by Dan Stout
“Oh, that’s not what I was going to ask.” I stood and took a few steps, trying to give the appearance of a man wandering aimlessly.
“You’ve got a really fantastic library,” I said. “You know, I just love old books.”
I walked to the built-in bookcases lining the walls. Paulus sat stone-faced.
“I don’t know enough about them the way a collector would, and it certainly looks like you’re a collector.” I leaned toward the books, scanning titles though not touching them. “No, I wasn’t asking about sex trafficking. I was more curious about whether you knew that your envoys are connected to the murders that happened in the Estates.”
Her shoulders crept upward. “What?”
“There was a family murdered last night and it seems like both Lowell and Cordray have connections to the victims.”
I said it with conviction, though in reality the connections were so tenuous they were practically gossamer. Nina Bell had mentioned someone who might have been Talena, who knew a candy named Stacie who may have heard someone say “Ambassador” after having sex. Three degrees of barely related coincidence. But Paulus didn’t know that.
“A murdered family?” She stood and circled the desk, perhaps to intervene if I started touching things.
“An entire family was massacred. Two small children butchered like pigs for market.” I hoped the imagery might shake her up.
“Hmm. That’s awful.” Paulus sounded like she was talking about a picnic canceled by bad weather.
I stretched a hand toward the books. Slowly. Giving her plenty of time to react. Her arm came up and her blouse sleeve pulled back, revealing more tattoos.
“Please don’t touch those,” she said. The ink-work on her arms were of stylized creatures. Half-animal, half-glyph things that seemed to shift in the fading light of the day.
I held my hands up as if she’d pulled a gun. I turned away slowly.
“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” I said. “It’s just hard to get images like that out of my head.”
“Yes. Truly a tragedy,” she said. “And if there’s anything I can do for you in the future let me know. But for now—”
“Lots of people die,” I said, punctuating the statement with a rueful shake of my head. “Every day they get bagged and shipped home for their families to cry over. But these were executions to forward someone’s agenda.”
There was a large mirror on one wall of the office, and when I turned it showed me the ambassador and myself, with the city as seen from her window spread out behind us.
“There are truly monsters out there,” she said. We stared at each other through the filter of the mirror. “But that’s the harsh reality of your world, isn’t it?”
I turned from her reflection to face her directly.
“It’s not just my world. We’re all stuck in it,” I said.
“The rest of us may live here, but I suspect that your world is quite of your own making.” She crossed her arms, and the tattoos pulsed. Not the side-to-side jiggle of muscle, but true independent movement. A snake squeezed its prey, a meal moved farther down a wyvern’s throat.
I recoiled and looked away, not sure if I’d really seen that unnatural motion. Taking a breath, I studied the leather-bound backs of her books. They were stained to appear so similar to the leather chairs that they could all have come from one giant animal. It was like everything in her office was connected by death. The cascade of leather and death was like its own world, a world entirely of . . .
“. . . our own making,” I murmured.
Paulus tapped her dimpled chin. “That’s what I said.”
I needed to regain control of the conversation. Scratching my neck, I stared at the ambassador from the corner of my eye.
“Just out of curiosity, do diplomats have much in the way of life insurance?”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t ask for myself. But a friend of mine, she has a son. And like most kids—he’s sixteen, seventeen at most—he wants to do what he wants to do, and there’s no putting together anything for him. Anyway, he wants to go into politics. He’s a clean-cut kid, so he might get away with it. I never could have, with the amount of trouble I’d caused by his age, you understand.”
Paulus circled her desk again, picking up a letter opener from the stacks of paper. It was a heavy, sharp-bladed thing that was far more than was needed for slicing open correspondence.
“You want to know if Mister Haberdine’s family would benefit from his death.”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
“Or”—she paused—“you want to know if anyone else would benefit from the death of this family in the Estates.”
“If Haberdine’s death derails the talks, it will affect millions.”
“It will cost at least that much,” she said.
“I meant millions of people.”
She cleared her throat. “Of course.”
I pointed out the window. “There’s what, a dozen sizable drilling concerns in town?”
“That depends on your definition of ‘sizable.’”
“And how many of them are on board with the switch from oil?”
“We’re on the brink of a new age in Titanshade,” she said. “The drilling companies want to be on the right side of things. Both for the history books and their bottom line.” Fidgeting with the letter opener, she looked like an older version of Gellica, though drained of the younger woman’s concern and compassion. I wondered if that happened to all diplomats over time.
“But really, you can get all this information from the newspapers.” She glanced meaningfully at the clock on her desk.
“The newspapers say that the owner of Rediron Drilling opposes the move from oil.”
“Well, there you go,” she said.
“You have insight the papers lack,” I said. “Insight into these people’s ethics.”
“You want to know if any wealthy, powerful executives are the sort to tear apart another living being in a hotel room?”
“That’s not what I said.”
She gave me the courtesy of a false laugh. “You didn’t need to. I’m a diplomat, Detective. Subtle is what I do.”
“I appreciate that. It’s just that I’d also appreciate an answer to the question.”
She shook her head, and still dodged it. “I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Could be. But at least I’m barking.”
“Yes.” The soft brown skin on her knuckles paled as she tightened her grip on the letter opener. “You certainly are doing that.”
My pager buzzed and I glanced down at my pocket. It wasn’t a number I recognized.
Paulus set the opener down. “I know of no one who would benefit directly from Mr. Haberdine’s death, or from the dissolution of alternate energy talks. If there’s some back channel path, then I surely don’t know what it is.”
“What if it was Haberdine who opposed the deal?”
Paulus’s lips pressed together. “Say more.”
I leaned forward, expensive leather crinkling under my weight.
“You say no one would want to sabotage the deal. Okay. Fine,” I said. “I’m not sure I buy that, but let’s say you’re right. If the wind farm deal is so important that no one would ever dream of sabotaging it then it sorta begs the question. . . .”
Paulus stared at me. Silent. I spread my arms and finished my sentence.
“Would anyone kill to keep them on track?”
Paulus shook her head. “No. Garson Haberdine was working for the trade agreement. He had no reason to sabotage anything.”
I scratched my chin. She hadn’t exactly answered my question, but I let that angle drop.
“But Haberdine also was favoring candies,” I said. “Delivering salt water by the barrel to keep
up with his sexcapades. If that were exposed, would the talks have been derailed?”
She tilted her head as if in thought. “Perhaps. It depends on what else was in the news that week. Public perception is a fickle thing.” She looked me over. “As you are well aware.”
I shifted in my seat, brown suit rumpling around me as I spread my hands wide, giving her my best “what-can-you-do?” look. I resumed speaking immediately, eager to move the conversation along. The same way that the Squib envoy Lanathel had tried to push the conversation along at the Bunker when he’d said something that he’d seemed to regret.
“If so many people would benefit from the talks coming to completion,” I said, pulling us back to the question she’d sidestepped earlier, “then it stands to reason that one of them would be willing to kill to see them go through.”
She pressed her palms together. “Again—perhaps. It’s also true that many people would benefit from the oil economy returning. But that doesn’t mean anyone is being sacrificed in the hope of finding more petroleum reserves.”
The mention of additional petroleum caused the pieces to click in my mind. Lanathel had grown uncomfortable right after he’d mentioned that if Haberdine were alive he’d be out on the ice, taking core samples.
I leaned forward with a new enthusiasm.
“If the Squibs had no interest in using the ice fields for drilling,” I said, “why was Haberdine checking for evidence of more oil?”
There was a knock at the door and Paulus waved off my question.
“While it’s a pleasure to assist your investigation, I’m afraid we’re quite out of time.” The magician’s smile appeared again. “Good day, Detective. This has been a most illuminating conversation.”
* * *
Outside Paulus’s office I looked around for Gellica, but she’d disappeared. I asked Paulus’s assistant for a phone and he led me to a spare desk. Turning my back to the room, I dialed the number that had been left on my pager. Ajax answered.
“How fast can you get to the butcher’s shop on Eubanks?” he said. “I found the Bell-Asandro kid.”
The missing oldest son. We had our witness. Or our killer.
19
I PULLED UP TO THE butcher’s shop to find a well-maintained Hasam Motors vehicle by the curb. It had cop car written all over it.
I walked over and sure enough, Ajax was sitting at the wheel. He nodded a greeting.
“You’ll want your armor on for this one,” he said, and handed me a vest. He was already wearing one over his dress shirt.
I’ve learned the hard way to never argue when someone tells you to put on protective gear.
As I strapped in I asked him, “So what’s the score with this?”
“Jermaine’s in there. The surviving son from the Bell-Asandro family.”
The butcher shop’s windows were dark, their shades drawn. “How’d you find him?” I asked.
“I decided to do a follow up with the Bells’ sister—Nina, the one you interviewed.”
“The recovering addict.”
“That’s the one. I got to her place and no one was home. Couple days’ worth of mail was sticking out of her mail slot and newspapers were sitting in front of her entry. I started thinking that she was in danger.”
“You entered without a warrant?”
“You kidding?” he said. “I was afraid she’d been attacked by the thrill killer who’s been in the news lately. Soon as the neighbors heard that, one of them with a spare key let me in.”
Never underestimate the morbid curiosity of the public.
“Clothes and essentials missing from the bathroom,” he said. “But there was a set of sheets on the couch.”
“She had someone staying with her,” I said.
“Neighbors described a young man who matches the profile we’ve got for the missing Bell-Asandro kid, her nephew. I expanded the BOLO to include Nina Bell and her vehicle. A patrolman spotted her car”—he pointed at a worn sedan down the road—“near her place of employment.” He moved his finger, indicating the butcher’s shop.
“I tried the door, but it’s locked. Kind of unusual for a business to be locked up during the day.”
“And where’s the butcher?”
He thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. But this was good enough to get a warrant.”
“Pretty good police work, College.”
“What, you thought we were all going to sit around while you ran your mystery errand? The world moves on even when you’re not in the room, you know.”
I looked over the butcher’s shop, a two-story brick building that shared walls with neighbors on either side. Commercial space on the first floor, surely living space on the second. Outside the shop the sidewalks were thick with people shopping and running errands.
“We should call for backup.”
“I did,” he said. “You.”
After a beat his mandibles quivered. “I’m just messing with you. Myris and Hemingway are already on the back door. We’ve got no activity in or out for the last hour.”
He lifted the walkie-talkie from the dash. “The old man’s here. You guys ready?”
“Really?” I tightened the last strap on my protective vest. “Old man?”
The walkie crackled and Hemingway responded. “We’re here. On your signal.”
“Entry at”—Ajax checked his watch—“ninety seconds from . . . now. Good?”
“Golden.”
Ajax looked at me.
“Well, alright,” I said.
We walked to the front door of the shop. Ajax eyed his watch, and on his signal I tried the door. As Ajax had said, it was bolted. He turned and delivered a mule kick to the glass body of the door. It was safety glass, and spider-webbed rather than shattering. A second kick knocked it loose enough for Ajax to reach in a hand. I scanned the front of the building as he unlocked the latch and pulled the door open. The entry bell tinkled as we entered.
“Police!” I called out.
The cash register was deserted, and no one stood behind the thick cuts of meat on display in the glass-fronted counter.
Ajax glanced my way, nodded toward the open doorway behind the counter. It led to the back room, out of the public eye. Where the bloodiest work was done.
I circled the butcher’s case, moving at a fast walk. The back room was open, the lights on, with stainless steel surfaces and slotted mats to prevent slips. It was a room designed to be hosed down. As far as I could see, it held no good hiding places.
I stopped before I got too far from Ajax. We moved in alternating exposures, covering each other as we progressed forward in short jumps. I paused at one of the cutting stations and nodded the all-clear. With light steps Jax passed me and reached another of the stations. He was heading for the open doorway in the far wall. When he paused, I moved forward again, stopping when my shoulder hit the doorframe. I stuck my head around the corner.
Before me was a hall, maybe twenty feet long with a door at its end and a curtained alcove to the side, about halfway between us and the door. A quick survey of the hall revealed no movement. I tilted my head and Ajax circled around as well. He glanced down the hallway and hesitated before starting in. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t particularly like confined spaces either. At least not when armed killers might be the prize at the end of the tunnel.
I looked over my shoulder and confirmed that no one had closed in on our backs. When I looked forward again, Ajax had taken a few more steps and was slowing. The curtain to the alcove rippled as if in a breeze. I hissed a warning, and Ajax froze.
“Police!” I said. “Announce your presence and lay down any weapons.”
The curtain rippled again. I knew what was coming.
I yelled to Ajax, “Down!”
The roar of a gunshot swallowed my warning, f
ollowed by a second, answering shot from Ajax before he tumbled into the wall. Starbursts flared in my vision, ghosts of the muzzle flash. The ringing in my ears subsided enough for me to realize I was yelling, though I wasn’t sure what I was saying. Jax, eyes wide, mandibles slack, leaned against the wall and stared at the curtain as it moved back and forth. His revolver pointed in the air almost casually. Then it kicked back, firing another shot. A section of ceiling tile fell to the ground, followed shortly by his sidearm. Jax’s right arm went limp and blood coursed down his shirt, crimson drops collecting at his fingertips, hanging for an impossible moment before letting loose and falling to the butcher’s bloodstained floor.
A noise snapped my head around. The entire curtain bowed forward, suspension rod crashing down as a lanky figure rolled out, screaming and bleeding. He was older than in the photos I’d seen at the Bells’ home, his eyes red-rimmed and there was the start of a patchy, teenage beard on his cheeks. But I recognized Jermaine as he ran for me, arms outstretched, mouth open in a meaningless roar. And I recognized the sudden slackness on his face when he bucked forward and another gunshot rattled the walls. Jermaine dropped to the ground, revealing Myris’s silhouette on the opposite end of the hall, weapon in hand. She came my way, and together we circled the figure crouched in the small alcove where Jermaine had erupted from. It was Nina Bell, the kid’s aunt, and the gun she held was still smoking.
“You are going to drop that weapon,” I told her. “You will drop it now.”
Nina cringed, and held out shaking hands, setting the gun down in front of her. I reached for the walkie. “Hemingway, drop back to your car. Radio to Dispatch we have an officer down, need immediate assistance.”
She snapped out a brusque affirmative and was gone.
