He stopped, taking another few breaths before continuing.
“I found him here, b–bleeding out. All this bloody writing on the wall. He turned to look when I came in. I called for help, rushed to him... he smiled when he saw me. Smiled! He tried to say something but his voice... it was so weak.”
“By the Firsts...” Kiver said, his voice trailing off to nothing.
“He d–died a few moments later.”
Kiver’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “Who? Who attacked him?” Shain gave a weak shrug and shook his head. Kiver whipped his head around to the beat cops. “Who!” he shouted.
“We don’t know, sir. All we can do for now is secure the scene. Ask questions. We were down below when the call went out. The central office is sending an investigator.”
I tried to take mental pictures of what I was seeing. Frank Adderley was dead. His chest and stomach gashed open. The writing was the same as the other scene, the symbols similar. But I was missing something. There was something about this scene that I was missing.
I stood there, looking down, going over what I knew when the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey wafted into the room from behind me. I felt his presence before he even spoke.
“Bloody shitting Firsts...” a familiar voice said.
I turned, knowing the source. My spine felt electric, and I shoved my hands into the pockets of my borrowed suit to keep them from shaking. Filling the doorway in a cheap suit stood Detective Carl Bouchard. He grinned a wicked grin at me and scratched behind one of the two heavy horns that curled up from his bald pate.
“Waldo Bell and a murder scene,” he said with an exhausted chuckle. Then he leaned back to his partner. “I’m feeling a heavy sense of déjà vu. How about you, Muffie?”
NINE
BOUCHARD IS TOUGH AS NAILS, stubborn as an ox, and big as a house. The kind of classic detective they write cop serials about. We do not get along. You don’t just forget about being thrown in jail. Thankfully a puking drunk had given me an opportunity to escape. It hadn’t stopped Bouchard, who had hunted me all over the city. It took the collapse of a tunnel and a handful of half-drowned cultists to clear my name. Even then, Bouchard had been begrudging. He made his apologies in my hospital room as I recovered. It seemed genuine at the time. I only recently discovered that he had been forced into it by his superiors. That his hat-in-hand game was all show. Just another corrupt cop trying to keep his neck out of the noose. A real class act: Detective Carl Bouchard.
He’s a dimanian, but not rail-thin like Hagen. No, he’s big. Thick barrel chest, expansive gut, wide shoulders, and legs like tree trunks. Heavy jowls that seem to hang from his round nose and small dark eyes that peer from beneath the shadow of his sizable brow. A short horn jutted from his chin like a frozen goatee, and two swooping horns rose from the apex of his forehead and then curved back to run along his bald head. Looking at him then, I felt dumbfounded. He grinned darkly. All white teeth and black promises.
“You want to tell me why I keep finding you at my scenes, Bell?” He spat the words, and his partner chuckled next to him.
Muffie was the opposite of Bouchard in almost every way. He’s human, with a long narrow face, sharp cheeks, and hollow eyes. He looks emaciated. He doesn’t say much, seems to be the type of guy who rides coattails. His nose sits crookedly on his face—a old souvenir from me.
Bouchard crossed his sizable arms and waited for a response. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t want to give him another chance to get me in cuffs. I already had one maniac after my neck, I didn’t need two.
“I was hired,” I said. I scratched at my neck nervously and then worried about how it made me look.
“Hired, huh?” Bouchard said. “You realize how odd this looks. A previous suspect, known to police, at the scene of my DB? Not something you see every day. Most fellas in your position stay as far from police as possible.”
I looked to Hagen and Hannah. Hagen had met Bouchard, but had Hannah? I couldn’t remember. Hagen’s eyes twitched from Bouchard to Muffie and then to me. He scratched behind a horn.
Bouchard followed my eyes. “Friends of yours?” He turned to Hagen. “You own that religious knick-knack store, right?” He didn’t wait for Hagen to respond. “I’m working with your sister on another case.” He turned to Hannah. “Who’s the broad?”
“Name’s Hannah,” she said coolly. Bouchard let his eyes linger on her for a long moment. A smile twisted up on his face. She stared back, her expression cold.
“Wal,” Hagen said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we should go. Leave this to the authorities.”
Bouchard laughed. “So, you moonlighting as a bloodhound now?”
“Ain’t everybody?” Muffie said and then laughed.
I stood my ground. Felt my teeth tighten. Bouchard leaned towards me. I could smell his coffee breath, cheap aftershave, and body odor. He stopped, his nose nearly touching mine.
“Look, I can’t have you here. I’m sorry.” His voice was low, nearly a whisper. He looked down at his shoes and then back up at me. “There’s too much heat on you. The papers would eat this shit up.”
I blinked. Bouchard’s tone had shifted but his expression hadn’t changed. The wide grin still split his face. He spoke from behind a line of white teeth.
“I was asked—” I said, keeping my own voice low. Over Bouchard’s shoulder I could see Muffie’s eyes narrow. The thin cop took a step towards us.
Bouchard held out a hand, waving him off.
“I know. But look... we’re stretched thin. There’s enough problems with the gilded murders. I can’t have you here.”
I stared at him. Who was this Bouchard, appealing to me? The wide grin was still plastered to his face, but his eyes... his eyes were different. But how could I walk away from this? The Kiver job was going to save my life.
“I can’t,” I said. I cleared my throat and then spoke louder. “I can’t.”
Bouchard’s smile faltered. I saw a bit of pity in his eyes. “Shame,” he whispered.
The false grin wavered, and he stepped back. Seemed to size me up. I saw his expression tighten. Was that anger in his eyes? “You got a private investigator license?”
I didn’t and he knew it. I glared at him. I knew where this was going.
“We’re consultants,” said Hagen. “I’m an expert on esoteric and religious findings. These writings—”
“—aren’t your business,” said Bouchard with a heavy finality. Pity and anger mixed in his eyes. He had given me a chance to walk away and I didn’t. I couldn’t. Walking away was a death sentence. I had to help Kiver and get paid or I’d be facing dismemberment or worse from Argentum.
“We’re invited guests,” said Hannah. She glared daggers at Bouchard and Muffie.
“Let me be clear: I don’t care why you’re here. This is now my scene. My DB. This is LPD jurisdiction. I don’t need three civilians sticking their noses into my investigation.”
“It’s nice to see the police finally giving a shit,” said Kiver coolly.
Bouchard spun, ready to abuse whoever interrupted him. When he saw Kiver, he caught himself. “Ah, Mister Renna. I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you were—”
“I invited them, detective,” said Kiver. “I was told about Bell’s involvement with the Methow refugees. I sought him out. He has my personal invitation to be here. He was looking at the other scene when this happened.” He motioned to Adderley’s body.
“Other scene?”
Kiver’s expression broke. His gray skin darkened. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me? I’ve called LPD! Hokioi Taaka, a kresh, one of my servants, was killed at my last apartment. You sent the coroner. I was told a detective would come. I waited and waited. Nothing!”
Bouchard frowned.
“And you still don’t know what’s going on,” Kiver continued. “Hence Mister Bell.”
Bouchard glanced over at me and then back to Kiver.
“LPD is here now. Until we get to the bottom of this, the scene is closed. No outsiders.”
Kiver set his jaw and stared down at the detective. “I have rights.”
“Look, Mister Renna, a body was discovered in your home tonight. An elevated’s body. We are under strict orders from the mayor to focus on elevated-area crimes until the border issue is sorted and we are back to full force. The death of a servant, while tragic—and I don’t discount the loss, believe me—doesn’t raise the attention it once would.” He grimaced and lit a cigarette, taking a long draw and blowing blue smoke in the air before him.
Kiver glowered.
Bouchard’s frown deepened into a sour scowl, the cigarette clenched in his teeth. “I don’t make the rules. Now... clear the scene.”
“This is my house!” Kiver shouted.
Bouchard nodded, pointing the smoldering end of the cigarette at me and then at Hagen and Hannah. “You three. Out. Now. Before I’m forced to throw you in jail.” He stared at me as he spoke. His eyes were a strange mix of emotions.
His words, while curt, were not harsh. Missing was the abrasive edge I was used to, but I didn’t care. My stomach felt like it was full of lead. I could only think of the lost paycheck and the doom it would bring.
As we walked away from the Shangdi, all I could envision was Argentum’s placid mask, smiling at me.
TEN
“THIS IS MORE GENEROUS THAN I EXPECTED,” said Hagen, taking his stack of lira and counting it. Satisfied, he slid the bills into the cash register. I watched the money disappear, trying to push the negative thoughts out of my mind. I needed to focus on the present. To find a way to get myself out of this.
I tallied the days I had remaining. I had met Argentum the previous evening, so that left six days to get the money. The Kiver dal Renna case was now lost to me, along with its hefty payout. Kiver had handed us what he had in his pocket and pushed us out the door with his apologies.
I looked at my own stack of lira on the counter in front of me. It was a pittance. Before we divvied it up it had been just under three thousand lira. That meant we each walked away with about a thousand. Not even ten percent of what I needed to save my neck.
My stomach gurgled. The last time I had eaten was hours ago at Kiver’s Auseil party, before we examined the Taaka murder scene. It felt like days ago. The whole incident, Adderley’s death, Bouchard. Any other detective might have tolerated our presence. But Bouchard... I breathed out slowly and tried to forget my empty stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a bowl of noodles or a heap of sour dumplings right now.
Hannah seemed just as pleased as Hagen. She slipped her small wad into an inner pocket of her elegant jacket and then smiled sadly at me.
“I wish you had told me you wanted the gig.”
I ran my fingertips over Saint Olmstead’s old wooden counter. The place had begun to feel more and more like a home to me. The smell of incense and oiled wood. The sounds of bells and chimes. It had a peaceful quality about it. I turned and watched a shopper examine a shelf of small crosses before frowning and disappearing out the front door.
“I was glad to have you along,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. Even if it did cost me a third of the payout. “You noticed things Hagen and I skipped right over.”
Hagen rolled his eyes and hummed at this.
“A lot of good that does us now,” Hannah said. “It’s LPD’s case and with everything tied to Kiver they’ll undoubtedly start looking into Taaka’s murder as well.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. I stared at the bills, thinking.
There were two connected deaths. Two messages written on the walls in their blood. There were gargoyles wandering the streets. We had two probable signs and one definite sign of First involvement. I couldn’t sit idly by. Argentum’s threat was a problem, but I’d have to figure out a solution for that while I worked on this... whatever it was. I was the Guardian. It seemed time I acted like it.
“Boss?” said Hannah.
“Hmm,” I said.
“You got that look in your eye.”
“Oh?” I asked. “What look is that?”
“The one you get when you’re about to raise hell,” she smiled.
I grinned. I had the best scout in the Territories in front of me. An expert historian next to me, and his sister had more ancient religious knowledge than most libraries. And me... well, I could be one hell of a battering ram. We were a formidable team. Who cares about Bouchard? Who cares about the LPD and their jurisdiction? Kiver hired me to solve this, and I’d do my damnedest.
“Yeah,” I said to Hannah. “Suppose I am.”
“Count me in,” said Hagen.
“Me too,” said Hannah. “When do we start?”
“Tonight?” suggested Hagen. “I wired Sam and asked her to come over to help with translation.”
At the mention of his sister’s name my hands immediately went clammy.
“I’ll stick around,” said Hannah. “It’ll be nice to see Sam.” She draped her jacket over a stool seat and perched on top.
Saint Olm had been a tavern in a former life. Its well maintained counter had been a bar and Hagen had liked the idea of keeping a few stools for clients to ruminate upon as they discussed antiques, trades, or acquisitions.
“Great!” Hagen was visibly excited. “She was supposed to be here by now, but with this cold, who knows how long she could be? You guys want a drink?”
It was hard to focus on what Hagen and Hannah were saying. Thoughts of Essie fluttered through my mind. She was grounded. Smart. Quick. A comfort. It made me feel guilty. Somewhere inside me there was still a stir for Samantha. All of the last year was spent pining over her. Memories of our fateful trip to Syringa and down the Broken Road. We had come so close. There was a moment and then it had crumbled. I had pushed away.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, tried to clear my mind.
“Well?” asked Hagen, looking at me. “Drink? I actually have some of that rusty vermouth you like.”
“Th–that’d be great,” I managed to stammer out. Maybe a drink would do me good. Calm my nerves.
Hagen didn’t move for the drinks right away. He just looked at me, a look of concern on his face. Finally he nodded and disappeared behind a door, emerging with two bottles and three glasses with ice. He poured my drink and two whiskeys, nudging one over to Hannah.
“You know how hard it is to find this stuff these days?” I said absently, looking at the ruby liquid sloshing against the cracking ice cubes.
“Mhm,” Hagen mumbled around a sip of whiskey. “Near impossible. I heard the banks are beginning to horde it, doling it out on the side.”
“Ugh,” I said. We had seen it on our descent from the elevated levels. Streets growing ever dirtier as we moved down. People looking weaker and thinner and angrier. I knew what they’d think if they had heard Bouchard’s words. The mayor’s orders to look out for the elevated citizens first.
“They’re going to get much worse,” said Hagen. “You see the spread Kiver had at that party?”
“I haven’t seen that much food in all my life,” said Hannah. “Even in the good days.”
Hagen took another sip. “Kiver’s a maero. They’re known to be simple and frugal people, even at their parties. Can you imagine some of the soirees dimanian households are throwing?”
“Or the humans,” added Hannah.
“It’ll leak eventually. Someone will tell, word’ll spread,” I said.
The bell above the front door rang and in a few moments Samantha emerged from the maze of shelves that occupied the front of the shop. She wore a heavy coat, leather and hooded, over her priestess garb. It was something you’d expect to find on the back of a road priest, not an urban priestess.
She smiled at me and embraced Hannah before moving around the counter and giving her b
rother a peck on the forehead below his single horn.
“Hi all, sorry I’m late. Some trouble broke out in the Terraces and it took forever to get around it.”
“Uh oh,” said Hannah.
“Carter’s cross, that’s where my apartment is,” I said.
Samantha frowned. “I’m sure it’ll be okay. Someone said it was related to an assault on a cargo lift.”
The Terraces was the warren directly north of King’s Station, where St. Olmstead sat. The neighborhood occupied most of the Levels from Three through Six and was a collection of businesses stuffed between a maze of apartments built for the lower working classes. Stairwells moved people up and down, crossing between levels and half-levels where shops were built onto the sides of brick apartments. It was decent but not the sort of place you’d want to raise a kid.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You have another glass?” Samantha asked Hagen.
“Sorry, I should’ve offered,” he said.
“I’ll have some of that vile vermouth,” she said as Hagen fetched another glass. Samantha continued. “Anyway, apparently a cargo lift was loaded with a bunch of food heading to the upper levels and some locals seized it.”
Hagen reappeared and poured her a glass of vermouth. The ice tinkled like the bell above the shop’s door.
“You can imagine what happened next. LPD shows up, they go at one another. Parts are on fire, and the brigades are struggling to put it all out. They have streets blocked off and are directing folks downtown. I don’t know much more than that.”
“Carter’s cross,” said Hagen, draining his glass and pouring himself another.
I swore. “I hope my place is okay.”
“You do?” Hannah asked me, an eyebrow raised.
I chuckled. “Well, not the flat. Just some of the stuff.”
Red Litten World Page 11
