Titanshade

by Dan Stout

  “No,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  His voice was strong and steady, emerging from the speaking mouth in the center of his throat. “And I know that it was a long time ago, but you still make people uncomfortable.”

  I looked away. I didn’t want to dig up old memories. Not when they already haunted me every day.

  It made me defensive, and I’ve found there’s only one good response when I feel defensive. Go on the attack.

  “Alright. You wanted me to ask about you,” I said. “So tell me, Ajax: Who the Hells are you?”

  His gaze was level, hands easy at his hips. “I grew up in Kohinoor. Went away to school.” The teeth in his speaking mouth clicked, as if he were choosing his words with care. “Didn’t work out. Came back home and joined the force. That didn’t work out either.”

  “So now you’re here.”

  “Now I’m here,” he said.

  “A backwater town like Kohinoor is a damn long way for Bryyh to find me a babysitter.”

  “Could be everyone local knew better than to take the job.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t like the idea of snitching on other cops.”

  He threw his head back and groaned. “No one’s snitching on you, Carter.”

  “Fine. You’re not making reports.” I said it with a laugh, showing him that I knew it for a lie. “Maybe you’re just providing stories for Angus and his buddies back at the Bunker to snicker at.”

  Ajax crossed his arms and took a deep breath. He must have talked to the same shrinks I did.

  “You know,” he said. “For a guy who always gripes about being hated, you sure seem to have a lot of friends.”

  My fists clenched and I fought the urge to close in on him. Any reminder that some people still trusted me was a reminder that sooner or later they’d be burned. Deep breaths, I reminded myself. Captain Bryyh still trusted me, and she was the one who put Ajax and me together. Disappointing her on a regular basis was bad enough. I couldn’t break my new partner’s face before lunch.

  I looked down as my hands disappeared into my pockets. Still clenched, but holstered for the moment. Ajax was the picture of calm. Maybe his shrinks were better than mine. Or maybe . . . I looked at him through squinted eyes, thinking of the ease with which he’d quoted scripture to Talena.

  “That college you went to,” I said. “What’s it called?”

  Now it was his turn to drop his eyes. I’d hit some kind of nerve. “Trelaheda.”

  “Imp’s blades,” I muttered, anger receding, though not quite evaporating. “You went to a seminary?”

  “It’s not a seminary,” he said, anger finally creeping into his voice. “It’s a full university. That also happens to have a . . .” He shifted his feet, trying to regain his composure. “A very strong theological program.” He rubbed his forehead. “I studied political science, remember?”

  I gave him an exaggerated frown. “If I look in your locker, am I gonna find a staff and frock hidden behind your jacket?”

  “Oh, for—” His arms flew out to his sides. “I’m not a guide,” he said. “I didn’t even graduate!” He shrugged, and dropped his eyes again. “Like I said, it didn’t work out.”

  We stood for a moment, him staring at the ground and me staring at him. I was starting to believe he might be genuine, a kid whose sincerity I’d mistaken for deceit.

  “So,” I said, breaking the silence. “A smartass with a temper. That’s my reputation, huh?”

  “More or less,” he said.

  “You’ve heard a lot of talk for someone who’s only been here for two weeks.”

  “I guess I have,” he said, and looked me in the eye. “But I think they’re right about one thing—I do believe you’re honest.”

  “Honesty.” I coughed. “What do you know about honesty?”

  “I know you’ve got a wad of cash for your CI in your pocket, but you’re still checking for change in a pay phone. That tells me you’re not skimming.”

  I spit on the sidewalk and walked away, toward our car. Ajax was showing his hand. A man carrying cash might scrounge for loose change if he’s honest, or he might do it if he’s obsessively greedy. The fact that my new partner went straight to the optimistic interpretation told me a lot. Ajax was a man of faith and optimism.

  The city would cure him of both before too long.

  6

  WE PUSHED THROUGH THE DOUBLE glass doors of the Titanshade Police Department like two old-time lawmen entering a saloon. The Bunker was a hive of activity. It was always busy, but the Squib killing seemed to energize even the admittance clerks and security guards at the front desk.

  The floor mural of the Titanshade city crest was less scuffed than usual, as if the cleaning crew had recently been by, and the flags of Titanshade and the Assembly of Free States hung on either side of the hall. Which flag hung higher was a point of constant contention, and varied with the political climate. Currently the AFS flag rode higher, a nod to the perilous position the city held if we couldn’t come to an agreement on the future of the oil fields.

  We made our way up to Homicide on the third floor. We took a minute to move our desks side by side, a tiny island in the chaos of the Bullpen. Around us some of our fellow detectives were hacking out reports in triplicate on clacking typewriters while others were on phones, the pigtail curl of handset cords wrapped around tense fingers as they yelled or cajoled their way through the waves of leads that were coming in, almost all of which were entirely a waste of time. Once we were set up we wrote a report of our own, a one-pager on what we’d learned that day. Then we took it to Kravitz.

  The lead detective sat at the edge of the Bullpen behind a desk piled with papers, chewing on a yellow pencil as he listened to a pair of our peers make a plea for assistance as they worked through the list of every guest checked into the Eagle Crest the night of Haberdine’s murder. He interrupted them with a wave of his hand.

  “We don’t have the people,” he said. “And if we did, they’d be put on another part of the case first.” He wiped an arm across his forehead. His sleeves were rolled up and sweat stains discolored his shirt along the edges of his suspenders. “Keep on it. Don’t stop until every name on that guest book is accounted for.”

  He glared at us, and I bit my tongue and looked away.

  “Well?” he asked. There was already another pair of cops behind us, waiting to talk to him.

  Ajax summarized the report and made our pitch for interviewing the AFS diplomatic corps.

  “Alright,” Kravitz said, giving his beard a tug. “You two grab some lunch and I’ll think on it.”

  It’s not unusual to wait around for orders like that. Much of police work is hurry-up-and-wait, punctuated by moments of abject terror. But at least it comes with a pension.

  We turned to go, and Kravitz cleared his throat.

  “Carter, hang back a second.”

  Jax drifted to the Bullpen’s big board, a patchwork of chalkboard and cork that laid out the Eagle Crest crime scene photos and the list of notable persons related to the case. He stared at the chart of which detectives were tracking each lead, allowing Kravitz and me some privacy.

  Kravitz rubbed the side of his nose and started to speak, but was interrupted by a muffled yell from the far end of the room. Captain Bryyh was in her office, barking into her phone. I wasn’t sure who she was raking over the coals, but I was glad that for once it wasn’t me.

  I looked to Kravitz. “That what it sounds like when I’m on the other end of the line?”

  Kravitz considered, then shook his head. “Not enough swearing.”

  I chuckled. Kravitz looked around and spoke in a low voice.

  “Look, that Reynolds’ case was good work.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Carmen Reynolds was a banker who’d funneled immense wealth away from her clients, and received a lead
slug in her skull in return. Turned out to be one of her coworkers who’d done the deed.

  Kravitz chewed his lip. “You did the lion’s share of labor closing it up,” he said.

  Since I’d done everything but cinch the cuffs I figured that was an understatement, but I didn’t point that out.

  “It’s a damn shame, the way you gotta hide in the shadows.”

  “The price of fame,” I said. It was how all my jobs worked, the result of the permanent stain I carried from my earliest days on the force. Anything I handled was handed off at the last minute for another detective to take credit.

  When he started to say more I interrupted him. “Not your fault. It’s just the way it is.”

  Maybe he felt like he owed me one. Maybe he resented me for it. Probably both.

  “I’m gonna go eat,” I said. “Just let me know when we can talk to the AFS people.”

  Neither of us brought up the earlier phone conversation. But we’d at least got to a point where we could ignore it, so we left it there. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.

  * * *

  Ajax and I made our way down the back stairs of the Bunker and out the less ostentatious side entrance that emptied onto Lestrange Ave. There were always food trucks pulled up along Lestrange, catering to a police force that went long hours between meals and often craved comfort food to help salve the stress of crime scenes and corruption. The food trucks were a never-ending source of deep-fried pastries and processed meat wrapped in artificial cheese product. Unhealthy food for unhealthy cops. The job may have come with a pension but it was a wonder any of us lived long enough to enjoy it.

  Running between the Bunker and the sidewalk was a raised bed of grass, or at least grass-looking weeds. There were even a few benches where it was possible to sit and enjoy a meal while gazing up at the skyline and the mountain behind it all. It wasn’t a bad way to spend a lunch break.

  As we walked down Lestrange we saw two lanky figures in suits, one Mollenkampi and the other human. The Mollenkampi had one foot propped up on a bench as he brushed a scuff from his shoe. It was Angus, of course. The human was a tall woman who I took to be his partner. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, like a boxer keeping loose before the starting bell.

  Angus spotted us as we approached. He straightened and put his hands on his hips, spreading his sport coat in a vee that looked straight out of a catalog advertisement. He called out to us, or rather, to me.

  “How did chasing candies go? Turn up anything useful or just add a new STD to your collection?”

  Angus lacked the empathy to actually care what happened to a few candies. Which was fine by me. I still hoped to avoid the notion that candies might be involved. Or anyone associated with candies. Like an idealistic activist who sometimes blackmailed johns. Or an ex-vice cop who didn’t bend over backward to get them to stop.

  I made a show of scanning the area. “You look like you’ve had a productive morning out here guarding the benches from pigeon bombing raids.”

  Angus turned to the woman at his side. “Bengles, this is Detective Carter.”

  Bengles jerked her chin at me in acknowledgment and flashed a grin so full of teeth and gums that it verged on caricature.

  “Heard’a you,” she said before greeting my partner. “Ajax, right? Guess Bryyh wasn’t joking when she said you pulled the short straw.”

  Ajax shrugged. “It’s possible she didn’t measure right.”

  Bengles’s smile grew even wider. “We’ll see.” She held her suit coat over one shoulder and the cuffs of her new shirt were folded up, exposing tattoos and sinewy muscle. The woman’s grin was unnerving. Combined with her constant movement, it gave her the air of someone ready to lash out at any moment and with little warning. Judging from her frame and the way she rolled on her feet, I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of her when that happened.

  “What did our young friends on the street have to say for themselves?” asked Angus.

  “Not much, and not that it matters. I don’t see some frail kid doing that kind of damage, anyway.”

  Angus’s mandibles stretched and contracted. “Could be a connection,” he said. “Wealthy politico gets his own room apart from his colleagues? Could be he had a discreet get-together planned, then something happened to make things go deadly.”

  I needed to change the subject. With Angus, that meant using his ego as a distraction.

  “Heard you talked to the Squib delegation.” I let a note of jealousy creep into the edges of my voice.

  He didn’t disappoint. “We did,” he said, giving his tie a pompous tug. “Can’t talk about it, though. So many sensitive topics—you understand.”

  Just like that, he’d forgotten the candies completely.

  “We’re about to eat,” I said. “Are you two gonna stay out here for long? Cause I don’t want to lose my appetite.”

  “Relax. We’re headed inside,” he said. “Watch out for the pigeon shit on the benches. I couldn’t stop them all.”

  Jax and I watched the sharply dressed pair walk back to the Bunker. My partner rubbed the plates on the back of his head.

  “What’s your deal with him, anyway?” he asked.

  “Angus?”

  “Your archnemesis.”

  “He’s not my archnemesis,” I said. “He’s just a dick.”

  “You seem to hate each other in an archnemesis kind of way.”

  “Nah, he’s not evil, he’s just . . . I don’t know.”

  That was a lie. But how do you say that someone is the embodiment of everything you were always told to be? Clean, polite, presentable, respectable. I didn’t like Angus because he managed to be everything I couldn’t hold together, and Angus didn’t like me because I was successful without using the trappings he did. Maybe we just threatened each other’s sense of self. But that’s not really something you hash out while standing in line for a food truck with someone you’ve known for less than a day. So I changed the subject again.

  “Did you notice his partner’s clothes?”

  Jax snorted. “Yeah. Her outfit still had new-shirt folds in it. You think he took her clothes shopping first thing?”

  “I think Angus tries to make everything around him fit his persona.”

  “That includes people?”

  “People, clothes . . . facts.” I sneezed into the crook of my arm. “What do you want for lunch?” I scanned the options. “Looks like you can choose between grilled sausage links or boiled sausage links.”

  * * *

  Seated on a bench with grilled sausages and coffees, I craned my head back to stare at the mist-shrouded form of the Mount looming on the edge of the city, steady and impassive as always. Looking at it made you feel like nothing about Titanshade would change. One more lie the city told about itself. Even its name was suspect. Titanshade sat to the south and west of the Mount, which meant that we were always in the sun’s glare, never the shade of the mountain. But then we drive on parkways, so who am I to judge?

  Schoolteachers had another explanation, that the name was a shortening of “Titan’s hade.” A Barekusean word with two meanings, “hade” might refer to a type of ghost or the whispering sound of melting snow filtering through a still solid snowbank. Movement of hidden liquid below the frozen surface carries an otherworldly sound, one that the Barekusu say mimics the murmurs of lost spirits trying to sway travelers from—or back to—the One True Path. And if ever there was a city where the cry of temptation filled the air, it was Titanshade.

  “Carter?”

  Ajax’s voice intruded on my thoughts.

  “I asked if you think we’ll get a crack at following up on that ambassador lead,” he said.

  “Hope so. But our killer won’t be one of those jokers.” I massaged the sides of my knee. The pain was coming back. A deep, tugging ache that circled my
bones, almost as if I were at the end of a string being pulled toward the Mount.

  “No?” he said. “Why not?”

  “Look at it this way.” I turned from the skyline, biting my tongue to hold in a groan. I needed more pain meds, but I also needed to wait until Ajax wouldn’t see. That was one report I couldn’t have getting back to Bryyh. “What kind of person has a motive to kill a diplomat?” I asked.

  “Another politician?”

  I nodded. “Could be. Or a business tycoon, or a commercial banker with a fortune on the line.”

  Titanshade had been a tiny community until the discovery of oil in the ice plains beyond town ushered in a boom had lasted for decades. With the petroleum reserves failing, money drained from the city’s coffers as fast as the wells drained the last drop of oil from the ground. Wind turbines had begun to pop up on the tops of buildings, a sight that was inconceivable ten years ago, and their blades cut through the sense of desperation hovering in the air. It was the kind of climate that might make a white-collar criminal turn violent.

  “But that’s not who we’re looking for,” I said. “Not with that crime scene.”

  Ajax considered it. I could practically hear him turning it over in his head.

  “That Squib smell was harder to deal with than I’d expected.” I suppressed a cringe as I remembered the crime scene. “But the killer was able to keep his head together and not leave physical evidence. That’s remarkable.”

  “So we’re looking for a Mollenkampi,” said Jax. “Or a human who’s not affected.”

  “You saw the body,” I said. “Or what was left of it. You really think anyone could do that if they hadn’t lost control?”

  I did my best to put the images from my mind and rolled back the foil from my lunch.

  “Besides, would a politician or tycoon do the dirty work themselves, or hire it out?” My voice muffled as I took a bite. “Whoever tore apart that Squib knew how to avoid all the ways that we catch bad guys. Which means . . .”