by Dan Stout
“The girl in the alley,” she said, changing the subject. “Does she have a name?”
“Everyone has a name,” I said. “I just don’t know hers yet.”
“So what do you call her until you do?”
“Jane.”
The corners of Gellica’s lips curled. “Why?” She leaned closer. “Is that what you call all the dead girls?”
“Some,” I said. “Jane Doe.”
Her burgeoning smile fell away. “Ah,” she said. “I suppose that makes sense.”
I took another swig, letting the liquor bite my tongue. “I think she may have been into politics. At the ground level, anyway. She was an artist, drew some political stuff.” I shook my head. “Seems like the push-back against the military camp is everywhere.”
Gellica nodded. “People are scared and impatient, and they’re lashing out at the AFS. That’s why the special election matters so much.” She was more at ease with politics than when she’d skirted the issues of her own manna-dependence. “The slow production from the strike and ongoing technical problems, there’s already talk among other members of the AFS about nationalization.”
I almost dropped my glass. “That’s insane,” I said. “Titanshade’s supplied oil to the world for decades.” It was true. There was no place on Eyjan more capable of extracting liquid from below ground. “If there’s serious nationalization talk, there’d be riots in the streets.”
“And if Titanshade becomes hostile to the rest of the AFS it’s only going to make things worse. Which is why the alderman’s seat can’t go to someone who’ll tip the balance in the wrong direction.” She turned her glass from side to side, and I noticed the smudge of lipstick on the rim. Had she freshened her makeup before I arrived? “The special election is in two weeks, and it’s an opportunity to help everyone. A rising tide lifts all boats.”
I threw my head back and laughed.
“I’ve never heard a more Fracinican saying in my life.” I leaned closer and stage whispered, “There’re no boats in Titanshade.” Fracinica was a coastal city, with balmy temperatures and the kind of corruption that only great power could bring to bloom.
“Fine,” she said. “My time spent in the capital is showing. But that doesn’t change the importance of the election. The winner will be the key swing vote on City Council. That’s why Paulus and I—”
I cut her off with a groan. “You’re bringing her back into this?”
“I’m only pointing out that she thinks the same as you about a lot of things. She’s trying to make a difference for the city. What do you think I was working on when you came in?” A finger jab in the direction of her desk. “Military logistics, ambassadors to and from the other city-states, presentations to the AFS Council. Paulus is working on a scope far beyond the city limits.”
“I don’t doubt that she’s got her thumb in a lot of pies.” The portrait of Paulus stared down from the wall, her face so similar to the woman on the far side of the couch. Gellica was younger and wore her hair longer than her employer, but now that I knew to look for it, there was no way to ignore the similarities between them. And as much as I was drawn to Gellica, that connection scared me. “Your boss would kill as many Jane Does as she needed, if it helped achieve her goals.”
Gellica frowned, and the dimple in her chin deepened. I regretted running my mouth yet again.
“I don’t remember you turning down my help,” she said. “And when it all came to a head, you were on our side.”
“No,” I said. “Paulus’s interests happened to align with the law. She’d have happily crushed my neck under her heel when she had the chance.” Gellica’s eyes flashed, but before she could speak, I leaned closer. “But she didn’t, because you pulled me out of that room. You saved me and you saved someone I care about. I didn’t forget that,” I said. “When things went bad, you were on my side. Your boss never was.”
“I don’t know.” She sighed, and, for a moment, the strain of her job was evident on her face. “Sometimes I wonder what we could accomplish if people would take all their scheming and dreaming and focus that energy into the here and now.” She shifted in place, getting energized about the topic. Her hair tumbled as she tilted her head back, killing the last of her drink. “If they’d get their heads out of the mists and deal with real problems . . .”
I shrugged. “If politicians want to spend their days fighting each other, let them. Maybe it’ll keep them from making life any worse for the rest of us.”
“So optimistic!” She drummed a finger against her empty glass.
“I’m a glass half full kind of guy. Speaking of which . . .” I rattled the ice in my glass meaningfully.
Gellica either ignored me or missed the hint. “So what do you do next, to find who killed your Jane?”
“Talk to people in the art scene,” I said. “Jane was an artist. Someone might know her.”
Gellica’s eyes widened and she leaned back, the fabric of her suit pulling tight to her leg. She placed a hand on her chest with an exaggerated gesture. “You may not be aware of this, Detective, but I’m something of a patron of the arts.”
“You are?”
“Well, the ambassador is.” She dropped her hand. “But everyone knows I tell her where to send the checks. Guess which one of us gets invited to more events?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“There’s a happening at a gallery in Adams Square tomorrow night,” she said. “I know the owner.”
“Okay,” I said. “What’s happening?”
“A happening,” she said, “is an event. One that pushes artistic and societal boundaries.”
I didn’t intentionally make a face, but judging from her laughter, I must have.
“There’ll be free food,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, and even to my ear I sounded more chipper. “Give me the address.”
“It’s invite only,” she said. “You’ll need me if you want to go.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
“Like a date?”
Her jaw dropped, and I couldn’t quite tell if there was a smile behind it. She stood and took the empty glass out of my good hand.
“You’ll need to be polite and behave yourself,” she said. “So no, absolutely nothing like a date.”
“Polite and well-behaved is my standard procedure for dates.” I stood as well, a movement that brought us uncomfortably close.
Gellica presented me with an exaggerated frown. “Then your dates are pathetic.”
Ushering me across the room and out of the office, she paused to say, “See you tomorrow night,” before closing the door in my face.
Which was good, because I’d have hated for her to see me grin quite so broadly.
* * *
That night I grabbed an ice hare from the grocery along with a six pack of beer and box of noodles. When I walked through the door of my apartment I was greeted by a tan-and-white feline blur, as Rumple pounced on my leg, clawing at the fabric of my pants mercilessly before perching on the arm of my faded couch and commencing a long series of mews. Each was punctuated by flicks of his tail, as if to catch me up on his exciting day of watching the city through a window. With a final scritch behind his ear, I put an album on the record player, dropping the needle into the perfect groove, providing a soundtrack for my dinner and covering up the sound of my neighbors fighting.
As I made dinner the last glow of Gellica’s alcohol faded to nothing. All the while I ran the events of the day back through my head. I thought of cleverer things I could have said to Gellica and I thought of the dismembered gangster in the washing machine. But most of all I thought about Jane Doe, lying alone in an alley. There was no end to the list of people who might take advantage of a newcomer, someone who hadn’t yet learned to distrust even the kindest-seeming of offers.
Silently, I promised myself that I’d learn Jane Doe’s name and the dark secrets that ruined her life, that brought her to that moment, in an alley where her head was caved in and her face mutilated.
With a turn of the wrist I sent the butter rolling along the bottom of the pan, keeping the temperature low enough that it wouldn’t burn. I set aside the chef’s knife and drew the longer, thin-bladed fillet knife from the wooden block by the sink. The board cleared, I laid out the hare and unwrapped the twine from the white fur that lined its rear feet. The rest of it had been skinned and the entrails removed, along with the head. But the rear feet were always left intact for the cook to remove. Titanshade was a city still ruled by old superstitions.
I trimmed the body, guiding the blade along the bone, slicing through tendons and stripping away flesh until I ran into a joint. I should have used the blade, separated the bones with a twist of my wrist. Instead I froze, wincing, teeth grinding as I imagined fingers being ripped asunder, and fought the image of a terrified creature, alone in a cage facing a predator. I gripped the handle of the knife tighter, meaning to press forward but encountering a wall of resistance, like an impenetrable shield. Finally I threw the whole thing in the pan, where it landed with a sizzle.
I cooked the hare, but couldn’t bring myself to mix the browned meat into the vegetables. After trying twice, I dumped it into the bowl on the ground, and Rumple padded over to enjoy a home-cooked meal. The neighbors’ fight climaxed then silenced, and I ate my partial meal as the turntable arm caught on the inner track, pushing back and starting again, never quite able to reset itself.
8
THE NEXT MORNING I GOT to the diner early and picked a booth away from the rest of the customers, against a window that overlooked the stream of pedestrians on their way to work. I sat alone, doing physical therapy exercises with my left hand, gripping a half-tael coin at different angles, pressing it between thumb and remaining fingers and tapping it against my coffee cup. Jane’s sketchbook lay open on the table. Its pages were thick, made for carrying watercolors or pastels, and each one held a cityscape or fantastically vibrant illustration. A portrait of a woman with jet-black hair and enticing smile was followed by a study of roughnecks lounging on a street corner, nursing hangovers and waiting for their ride back to an oil rig. I’d gotten halfway through both the book and my coffee when Jax arrived. The vinyl bench seat groaned in protest as he slid across from me and dropped the Daily Saber morning edition on the steel-banded linoleum tabletop.
Jax gave the menu a cursory glance as the waitress strolled over. Gretta’s Home Cooking was a favorite spot of mine, with a waitress who addressed everyone as “Hon” and served generous portions, each crispy bite saturated in flavor and fat. It was a damn good breakfast, and there was almost nothing boring or healthy on the menu.
“Oatmeal,” said Jax. “Thin. With cinnamon and a side of plantti fruit.”
I shook my head in disapproval, then told the waitress how I took my hash and eggs. Before she left I added a to-go order of coffee and a half-dozen donuts.
Jax cocked his head. “You planning on having a snack in the middle of this meet and greet?”
“Nah,” I said. “For after that. You’ll see.”
Jax loosened his tie and tucked a napkin into his shirt collar below his speaking mouth. “You have a good night?”
I had a brief moment of doubt, wondering whether he knew I’d been to see Gellica.
“Listened to the new Gravity Sister LP,” I said. “Not their best work. Next topic.”
He stared at me for a three-count, fingers crinkling the napkin’s edge, and I thought he might push it. But in the end he only sighed.
“Fine. Let’s talk about your pal Dungan, instead.” Jax pushed the newspaper across the table. “He was right about the Gillmyn in the washing room.”
The headline read: MONEY LAUNDERER FOUND IN THE WASH.
“This St. Beisht character was in pretty deep,” said Jax.
I skipped the article and flipped through the rest of the paper. On page eight I found a one-sentence mention of an unidentified Mollenkampi woman found dead in an alleyway. It was in the Police Blotter, along with a summary of robberies and minor vandalism, tucked beneath an ad for a Titan’s Day Blowout Sale on televisions and dishwashers.
My coin tapped a staccato rhythm against the warm ceramic of the coffee mug.
“Whoever chopped up the Harlq money man might have also killed our Jane Doe,” said Jax.
“Like maybe she stumbled onto whoever stashed St. Beisht and got taken out rather than leave a potential witness?” I’d had the thought already. “Probably not. Jane’s killing seemed panicked. The St. Beisht scene was a pro hit.”
“But if they are linked . . .”
If they were, then Dungan might take Jane’s case even if we helped him with his CI. I didn’t answer, clinking the coin against my mug as I searched for anything else to think about. A television nestled high on a wall showed a morning news program, artificially perky anchors smiling their way through news summaries and sightings of local celebrities. The logo in the corner was bedecked with cartoon flowers and rays of sunshine, proclaiming, “It’s a New Day, Titanshade!”
Which of course was bullshit. There was nothing new in the city. People still died and the only victims who got attention were the wealthy or tragically beautiful, and no amount of miracle liquid found in the ice plains was going to change that. The television cut to a man with perfect hair and no wrinkles announcing a shakeup in the 24th Ward special election. The one Gellica’s boss was so focused on. The one Gellica implied was under control.
Over the anchor’s shoulder appeared a photo of a badly burned man, identified as Louis Mah, one of the front runners for the vacant alderman’s seat. The beating thrum of my pulse in my eardrums practically overran the announcer as he told how Mah had planned a public display of sorcery using ice field manna. He’d attempted to create an anima, a tricky conceit only the most accomplished of sorcerers even tried: an expression of the sorcerer’s will in elemental form. It was the kind of arrogance that came with having too many yes-men. An incessant drumbeat underscored the newsman’s false concern as they ran a brief clip of Mah’s presentation going wrong, his charred face screaming. Mah had played with fire and it literally blew up in his face. The announcer said that at this point, the election seemed a lock for AFS loyalist Meredith Plunkett. Just like Gellica had anticipated.
The drumbeat grew louder.
If an AFS loyalist took the special election, would that push the feds toward nationalizing the manna field? And what would Paulus be willing to do to make that happen? When I’d confronted her a month ago, she’d pinned me to the floor with a creature of living air. Her face was casually indifferent as a giant invisible thing held me down, threads of living air twisting over my chest, past my arms, pressing against my lips as my heart pounded like a—
“Carter!”
I jerked my attention from the TV to find Jax staring at me. I stopped tapping the coin against my coffee cup and the drumbeat ceased abruptly.
My partner leaned forward. “You feeling okay?”
“Fine.” I could feel other patrons peering at us. I searched for something to focus on as I regained control of my thoughts. The table’s spice and sauce holder had a holiday insert, Day’s Dawning in bold letters along with a list of dishes with joke names. I stared at it for a pair of deep breaths as I grounded myself. Then I set the coin on Jane’s sketchbook, the interlocking loops of the AFS seal facing up.
“When we talked to that woman on Ringsridge yesterday,” I said, “you really didn’t see
anything . . . off?”
“I saw several things that seemed off,” he said. “I saw an addict trying to raise a kid, and that kid trying to manage his parent. And I saw my partner get lucky that for once there wasn’t a photographer around when he got his rear end planted in a wall.”
“So, you didn’t feel anything in her vicinity, that was a—”
“We’ve been over this.” He leaned forward, cutting me off before I could talk about the tingling. “She was on something. I believe that. But if she was moving extra fast or strong, I didn’t notice.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“If I did, I’d tell you.”
“I know you would,” I said. “You never miss an opportunity to tell me something.”
He snorted, and dropped a vinegar packet into his coffee. A little splash of acid to bring out the extra bitterness.
“Anyway,” I moved on to the next subject, “I’ve got a chance to talk to some artists. Gallery owners, that kind of thing. Might learn something about Jane.”
“Good.” Jax’s brow crinkled. “How’d you turn it up?”
I spread my hands, false modesty that served only to buy a little time as I thought of some way to not tell him I was going with Gellica. I was saved when our plates arrived, along with top-offs on our coffee. I’d developed an aversion to anything with cinnamon in it after the Haberdine case, having had more than my share of unpleasantness with sweet-scented, madness-inducing Squib blood. So I was grateful the steam rising from my hash and eggs kept me from having to smell Jax’s meal. It did not, however, protect me from the sight of him eating it.
Jax had ordered his oatmeal thin, which meant it was cooked on the runny side, an easier density for him to eat. He stared at a spot above my head, lifting his biting jaws high as he brought the spoonful of oatmeal to the opening in the middle of his neck, used for both speaking and eating.
