Titanshade

by Dan Stout

  17

  THE NEXT MORNING THE CROWDS outside the Bunker were bigger and angrier. Even in the morning hours the anxiety was palpable. There was an uptick in the number of crimson dress shirts as the patrol had formed a cordon by the entrance to the Bunker, allowing pedestrian access. On either side of the patrol line the swirl of protest and counter-protest had solidified into two mobs glaring at each other like surly drunks at either end of a bar.

  Tensions were climbing, people were scared, and the sudden collapse of our case against Flanagan hadn’t helped matters. The city had reason to chafe under the competing tensions. But life went on. People still jostled along the sidewalk across from the demonstration and traffic continued to grind along, the inexorable push of steel and rubber as vehicles made their way to deliveries and destinations. Even tibron-drawn Therreau carts wound their way through the city, though now the drivers wore bandannas, as if they could protect themselves from the sickness that was pulling all of us down.

  There was panic in the air, and it smelled of cinnamon.

  * * *

  As soon as I entered the Bunker I was told to report to the glass-walled conference room on the fourth floor, a comfortable room where we often took visitors who wouldn’t react well to an interrogation room. Coming down the hall I saw Ajax, Bryyh, and Kravitz seated on one side of the conference table, looking even more haggard than they had the night before. Across from them were two slender, mottled-skin frogs dressed in shades of blue. Cobalt-hued ceramic discs the size of dinner plates ringed their torsos, while smaller pieces lined their shoulders and thighs. The discs sat comfortably on an under layer of chainmail and heavy linen fabric.

  The Squibs had come to the Bunker.

  When I entered the visitors stood. They were slightly shorter than me, and I’m no more than average height for a human. Bryyh made a gesture of introduction.

  “Ambassador Yarvis, Envoy Lanathel, this is Detective Carter.”

  The one introduced as Lanathel let out a guttural harrumph. The sound of a rock pulling free from its muddy bed.

  “Yes, we recognize him,” he said. His vibrant green skin tone looked to be younger than Yarvis’s duller gray, though I couldn’t swear to the way Squibs age. I focused on the older of the pair and cocked my head like a confused dog.

  “I was under the impression that no one from the Squib delegation had the title of ambassador.”

  Yarvis blinked, translucent sheaths flicking over protruding eyes. “Your impression was mistaken, Detective.”

  We all shook hands, like real civilized adults. It was a nice gesture before I was thrown to the wolves.

  “Please be seated,” said Bryyh, and Ajax pulled out a chair for me at the conference table. The Squibs were barefoot, and their large webbed feet made heavy whomping sounds on the floor as they took their seats. They weren’t going to be moving far outside of the central city without much more significant clothing than they were currently wearing. If anyone was running around to find candies for these frog-men, then it wasn’t another Squib.

  “We were speaking,” said Ambassador Yarvis, “about this man you’ve let walk free after slaughtering one of my delegates.”

  My delegates. I couldn’t tell if he was possessive of his territory or protective of his people. I decided to push him on it, to see if he would be more defensive of his power or the members of his team.

  “What exactly—”

  Ajax stepped on my foot, a distinct warning to stop, while Captain Bryyh talked over me.

  “This is some kind of desperate ploy strung together by Flanagan’s attorney. As soon as we pierce the veil of lies they’re putting together, we’ll have him in custody again.”

  She was in full spin mode. I sometimes forgot that she could be a fierce political animal when needed.

  Lanathel stopped her with an upraised hand. Sturdy webbing connected large knuckled fingers, and a street map of blue veins was visible beneath translucent green flesh. With his palm out, the pale undersides of his fingers were on display, white breakers on the waves of an emerald sea. The claws were nicely manicured into fingernails suited for polite society, where the backstabbings are done with treaties and bank transfers.

  He held up a copy of that morning’s Union Record, unfolding it and laying it on the table so we could get a clear view.

  “And so this,” he asked, “is part of your investigation?”

  The newspaper’s front page featured a picture of me. Shot from a low angle, I looked like a schoolyard bully, towering over the cowering figure of a man in a suit and tie. He was sprawled on the pavement with one hand raised defensively between us. I recognized the reporter from the back gate to the Bunker. The Mollenkampi photographer had clearly earned her paycheck.

  Above the photo, in forty-point type, was the headline: Bungled Bust in Bloodbath Slaying.

  My stomach clenched, and the back of my mouth burned as bile rose in my throat.

  “Is this how you seek our countryman’s killer?”

  Yarvis pressed a hand onto the paper, and his nails dug jagged slices across my photo. Unlike the younger Squib, his nails weren’t trimmed. They were true claws, ragged and dangerous. The kind of claws that might not kill but would certainly infect. I suspected that his rise to power had been very dramatic, coming from poverty or a harsh background. Whatever the cause, he’d intentionally rejected the trappings of success. And now I was in his sights.

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” I said. Ajax practically jumped on my foot.

  “What Carter means,” said Bryyh, “is that sometimes the perception of a misstep is a strategic advantage.”

  “Are you saying that you intend to let him walk free?” Bony lips twisted into a frown.

  Bryyh hesitated. There was an intake of breath, her lower teeth pulling back her upper lip, like an archer drawing a bow. Telling the Squibs about the plan to tail Flanagan was a breach of protocol and could jeopardize the whole plan. But the reality was, if the Squibs squawked loud enough to the right people, the whole case could get ripped out of our hands.

  “Ambassador,” she said, “we made a strategic decision to release the prisoner. He is under constant surveillance, and at the first indication that he can lead us to co-conspirators, we will spring our trap.”

  “But this would not have been your first choice.”

  Bryyh shook her head. “It’s true that we were forced to move faster than we would have liked, but he’s only a stepping-stone. It’s not often that an opportunity like this comes along.”

  “Is this man still a suspect?”

  “Absolutely. But he’s not the only lead we’re hanging our hat on,” she said. “The charges against Flanagan were to make him twist in the wind, so that he’d turn over any conspirators. Justice won’t be served until we root out the true architect of this obscene crime. And we intend to do just that.”

  I kept my mouth shut. Bryyh was fast on her feet.

  “Mister Ambassador.” She held out her hands. “Envoy Lanathel. I want you both to know that we are taking every aspect of this case very seriously. We won’t rest until we can bring in the monster who killed Mr. Haberdine.”

  “Words,” Lanathel huffed, the younger Squib’s vocal sac puffing and slowly deflating. His breath smelled like wet cardboard. “What are you actually doing?”

  “I can’t reveal too many details,” said Bryyh, although she already had. “Other than to say that we are continuing to strengthen our case. The City Attorney’s Office is dealing with any headaches from Jankowski.”

  “Jankowski?” The name bubbled as Yarvis rolled it on his tongue. He sounded thoughtful.

  “That’s the suspect’s attorney,” Bryyh explained.

  “Emily Jankowski,” I said. “You know her?”

  Kravitz ran a hand over his face, pulling the flesh of his cheeks taut. He opened his
mouth to say something, but Bryyh cut him off.

  “I’m not sure . . .” she began.

  “We know a Jankowski,” said Yarvis. He turned to the younger Squib. “She is involved in the wind farm negotiations, correct?”

  Lanathel bobbed his head.

  “Involved on behalf of who?” I said.

  “Rediron Drilling,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  I wanted to say because I’m wondering what a hot-shot criminal defense attorney is doing on contract negotiations. But Bryyh shot me a not-now look, and I let it pass.

  “Just following all possible leads,” I said. “Like the captain says, we won’t rest until . . .” I rolled my hand: and so on.

  “Well, if you’ve gone on to other leads”—Yarvis leaned toward Bryyh, armor clanking as he moved—“we will collect Envoy Haberdine’s remains.”

  Bryyh took a deep breath. She clearly wasn’t looking forward to delivering this piece of news. “We can’t release them at this time, Ambassador. Until we have the killer—”

  “Our countryman has been slaughtered.” Yarvis swiveled his head to take us all in. “His body needs to be returned to his family, not left on some rock”—he raked his claws in the direction of the Mount—“and his bones picked clean by vultures.” His description of sky burials and the Mount were clearly meant to get a rise out of us. The rush of heat in my cheeks told me that he’d succeeded. Bryyh was made of sterner stuff.

  “And he will be returned to his family,” she said without so much as a creased brow. “We all have the same goal, to bring Envoy Haberdine’s killer to justice. Please understand.”

  The Squib ambassador snarled and dragged his hands back, claws raking across the table like nails across a blackboard.

  “Understand? I understand more than you’d like. Our people know how humans respond to the smell of our blood.”

  “Mister Ambassador, I assure—”

  “Every Squib who travels beyond the borders of Alargo knows the risks of associating with humans. You are a violent people who can’t be trusted. If there were ever a textbook case of this kind of butchery, it would be the sadistic desecration of our fellow traveler, Garson Haberdine. Some of the people in this city have drifted very far from the Path indeed.”

  Bryyh tried again. “Not all humans are susceptible to these effects. And I assure you, we are putting our very best and brightest on this case.”

  Yarvis looked from Bryyh to the newspaper. My picture stared back at all of us.

  “But it’s true some setbacks are inevitable,” Bryyh said. Even to my ears, she sounded less than convincing.

  “Perhaps,” said Lanathel. “Or perhaps the blood rage is clouding the officers’ minds?”

  I bit my cheek to keep from responding. The younger Squib pressed on.

  “Do you stop to consider Garson’s family while you huff in the rage that accompanies his blood?” The broken baritone of his voice got louder as his anger boiled to the surface. “Do you think about that before you laugh and have a drink at night?”

  Lanathel swung a finger around the table, accusing all of us of indifference, but his eyes settled on me.

  Bryyh placed both her hands flat on the table. “On behalf of the Titanshade Police Department, I can promise you the personal nature of this senseless crime is foremost in our thoughts.”

  The Squib gave a silent chuckle, the flesh around his cheeks and chin flaring out dramatically. “And on behalf of Her Majesty, I can promise you that we will not forget who works to end this nightmare, and who has been the cause of these ‘inevitable setbacks.’”

  The paper sat on the table, reminding us who would play the role of sacrificial lamb when things went bad. I didn’t see how my standing could get any worse. So I figured I might as well ask what was on my mind.

  “Can you think of any reason you’d need a lot of brine? I mean a lot,” I said. “Gallons and gallons of the stuff.”

  Lanathel half stood, throat sac bulging in a display of outrage, or aggression, or some other emotion I didn’t quite follow. “What is the meaning of this?” He bellowed the words, a deep reverberation that shook the glass walls of the conference room and caused passersby in the hallway to turn and stare. I blinked. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

  Yarvis held up a webbed hand and the younger Squib lowered himself back into his chair.

  “Why would you ask that?” said the ambassador.

  I chose my words carefully. “Envoy Haberdine had a large quantity of brine delivered to the hotel before his murder. Do you know why he might do that?”

  The diplomats exchanged a glance, pausing before the elder of the two responded.

  “Our people trace our roots back to the coastal marshes,” he said. “And many of our practices stem from our times there.” He shifted in his seat, anxious, but continued. “Many Squibs prefer to have intimate relations in salt water.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at my partner and found him wide-eyed. Apparently this was something that hadn’t been covered back in college.

  “But this was . . .” Jax’s biting mouth clicked open and shut. “Cooking brine.”

  Yarvis tilted his head, as if searching for words.

  “Some people prefer flavored or spice-infused salt water. It adds an element”—he blinked his lower lids—“of romance.”

  Bryyh said, “Like scented candles.” She dropped her eyes, and I got a feeling we’d just gotten more of a glimpse into her private life than she’d intended.

  Kravitz spoke up.

  “The, ah, room that Envoy Haberdine reserved had a . . . ah . . .” He fumbled, no doubt searching for the least offensive phrasing. “Extra deep whirlpool tub.”

  There was another moment of awkward silence.

  “How do you think Haberdine’s family will react,” I said, “to hearing that the deceased was getting ready to play hide-the-tadpole with some hired company?”

  “Carter!” Bryyh’s voice was sharp, the cracking of thin ice under a boot. She glared at me, a vein throbbing on one temple.

  I stared back defiantly. Then I thought of the pictures of grandkids on her desk. I’d known Bryyh for most of my life, and she’d taken the heat for me more times than I could count. I thought of that, and I was the first to drop my eyes.

  From the other side of the table, Lanathel broke the silence. “Garson Haberdine left his home to serve his queen. He should be at that site collecting core samples instead of—” Lanathel swallowed, seemingly surprised by his own anger. He glanced at Yarvis, then resumed speaking quickly, as if eager to move the conversation along. “Instead he was murdered in this off the Path town. And you have the gall to drag his memory through the dust?”

  Bryyh turned to the Squibs, but Lanathel silenced her with a shake of his head. It was a motion of simultaneous negation and disgust.

  “To continue this discussion, we wish only to speak to the Mollenkampi,” he said. “The humans should leave us.”

  There was a pause as everyone waited to see who would speak next.

  Bryyh inhaled and ran her hands over the conference table, as if soothing a spooked animal. “Detective Ajax and I would be glad to talk to you—”

  The envoy swung his hand as if dismissing a servant. “Him alone. Or another of his kind. At least we know the Mollenkampi are not mad with blood rage.”

  He didn’t spare me a glance as I stood, but not the other Squib, the older, grayer-toned one. That one watched every move as I left the office. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to get a measure on me or if he wanted me to know that he was the one calling the shots. It didn’t matter to me either way—he could stare at my clenched jaw and bunched fists all he wanted, as long as I didn’t have to deal with him any further.

  Having been dismissed from the principal’s office, I decided I needed to clear my head
a little and headed for Lestrange. But when I reached the side door the eating area was deserted, no food trucks in sight. No one wanted to deal with the protest if it spilled over into the side streets. So I simply sat on a bench and stared out at the passing traffic. My stomach growled, and I thought for a moment I smelled cinnamon. I shook my head, angry at whatever hold the Squib blood had over me.

  A voice from behind caused me to jump. “Well, that was really something.” Ajax stuck his head out the door and looked around. “Not much of a crowd.”

  “No shit.” I scratched my chin. The salt-and-pepper whiskers had gotten longer. I’d forgotten to shave again. “Did your new friends have anything interesting to say after I left?” I did my best to keep my voice level. I wasn’t angry with Ajax, but I didn’t like being set up as the department scapegoat. I stepped inside and let the door swing shut. Ajax trailed behind. He ran his hands over his head, massaging the leathery skull plates with small, swirling motions.

  “I wouldn’t call it interesting,” he said. “They didn’t really want to talk to me. They were mostly just trying to embarrass Bryyh.”

  We moved through the back offices of the first floor, past the public-facing front desk and the long room where the dispatchers worked the radio waves. From outside it was a tangle of voices describing crimes, announcing successes and failures. Requesting help.

  “They were sending a message,” I said. “It’s what diplomats do.”

  Jax dropped his hands to his sides with a grunt and stared out over the sea of support staff that kept the TPD running.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That was some damn fine hard armor they were wearing.”

  He actually threw his head back and laughed, an amazing sound that tinkled and bellowed all at once.

  Pulling a hanky out of his coat pocket, Jax said, “So what’s next?” as we headed deeper into the Bunker.

  “We wait to hear from the tail on Flanagan. In the meantime, I’m gonna rattle my CIs and see if I can verify whether Flanagan’s been on the market as muscle,” I said.