by Dan Stout
I reemerged with the half soda and joined them in the part of my apartment I called a living room. “So what do you want?”
“You’re welcome,” said Talena.
“For what?”
“I don’t know, for showing up with real food? For not letting you spend a night alone sulking about your training date with NICI?” Jax took a bite of his veggie wrap. “You need to interact with people who aren’t on the force. It keeps you grounded.”
I waved away the sentiment. “I see plenty of people. I don’t have trouble keeping up with them.”
Talena was wearing her standard issue jeans and layered shirts, but Jax had traded his suit and tie for a long sleeve shirt with a moderate weave. He’d dressed up for the visit, and I found it hard to believe that was for me. I narrowed my eyes as he and Talena sat on the couch, a hair too close for my comfort.
Rumple strolled into the room, drawn by the smell of food and familiar voices. He leapt onto the couch and gave Talena’s hand a nuzzle before walking over her legs to reach Jax.
“Hey old man, good to see you, too.” Talena stroked Rumple’s back. Rumple had belonged to Talena’s mom, and when we’d lost Jenny to cancer, I’d somehow inherited her cat. When I was in the hospital after the manna strike, Talena had stepped up to take care of him. I appreciated the gesture, especially seeing as how so many of Talena’s headaches were a direct result of knowing me. But then again, she wasn’t the kind of person to take out her frustrations on an animal. People, on the other hand . . .
Jax redirected Rumple’s raised tail away from his chin. “So you know Talena’s looking at getting permanent space?”
I turned to her. “You’re buying an apartment?”
“A permanent work space,” she said. “Somewhere for volunteers to gather and people who want help can find what they need.”
“As long as what they need includes a speech about the Path?” I asked. Talena’s desire to help was sincere, but was intertwined with her belief that religion was the best, most lasting way to assist those in need.
She let the dig slide off her back, which surprised me. I was surprised again by how much she’d mellowed since her brush with poisoning. “If they want, but more like how to file a complaint about utility services, or how to register to vote. There’s more people coming into the city every day, and it’s not getting any easier for them to start a life here.”
“Because of the CaCuris?”
“They didn’t create the anger,” she said. “But they’re exploiting it. You can’t throw gas on an already burning building and claim you’re not an arsonist.”
“Not sure that distinction matters to the Therreau family in the hospital,” I said, and took a swig of my soda.
Talena sat up a little straighter. “By the way . . . Standing up to the crowd and calling out their bullshit? You did the right thing.”
“People keep telling me that. Be nice if doing the right thing wasn’t hazardous to my career.”
Jax’s laughter was resonant and rolling. “Carter, everything you do is hazardous to your career!”
Talena smiled. “No, I mean it! Things are tense out there. At this point, even tiny acts stand out and make a difference.”
Humming through his biting mouth, Jax nodded. “A single star shines all the brighter in the blackest of nights.”
The unchecked optimism almost made me choke on my soda. “There’re no stars in Titanshade.” I wiped a hand across my chin. “And the only lights in town advertise what’s for sale.”
Ignoring me, Talena looked at Jax through narrowed eyes. “Was that from a poem?”
Jax’s eyes crinkled, and he couldn’t hide his delight that she’d caught one of his references. “From Robeson’s final collection. I have a first edition.”
She laughed. “You are such a nerd.”
His eyes smoothed, and he shifted in his seat, but she grinned wider and leaned in his direction. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
I looked at Talena, thinking of all the ways she offered assistance and friendship to the most vulnerable, no matter how many times that kindness was rejected. For a moment, I wondered if I was wrong about the stars in Titanshade.
The conversation drifted, and at some point I simply relaxed and watched the two of them talk. It was surprisingly pleasant.
Talena gestured with her hands as she spoke. She wore a bracelet in the shape of a ba, the figure eight that symbolized our eternal trek on the Path, and with each emphatic statement it caught and reflected the light from the lamp and television. Talena’s faith had arisen with no urging from me. I’d never given myself to much belief in anything I couldn’t grab and throttle with my own hands.
“Oh!” Jax struggled to reach his back pocket without dumping Rumple, who was perched on his lap. “You never asked how the visit to The Lotus Petal went.”
“Well?”
“Pretty much how you’d expect. Napier fobbed me off on an assistant, who was happy to gossip once her boss was out of the room. Most of what she said confirms what he told you—tons of fresh faces in the gallery, new artists hoping to make a name. Hard to remember details of any one person.”
“Great,” I muttered.
“But—” He finally managed to reach into his pocket, despite Rumple doing his best impression of a blanket. “Thought you’d want to see this.” He flipped open his notepad and tossed it in my direction.
I caught it and rotated it upright. There, in Ajax’s neat handwriting, was Lillian Moller’s name and address. The artist Napier had seen Jane talking to. I broke into a grin, delighted to finally have something we could work with, rather than more rumor and innuendo.
“Finally!” I swung the notepad overhead like a trophy. “First thing tomorrow we’re gonna pay this lady a visit.”
“Not quite first thing. You’ve got class with NICI tomorrow.” Jax’s eyes crinkled, betraying his amusement.
Talena’s attention had wandered, apparently settling on the Jane Doe murder book that leaned against the side of the couch. She lifted it, and out spilled the collection of photos and documents that painted a view of a young woman’s death. Talena slid the crime scene photos to one side, lips curling into a frown as she saw Jane’s corpse, lit by flashbulbs and surrounded by bright red crime scene markers. The next photo was of the setting. Talena lifted that photo and stared.
“I’ve seen these before,” she said. “It’s good. The mural, I mean.”
I nodded. I’d intended to ask her about Jane’s art before we’d been interrupted by the attack on the street vendor. “She can really draw.”
“No,” Talena said. “I mean—yeah. But what’s powerful is the message.”
“Message?” I sat straighter.
“She’s talking about the occupation of the city, and denying people the ability to feed themselves.”
Jax peered over her shoulder. “This is about the military camp?”
“The occupation,” Talena repeated. “This,” she tapped the broad-jawed woman at the side, “is Colonel Marbury, from the AFS occupation force, and this,” she moved a finger to indicate a family of Mollenkampi, “is clearly the Mount.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Run that last one by me again.”
“Look how they’re posed, in that roughly two-peaked triangle. You think that’s by accident?” I’d looked at the wall and seen skillful renderings of recognizable faces, but as Talena expounded on the intricacies of the mural, it became clear that every choice Jane made had a purpose, every pose and shade told a hidden story. Up until that moment, it had never occurred to me that art could lie.
“The message,” said Talena, “is that denying someone the ability to use their resources is unethical.”
“Like sending someone home when they’re trying to solve a murder?” I said.
Talena smirked. “Sure. But
here,” she indicated the shadows in the background, “this is everyone else who could use that food, those resources.”
“The bigger picture,” Jax said quietly. He set Rumple aside, then walked into the kitchen to help himself to a water.
Talena favored him with a smile, one that carried a distinct warmth. “It’s a shitty thing to use resources without regard for the wider world.” She looked back in my direction. “Kind of like plunging ahead with no regard for how your actions will affect others.”
“So who’s right?” I asked. “Who does Jane think should eat, the people who own the food or the strangers in the shadows?”
“Both,” she said. “Everyone should get to eat.”
Irritated, I shook the photo in the air. “But you said—”
“I said there’s a message, Carter. I didn’t say there was an answer.”
Jax slid back onto the couch beside Talena before allowing Rumple to reclaim his perch. “You learn something?”
“Yeah.” I tossed the photo back on the table. “I don’t like art.”
Public drawings of people who represented other things was a nice concept, but it didn’t get me any closer to finding who’d killed Jane. And a message without meaning didn’t tell me a damn thing.
“Well I’m glad that’s settled,” said Talena. “We should go. I didn’t want to come at all, but your partner made me.”
I looked at Jax, who only shrugged. “I thought you might need a couple friendly faces. And I knew you’d need something decent to eat.”
They stood to go. Rumple showed his displeasure by stalking into the corner to groom himself.
“Thanks for coming by.” For once, I didn’t qualify the statement.
“Well,” said Jax, “stop showing up on the front pages and we won’t have to.”
“So tomorrow,” I said. “Are you gonna—”
Jax cut me off. “I’ll run a background on Napier, make sure we’re not missing anything. We’ll meet up after your date with NICI and go see Moller together.”
I nodded, grateful. I said good-bye and closed the door. The apartment seemed much bigger and less welcoming without them.
17
I SPENT MY MORNING WITH another long session in the computer lab, learning to hate NICI and her bizarre set of formatting demands. My respect for Jax crept a little higher as I wondered how he was able to make his brain work in a way that let him navigate the almost incomprehensible command lines and emerge with information about cases from across the Assembly of Free States. One by one I entered individual case information, having to enter each line perfectly so it’d show up in searches down the line. Then it was all captured on those machines that looked like oversized reel-to-reel tape recorders. Copies of the latest tapes were sent to all the AFS city-state police departments each week, and we received a similar tape from them. All in the name of efficient searching. It was tedious, mind numbing work, and by the time Jax showed up at the end of the day I practically ran for the door.
“Turn anything up on the gallery owner?” I asked as we approached the Hasam. I held up my hand, though my partner didn’t turn over the keys.
“Tons,” he said. “But nothing violent. Drug possession, some tax issues.” He slid into the driver’s seat. I grunted and took shotgun. “I wrote it up. Details are in the book.”
I glanced in the back seat and saw the Jane Doe murder book and sketchbook lying beside his overcoat.
“Not bad,” I said.
Jax turned over the engine, and the 8-track in the dash came to life. Layered vocals and a synthesized brass section blared from the Hasam, threatening to blow the speakers. I yanked the tape out of the dash player and stared at it. A Dinah McIntire album. I tossed it in the back with the murder book.
“Seriously, you’re going to give me a bad reputation driving around with you. Do you know how to get to this artist’s place?”
He nodded, and pulled into traffic, almost immediately coming to a stop behind an ice truck about to make a delivery. Its hazard lights flickered as the boom crane used for hoisting ice blocks to rooftop water towers rattled to life, the crane motor spewing exhaust. Jax urged on the Hasam, and we escaped the cloud of obnoxious black smoke. I segued into a new topic.
“Tell me about this you and Talena thing,” I said.
“What thing?”
“You know what thing.” I crossed my arms. “You showed up at my apartment looking like a teenager on his first date.”
“You think that’s my idea of a date? Bringing a depressive cop fast food?” He let out a harmonized snort of derision. “I told her you were having a rough time, and we should drop in and check on you.”
“How did you even know where to find her?”
“Seriously? Finding people is my job.” He leaned back and looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Did you not realize I’m a detective?”
I grunted as suspiciously as I could, and kept my peace until we reached the address Jax had gotten for the artist.
Moller lived on the fifth floor of a worn brownstone in a low-rent part of town. We knocked on the door of the apartment twice, loud enough to piss off the neighbors, though none of them bothered to open their doors to find out if someone needed help. It took another minute of continuous knocking before the door jerked open and we got our first look at the occupant. A thirty-something human woman with jet black hair, falling unfashionably long and straight over her shoulders. She wore a light gray leather jacket over a pair of layered T-shirts, each pocked with strategically placed holes to give the impression of distress without having to actually expose skin to the chill air. The shirts were topped by a wool scarf and the jacket paired with black denim jeans and a belt lined with an alternating string of rifle casings and doll arms. Her boots looked to be steel-toed, but I likely wouldn’t find out unless she decided to kick me. Judging from her expression, that wasn’t out of the question.
I flashed my badge. “Lillian Moller?”
She didn’t answer. That in itself told me several things. First, she either was or knew Lillian Moller. Second, she didn’t like the police. Lastly, she didn’t have so much to hide that she closed the door and went running for a phone book to find a lawyer. That meant she might work with us, as long as we handled her right.
Jax’s voice was deferential as he made introductions. “I’m Detective Ajax, this is Detective Carter. We’d like to speak to you for a few minutes. Would it be possible to come in?”
“No.”
“I understand if you’re uncomfortable, but this will only take a moment.”
“Moment’s over,” she said, and began to close the door.
Jax shifted gears, immediately changing his tone. “We can do this downtown, if we need to.”
She smirked, as if she liked the challenge. There was something in that smile that was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Show me a warrant or break out the handcuffs. ’Cause you’re not getting in without one or the other.”
Jax had tried the all-business cop persona. Ordinarily not a bad strategy, but not the right choice for someone who carries all their mental armor facing authority. I tried a different route.
“It’s about a girl.”
She paused, waiting for me to say more. That door wasn’t closed all the way, not yet.
I condensed Jane’s description as best I could, figuring we wouldn’t get another chance. “Young,” I said. “Mollenkampi.” Moller stared, unmoved. “She worked with pastels and chalk graffiti.”
“Oh.” The woman’s lips turned up. “Her I remember.” Her ghost-thin smile evaporated. “She in trouble?”
“So you knew her?”
“Not well.” The door opened a little more, as she rested a shoulder against the frame. “She was here for a night.”
The Jane’s file and
sketchbook was under my arm. I rummaged around and pulled out the morgue photo. “This her?”
Moller blinked. “Oh, Hells. I—” She let out a long sigh. “Shit. Alright, come inside.” She turned abruptly and walked into her apartment, leaving Jax and me to close the door behind us.
In contrast to the rest of the neighborhood, Moller lived in a surprisingly tidy studio apartment, with the kind of quality furnishings that cost real money. Whatever she’d been doing in the art world, it was paying off.
She led us into the living area, and stood behind a wingback chair, elbows propped on the headrest, using the furniture like a shield. Jax took a seat on the faux-fur couch, while I stood nearby, my head on a swivel as I took in the setting. The walls were covered with artwork in a range of styles, mostly modern things with slashes of color, intermingled with portraits of generals and queens remade with select body parts replaced by supermarket items.
“What do you want to know?” Moller had stopped sneering, but she still wasn’t happy to have us there. I’d been treated worse.
“We’ll start simple,” I said. “What’s her name?”
“Don’t know.” Quieter now, almost hushed.
That didn’t do my temper any favors.
“Think,” I said. “She must have told you.”
“I just don’t. I—”
“She’s got a name.” My words gained volume. “How can you take someone home, spend the night with them—”
“A single night.” Her back straightened.
“—and not ever get around to asking their name?”
“I probably did.” Her jacket buckles rattled as she stood so tall she practically strutted in place. “But that doesn’t mean I remember. She wanted to go home with me.” Moller forced an exaggerated leer. “You may not get that kind of attention, but I sure as Hells do.”
Maybe I should have known better than to expect this woman to remember Jane. People everywhere found ways to insulate themselves with indifference.
“Fine. Okay.” I waved it off. “We’re not saying you know what happened to her. Just tell us what you do know so we can contact her family.”
