okay, he thought to himself, it's just lightning, Bentley, just lightning. Even if it hits the plane, it's not going to hurt us. It's not going to hurt us. Come on, you should know better. Lightning is merely the electrical discharge formed because of two air masses of vastly different temperatures. It's not going to harm us in the plane; we're protected by a metallic shell.
But as bolts of lightning started striking the plane, Bentley began to whimper nervously. His whimpering became a scream of fright when a particularly loud thunderclap boomed. Murray immediately scooted forward in his seat to comfort his friend.
"Bentley, it's okay. We got hit a bunch and we're not hurt. We're still flying."
"Murray's right, Bentley. We're about halfway through the storm system now, and radar shows clear skies for the rest of the flight. It's going to be okay." The two of them continued to comfort Bentley until they were safely out of the storm. That was when Bentley finally stopped shaking and calmed down.
"Thanks guys," he said feebly, "I'm sorry. It was stupid to be scared."
"No it wasn't," Penelope said, "it's just astraphobia. Nothing to be ashamed of." Murray sighed again, though his friends didn't hear him. He hated to admit it, but he would feel a lot smarter if Sly was back. At least he'd be with a friend whose speech he could understand.
Sly finally met up with Carmelita at the end of the day, and they gazed at each other with longing as they walked to their civilian cars. Contrary to what Barkley had said last night, this case wasn't one that they could just "wrap up." They looked forward to lying in Sly's bed, enjoying each other's company, and talking for hours about anything but Loose-Tongued Larry.
Sly and Carmelita took turns staying in each other's apartments every few nights, so both would be able to enjoy the comforts of their own homes. While Carmelita's apartment had some Latin flair, Sly's was much more European. Each felt more comfortable in their own dwellings, and keeping separate lodgings made the other officers at Interpol less suspicious.
Sly looked forward to seeing his mahogany furniture, traditional queen-sized bed with an ornate headboard, and the blue walls that had convinced him to buy the place two years ago. As much as he loved spending time at Carmelita's apartment, he enjoyed all the comforts of home.
Once they had parked Carmelita's car at her place, she rode with Sly towards his apartment on the other side of town.
"How can you stand living in so much blue?" Carmelita asked. "Blue walls, blue curtains, even blue tiles in the bathroom! It's depressing."
"No, it's soothing," Sly said, smiling. He loved having this playful argument. "Much more relaxing than all that red and orange at your place."
"My apartment gives me energy," Carmelita said. "Yours just saps all of it away."
"No, it replenishes me," Sly said with a smile. "I get more energy because my apartment gives it."
"Whatever you say," Carmelita said, and she rubbed Sly's arm affectionately.
"The chief isn't too happy with you," she said. Sly grimaced at her briefly before turning back to the road.
"I thought we weren't discussing the case tonight."
"Oh, no, not the case. Just he's never been this angry with you since―"
"Since when?" Sly asked, and Carmelita swore under her breath, fearing she had said too much.
"Since…well, never. He's never been this mad at you." Carmelita sighed with relief.
"I wonder what's wrong with him. The minute I don't agree, he just lashes out at me."
"Well, that's not unusual," Carmelita said. "He's like that with everyone. Headstrong. But I always thought you were one of his favorites."
"Really? Me? After my background?" For a moment, Carmelita felt a thrill of horror, fearing that Sly had remembered everything. She then remembered that the cover story had involved him being a recovered criminal.
"Yeah, he always said you were the perfect example of someone turning over a new leaf." This was true, Carmelita said to herself. Chief Barkley, though quick to criticize, was equally quick to praise.
"Why's this time different?" Sly asked. Carmelita shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know…" Carmelita said. They pulled up to the apartment and spoke of it no further.
Chief Barkley was still upset when he clocked out for the day, the memory of first seeing the crime scene still etched in his mind.
He had been the first to arrive at the scene after a local officer had reported it. Given the federal nature of Larry's crimes, Interpol had jurisdiction, and it was protocol for the chief to be the first on the scene of a murder of such a criminal. Most of the evidence was plain in front of him. The three dead men, all with bullet wounds in the head, and two pistols lying close beside.
But one piece of evidence had baffled him completely, and it had been the bloody symbol of a raccoon's head.
He had become infuriated, cursing the Cooper Gang, wondering how psychotic they would have to be to kill a criminal in cold blood like that.
Then his anger had shifted immediately to gripping terror when he realized that the leader of the gang was working for Interpol.
The chief had taken the symbol, placed it in a plastic bag, and pocketed it, telling the other officer that the evidence would be well cared for, but that Interpol had to confiscate it because it would be taking over the investigation of the case. The officer had agreed, thankfully, and Chief Barkley had kept the calling card on his person ever since.
He didn't know how the Cooper Gang factored into this mess, but as the old leader was in such close proximity to the crime, Chief Barkley had lost all trust in him. Of course, he couldn't let Sly catch wind of his suspicions, which was why he had confiscated that calling card.
If Sly was guilty of the crime, and he had been faking amnesia all this time, Interpol would soon find out, regardless of any evidence Chief Barkley may have illegally swapped. If Sly was innocent, there was no need leaving signs of his own gang lying around in case they triggered his memory and he decided to leave Interpol forever. Guilty or not, Sly was one of the best cops on the team and Chief Barkley did not want to lose him until he was sure what happened.
But of course now he mistrusted Sly, and if he hadn't wanted so desperately Carmelita's expertise for this case he would have dismissed both of them from it. He was determined not to heed any of Sly's theories, in case Sly was trying to dupe him. And he was so frustrated about the situation he was taking his anger out on Sly.
Chief Barkley hoped that Sly did not start to suspect anything. The consequences could be dire if he did.
Sly and Carmelita entered the complex and walked down the hall to Sly's apartment on the ground floor. When Sly turned the key in the lock and opened the door, he was shocked at what he found.
The mahogany furniture was overturned, the blue curtains of the windows were tattered, and one window was ajar, letting in a cold draft. Carmelita shut the window without thinking about what she was doing, while Sly checked to see if any of his valuables had been taken.
They hadn't been, but the vandalism would still cost money to repair. Sly went to check on the bedroom while Carmelita went to the kitchen for a brandy. The bedroom was in similar disrepair to the rest of the apartment, though nothing had apparently been taken. However, Sly saw that something had been added to this room: a photo on his bed. He picked up and, with a cry, dropped it and called Carmelita in to have a look. She picked it up, glanced at it, and dropped it, her hand shaky.
The picture was of Loose-Tongued Larry, apparently taken shortly after he had been shot, and over the picture had been scrawled bloodstained words to chill both officers to the bone.
YOU'RE NEXT
