by Dan Stout
Moller pursed her lips and took a breath before speaking.
“She was new to town.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“It wasn’t a question, dumbass. I’m telling you what I know about her.” Moller pulled a package of belca root from her jacket pocket. She shoved a grub-like root into her cheek and bit down, muttering to herself: “Imp’s blade.”
I kept silent. Belca root gave users a gentle buzz. As someone who fueled my days with coffee I was in no position to judge, but the fact that she’d fallen back on it meant the conversation may have been more upsetting than she let on. I noted the lack of purple stains on her lips; that meant Moller could afford the quality stuff.
“People come to this town for a reason,” she explained. “And they’re not always eager to be reunited with their family. Something to consider as you stumble around on whatever crusade you’re on.”
I dipped my head. Point taken.
“Still,” I said. “She ought to be put to rest with some dignity.”
Moller stared at me long enough that I wondered what she was searching for. Finally she looked away.
“We talked,” she said. “But it wasn’t anything you’d find useful.”
“Try us,” I said.
“We got back here late,” said Moller. “I don’t remember what time.”
“This was after you met at the gallery?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What did you talk about while you were there?”
“Nothing that mattered.” Moller picked at a hangnail. “She told me she liked my work. I told her I liked her body.”
“And then?” I prodded.
“She blushed. It was cute.” A smile crept back onto Moller’s lips, and the sense that I’d seen her before returned. “I did the social rounds with the buyers, and she was still there at the end of the night. After that, talking wasn’t exactly the goal.”
“Pastels and chalk,” said Jax.
Moller started, as if she’d forgotten my partner was in the room. We both looked at him.
“You remembered her when we said she worked in pastels and chalk.” He tapped his notepad. “If you didn’t talk, how did you know that?”
She frowned, slightly abashed. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying we didn’t talk at all, just that I don’t remember much of it.”
“That’s okay,” Jax said, and motioned for her to continue.
“She had photos of her work.” Still hesitant, Moller turned her head and I saw her in profile. I realized why she looked familiar.
I reached for Jane’s sketchbook and fumbled it open. Flipping through the pages, I found the drawing of the beautiful woman with hair the color of a moonless night. The corner of the page proclaimed the title: Allura Shade. I handed the book to our host, who cradled it in her hands as she studied the image.
Jane had focused on bringing out the beauty of her subject’s eyes, the curve of her lips. The woman in the portrait held none of the cynicism and doubt that Moller wore as tightly as her leather jacket, but there was no doubt it was the same person.
“Whoever killed her is counting on nobody caring enough to remember her,” I said. “Whatever you know, it might help.”
Lillian stared at the drawing. She took a breath and frowned, not quite fast enough to cover the quiver of her lip.
“Fine.” Moller came out from behind the chair, closing the sketchbook and shoving it into my arms as she crossed the room, making her way to a desk that sat low to the ground, a workspace appointed with typewriter, calculator, and small filing cabinet. She fished around in a cardboard inbox with decorative cutouts ringing the sides, one for each of the eight Families of the Path. A moment later she pulled out a trio of photos.
“She gave me these. Not sure what she wanted me to do exactly, but . . .” Moller squinted at them, then nodded to herself, as though she’d taken a mental photo, before handing them over.
I examined each one before passing them to Ajax. Even my unsophisticated eye could recognize real talent. Jane had been drawing politicians, movie stars, and the manna strike on walls and sidewalks. Plenty of street artists did similar work, the kind of things that might attract passersby with a few taels to drop in their hats. But Jane’s work went beyond quick caricatures and rapid portraits to pawn off on tourists. There was something there even beyond Talena’s explanation of the symbolism. The portraits bit into the soul of the subject, or rather, the soul that Jane hoped they had.
“She said she wanted to see the world. Wanted to try manna.” Moller’s scowl softened, perhaps the hint of a pleasant memory peeking from behind her world-weary persona. “She said something about using manna in her chalks, like it would turn them into animations, or some damn thing.”
“Did she try it?” My question chased the softness away, and we were back to full scowl and double the attitude.
“She did.” Moller punctuated her sentence with the crackle of leather as she removed her jacket and dropped it in the seat of the chair. “She’d bought some manna. Or thought she had.” The artist returned to her defensive spot behind the wingback chair, fingers weaving through the tassels at the edge of her scarf.
“Don’t suppose you know who sold it to her.”
“You think I missed her name but caught her dealer’s?” She snorted, letting a strand of hair fall across one eye.
“Okay,” said Jax. “Do you—”
“There was one thing.” Lips pursed, eyes unfocused, as though she were fighting for a memory. “She bought some other stuff, supposed to be stronger. And no,” she shot me a look, “I don’t know who sold her that, either. Said it was some punk with a fish eye.”
“A fish eye? Like it was injured, or bulged? That could mean anything.”
“Whatever—it’s what she said. The point is that she swore that she tried it and it made her artwork move.”
“Did she have any with her the night she stayed with you? Or show you the moving art?”
“No. She had two vials. Used one, then was working on throwing up a new piece in an alley when some pretty southern boy came up and asked if she was selling manna. He was tweaked out, but she said he acted like he expected someone to be there. He flashed a wad of cash and she ended up selling him the stuff she’d picked up for ten times what she’d paid.”
“Why’d she tell you this?”
“Because it’s a funny story,” she said. “Rich guy who looks like he walked off the cover of StyleMag ends up buying from this girl who’s so new to town she’s still excited to see Therreau beetle wagons in the street?” She rocked back on her heels, pulling the wingback chair onto its rear legs along with her. “What’s not to love? It was how—” She bit her lip. “How she could afford to go to the gallery. How she met me.”
“You never heard from her again?”
“No. Didn’t expect to. It wasn’t that kind of night.”
I tapped the sketchbook’s cover. “Maybe not for you.”
Moller’s lips tightened, betraying her emotions.
“She did ask if I knew any galleries with open submissions,” she said. “It was a little awkward, but I get that kind of thing sometimes.”
“What did you say?”
She leaned on the chair a little more, causing it to creak under her weight. “I told her I’d be in touch.”
“But you didn’t know how to contact her.” I said it softly, without the heat of an accusation. I didn’t need to.
Lillian released the chair. It fell back into place with a thump.
“No,” she said, much quieter than before. “I lied to her.”
We stood in silence, none of us quite sure what to say.
Finally, Jax stood and let out a gentle cough. “If you think of anything else . . .” He handed her his card.
She looked at it, considering,
before dropping it into the inbox, where she’d kept the photos from the dead girl.
“So, maybe—” She struggled to form a sentence as we walked to her door. “Maybe when you find her name, you could call me.”
“Maybe,” I said, and passed my hand through the entry vent. “We’ll be in touch.”
She held my eye, not giving an inch.
“Day’s Dawning, Miss Moller.”
* * *
When we reached the street Jax let out a low, discordant whistle.
“What?” I demanded.
“It’s sad,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s sad.” I turned my head and spit, clearing my mouth and mind. “The whole damn thing’s sad.” I practiced the controlled breaths the department shrinks swore by, and stared at the window of Moller’s apartment.
In a world of uncertainties, Jane had been drawn to this woman. Maybe they would’ve been perfect for each other. Maybe Jane was the person who could have persuaded Lillian Moller to shed some of the many layers of armor the city had forced her to wear in order to survive. Or maybe Lillian Moller was too self-absorbed to notice, and had simply racked up one more fleeting encounter. I didn’t know the answer. All I could think of was Gellica’s face the last time I’d seen her, and how I’d screwed up my own chance at a connection as she closed her door.
“Hey kid,” I said. “I got an errand to run. Would it be all right with you if—”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take the car back.”
I tossed him the keys, and Jax caught them with a smooth, swift flash of his arm. I watched him walk away. Then I fished in my pocket for loose change. I had my own calls to make.
18
ONE OF THE PERKS OF being a detective was access to a vehicle. The taxi system in Titanshade was passable at best, and a lice-filled deathtrap the majority of the time. I’d heard that the water taxis in Fracinica navigated tourists through the canals with bouquets of flowers and the occasional serenade. In a Titanshade taxi, you crossed your fingers that the smell of urine wasn’t going to be accompanied by the real thing. But life was short and you work with the hand you’re dealt. And as I’d just been reminded, you have to make connections while you can. So I hopped a Ghaba taxi from Lillian Moller’s neighborhood.
When I’d called Gellica’s answering service I’d been told she wasn’t in. I asked to be transferred to her assistant. From him I found out that Gellica was at a fundraiser. It stretched my social skills, but eventually I got the address out of him.
Arriving at the downtown address Gellica’s assistant had provided, I found it to be a tony apartment building. The lobby of the Armistice was easy enough to get into, but a trio of tuxedoed gatekeepers stood at the entrance of the unit I needed to enter, armed with a roster of invited guests.
I showed my badge to the most haggard looking of the three, and let him draw his own conclusions.
“Oh!” he said. “Captain Quinlin is inside already. Go on in.”
Sometimes things are shockingly easy if you keep your mouth shut and ride the wave of other people’s assumptions.
Once inside I kept to the fringes of the crowd, doing my best to avoid eye contact as I scanned the attendees. I’d have liked to blend in, but there was no way that was going to happen. The invitees were decked out in the height of conservative fashion. All the clothes were thin, demonstrating wealth, but not scandalously transparent. The neighborhood was warm enough that I kept my overcoat draped over my arm, and I smoothed the rumpled fabric of my suit coat in an attempt to appear professional.
I knew Gellica was there, and the tuxedoed lackey at the door had mentioned Captain Quinlin, the head of the OCU and Dungan’s boss. That meant this was likely a political function. As I moved through the crowd of attendees there were more faces I recognized, mostly from the boring bits on the news before the sports came on. It was clear this group was more high profile than I wanted to deal with.
After a quick turn around the front area of the apartment, I still hadn’t found Gellica. So I relocated, settling on a spot against the wall beside a marble statue of a rearing bull. The statue was larger than my torso and mounted on a chest-high pillar, so that its broad horns and hooves towered above me. On the plus side it kept me somewhat hidden while allowing me to eyeball the comers and goers.
There was one person in particular who seemed to be the star of the show. A human woman in her mid-thirties, she still had the energy of youth tempered by the control of experience. It took me a moment to place her face, especially since I hadn’t known her name until Gellica mentioned it the other night. I’d stumbled into a fundraiser for Meredith Plunkett, the pro-AFS candidate for the 24th Ward’s upcoming special election.
Plunkett passed through the crowd, drumming up support and shaking hands. Not that she had to work particularly hard. These were her people after all. Or more accurately, she was theirs. The well-dressed crowd around me were the people working in opposition to the CaCuris, a battle that would come to a head in six days, on the Titan’s Day special election.
I’d witnessed the CaCuri machine in action at their rally, and the fallout their brand of fear had at the attack on the Therreau. There were far fewer people at this gathering, but probably twice the net worth. There was also less anger, less fear. The players in this room lived in a state of self-satisfied luxury. Titanshade was a town where the rich enjoyed lifestyles obtained through a hard-nosed work ethic and backbreaking labor. Just not their own.
There was another familiar face in the crowd. Detective Angus, the Bullpen’s most prominent social climber, clearly couldn’t pass up this opportunity. His head plates were polished to a shine and his suit looked sharp, even if the fabric was a little thick for the crowd. He was laughing and shaking hands with a rotund, generously mustached human. Angus had the kind of social grace that made my skin crawl, and I had absolutely no intention of letting him regale the Bullpen with stories of me making a fool of myself.
To avoid being seen I stepped around the intricately carved sculpture, keeping an eye on Angus through the marble bull’s rear legs, where it became very clear that the sculptor had wanted no question as to the animal’s masculinity. Distracted by that artistic detail, I almost ran into someone hiding on the opposite side of the bull’s shadow.
“Watch your step.” The woman’s voice was firm but not unkind. “We can’t both hide back here.”
The victim of my near-collision was plain-faced and unadorned and all the more striking for it. Half a head shorter than me, she was another face I knew, though it took a moment for me to place it. From the front page of the paper, the photo with Gellica in the background, the one I’d kept coming back to. The woman had been in that photo, standing next to Paulus. I’d almost run over Colonel Marbury, the head of the AFS military force “protecting” the manna strike.
Clearly a career officer, Marbury was well into middle age, but even standing still she evidenced a channeled energy that gave her the air of a younger woman. I suspected that she’d plateaued at colonel because she preferred to be involved in the doing, rather than the deciding. The kind of person who’d push you aside from your task and do it better, simply because it pained her to witness inefficiency.
She was also eying me with dawning recognition.
“You’re the cop from the manna strike . . . Parker, right?” She held out her hand. I took it without bothering to correct her. “I understand you stood with some of my troops last night.”
“More like we all stood with some people who needed help.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all.” Her voice drew tighter. “We’re not here to invade the city, despite what your local press has to say about it.”
“When you’re in the thick of it, you don’t get the luxury of not being involved,” I said. “Opting to do nothing in the face of violence is a dramatic choice.”
She nodded. Prob
ably the most effusive praise I’d get from her.
“There’s a price we pay to keep the peace.” She drew in a sharp breath. “I suppose that’s why I attend things like this. The political machines reach right out and grab us. I’m afraid I have no end of unpleasant lunches and meetings in my future.” Marbury glanced at the bull sculpture and the decorative glass candle holders that illuminated our hiding spot. The corner of her mouth crept upward. “I think we’re both a little out of our element here, aren’t we?”
“I guess so. I’m not planning on staying long.”
“Me either,” she said. “Speaking of which, have you seen our host lately? I need to check in before it gets too late.” Her gaze drifted past my shoulder, scanning the crowd. It wasn’t an idle motion, or a social climber’s constant surveillance for more important conversational partners, as when Tenebrae had scanned the crowd at The Lotus. Like me, Marbury was looking for someone specific. And I had no intention of admitting I didn’t know the host of this little gathering.
A caterer walked past, and it seemed like a good chance to step away. I mumbled a good-bye to the colonel and grabbed two glasses of champagne off the server’s tray. I walked through the crowd glasses held high, body half turned as if I were delivering a drink to a friend, trusting in my speed and sense of purpose to dissuade anyone from speaking with me.
I made it through the entire room, but still didn’t find Gellica. If I hadn’t gotten confirmation she was there, I’d have fled for the streets. Instead, I took a deep breath and considered my options. I’d reached a hallway leading farther into the apartment, flanked by two plants, each taller and healthier than me. I dumped the champagne into one of the planters, then handed the glasses to another caterer with a collection tray. In the middle of the crowd Angus peered in my direction. I retreated down the only unimpeded path: the darkened hallway.
Away from the wealthy attendees, I had a moment to appreciate the luxury of the apartment. Plush carpet was matched by high-end detailing like scalloped light fixtures and the tighter-weave carpeting that ran over one wall as an accent. The wall carpet was broken up by an occasional triangle-shaped slice of mirror, arranged to give the impression that the glass had been scattered across the wall.
