by Dan Stout
“What about your swimwear model over there?” I pointed a thumb at Tenebrae.
Gellica laughed. “Please.”
“He was clearly interested in you.” I watched him. He was currently speaking to an older couple, apparently married, and they both seemed quite taken in by his charms.
“I don’t think it’s me he’s interested in,” she said.
I snorted, and she said, “Did you get a close look at that scarf?”
Glancing back at Tenebrae, I strained my eyes in the low light of the club. Black silk, with silver patterns . . . no, not patterns. Runes. My stomach clenched.
“He’s a sorcerer,” I said.
Gellica winked.
I coughed, eyeing the tall man more carefully. “Is it, you know, safe to be here?”
Her brows creased. “I don’t know that any sorcerer is safe, necessarily.”
“Yeah, but can’t he tell about your,” I hesitated, not wanting to use the word “condition.” Instead I fell back on the pantomimed roar I’d used in her office. Only more subtle, suitable for a public conversation.
Apparently not subtle enough, because Gellica batted my hands down.
“What do you think, that we can scent each other out?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know how it worked.
“If you met someone,” she said. “A complete stranger. Would you know they were a cop without being told?”
“Probably, yeah.”
She glared. “It’s like scattering seeds on the ice plains with you.” She lifted her wineglass and swirled the contents. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t know what kind of cop, right?”
I wasn’t going to argue the point.
“Mitri knows I’ve got the inside track on the manna reserves,” she said. “But that’s it. For that matter, everyone who knows what I do for a living knows I do something with manna. If he did get a sense of something, he’d probably assume it rubbed off on me from Paulus.” I thought on that. If anyone could get manna from the strike, it was Gellica’s boss. Was Paulus siphoning some for her own plans? If so, was it for more twisted experimentation? It was a thought I immediately regretted. Gellica might be a lot of things, but she wasn’t a twisted experiment. If anything, she was a hostage to Paulus’s schemes.
“Besides,” she waved dismissively, “all Mitri wants is insider information on the manna strike and when it’ll be available, same as everyone else. He’s simply more motivated than most.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s with TCI.”
My blank expression must have communicated my lack of understanding.
“Telescribe Communications,” she said. “They use manna for secure long-distance connections. Contract out to governments, mostly.”
“Big money.”
“To say the least,” she said. “Tenebrae’s all over anyone he thinks can give him or his backers an inside connection.”
“So you’re trying to get rid of him?” I managed to keep the delight out of my voice.
“Well, I’m not in too much of a hurry.” The corner of Gellica’s lip curled as her gaze slid over my shoulder, in the other man’s direction. “He may turn out to have some use. And he’s pleasant to look at.”
I took a swig of my tea, but before I could formulate a proper response the man in the corner booth had risen and gestured to us.
Gellica stood, collecting her drink and her purse.
“Come on,” she said. “And try not to antagonize him too much.”
We crossed the room and greeted this Napier we’d come to meet. He was good-sized, with a heavy tightness to him that made it hard to tell if it was fat or muscle beneath his turtleneck, a match for the one the staff wore. He had carefully mussed hair, and carefully curated stubble on his cheeks. He and Gellica embraced in the distant manner of the extremely wealthy.
We slid into the booth, setting down our drinks.
“Thank you for speaking with us,” she said.
“Dear heart,” he said. “I never turn away a woman who brings me wine.”
“It’s your bar,” she replied. “That means it’s free booze and you pocket the profit. I’m paying you to drink.”
“I suspect you want a bit more than a drink,” he said before turning his attention to me. He placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, looking me over like I was a tibron beetle at auction.
“Gellica,” he said, with a bit of breathy excitement. “Is this who I think it is?”
Behind us, the artist continued to share the crowd’s secrets. “It was my aunt. But I kept watching. I could have backed away and closed the door, but I stayed, eye pressed to the crack in the door as she went through my parents’ dresser, drawer by drawer. Searching for something.” He fell silent again.
“I’m looking for a girl,” I said.
Napier interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on his hands, indicating his interest with raised eyebrows. I took it as a good sign.
“Mollenkampi,” I said. “Young. Artist. A newcomer. Probably hoping to break onto the scene.”
“A bit vague.” The man puckered his lips, a playful denial. “Any more details than that?”
I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved Jane’s photo. “She looks like this, now.”
The playfulness vanished as Napier pulled back. His eyes flashed to Gellica’s face. She wasn’t smiling, either.
“You knew her.” I said it with total certainty. Napier wouldn’t have been much of a poker player.
“I met her.” He stared at the photo, slowly reaching to touch it, as if it were a fragile flower. He stared for one heartbeat, then another.
“Poor child,” he said finally. “I can’t help you with this.” He slid the photo back across the table, though I made no move to pick it up.
“What’s her name?” I said.
He hesitated. “It was . . .” Chewing his lip, considering his words carefully before speaking to an unknown cop and a powerful political player. I didn’t blame him. Not for that, at least. Finally he said, “There are so many aspiring creative souls who come to Titanshade.”
“Bullshit.” It was the kind of thing I’d say, but Gellica had beat me to it.
Napier blinked, taken aback, before breaking out the dimples again. “My dear, you know me.”
“Yes.” She folded her arms and pressed her back into the fabric of the booth seat. “I also know when I’m getting smoke blown up my backside. Titanshade has its charms, and it even has performers.” She nodded to the man onstage, keeping an audience in rapt attention with their own secrets. “But it’s never,” she said, “under any circumstances, been the place where artists go to break big.”
Napier was silent, and I certainly wasn’t going to interrupt.
“For that they go to Fracinica,” she said. “Or Cloudswar, or down past the Southern Crossing. Not up north to live beside the roughnecks and oil tycoons.” She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, casually indifferent to Napier’s indignation. “So a new face on the scene would catch your eye. Especially if that face was young and pretty.”
I pushed the photo back over the table. “Look again,” I said. “Look real hard.”
Napier sighed. “I never said I didn’t remember her, only that I don’t know her name.” He straightened the photo, as if it were displayed on his gallery wall. “She came round here. A young, pretty Mollenkampi showing off a portfolio of political satire. Good work, but not saleable in the current market. Completely ungrounded in reality, fascinated by the Titan First crowd and misty-eyed about the coming new age of manna.”
“When was this?”
“Oh . . . Three, four nights ago?”
Only a couple of days before Jane had been killed.
I started to speak, but Napier continued.
“What I’m saying is that she w
as interesting,” he said. “But not so interesting that I bothered to learn who she was or where she lived, or anything else you want to know.”
“She never told you her name?” I said.
“I’m sure she did,” he said, underscoring the words with a put-upon sigh. “But you have to understand, I meet hundreds of people at every opening. Despite what your distinguished friend may think.” He batted his eyes in Gellica’s direction. “There’s no shortage of new faces, but there’s a distinct shortage of healthy brain cells to remember them with.” He punctuated the sentiment by downing the remnants of his wineglass.
I grunted. “Did she show any interest in particular artwork?”
Napier shrugged.
“What about artists?” asked Gellica. “Did she try to network?”
Napier hesitated, then nodded. “I did notice her talking to Lillian Moller.” He leaned toward Gellica. “Are you familiar with her work? Mixed media, lots of garish colors that disorient the viewer. It appears simple at first, but it’s actually—”
“Spell the name,” I said. And he did, though only after another annoyed sigh. I asked for an address, but he balked.
“I have no idea. But!” He raised a palm, as if holding my next question at bay. “I’m sure I have one in my files. I’ll have my assistant check and pass it on.”
I nodded and tapped my notepad. “And where were you the night before last?”
The trick in dropping questions like that is to wait until they’ve already volunteered everything they’re gonna volunteer. That lets you keep the disclosures separated from the panicked responses. But Napier didn’t rise to it.
“Here, of course. Well into the night.”
“And lots of people saw you?”
His lips curled. “It’s my job to be seen. I’ll send their names when I have Lillian’s contact information.”
It was the best we’d get from him. We said our thanks—or at least Gellica did—and left Napier to his wine. As we walked away, Gellica glanced over the assemblage of fashionably dressed art lovers.
“You want to talk to anyone else?”
Across the room Mitri Tenebrae’s trim silhouette moved gracefully from one wealthy patron to another. As if drawn by my gaze, he turned and, when he recognized Gellica, raised a well-tailored arm.
“No,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walked through the crowd, angling our shoulders to pass through the press of patronage. The crowd slowed our progress, and before long Tenebrae had caught up to us.
“Calling it a night, Envoy?”
His fingers rested between Gellica’s shoulder blades, teeth gleaming in the club lights. I caught a strong whiff of flower petals. Tenebrae’s cravat was not only embroidered with magical runes, it was perfumed. Not too shocking for a newcomer, who hadn’t grown up with the sulfur smell of the Titan’s agony creeping through the geo-vents.
“Afraid so,” she answered, her voice just as charming as his.
“You’re coming to my event, of course?” he said. “Just a discreet gathering of people who’d like to see the city and its resources used appropriately. Quaddro evening, at my apartment.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she said. “If my schedule allows.” It seemed like a dig at Tenebrae, or at least I decided to view it that way.
“Sounds great,” I said, not willing to completely cede the conversation to the interloper. “Looking forward to it.”
“Of course.” Tenebrae blinked, looking as though he’d already forgotten who I was.
“Are you still planning to stay through Titan’s Day?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I want to be here for the special election, and I don’t want to make several trips.” His grin tightened, turning into something a little darker. “Travel is always tough on me.”
“I understand,” said Gellica. “I’ll see you in two days, then.”
“I look forward to it.” His chiseled features lit up as he walked away, slipping back into the crowd.
“Travel’s tough on him?” I said.
“He was in an accident when he was younger,” she said. “Lots of reconstructive surgery.”
“Huh.” I craned my neck, catching another glimpse of Tenebrae’s wide shoulders and trim waist. “They did a pretty good job of it.” I thought of Donnie’s sorcerer Micah, and the old friend who’d approached her. “Telescribe Communications, huh?” We were almost to the door, squeezing past the throng at the bar. “Is that—”
A face in the crowd caught my attention.
The young woman who’d been arguing with her companion stood to the side of the bar, eyes downcast, not far from the men’s room. As if she’d been told to sit and stay until her date returned. I told myself it wasn’t my business.
I was able to go another three paces before I touched Gellica’s arm.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
When I approached, the young woman looked up then immediately dropped her eyes.
“Hi,” I said. “I got separated from my date. Do you know where the women’s room is?”
“Over there.” She glanced in that direction, raising and turning her head. Revealing a bruise the size and shape of a large olive under the bend of her right jaw. The kind of bruise left by a man’s thumb.
I jumped back to eye contact, not letting her know I’d seen it. But I fished my badge out of my pocket and showed it to her, hidden from prying eyes by the flap of my jacket. Her eyes darted toward the men’s room as if afraid her companion might suddenly reappear.
“Look,” I said. “If there’s anything else you want to tell me, go ahead. It doesn’t need to be on the record.”
She half smiled. “I don’t know what that’d be.” Shaking her head, blinking, looking anything but sincere.
“Alright,” I said. “Here’s my card.” I flipped it over and scribbled the name of a patrol cop I knew. “If you’d rather talk to a woman, ask for Cardamom. She’d be interested in listening.”
The card disappeared into the woman’s purse, and she turned away from me, breathing fast. She didn’t thank me, but she didn’t throw it away either. It was probably the best I could hope for. There’s no place in this world for saviors, but—sometimes—people can save themselves.
I returned to Gellica, who greeted me with a raise of her brow. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
I gestured to the door. “We should get you home.”
“Yes,” she said. “We should.”
She took my hand and walked ahead, leading me to the way out.
* * *
We shared a taxi when we left, and the ride was quiet. When we pulled up to her home, I told the driver to wait while I walked Gellica to the door. When she reached the stoop she paused and turned to me. Waiting.
“Thanks,” I said.
“It was fun,” she said.
“Well.” I took a breath. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question, and my voice cracked like a preteen. But I at least managed to smile. When something embarrassing happens, there’s nothing for it but to keep blundering ahead. Which describes most of my life, if you get down to it.
“What are you doing now?” She leaned against the doorframe, fingers idling lightly across the knob.
I wanted to take that step, close the gap between us, and I knew she wanted me, too. I looked into her eyes and my heart picked up its pace. She tilted her head, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and dimpled chin. Those features that were such a clear echo of Paulus.
Paulus, who’d almost destroyed and discarded Talena’s life. Paulus, who’d forced my face into the carpet, the howling rage of her sorcery deafening as she prepared to crush the life out of me. I looke
d at Gellica and wanted to take that step, to close that gap, but my foot didn’t move.
“I’m gonna talk to this Lillian Moller lady,” I said. “See what she’s got to say.”
Gellica winced. “No, I meant—” She shook her head and smiled thinly at a joke only she could hear. “Forget it,” she said, then opened her door. She hesitated on the threshold, not quite making eye contact as the alarm system’s warning chime sounded its countdown. The metallic threads of her dress shimmered in the glow of the streetlights. “I had fun tonight.”
“Me too,” I said. “I meant it, about maybe doing it again. You know,” I attempted a casual laugh, “sometime when I’m not worried about dead girls and justice.”
Lips pursed, she said, “So not anytime soon.”
I opened my mouth, but found I had nothing to say.
She slipped through the door. “Good night, Detective.” The click of the latch punctuated her sentence, and I was left alone with my memories on her front stoop.
12
ANY SITUATION, NO MATTER HOW awkward or embarrassing, can immediately be made worse by a pep talk from a taxi driver.
“Hey, my friend,” the driver looked at me in the rearview. “No luck back there, huh? Too bad, because, you know . . .” He shook one hand in the air, whipping it back and forth. A gesture that had absolutely no meaning to me, but seemed intended to bolster my good spirits. “That lady! Right?”
I didn’t answer, and he tried again. “Maybe I should take you to good club, yeah? It’s still early. Try again, you know? They say no man climbs the Mount on his first try. Fall down, get up and try again. What d’you say?”
We were headed back to my place, the air getting colder as we worked our way leeward, the shadowy shape of the Mount to our backs. I had no desire to go out and mingle with other people. I wanted to go home, listen to some music, scratch Rumple’s ears, and fall asleep on the couch. Preferably with a beer in my hand.
But the way I’d ended the evening with Gellica meant that I’d be up for hours unless I did something to banish it from my mind. I pulled my jacket tighter and heard the crinkle of paper in the pocket. I thought of the massive mural Jane had been working on in the alley, and how it included political players from the 24th Ward. Players like the CaCuris. Napier had told us Jane had been fascinated with the Titan First crowd, and I wondered if there was anything to be found there. Advice I’d given Jax more than once floated back to my mind: Know the victim, and you’ll know the killer. I glanced at my watch. It was still early, after all.
