Frostbite and Fire: Houses of Bone and Smoke, #1

By Amanda McCarter

On the streets of 22nd century London, gang war looms when the body of a member of a prominent crime family goes missing.

Evin thought it would be another routine autopsy. Scan the body, run the DNA, and hope to hell the burned remains on her table didn't belong to someone important. Then it went missing and her life turned upside down.

The mystery brings her to the handsome Detective Inspector Ortega, and Juniper, a young woman with cybernetic augments no one her age has any business running. Conspiracies and lies put them all in more danger than any could have imagined. Caught between a psychotic mobster and an assassin from an ancient secret order, Evin must choose.

Does she stay loyal to her job and bring the gangs to justice or follow the mystery to its conclusion? Even if it means a vicious killer goes free?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evil Panda Press
• Release date: May 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223248132

Book preview

1

The body came in from a warehouse fire in Lambeth late that morning, accompanied by evidence bags from the ruins and a 3-D holographic scan of the crime scene. It lay inside a body bag on one of two stainless steel tables in Dr. Evelyn Stirling’s forensic lab. A second body she had just finished occupied the other.

Evin took the second body, detaching its suspensor gurney from the catch on the top of the table, and pushed it into one of the nine refrigeration units in the wall that separated her lab from her office. The office, an alcove just around the far-right side of the refrigeration wall, was little more than a room for a desk. It was where she handled notes, emails, and private matters. Most of her work was done in her lab.

She stripped her gloves to prep for the next exam. Talcum powder residue from the latex mottled her brown skin. She washed at the sink between the cooler and the exam tables, using the blower to dry her hands.

A wayward strand of her dark, curly hair had popped free. She tucked it back under her cap before donning a fresh pair of gloves and looked around the lab.

Directly across from her office was a heavy steel door leading to a safe room in case the police station above her was ever attacked. She’d never had need to use so it doubled as storage for cleaning supplies and archaic autopsy tools.

She was already backed up from a shooting, some bloke who died in his car, and a little girl found in a ditch outside the Royal Botanical Gardens, chucked over to Scotland Yard by some pencil pushers at Richmond upon Thames. They said it was high priority and a potential scandal. She was the best, they said, so if she could put a rush on it. Like she didn’t have enough work already.

The warehouse body got pushed up to the top of the docket, though, knocking Richmond’s request back down the list. From the notes, she saw the burn victim was most likely a low-level mobster and the police suspected foul play, which could lead to more violence, or an all-out gang war.

Judging by the state of what little evidence she had – a couple of burned rags, some scraped residue from the basement floor, and a bucket of ashes – she didn’t expect to find much on the body. So even with their fears written in black and white, she didn’t see much point in rushing it.

She thought back to the little girl and how desperate her parents must be to find her and how heart-broken they would be once they knew the truth. At least, that’s what Evin hoped their reaction would be. She’d seen a lot of horrible things in her time as a medical examiner, but she still hoped for the best.

However, she was ordered to make this exam a priority, so that’s what she would do.

Evin opened the body bag and reeled. Mentally, she had prepared herself for what she would find, but there was no coping with the initial smell of burned human flesh. It was the odor of rotting barbeque.

She took a tub of menthol vapor from her kit and smeared it under her nose using a cotton swab. In retrospect, she should have started with that, but she was deep into her work groove, and it had slipped her mind. Now with a shield between her and the fetid stench of badly grilled meat, Evin unzipped the rest of the body.

Dolli, start recording, she said.

Her AI assistant, a fully automated spherical drone made from recycled, white plastic, using a similar suspensor technology as the exam tables, and measuring a half meter across, beeped to life and whirred into the air beside her.

Standard autopsy, Dr. Stirling? Dolli asked. Her voice was cool and professional. Evin wanted to feel like she was working with a colleague, not using a tool.

That’ll be fine, Dolli.

Recording.

Evin pressed a button on the gurney and received measurements of bone lengths, facial structure, and weight. The table brought up averages based on gender and race.

Subject has third-degree burns over ninety percent of the body. Based on initial measurements of the skeleton, I would sex the subject as male, most likely Caucasian. Gender unknown. For the sake of simplicity, subject will be referred to as male unless evidence is found to the contrary. Age, indeterminate due to severity of the burns. I will now take a sample from the subject for analysis.

Blackened lips curled back over charred teeth. She scraped some tissue and residue from the deceased’s skin and deposited it into Dolli’s chem scanner. She checked each hand and under what was left of the fingernails. The hands were just fragments of flesh really, both sticky and flaking. A glint of something metallic embedded in the remnants caught her eye. She snatched up a pair of tweezers.

Let the record show I have found trace evidence under the nail of the left middle finger. It appears to be some sort of metal. Further analysis is required.

Dolli popped out a second tray and Evin dropped the evidence there with an audible tink.

The scanner chimed. Analysis of chemical compound from skin scraping complete. Trace remains of a petroleum-based accelerant found.

Read out? said Evin.

Dolli’s screen went blank as the little AI bot displayed molecular and chemical compounds on an embedded screen.

High-octane petrol, Evin said. Not easy to get. Not cheap either.

Most petrol came from reclaimed plastics and illegal drilling. The processing alone drove the cost up beyond what most people were willing to pay. Evin doubted much was needed to burn a person alive, but it was still a high-quality fuel.

Would you like me to compare foreign elements for origin?

You’re welcome to try, but I’m not sure how much is left, said Evin. I’m amazed you found anything off what we have. Have you identified the metal?

Negative, ma’am. I am still searching.

Very well then, said Evin. I’m starting the holo-scan.

The holo-ray stood three meters high with an adjustable arm that could raise or lower as needed and articulate three hundred and sixty degrees on a horizontal axis. It was probably more than she needed to scan her subjects here in the lab, but she liked to have the option.

Evin wheeled it to the table to examine the organs and let out a sigh. They’d be cooked, no real evidence left, but she was meticulous if nothing else. She would record her data, submit her findings to the lead investigator and get on to her next case.

The ray came into focus and began building a detailed copy of the body.

While the scanner was doing its work, Evin inserted the holo image of the crime scene into Dolli’s emitter. Light shimmered in the air as the scene unfolded around her.

A large warehouse appeared. It was mostly empty, save some palettes and discarded boxes. The metal pillars nearby were rusted and there was a wet sheen on the walls farthest away from the fire.

It was obvious where this man burned. There was a large, blackened circle toward the middle of the warehouse. Several candles stood around the circle and there were signs of other religious iconography.

Evin zoomed in and knelt in the charcoal of the burn ring. She could see where the body lay as it burned.

I don’t suppose there are any thermal echoes? she asked no one in particular.

I’m sorry, Dr. Stirling, said Dolli, The fire seems to have overpowered any residual heat signatures.

Meaning they didn’t stick around to make sure he was dead, she said.

Just then, the ray buzzed to let her know the scan was done. Evin stood and turned off the holo of the warehouse. She could overlay the image of the body onto the crime scene later.

She flipped the switch to display the results.

The emitter began building the 3-D copy of the body. Once it was fully constructed, Evin turned the setting to begin sheering away holographic layers of tissue to expose the internal organs without disturbing the body.

She caught her breath when the image cleared.

That can’t be right, she said, zooming in.

She flicked the ray on and off again and brought the man’s organs into focus.

A problem, Dr. Stirling? said Dolli.

His heart is frozen solid.

Evin raised an eyebrow to her holo-ray. Are you broken? She went over the calibration, but nothing out of the ordinary popped out.

Holo-ray is functioning at optimal capabilities, Dr. Stirling, Dolli said. Would you like me to do further diagnostics?

Maybe later. Can you confirm what I’m seeing? His heart is frozen?

Not only is the heart frozen, but the ice crystals have spread to his other internal organs.

Evin scowled. They should be jerky. Or at least shriveled. These are whole, undamaged organs. This isn’t possible. Hold recording. I need to cut him open.

She’d have to do an old-fashioned autopsy. She turned off the ray and went to the storage room. Dolli puttered behind her, the whir of her suspensors a comforting hum.

She’d need a saw, scalpels, a heavier gown, and a face mask. It was indelicate and the body would be maimed, but there wasn’t much left anyway. There was no chance of an open casket and if he was from one of the crime families, none of them had religious taboos that forbade opening the body.

She gathered her tools, pulled the mask over her face, and donned the gown. Satisfied she was adequately dressed, she loaded the old specs for autopsy into her personal Chip, a tiny computer that sat at the base of her skull, intertwined with the neural pathways and named after the Everhold Chip invented fifty years prior. The actual name was something a bit longer no one could remember, but Chip stuck.

The procedures for old-school autopsies made her frown. Such a brutal method, but she had to be sure. Saw in hand, heavier than she remembered, she went back to the lab.

Evin stopped.

The body was gone.

Dolli, do a sweep, she said, her voice catching in her throat. Is there anyone else in the lab with us?

Affirmative.

Are they part of the police?

Inconclusive.

Good enough for me, said Evin. She turned on her heel and went to the console by her desk. She slapped the panic button underneath, pulling the revolver strapped next to it and barricaded herself and Dolli in the storage room, finally using it for its intended purpose.

She flicked on a small touch screen monitor just to the right of the door. A line of buttons across the bottom told her there was a communications array that would allow her to speak to someone on the other side.

The panic button itself should have sent an alert upstairs to a constable. She’d either wait for one to show or wait until Dolli could confirm it was safe. However long that was.

Sweat beaded across her forehead and down her back. Time seemed to stretch on forever. Her clothes began to cling in awkward places and her lower back started to cramp from tension. Finally, after what seemed hours, a constable came into view.

Dr. Stirling? a male voice said.

He stood too close to the camera for her to see his face. All she saw was a pasty-white forehead.

Yes.

This is Sergeant Neville, ma’am. The lab is clean, he said. You can exit the safe room.

You’ll forgive me if I ask for verification, she said.

Of course, ma’am, said Neville. Foxtrot alpha zebra two. No hostiles found.

Evin keyed the release code on the touch screen and relaxed her hand on her gun. The panic room door swung open.

Sergeant Neville tipped his head to her when she stepped out. Bright red splotches covered both cheeks.

Care to tell me why you hit the panic button, ma’am? he said. Doesn’t seem to be anything amiss and you don’t appear to be harmed.

Nothing amiss? she said. I’m missing a body. She pointed at the autopsy table. The body bag was still there, various bodily fluids pooling in the folds of plastic.

Neville lifted his hat to scratch his head. His hair was closely cropped, gray, and receding.

Who’d steal a body without the bag? he asked.

Someone who was interrupted most likely, said Evin.

The sergeant nodded. I’ll need to call this up.

Evin’s shoulders sank. Of course. She let out a breath. Very well. I’ll wait.

Detective Superintendent Nicholas Masters was flushed when he entered the forensic lab. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his dark skin, and he mopped at it with a handkerchief. Evin reasoned he must have run.

Sergeant Neville greeted him at the door.

Sir.

Sergeant, what’ve we got?

Dr. Stirling sounded the panic alarm at thirteen twenty-seven. I arrived on the scene five minutes later.

Likely story, thought Evin. It felt more like an hour, minimum.

I found the laboratory empty, Sergeant Neville said, and the doctor in her safe room, as is proper procedure in emergencies.

Masters clasped his hands behind his back and began inspecting the room. His breathing had steadied as he calmed, and the sheen of sweat had all but disappeared.

And you’re sure this was an emergency?

From all appearances, sir, yes, said Neville. The doctor said she had a body, left the room, and when she came back it was gone.

I see, said Masters. Very well, Sergeant, I’ll take it from here. You’re dismissed.

Sir, you don’t want my report?

You’ve given it haven’t you?

The preliminary, yes, said Neville.

Written will do, said Masters. I’d like to speak to Dr. Stirling alone.

Th-that’s against procedure, sir, said Neville.

Masters turned his head to look at the sergeant. He arched an eyebrow and frowned.

Yes, sir, of course.

Masters nodded and waited for Sergeant Neville to leave. Once the door shut, he pressed a device in his jacket pocket.

Dolli’s running lights winked out and she plummeted.

Evin dove and grabbed the bot before it hit.

You could have warned me, dad, she said. I would have turned her off.

I needed to make sure no one was listening, he said. I couldn’t risk it. I’m sorry. I would have paid for a new one.

Evin scowled, clutching the drone to her chest. It wouldn’t be the same. She’s a friend.

She’s a robot, Evie, he said.

Evin put Dolli on a table, making sure she wouldn’t roll off.

I’m fine by the way, she said.

I know you are, her father said. He crossed the space between them and put his hands on her shoulders. He gave her a light kiss on her forehead.

I wouldn’t have calmed down so quickly if you weren’t, he said. Was it just the body taken?

As far as I can tell, she said. I haven’t taken time to do inventory. I wanted the sergeant to clear it before I did.

He dropped his hands and began to pace.

This is bad, Evie, he said. You know who the man is?

I haven’t been able to identify him. I was going to run a DNA scan when I got a proper tissue sample, but the holo-ray results caught me off guard.

How so? he said.

Well, look, she said.

Evin flipped on the ray. She peeled away the outer layers of the body, down to the organs.

Her father leaned in. Is that. . . ice? He looked to her for confirmation, eyebrows raised.

She nodded. He’s frozen solid. Or at least his organs are.

How is that even possible? he said.

Dunno, she said. If he was frozen before he was burned, his outside would look a lot better for the organs to still be intact. There’s no way he could have been frozen after being burned and have his insides look that good.

Her father stood. Cause of death?

He most likely burned alive, she said. There’s smoke in his lungs.

But he was frozen? He frowned, upset at the conflicting information.

Evin smiled. Exactly. I was going to do an old-fashioned autopsy to verify.

Her father made a face. You mean cut him open? Absolutely barbaric.

Nothing prohibiting it, she said with a shrug. I don’t like it, but it was my last option. It’s not like whatever crime family he belongs to is going to complain.

Then you know what he is, her father said.

She nodded. It’s in the file.

"But do you know who is?"

I told you, I haven’t run a genetic test.

He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. Not who he is exactly. More of a general sense.

No.

He’s a mucker, he said.

Oh.

Now you understand.

Muckers weren’t particularly violent. In fact, most of them were on the soft side as far as gang work went. They were usually family members high ranking bosses wanted to bring in, or a relative wanted involved with the business, but were too much of a screw up or too kind-hearted to do any of the brutal work. Instead, they did the jobs no one else wanted. The muck.

Do you know who he is? Evin asked.

I have some theories, her father said. He’s either a Darling or an Augustine, that much I know.

Well neither is a great option, she said.

Both families were notorious for their brutality. Wallingford Darling led his family. He rarely got his hands dirty, choosing to send enforcers to break knees and shred Chips, leaving his victims hobbled and comatose. If they survived.

Ava Augustin, however, was vicious. She went after her enemies personally and her favorite method of murder was death by a thousand cuts. Evin had autopsied a few of her victims. Their lower limbs were covered in small cuts and eventually they just bled out.

But the most concerning thing was the two families hated each other.

No, her father said. Regardless of which family he’s from, his death is going to have consequences.

We need to find out who did it before war breaks out, she said. Whoever he is, his family is going to think the other family murdered him.

You don’t think it was gang related? he said.

Evin shook her head. She took the crime scene holo and inserted into her personal projector, a silver bangle bracelet on her wrist she kept tucked away during exams. She held out her hand, palm up, and sent a signal from her Chip to the emitter to open the holo.

The scene unfolded, smaller than before. With her free hand, she pinched her fingers over a section of the image then spread them apart. The room zoomed into the burned area of the warehouse with the candles.

Does this look like gang activity? she asked.

That looks religious, he said, rubbing his chin. Nothing I’m familiar with. I don’t recognize the symbols.

I do, she said. They’re Futhorc runes.

Runes, he said. Like an old alphabet?

She nodded and zoomed in on one. This one here is the rune for the ‘th’ sound in English. They go all the way back to Norse and Welsh societies over a thousand years ago.

Can you read what they say? he asked.

Evin shook her head. Not outright. The language is old, and I haven’t studied enough of it. But I know someone who can.

Her father scowled. I need you to keep this in house.

If I’m going to get any answers, I need to ask someone.

His scowl deepened. "You’re going to ask him."

The him her father referred to was Donovan, an old teacher of hers.

Papa trusted him, she said. And so do I.

Her father sighed, his shoulders drooping. I’m not going to have this argument with you again, Evie. Simon died because of that man, but if you still want to play his games, I can’t stop you. As the superintendent, I can order you not to divulge information about a case outside these walls.

And there it was. Pulling rank to get what he wanted.

Who is Donovan going to tell? she asked, crossing her arms.

I don’t know, and I don’t care, her father said. If word of this case gets out, we’ll have war. There will be blood in the streets between the Darlings and the Augustines. Do you understand? I promised your papa I would keep you safe. Simon died in my arms, and he made me swear I would protect you.

That’s not fair, she said, her voice small.

I know, he said, and I’m sorry.

He looked her right in the eyes. You’re going to tell him regardless of what I ask, aren’t you?

She locked eyes with him. Yes. There was no point in lying. He’d find out somehow.

Promise me you’ll be smart?

Evin let out a sigh. Always. The sooner I can identify those runes, the sooner we can find the killer. And maybe who took the body.

Unless it was one of the gangs.

Won’t know until I can run a full scan of the room and take this to Donovan.

Then you better get to it. I’ll check the footage from the security cameras, see if I can spot anyone suspicious.

He went to leave.

Hey, she said.

He stopped and turned.

You be safe too, she said.

I always am.

2

Detective Inspector Gabriel Ortega stared at the crime scene holos. It was one of the ghastlier murders he’d seen, but not the most upsetting.

The victim was burned alive. Candles and religious iconography surrounded the body. Some sort of ritual, clearly. His gut told him more murders were coming. Sickos like this were never happy with just one.

He leaned back in his chair. He sat in the bullpen for homicide on the third floor of Scotland Yard. There were twelve, faux wood desks here, lined in four rows of three, and only nine were occupied. One detective sergeant was out on maternity leave. The other two, well, he didn’t like to think about the other two. Both previously occupied by detective constables. They were in the back of the room, farthest from the door and the break room. The others in the bullpen avoided those two desks like they were plague ridden.

Too painful. A glaring example of failure.

His desk was closest to the detective superintendent’s office. It had the standard privacy screen for personal calls, witness questions, and whatever else he might need. It also had a small holo emitter in the center in case he needed to share data about a case or look at something outside his own head. Sometimes, he found, an external perspective was more enlightening. It was also how DSI Masters disseminated information quickly.

Currently, Gabriel had the recording of the crime scene for the burn victim pulled up on his desk holo. It was gruesome, but nothing any of the other detectives hadn’t seen before. Besides, someone might see something he missed. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to blurt out a useful idea as they passed each other’s desks.

Nobody blurted anything right now. They were all neck deep in cases. Gang violence was ramping up and the bodies were starting to stack. The two empty desks at the back echoed the state of the streets. Nothing about his crime scene said gang, except for the poor sap who died. Some mucker in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He wanted to see the autopsy results. With any luck, Dr. Stirling would be done or mostly done by now. She was quick and efficient. He ran a hand through his unruly, chestnut hair and used the reflection from his personal emitter on his wrist to check his teeth for leftover food from breakfast. There was a stripe of mustard from his sausage role just above his lip, a smear of dark yellow on bronze. He scraped it off with his thumb.

Satisfied he was presentable he loaded the case notes to his Chip and headed for the door.

A constable stopped him before he made it.

Sorry inspector, she said. There’s a woman here to see you. Interview room four.

An interview room. Not his desk. They wanted absolute privacy. Which meant one of a couple of options. One was that he lost track of days and he was late for a lunch with his mum.

Gabriel rubbed his eyes. He needed to keep his focus.

Tell my mother I’ll meet her at the café on the corner after my shift.

The constable raised an eyebrow. It’s not your mum, sir. She’s American, posh. I’m sure she’s somebody’s mum, but not yours.

Shit, said Gabriel. Alright. Yeah.

That was another possibility. A private client he met in his off time chose to ignore his office hours. And from the constable’s description, he knew just which one.

The burn victim would have to wait.

Gabriel diverted to the interview room. He made sure the cameras were off and looked in the window.

A woman he knew to be in her late fifties but looked no older than her thirties sat straight-backed in her chair, hands folded over each other on the table. She kept her dark brown hair back in a neat bun. Strands of silver were the only signs of her age. She wore a white silk blouse and a gray pencil skirt with a matching suit jacket. A heavy, black, wool coat hung from the back of the chair.

She did not turn when Gabriel entered.

He took the seat opposite her.

Ambassador Holdwright, he said. I thought we agreed we would never meet inside the station?

She fixed her blue-gray eyes on him in a steely gaze. That was before. Things have changed.

What’s changed? What’s happened?

The ambassador reached down for her purse, a smooth, gray, leather bag a shade darker than her suit. She pulled it into her lap and retrieved a folder which she slid across the table to him.

Gabriel looked around the room to make sure no one was recording but turned himself away from the cameras regardless. He flipped open the folder and froze.

There was a color photo of a young man in his late twenties. He had long black hair he pulled back in a ponytail and dressed almost entirely in black. He looked directly at the camera, as if he knew it were there, blue eyes piercing. A nasty, pinkish scar ran from just below his left ear and across his chin.

When was this taken?

Yesterday, the ambassador said. At Heathrow airport. He’s here, detective inspector. My son is in London. He’s alive.

Gabriel stared at the photo. Ambassador Lessa Holdwright had hired him two years ago to investigate the disappearance of her son Cristof. The CEO of the Everhold corporation as well as the ambassador for New Pacifica in the North American Contingency to the United Kingdom, Lessa had a lot of pull, and yet, she had chosen to go with a Met inspector to find the boy.

Boy. He was almost thirty.

The Holdwrights had bad luck with male heirs. They usually died young from illness or other mysterious means. When Cristof went missing five years ago, the world assumed another Holdwright man had succumbed to the family curse.

Gabriel didn’t think he’d have much luck and told the ambassador as much. She insisted. Fearing someone wished her son ill, they usually met in secret. Now that he had seen the photo, he could understand her urgency. If her son was in danger, he had to move quickly.

Who took the photo? said Gabriel.

It was sent in by a fan page, she said.

Then it could be doctored?

The ambassador shook her head. I had it examined.

A fan page, he said. There’s a good chance this has spread pretty far already. Any idea where he is now?

No, she said. But you can find him, can’t you? There was a quiet desperation there. Ambassador Holdwright was a reserved woman, but Gabriel had been around her enough to read her mood. She was distraught, fearful. He couldn’t blame her. Cristof was the first male Holdwright heir to make it to adulthood in the last fifty years, maybe longer.