by Scott Sigler
“Of course,” Ma Tweedy said. “That’s the Connor girl. She was a friend of my Julius. A decent fullback but nothing special in the blocking department, if you ask me. Too bad she’s not very good at her job.”
“How do you know she wasn’t good at her job?”
Ma stared at Yolanda as if the younger woman were stupid. “Because Grace is dead. Isn’t a bodyguard supposed to keep her clients alive?”
Yolanda’s heart hammered in her chest. “Ma Tweedy, you’re saying that Miriam Connor was a bodyguard of Grace McDermot?”
Ma nodded. “Yes. Once I cooked dinner for Ju and Grace, and sometimes I would meet them out, and Miriam was always around. Last time I saw her guarding Grace was … let me see … maybe a week before the murder.”
“Thank you, Ma Tweedy.”
The woman nodded her little head. “Of course, dear. Good luck.”
Yolanda and Whykor left the apartment and headed for the wheel-truck that would take them back to the hotel.
Dammit, Miriam, you were holding out on me.
• • •
Their suite at the Peking Hotel had filled with lines of light, glowing messages and the floating heads of the sentients involved with the case. Yolanda finished moving all of her notes from the messageboard to Whykor’s ad-hoc holoprojector. The living room was a sea of faces: Grace, Ju, Anna Villani, Miriam, Lil-A-Kewitt, Joey Clark, Regat the Smooth, Parmot the Insane, Tarat the Smasher, Commissioner Rob Froese, Carol Tweedy and her son, John, Quentin Barnes, Gredok the Splithead, Marik the Covetous and even Turon the Ugly.
She set the messageboard down on the table. “There,” she said. “Now we can get started.”
Whykor looked at the messy hologram. “So you … understand this? This system works for you?”
“It works for me,” she said. “I don’t have your memory. And even if I did, I have to look at the notes to get a sense of who is connected to who else, time lines and other things.”
She stepped into the middle of the room. There floated a smiling Grace McDermot. She had been so beautiful. It was easy to see why men — and women — had fallen for her.
Yolanda reached out with her pointer finger and drew a line of yellow light around Grace’s head. “At the center of everything, Grace McDermot.” She put two fingers on a floating note showing Grace’s bio and slid it closer to the face. “High-profile, kept woman, girlfriend to gangsters and running backs.”
Yolanda drew a red line from Grace to an image of Anna Villani and circled Villani. “Grace was the paramour of an underling of Sikka the Death, an underling that killed Sikka to take over the syndicate.”
She drew another red line from Grace to Ju Tweedy and another circle. “Grace started dating Ju. Maybe she left Villani, maybe not. Ju had access to Grace’s apartment because he lived there, and Villani had access, of course, because she owned the building.”
“Which makes Villani and Ju the obvious suspects,” Whykor said. “Both of whom, incidentally, are untouchable.”
Yolanda took a step to the right, to Miriam’s picture. “And here we have my friend and former bodyguard, Miriam Connor.” She drew a red circle around Miriam. “Connor found the body and could have done the crime, possibly at the behest of Villani.”
“Villani would have given Connor access to Grace’s apartment, if Connor even needed it,” Whykor said. “If she was Grace’s bodyguard, she could have knocked, been recognized and walked right in.”
Yolanda turned back to Ju’s face. “Tweedy arrives at the apartment to find Grace dead. Maybe he came at a specific time each day, maybe he was called there. If he didn’t kill McDermot, he sees the body and is smart enough to immediately know how it looks. So he runs.”
“And the neighbors see him leaving the building.”
She nodded. “Right. So he could have killed her, or this could have been part of a bigger setup to get him there at the right time. That means Miriam could still be the killer. She owed Villani. But here’s the thing we never thought of until this afternoon.”
She walked three steps to the left and put a red circle around Lil-A-Kewitt, then another around Carol Tweedy, and drew a line between them.
“Ma Tweedy,” she said. “She hates the girl her son is dating. Lil-A owes the family, so Ma sends him to kill McDermot.”
“It must be the medicine,” Whykor said.
She turned to look at him. “Huh?”
“The medicine or the alcohol, or possibly both,” he said. “Or perhaps you are as tired as you look. Do you really think that Carol Tweedy is capable of sending a HeavyKi assassin to kill her youngest child’s mate? Or that she would ask a family friend to commit murder?”
Her eyes felt heavy despite the high level of excitement. “I am tired.” She stared at Ma Tweedy’s picture. “But we can’t rule her out, Whykor.”
“Fine. The next thing you will tell me is that you have Commissioner Froese’s face up there because he also is a suspect.”
“Maybe he’s more involved than we think,” she said. “The galaxy loves the Krakens — or did until my story. Putting the league’s best running back on a team with its best rags-to-riches quarterback? If a Purist Nation player dominates the league, Whykor, that brings in a lot of new viewers. You know they don’t even legally show GFL games in the Purist Nation, right?”
“Of course, I know that,” he said. “Your hastily concocted set of connections falls apart, however, when you think of how close Villani came to capturing Ju Tweedy and executing him. And do you think that the Commissioner would send that rags-to-riches quarterback of whom you speak into danger to rescue the league’s best running back? That is illogical.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I can assure you, Miss Davenport, that the Commissioner is genuine in his desire to discover the truth.”
Yolanda cocked an eyebrow at him.
His eye turned light green. “But you would expect me to say that, wouldn’t you?”
“Buddy, I appreciate you getting my back through this, but you haven’t let me forget who your real boss is. Don’t expect me to forget now.”
“You have a point. How about if I say I know of no reason he would put you on the wrong trail?”
Yolanda shrugged, thinking that Whykor’s assurance didn’t help much. She was reaching for connections, and she knew it. What was she missing?
“Okay, Whykor. You have shot down my two new theories, so what do you think?”
Whykor smoothed the striped fur on his pedipalps. “I believe our best suspect remains Miriam Connor. We both agree that she was lying about something related to finding McDermot’s body. And Tarat the Smasher did not give you Carol Tweedy’s name. He specified Miriam as a lead.”
Tarat … there was something there, something that she was missing. She turned back to her sea of light. She found Tarat’s face. She circled him in blue.
“Miss Davenport, I know Tarat’s permanent residence is in Madderch, but you’re not going to list him as a suspect now, are you?”
She shook her head. “No, suspects are in red. Tarat is in blue.”
“What does blue mean?”
“It means I should have asked more questions. You’re right, Whykor — he did put us on the trail of Miriam, and that did give us more information, but all this time I’ve missed something important. How did Tarat know about Miriam?”
Whykor stared and blinked. “Perhaps he has access to the police report?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see the autopsy results, but I did see the police report. Miriam wasn’t on it.”
“Could Tarat have known Joey Clark and Regat the Smooth? Could they be sources for him? Or perhaps he knew that Miriam was a bodyguard for Grace.”
“Maybe,” Yolanda said. “But I feel like we’re missing something. I need to talk to him. Can you set that up?”
“I can try, Miss Davenport, but he will be preparing for the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show game-day coverag
e of the Orbiting Death and the To Pirates. From what little I know of Tarat, he is difficult to reach when he is preparing for broadcasting. You have his personal number. Can you call him?”
That was a good idea. She lifted her hand, activating her palm-up display, but paused before she called. Tarat was a fellow journalist. The GGSS was the most-watched sports show in the galaxy. Tarat had also saved their lives by steering them toward Doc Izzy after the crawler fight.
“Whykor, just put in a request through proper channels,” she said. “I don’t know exactly what to ask him yet. I have to respect his job, as I’d expect him to respect mine.”
“Very well, Miss Davenport. And what do you think of my assertion that Miss Connor is the most likely suspect?”
Yolanda shook her head. “I still don’t think so. I know her. But that doesn’t change the fact that she lied to us. I need to talk to her.”
“It would not be wise to return to her residence,” Whykor said. “That would expose you and possibly bring attention on her.”
Yolanda thought, then snapped her fingers. “The game! She said she never misses a game, right?”
“That is correct. She has season tickets.”
“I can talk to her there.”
“There will be over a hundred thousand sentients at Beefeater Gin Stadium. Will that not expose you to danger?”
“This might sound strange, but no, not at a game,” she said. “Once I show my face at the stadium, if anything happens to me it’s on Villani. If other reporters see me, I don’t think she’ll touch me.”
Whykor thought for a moment. “Yes, you may be right. But if you are seen talking to Miss Connor, does that not put her in danger?”
He was right. “Maybe I could get into the locker room, talk to her there?”
“If I may, Miss Davenport, you could use Commissioner Froese’s private sky box. He has one at every stadium so he can watch games in peace.”
“No one will be using it?”
“I will see to it that it is at our disposal. If you could direct Miss Connor there, you could meet in private, and no one would know.”
Yolanda smiled. That might work out perfectly. “You said this hotel has shielded communications?”
“It does,” Whykor said. “Not even the GFL’s operatives have been able to crack calls into or out of the hotel.”
“Then it should be safe to call Miriam. Call her, please.”
Whykor did. The holotanks were tied up, so he called on the messageboard. After a few rings, a holo of Miriam’s head floated above the device.
“Yolanda,” she said. “Uh, what can I do for you?”
“We need to talk,” Yolanda said. “Seems there were some things you didn’t tell me.”
Miriam shook her head. “Yeah, now’s not a good time.” She looked somewhere to the right, then turned her eyes back to Yolanda.
The HeavyG woman looked upset, and well she should — she’d been caught in a lie.
“Miriam, I know you’re going to the game tomorrow.”
Miriam shrugged. “So?”
“I need to talk to you there.”
The woman paused. “Okay. Where?”
“Just go to will-call. I will leave a ticket for you there with instructions on where to meet me.”
Miriam just stared. She looked so angry. “All right,” she said. “If that’s what you want, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Her face vanished. Yolanda leaned back in the chair.
“Miss Davenport, if I may, I would like to procure a press pass for Miss Connor. In case something goes wrong and you are not able to have privacy in Commissioner Froese’s booth, you might be able to get into some other restricted area of the stadium and have your conversation.”
That was a good idea. The stadium would be full with well over a hundred thousand sentients, but Beefeater Gin Stadium security ran a tight ship — a press badge was damn near an all-access pass. The passes were so hard to get that, most times, stadium security didn’t even look at them — just having one showed you were someone important.
“Then you better get one for yourself,” Yolanda said. “If we have to think on our feet, I don’t want to have to explain why two of us have press passes and one has league credentials.”
“I do not think league credentials would be an issue, but I can arrange for a pass to be waiting for Miss Connor at will-call, and I will obtain one for myself as well. Now, if I may, Miss Davenport, perhaps you should get some sleep. I will be sure to wake you in time for the game. Would you like anything specific for breakfast?”
She nodded. “Think you can find a shushulik-filled donut?”
His eye swirled with blue-violet. “Of course,” he said. “I will procure you the best shushulik-filled donut Madderch has to offer.”
“That eye color,” she said. “Blue-violet? I’ve never seen that.”
“I do apologize if I allowed my emotions to show, Miss Davenport.”
She laughed. “After all we’ve been through, I wouldn’t worry about it. That color, what is it?”
“I believe that would be disgust,” he said. “I had thought stewed sea maggots were the worst thing one could order. I was incorrect.”
She rolled her eyes and shuffled to her bedroom. A good night’s sleep in a highly protected hotel would set her right.
Tomorrow would be a big day.
• • •
Traffic was a mess, but that was to be expected. This time, Yolanda and Whykor rode in the front seat next to the driver. They stayed slunk down and out of sight for the most part, but she couldn’t help but peek from time to time.
A moving tide of fans wearing flat black walked toward the stadium. There were more than a few wearing the blood red of the To Pirates, which wasn’t surprising — it was said that if you stood anywhere in the galaxy and threw a rock in a random direction, odds were you would hit a Pirates fan.
The fans called this place the Black Hole, or the Ace Hole. The official name, however, was Beefeater Gin Stadium. The alcohol producer had purchased naming rights some twenty years earlier, but the stadium was far older than that. It was one of the league’s most impressive facilities. Two of the round stadium’s decks soared high above street level, while another two dropped below. The upper decks were supported by long, thick, curving buttresses carved out of the city’s omnipresent blue crystal. That constant fight against crystal growth? You didn’t see that here — every translucent surface was smooth as glass, polished to a high sheen that reflected the artificial suns with a blazing intensity.
The wheel-truck worked its way through traffic until it pulled into the stadium’s secure parking area. A gray-jacketed Warrior waved at them to stop. Whykor popped up in his seat and waited as the Warrior approached.
Yolanda looked around. Beefeater Gin Stadium was no different than any other GFL stadium, which was to say it was lousy with uniformed guards. Getting in to see any GFL game required a solids-detector check, a mods check, sniffer sweeps for explosive materials and three separate pat-downs throughout the process. Don’t even think about coming in with something that resembled a camera or any other electronic device — recording was prohibited primarily to screen for any weapon that might be easily disguised. If any guard, at any time, thought you might pose a danger to the players and coaches, the stadium staff or to other spectators, you were escorted off the premises and not allowed to return. Hence, the long queues of sentients waiting to walk through the screening procedures were quiet and polite — they saved their rowdy behavior for the game itself.
These processes didn’t stop all fan violence, but it cut it down to a minimum. When there were fights, it involved bare hands/pedipalps/tentacles and no weapons. More important to the league, however, it had reduced on-player violence almost ninety percent. It was hard to run a league if people were always assassinating your star players.
This was where things got risky — Anna Villani owned the stadium, which meant she owned stadium security. OS1
wasn’t under Creterakian control; normally any game came complete with flocks of armed Creterakians flying overhead. The bats were loyal only to league rules — they were rarely under the control of some local crime lord. On OS1 and OS2, however, the only aerial security came from Harrah, who could be paid off just as easily as the other subjugated races. That meant Yolanda and Whykor had to be careful; any security guard might be under Anna’s direct control.
The Warrior reached the wheel-truck. Whykor handed over a pair of message cubes. “I am Whykor the Aware, personal assistant to Commissioner Rob Froese. This is Yolanda Davenport, registered employee of Galaxy Sports Magazine. This pass has our information and clearance level. Everything should be in order, Galan the Hitter.”
The Warrior looked up from the message cubes and stared at Whykor. “You remember me?”
“I met you three seasons ago,” Whykor said. “If I may, you did an excellent job ensuring the safety of the Commissioner. He told me so, said he was impressed by your ability and demeanor.”
The Warrior’s eye flooded light orange. “The Commissioner recognized my work?”
“He did,” Whykor said. “How could he not?”
The Warrior’s chest puffed up in a very Human-like reaction. “I see your information is in order, Whykor. Will you need secure parking?”
“No, this vehicle will drop us off. We shall arrange other transportation after the game.”
“Very well,” the Warrior said. He looked to his right and waved at the other guards. “Let this vehicle through.”
The wheel-truck pulled into the secure area. As soon as she got out, Yolanda was patted down and searched by more security personnel, as was Whykor. Not even reporters and league staff were allowed in without a thorough search for anything dangerous. She had to declare her recording devices, including her bracelet and shoe. These were tested and scanned several times before they were handed back.
Yolanda patiently waited as all of this was done. It was just the way things were — every game was the same. Such was life in the days of terrorist attacks and franchises owned by rival gangs.
With the security scan completed, she was allowed to enter through the door reserved for press, players and coaches. The entrance was level with the field, much lower than the main spectator entrances.
