by Lisa Smedman
That’s when the fun began. I circled for the better part of half an hour, trying to pick out the rental Runabout by the light of a single headlight. With the amount of rain falling, I didn’t feel like getting out and banging on the hood—a trick that usually turns my car from a Cyclops back into a normal vehicle again. I should have purchased a newer vehicle, especially in my line of work. But the Americar was ex-Star, like me, with its police logos painted over and its flashers and siren removed. I was kind of sentimental about it. Especially about the bullet-stopping armor plates built into its bodywork.
I finally found the vehicle I was looking for in a distant corner of the lot. I paused, listening to my wipers slapping back and forth and peering out through the windshield. The rental sticker on the back of the Runabout was the only identifying mark distinguishing it from the dozens of similar models I’d passed in the lot. The car appeared to be empty, but I’d learned, back on the beat, never to take chances. So before getting out to take a closer look, I slipped a hand inside my jacket and drew the Beretta from my shoulder holster. It was a lightweight pistol, sleek and easy to conceal. I flicked its safety and cracked the door of my car.
Back when I was with Lone Star, I’d had my left ear replaced with a cybernetic prosthesis. The police radio it contained was no longer useful—the Star changed the encryption on its signal every month and I had yet to find a cybertronics technician wiz enough to crack the code and get my receiver back on-line. But the ear’s frequency-extension units were still functional, as were its amplification system and noise filters. It took a few seconds of concentration to tune out the pounding of the rain and a couple more to cycle through the range of frequencies. But after that I was satisfied. There was nothing moving—nothing breathing even—inside the Mitsubishi runabout.
I stepped out of my car into the rain. It pelted down, soaking my hair in seconds. I jogged over to the Runabout, Beretta still in my hand even though I really didn’t expect to find anything. I put my hand on the handle of the driver’s door and opened it even as I peered inside.
Big mistake.
A body sagged out onto the pavement, pushing the door open as it fell. I jumped back in alarm as the door swung wide, and at the same time squeezed the trigger of my gun by mistake. It fired, sending a round ricocheting across the rain-slick pavement.
“Drek!” I cursed and mentally chastised myself for being an idiot as I slid the safety back on. I’d seen enough corpses as a member of Lone Star’s homicide division. It wasn’t like I was some greenie, unused to the sight of a stiff.
I’d just never seen one in this condition before.
The corpse was the female “missionary,” Dolores—although the only way I could ID her was by the flower pattern on the scrap of blouse that still clung to one wrist. Otherwise, the body was naked. Her face and scalp were gone, and the rest of her wasn’t any prettier. The skin had been entirely stripped from her body, except for her feet and hands, exposing the raw, red muscle underneath.
I pulled out a flashlight and shone it inside the car. Her partner—the male “missionary”—had met the same grisly fate. His body lay slumped in a heap in the passenger’s seat, down low where I hadn’t been able to see it. It too was minus its skin.
The sharp tang of blood filled the car. I knew I had to work quickly, in case someone had heard the gunshot. I shone the flashlight around, looking at the stains on the seats and doors. I’m not as experienced as the men and women who work in forensics, but I knew a thing or two about bloodstains. There weren’t any of the splatters associated with a struggle, or with a weapon being used inside the car. Besides, there just wasn’t enough room to flay the bodies inside the cramped interior of the Runabout. The pair had obviously been killed elsewhere and then placed back inside their vehicle while their corpses were still fresh enough for their flayed skin to leak blood.
There were no obvious fatal wounds—no bullet holes, broken bones, or deep cuts—and no signs of major physical trauma caused by a magical spell. During my time with the Star, I’d seen corpses that had been burned by fireballs, punctured clean through by bolts of energy, or crushed to a pulp by what witnesses later said was an invisible wall of force. I didn’t see any indicators of that kind of magic here. This pair had either been flayed alive—or had been killed first with a spell that left no obvious physical traces.
I was starting to get nervous about staying. And not just because my own skin was starting to crawl. Even if the rain had covered the sound of my gunshot, I wasn’t keen on being found at the scene of a homicide. Not after the way I’d left the Star. There were still people there who didn’t exactly like me—and who could make my life miserable if they wanted to.
But I wanted to be thorough, so I forced myself to do a quick check of the Runabout’s interior. I used a slim metal probe, which I routinely carried in my pocket, to pry open the glove box and ashtray. Nada. Both were empty, and there was nothing under the seats. I yanked the key stick from the ignition and opened the trunk. It too was clean. Empty.
It didn’t feel right, somehow, to leave the female missionary slumped out of the driver’s door. I used my probe to lift her upright, then pushed her gently back onto her seat. As I did so, I noticed an oddity in the pattern of bloodstains on the floor at her feet.
Several small, square objects—about the size of the sim-sense chips she had offered me earlier—had obviously lain there. They’d cast a series of “shadows” in the form of blood-free squares. And now those objects were gone. And recently, too. The drying blood had peeled back as the chip cases had been lifted from the floor, indicating that they’d been removed an hour or two after the flayed corpses had been placed in the car and had leaked the last of their blood.
Someone had been here just before me. If it was the killer returning to the scene of the crime for a last clean-up of evidence, he or she might be watching from the shadows even now, debating whether I knew too much.
I turned and sprinted for my car. I was shivering, and not just from the rain that had started to soak through my jacket. This case had suddenly gotten high risk.
4
Ever have the gut feeling that something has gone horribly, horribly wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it? That’s the way I felt driving home from Charles Royer Station. I flattened the gas pedal, running lights and dodging in and out of traffic that had been slowed by the rain. I cursed the whole way, wishing my car had a siren and lights, wishing it still had the ability to part traffic. All the while, dread settled in my stomach like a cold, tight knot.
My fears were confirmed when I rounded the corner of our block. Three Lone Star cruisers and two unmarked cars were parked outside my house with their red and blues still flashing. A cluster of curious neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk and were staring up at our house, where uniformed officers were taping off a crime scene.
I stamped on the brake and brought the Americar to a shuddering halt. The wheels bumped against the curb, jarring me forward. I felt as if I was going to throw up. I fumbled blindly for the handle of the door. Then I was out of the car, walking like an automaton toward the house. It took everything I had to lift my leaden feet and climb the front steps.
One of the uniforms stopped me before I’d gone half way. He was a black man in his early twenties, with polished boots and a jacket so new I could still smell the leather. Probably a recent graduate of the academy.
“This is a crime scene, ma’am. I can’t allow you to go any further.” He paused and took in the look on my face. “Do you live here? Do you know the residents of this house?”
“What happened?” I asked numbly. My gut knew the answer already.
“There’s been a death, ma’am,” the officer told me. He took my arm, as if afraid I’d fall down the stairs if I wasn’t supported. He might have been right.
“Who was the victim?” I asked. “Was it one of the residents?”
The officer gave me an odd look. I guess it wasn’t the sort of question a civilian woul
d ask.
As I waited for his reply, I hoped that Rafael might have taken someone out—that it might be someone I didn’t know who was about to be bagged for the medical examiner. But the young officer soon squashed that faint hope.
“Are you a resident here, ma’am?” he asked again.
I nodded. “I live downstairs.”
“Do you know a woman by the name of Rosalita Ramirez?” I nodded again. I didn’t trust my voice. Somehow I managed to choke out a question. “Dead?”
“You’d better speak to one of the investigating officers.” Dead.
“What about Rafael, her grandson?”
“He’s O.K.” The officer seemed relieved to be able to give me good news. “He’s being questioned by the detectives.”
“Who’s on duty?” I asked. “Armitage? Neufeld? Uppal?”
“Uppal,” he answered. Then he looked quizzically at me. “How do you know Detective Uppal? Are you a friend of hers?”
“I’m ex Star,” I told him. “I worked homicide for four years.” I tugged my arm free of his grip. “Let me go inside. I know the drill. I won’t disturb anything.”
“You sure you can handle it?”
“I’m . . . sure.” I gritted my teeth. Climbing those last few steps would be the hardest thing I’d ever done.
I stopped just inside the door and grabbed the frame for support when I saw the living room. Two detectives—Parminder Uppal and some rookie I’d never seen before—were studying a trail of blood that started near the doorway where I stood and led around a corner into the hall. A large puddle of blood lay at my feet, and the smears and hand prints along the floor told the story of the victim’s final, painful crawl away from the attacker. Just at the bend of the hall, I could see a foot peeking around the corner. I recognized Mama G’s slipper immediately.
A wave of dizziness hit me. The next thing I knew, Parminder was in my face.
“Leni! Whatever are you doing here? I’d heard that you’d set up a private detective practice. Are you here on a case?”
“I live here.” I’d moved since quitting the Star. Twice. I hadn’t bothered to send my former partner an invitation to either of the house-warmings.
Parminder Uppal was an attractive East Indian elf with a cultured English accent. She wore skin-tight black jeans embroidered with red runes and a Zoé jacket of fringed red leather shot through with subtle gold threads. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a silver clip embossed with the elemental symbol of fire. She was one of the Star’s best mage detectives, and smart as they come. Smart enough to find the one piece of evidence that could have cracked open the last case we’d worked together at the Star. Smart enough to know that her best interests lay in letting that evidence be buried.
“Did you know Ms. Ramirez?” she asked. “Was she your landlady?”
“She was my grandmother. Or at least, that’s how I thought of her. She . . .” My eyes were stinging. “I need to see her.”
Parminder hesitated, then nodded. “Be careful where you place your feet,” she cautioned. “The . .. ah .. . blood ... We haven’t finished videoing and assensing the evidence yet and forensics still has to have a go at it.”
Part of my brain was working on autopilot. From force of habit I clasped my hands behind my back—standard procedure at a crime scene, so you don’t inadvertently touch and disturb evidence—and let her lead me around the smear of blood on the floor and toward the body. I mentally braced myself as I turned the corner and the rest of Mama G came into view. She lay face down, arms extended as if she’d still been trying to crawl when she died. Her hands and the outside of her forearms were covered with defensive wounds and her neck had been slashed open from the side. Her white hair was stained with blood, and more wounds marked her back. From the angle and depth of the cuts, I could tell that the fragger who had done this had sliced at her from above and behind—had cut her while she was down and trying feebly to escape. It looked as though the killer had held back, inflicting wounds to cause pain, rather than to kill, until the final blow to the neck. It had been a slow, painful death.
I managed to choke out a question: “When did it happen?”
“A witness places the death between approximately ten p.m. and midnight,” Parminder said. “And that fits with the condition of the victim,” Parminder said. She bent down and lifted Mama G’s head slightly. “As you can see, there’s no postmortem lividity showing yet. The skin is unmottled. And the body is still quite warm.” She lowered Mama G’s head and used a metal probe to lift a torn flap of the blood-soaked dress, exposing one of the ugly wounds on her back. “The weapon was a most unusual one. It left a series of jagged cuts, arranged in more or less straight lines ...”
I lost it. I stumbled past Parminder and ran for the bathroom. Slamming the door behind me, I leaned over the toilet and was sick. When the trembling had finally loosened its hold on my limbs, I grabbed the counter and hauled myself up. I ran some cold water and splashed it on my face. Then I pressed my forehead against the hard, cool glass of the bathroom mirror.
Frag. I’d seen murder victims before. Lots of them. All as gruesome as this—or more so. I’d remained calm and professional and watched the victims’ relatives and friends go white with shock as they heard the news. Now I was the one on the receiving end.
I heard a knock on the door.
“Leni? May I come in?”
I shut off the tap. “All right.”
Parminder entered the bathroom and handed me a towel from the rack to dry my face. When I was done, she said, “I’m sorry, Leni, but I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. About the .. . your ‘grandmother.’ Whether she had any enemies, whether anyone would have cause to, ah ... do her harm. The interview will be recorded, of course. For the record. And I’ll be using a standard detection spell to tell fact from ... fiction.”
I just stared at Parminder for a moment, debating what to say. Was there anything I should keep to myself? I couldn’t think straight—my head felt as thick and heavy as when I’d had the sinus cold. The cold that Mama G had “cured” only yesterday morning. Too much had happened, too fast.
If I told Parminder about the pair of fake missionaries and their visit to Mama G, maybe she could turn up something. She had all of the resources of the Star at her fingertips. Maybe forensics would find something I’d missed.
At the same time, I didn’t trust my former partner. She’d fragged me over once before—and forced me to have to leave the Star as a result. Back when we were partners together in Lone Star’s homicide division, I’d honestly believed that she cared as much as I did about bringing the killer of a teenage prostitute to justice. The kid needed someone to stick up for her after her death. Nobody had during her life.
And maybe Parminder had cared. But not enough to risk losing her job by fingering the son of one of Lone Star’s board of directors as a possible killer. And so she stood by as hours of investigative work and evidence were buried under a gigapulse of superfluous data. Before I twigged to what was happening, “glitches” and “viruses” had completely corrupted our original files.
Parminder had said she’d back me when I confronted my superiors at the Star, but instead she’d done a quick fade. I was left twisting in the wind with an angry precinct officer at my throat. What I was suggesting—that the very heart of the Lone Star corporations itself was corrupt—was as blasphemous as telling a Catholic that the pope was a troll. And so things got very, very uncomfortable for me in those final months. Eventually I quit. I didn’t want to work for an organization that only gave lip service to justice when its own members—or their nearest and dearest—were the perpetrators.
Despite all that, I couldn’t see a reason to keep Lone Star homicide in the dark. I decided to tell Parminder everything I knew. Lighting didn’t strike the same spot twice, did it?
“You’ll want to start by checking out another homicide that occurred tonight,” I said. “You’ll find the bodies in a rental car in the s
outheast parking lot at Charles Royer Station. An Azzie national by the name of Dolores Clemente and an unidentified male . . .”
It took me the better part of three hours before the Star finished questioning me. All that time, they wouldn’t let me see Rafael. Standard police procedure: keep the witnesses separate until they’ve had a chance to tell their stories, just to see if those stories match up.
By that time Mama G’s body had been removed for autopsy. But forensics was still at work, scanning for prints, taking blood samples from the smears on the floor, combing the carpet for evidence, and performing astral scans. I decided to take Rafael downstairs to my place. I nuked some water, made cocoa, and laced the steaming cup with a shot of sambucca. Then I handed it to Rafael.
He looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot from crying and his hands trembled slightly from shock. His normally olive skin had gone ghostly pale.
I glanced at the clock above my stove—it was already past four a.m.—and then at the detectives who were searching the yard outside by the light of portable halogen lamps. The rain had started again, and was probably washing away any evidence they might have found.
I sat down beside Rafael on the couch. “What happened, Raf?”
He took a sip of cocoa and winced as it burned his lips. I thought of offering him cream to cool it down, but I didn’t want to miss what he had to say.
“I went out to buy a Growlie bar down at the corner. I locked the doors. Mama Grande was sleeping when I left.”
“That was around ten p.m.?”
Rafael shrugged. “I think so.”
“And when did you get back?”
He stared at the cup in his hands, a guilty look on his face. “Around midnight,” he muttered.
I nodded. He’d probably gone down to the corner and spent the two hours sweet-talking Consuela, the pretty elf cashier, when he should have been at home watching over Mama G. But I didn’t point that out. Rafael felt guilty enough already. And I hadn’t seen this coming, either. Not in time.
