“So,” she said, taking her drink off the tray, “if it’s not coaching, what do you need that’s so urgent you had to come up here?”
He said, “I need information about your past dealings.”
“You know I can’t do that,” she said.
Retrieval Artists kept confidentiality so that they would get more work. Legally, the confidentiality had no standing. Even the clients knew that a Retrieval Artist would break confidentiality if she had to.
But Paloma had always been ethical. She had told Flint from the start that she wouldn’t betray a client, and so far, she hadn’t.
“I’m not asking you to reveal client details,” Flint said. “All I need is to confirm something someone’s been telling me.”
“Miles, you put me in a delicate position.”
He held up a hand. “Hear me out first.”
She sipped her water and gazed Outside. The room was very light. The actual lunar day, not the dome day, lasted two weeks. He wondered if the room was always this light or if the window he was looking out of—which was part of this new dome—changed color the way the rest of the dome did.
Distracting. He made himself look away, focus on the water beading against the side of his glass.
“Did the law firm Wagner, Stuart, and Xendor Limited. send you regular work?” he asked.
Paloma looked at him. Her brown eyes seemed wider than they had a moment ago. “Why?”
“They sent an associate to me, saying they’d always done business with you. She had never dealt with Retrieval Artists before, and assumed I’d be grateful for the job.”
Paloma grinned. “She doesn’t know you, does she?”
“I thanked her, and turned her down. Then Mr. Wagner Junior, son of the bigwig, turns up at one of my research cafés while I’m working there.”
Paloma’s grin faded. “You allowed yourself to be traced?”
“I expected it,” Flint said. “I was curious about the associate, so I figured WSX was using her in some way. The only thing I could think of was that they expected me to research her, maybe as a way to access my files. So I went to the research café.”
Paloma nodded. She obviously approved of his reasoning.
“And they confronted you? In person?” she asked.
“Wagner Junior did,” Flint said, “which clued me to how sophisticated their tracking system is. He found me quickly and easily. After he left, I neutralized all links to me, but I’m going to be a lot more cautious with WSX from now on.”
“I would hope so,” Paloma said.
Flint recognized the tone. She had used it during their teaching sessions, when she thought he had made a rookie mistake. He didn’t try to defend himself, but he knew that Paloma, for all her skill, wouldn’t have seen the traces either.
He said, “It also made me realize just how much they want me to work for them.”
“All the more reason to say no.”
“I’m inclined to hear what they want,” Flint said. “But first I need to know what kind of lies they’re telling. Did you work for them?”
Paloma nodded. “I worked for most of the lawyers in Armstrong at one time or another. I did a lot of superficial investigative work, seeing if someone who was assumed to be Disappeared actually was, finding old clients, determining whether or not a litigant was still alive.”
“So did you work with them or were you on staff?”
Her shoulders straightened. The question offended her. “I’ve never worked for anyone else, Miles.”
“They paid you by the job?”
She nodded.
“Did you do a lot of jobs for them?”
“In the beginning,” she said. “But none in the last ten years or so. Most of my work was with Wagner Senior. He’s still part of the firm, but he hasn’t done any real lawyering for fifteen years or more. And I didn’t like the new blood.”
“Because?”
“Because they use sophisticated tracing systems, and do things that are better left to the professionals,” she said.
“Like us,” Flint said.
Paloma nodded. “My sense is that they don’t need a Retrieval Artist. I got the impression that when I stopped working for them, they decided they would do everything in house.”
“Then why come after me? Do they want some Tracker to piggyback on my work?”
Paloma shook her head. “That makes no sense. They probably don’t distinguish between Tracking and being a Retrieval Artist. Lord knows, there were times I accidentally Tracked for someone.”
Flint frowned at her. She had never admitted that before. “You have?”
Paloma shrugged. “Every Retrieval Artist does at one point or another. We can’t help it. We’re vulnerable to it. And some Retrieval Artists realize there’s a lot more money in Tracking for the aliens who caused someone to go into hiding than there is recovering a Disappeared for some distraught family member, so a lot of people start out as Retrieval Artists and become Trackers.”
“Do you think that’s what happened in-house at WSX?” Flint asked. “Do you think their staff has become Trackers and they don’t trust anyone in the office with this, thinking the staff will sell out the clients to whatever alien is looking for them?”
Paloma templed her fingers and leaned back in her chair. Then she frowned, waved a hand, and the window across from her opaqued. It got so dark that the view completely disappeared.
“Damn thing becomes a distraction when I’m trying to work,” Paloma said. “I bought this place because I don’t think about important things here, and now you’re asking me to.”
Flint almost apologized, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He needed her to be as focused as she could be.
“Are you using my guidelines?” Paloma asked after a moment.
“With clients?” Flint asked.
Paloma nodded.
“To the letter,” he said. “I’m still using your wording.”
She smiled at him, then reached for her drink. Beside her, a light went on. This entire apartment was linked to her; she was clearly controlling it with just a thought.
“At some point, you’re going to have to develop your own career,” she said.
“I’m still a beginner, Paloma,” he said. “I don’t have enough experience yet to let go of all of your systems.”
She sighed and stood up, turning her back on the opaque windows. Another light went on across the room, and then some music, very faint, too faint to actually make out what it was.
“They sought you out twice,” Paloma said. “First with an associate who really had no idea what we do.”
Flint noted the “we,” and found a bit of comfort in it. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a loner as he thought he was.
“Then with the son of the senior partner.” Paloma ran a finger across her lip, a nervous gesture, one Flint hadn’t seen often from her. “Was this Ignatius or Justinian?”
“Ignatius,” Flint said. “I didn’t realize there was another son.”
“Old Man Wagner had four sons and two daughters, but only two sons stayed in Armstrong.” Paloma walked across the room. Flint had never seen her so restless. “Ignatius, huh?”
“Does that mean something?”
“He was never the brightest Wagner,” Paloma said. “But that should mean nothing. Most of the Wagners are geniuses, especially with multicultural law. Ignatius is merely brilliant.”
“Merely,” Flint said.
“He came to you, after setting up their internal system to track you down.”
Flint nodded. “He did want me to come back to his office.”
“And you refused.”
“He’ll be at mine at six.”
“Interesting.” Paloma sighed. “I would have thought he had no support from WSX, but since he invited you back there, he’s not trying to hide anything.”
“Can we be sure of that?” Flint asked. “I’m assuming that since I’m a new Retrieval Artist, they’re going to cou
nt on my incompetence.”
Paloma turned, her frown deepening the wrinkles in her face. “You think Ignatius is playing those kind of games?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Flint said.
“They’re going to a lot of trouble to bring you in,” Paloma said.
“Which is why I came to see you, to find out your relationship with the firm.”
She shook her head slightly. “My relationship with the Wagners isn’t relevant.”
Interesting switch of terms. Flint wondered if she even knew she had done it, saying Wagners when she meant law firm. But he didn’t underestimate Paloma. Perhaps she was trying to tell him something too.
Maybe she didn’t think her apartment was as secure as it could be. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now.
“Why don’t you think you’re relevant here?” Flint asked. “The associate seemed surprised that you were gone.”
“The associate is irrelevant too,” Paloma said. “She was just the first volley to send you astray. Ignatius is the one who has me curious. If they were interested in me, they wouldn’t have come back when they found out that I sold my business to you. They want you, Miles. The question is, do they want you because you’re a new Retrieval Artist, because you’re a former cop, because of your ties with the city, because of your family, or because—”
“My family?” Flint said. “My parents are dead, Paloma, and I have no siblings. There is no family any more.”
“There’s a former wife, and a—forgive me—deceased child. These people are brilliant, Miles. They might want to play on sympathies that you may not even be aware that you have.”
This time Flint stood. He could never sit still when someone mentioned his daughter. Emmeline had been dead for a long time, but he still wasn’t over it. He had learned that last year, during the case that had led him to quit working for the city, and to work for himself.
“Don’t be offended, Miles,” Paloma said. “They went to the trouble of tracking you down, and doing it in an obvious way. That’s a message right there. They’re letting you know they have the capability of tracking and they’re willing to use it.”
“What would you have done in my place?” Flint asked, shaking off the disquiet that the mention of Emmeline always brought to him.
“They wouldn’t have come to me,” Paloma said.
“If you were me, Paloma. What would you do?”
She gave him a mysterious little smile, and then walked back to her chair. “This is precisely the kind of advice I will not give you any more, Miles.”
“But—”
“I won’t always be here. You have to figure this stuff out on your own. I’ve given you enough direction. Now you work it out.”
“You’re intrigued, Paloma.”
“Yes.” She sat down, picked up her water glass, and drained it. “But being intrigued was never enough reason for me to take a case. Of course, I had a different life, a different history, and my own reasons for being a Retrieval Artist, very different from yours.”
“Meaning?”
She looked down. “You have enough money. You’re set for the rest of your life.”
“So? What has my financial situation to do with any of this?”
She took a deep breath. He could feel her exasperation, even from a distance. “You don’t have to work, Miles, and yet you do. Why?”
“I’d be bored,” he said.
“This is a big universe. I’m sure you’d find something to amuse you.”
“I don’t want to be amused,” he said. “I want to be useful.”
“And there it is.” She looked at him, her dark gaze meeting his. “Something is happening at Wagner, Stuart and Xendor. Something important enough to involve a rookie Retrieval Artist with connections to the police force. It might have nothing to do with anything you care about. It might affect your future in ways you can’t imagine.”
“You think I should take the case,” Flint said.
“Miles, what I think doesn’t matter. But you can’t seem to move beyond me. You need to graduate. I’ve passed my wisdom on to you. I have nothing left to offer you, no more advice. You’re a full-blown Retrieval Artist now, and Retrieval Artists work alone. What I think doesn’t matter.”
He felt his cheeks heat. He hadn’t expected to be this dependent on her. He hadn’t expected to need someone else in his life, a confidant, someone he could trust.
She had explained it to him before. Anyone he trusted could be used—against him, against a Disappeared. He was putting her in a difficult position as well as himself.
“I’m sorry, Paloma.”
“Go to your office, Miles. Let me enjoy my Moonscape. I’ve served my time.”
His cheeks were so hot that they burned. For the first time in a decade, he felt both needy and rebuffed.
He slid across the couch, then stood as well, heading toward the door, trying not to make his movements seem like the flight that they were.
“I won’t consult again, Paloma,” he said, careful not to let any emotion into his voice. “Next time I see you, I’ll make sure to keep my conversation limited to the merits of sun tea and the way a view like that can spoil you.”
She didn’t look at him. “I’ve been alone most of my life, Miles. It’s too late to change that habit.”
“Yet you want me to make the same choice.”
“You already made it,” she said, “when you took on the title of Retrieval Artist.”
He nodded, then sighed, wishing he hadn’t come. He felt less confident, and even more confused, than he had when he arrived.
“Be careful with the Wagners,” she said. “Make sure they know your rules.”
She assumed he would take the case. She was probably right. He had probably decided to take the case the moment he spoke to Ignatius Wagner.
“Thanks,” Flint said, although he wasn’t sure he meant it. Then he stepped out of her apartment, feeling alone, and oddly enough, feeling free.
EIGHT
“MURDER?” van der Ketting asked. “Isn’t it a long way to go from a dumped body to murder?”
DeRicci glanced at him. He seemed small, his shadow stretching toward the boulder. The forked trails spread behind him, going wide to avoid the largest thing in the area. She could barely make out the attendants, pacing around the field ambulance while they waited.
“Tell me why someone would dump a body here if the death was of natural causes?” DeRicci said.
“Maybe she died just after the race started,” van der Ketting said. “Maybe the organizers didn’t want the spectators to see, so they brought her here, and would later say that she died while in the middle of the run.”
“Brought her here, instead of hiding her in the medical tent?” DeRicci shook her head. “Taking her to the tent would have been a lot easier.”
“But they’re supposed to leave a body where they found it. They couldn’t leave a body near the starting line while they waited for us,” van der Ketting said.
“And they wouldn’t,” DeRicci said. “They would give us some crap about thinking she was alive, and they’d whisk her off to that tent.”
“You’re basing the murder theory on that?” van der Ketting asked.
DeRicci shook her head. “There’s a million things.”
“Like what?” he asked, and she didn’t like the challenge in his voice.
Still, she responded to it, mostly because he was angering her. She was the one with experience. She was the one looking at the details—and the one who understood what she saw.
“Like the scratched faceplate,” she said.
He shrugged. “It probably happened post-mortem, when a runner went by, and kicked a rock into the plastic.”
“Really?” she asked. “Can you be sure of that?”
“Seems logical. She didn’t die from rapid depressurization.”
“Of course not,” DeRicci said. “The scratch didn’t break through the plastic. But I would w
ager that someone had been trying to break the faceplate when they were interrupted.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To hide any evidence on the body,” DeRicci said. “The corpse would have depressurized quickly. We would have had a mess to deal with, not an actual body.”
“If this is murder,” van der Ketting said, “why not kill the person that way? Why have the suit run out of oxygen and then depressurize it? Why not do it the quick way first?”
DeRicci shrugged. She looked down at the corpse, the pristine suit, the blackened face behind the visor. “That’s just one of many questions we have to answer.”
“I still say the scratch was caused by a rock.” Van der Ketting started to cross his arms, but stopped halfway through the movement. He put out a hand to steady himself.
DeRicci ignored his difficulties. She was still concentrating on the body. “Okay, say some runner caused the scratch. Then that means the pattern of the scratch—which almost exactly matches the lightning bolt pattern at the bottom of the boot—is just a coincidence.”
Van der Ketting glanced at the boots. “And you think it isn’t?”
“That’s right,” DeRicci said. “I think someone made that mark deliberately, so that we would notice the relationship between the boots and the faceplate.”
“Why would they do that? Isn’t the coincidence more logical?” van der Ketting asked.
“One of my former partners said he never believed in coincidence,” DeRicci said.
“Do you?”
She smiled at van der Ketting. “No, I don’t. Not around murder.”
“A scratch isn’t evidence,” said van der Ketting. “It certainly doesn’t convince me that this is murder.”
“Then let’s talk about the position of the body,” DeRicci said. “Have you ever seen anyone who died from oxygen deprivation?”
“Not until today.” The challenge was still in van der Ketting’s tone, but not as strong as it had been before.
“Do you know how long it takes to die when your oxygen goes?”
Extremes: A Retrieval Artist Novel Page 8
