Bronze Gods

by A. A. Aguirre

  “This must be a record,” he observed, referring to his earlier arrival.

  “I went to HQ first to pick up a few things. I intend to take samples from their makeup kits.”

  “Speaking of . . . the Old Lady’s getting a cosmetic lift.” He gestured toward the cans of paint and scaffolds scattered against the velvet-covered walls. “Handymen, stagehands, and carpenters . . . someone just added a few dozen suspects to our list.” Despite it all, though, he felt almost cheerful. If nothing else, it keeps things interesting. “A convenient coincidence.”

  There are no coincidences. Someone had told him that once.

  Ritsuko glanced from the plush rug, threadbare around the edges, to the faded gilt trim of the moldings. For a moment, she watched two men struggling with the tacks that secured the runner in place. Mikani studied her as she watched them, absently trying to work out if he had ever remained in contact with a female this long before. His partner called him an unrepentant rake, but it was more like he lacked a key piece, preventing him from forming lasting attachments in the customary sense. That lack led to growing anger, frustration, and eventual hatred or resignation from those he tried to share his life with. He was left, as often as not, with a faint befuddlement as to where it had all fallen apart and a growing list of farewell notes. A list from which he hoped, one day, to discern the shape and heft of whatever it was he could not see.

  “The place needed it,” she said, snapping him from his reverie. “Wonder where the money’s coming from. Last I knew, this place was going under. They haven’t had a full house in over a year. Not since the accident.” She seemed to notice his astonishment, explaining, “Warren was on the board until Leonidas the younger took over. Warren doesn’t like him.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew so much about the theater.”

  She shrugged. “It was Warren’s passion, but I absorbed a few things.”

  “What accident . . . ?”

  “Leonidas’s parents were killed in a steam-carriage mishap, and he was dreadfully scarred. I’ve heard he has rooms in the Royale, rarely leaves the premises.”

  “Dramatic.”

  Ritsuko showed a gleam of amusement. “I also understand he dons a mask whenever he must deal with the public. How’s that for theater?”

  “Impressive,” Mikani admitted.

  Ritsuko gestured toward the auditorium. “Shall we?”

  “We should.” He shook his head, dismissing the strange sense that he didn’t know his partner as well as he’d thought. Odd that he’d never contemplated what her interests might be, outside of work. Teasing her about Warren hadn’t fallen under the heading of real life, somehow. “We need to talk to the owner and whoever is putting on this show.”

  As he tugged open the heavy doors and stepped into the hall, a familiar wrongness pulled at his senses, leaving him vaguely nauseous, but the back-row seats were empty. Echoing silence above spoke of no hidden audience in the box and season seats, either. That makes sense, if it is a new rehearsal. Behind him, Ritsuko commented on the renovations, to which he responded with a noncommittal grunt as he started down the aisle. Upon the stage and all around it, performers stretched and spun.

  The black curtain was down in the rear, and the stage lights glowed, making it hard, if not impossible, for anyone up front to note their entrance. Just as well. The faint hum of corruption swelled as he neared the front of the theater. Excitement and stress drifted through him, overwhelming more subtle emanations.

  The performers didn’t notice their arrival; their attention seemed focused on someone offstage. A mellifluous female voice gave detailed instructions as to how the dancers had gone wrong in their last attempt to master her choreography. Mikani listened for a few seconds, filtering impressions and doing his best to ignore the dancers’ ebb and flow of emotion, frustration, elation at the simple joy of performance.

  Then he stepped forward, clearing his throat. He had credentials in hand, the badge glimmering in reflected light. “Good afternoon, madam. If I might be so bold?”

  There was no need to check on Ritsuko. By the time the woman reached them, his partner had ID packet in hand as well. Mikani could always count on her. She’d fought hard to take her place in the force, despite quiet prejudice against female officers.

  Now standing in the spotlight, the choreographer peered into the shadows before the stage. She wore a simple black leotard with a long black skirt wrapped around slim hips. Dark brown hair twisted atop her head in a simple chignon, revealing the elegant line of her neck. She had lovely green eyes and a porcelain complexion; it was beyond Mikani not to notice such things about a woman even if he had no interest in anything beyond physical assessment. Some women possessed an ageless quality where it became impossible to tell if they were thirty or fifty, and this woman owned it. At first glance, she seemed youthful, but something in her eyes made him rethink the judgment, which also hinted at strong Ferisher blood. He made a mental note to check her background.

  He sensed something about this female. Or more accurately, he sensed too much about her: she overflowed with presence, palpable, sharp, and sweet. Damned if I can put a name to it, though. It might be nothing more than powerful fey lineage. Those from the most potent bloodlines could create a fascination glamour, but he had no sense of a conscious effort to try to befuddle him—not that it would work. A few particularly gifted felons had tried over the years, and he’d proven more or less immune to it, much to their chagrin.

  The woman looked harassed for a moment, then she appeared to realize that she wasn’t being interrupted by one of her own. “Of course. That is . . .” The brunette called to the dancers, “That’s dinner. Come back in an hour.”

  En masse, the performers relaxed. A few filed out, presumably to find an eatery close by, while others wandered backstage to claim whatever they’d brought from home. A few people found seats at the edge of the stage and others reclined in the seats, legs stretched out. Soon, the air not only smelled of sweat, sawdust, burning glass, and wet paint, but also of meat and cheese, fresh fruit and bread. Coffee and chocolate added to the mix until the odors all but overwhelmed Mikani. He tamped down his senses, the throbbing at the back of his skull strangely eased by the woman’s proximity.

  Once the initial rush of movement passed, the choreographer faced them again. “I have an office of sorts, backstage. I sense this discussion would be best conducted in private.” With that, she led them up the stairs and across the stage through the wings.

  • • •

  IT’S COMFORTING, RITSUKO thought, to have an established routine.

  She and Mikani didn’t need to confer to know that she’d handle the verbal questioning while he scanned for inconsistencies and overall impressions. She followed the other woman into the back room, overflowing with battered shelving, boxes of costumes and props slated for repair, and a scarred desk. The choreographer perched on the edge of the desk, drowning in papers, which she edged aside with one hand. There was nowhere for them to sit, but it was probably better to keep it formal anyway.

  “I suppose introductions are in order. I’m Aurelia Wright, the director and choreographer.” That confirmed what Ritsuko had already gleaned.

  For once, her partner performed the courtesies himself, not letting his eyes glaze over just yet. “We apologize for interrupting your rehearsal. I am Inspector Mikani, and this is my partner, Ritsuko.”

  She stepped forward, taking his cue. “We’re following a lead in an ongoing investigation and were wondering if you would be so kind as to answer a few questions?”

  Miss Wright replied, “I don’t mind. According to the dancers, it was past time for them to have a break.”

  “Your cooperation is appreciated, I assure you,” he said.

  Ritsuko opened her notepad, eager to get started, as there was a host of cast and crew left to question. “When did you set up the show?”

  “About a month ago,” Miss Wright answered.

  She made a note.
“And who are your backers?”

  It was clear the choreographer was turning over the questions mentally. Her frown deepened. “The show has no backers, per se. It’s an independent enterprise sponsored by the Royale’s owner and myself.”

  Ritsuko paused, her attention caught. From what Warren had told her, it was common for a group of financiers to be involved with such an endeavor. Whether that anomaly was significant, she couldn’t yet say. “That’s a substantial investment.”

  “Are you asking about my financial status?” the choreographer asked.

  “You don’t have to answer their questions.” The words came in a deep, near-strangled growl from the shadows in the doorway.

  Shifting, Ritsuko glimpsed a tall figure in a black greatcoat, shrouded even indoors. The man wore the collar up around his face, almost like a highwayman’s cowl, and an actual masquerade mask covered the top of his face. In the dimness, his eyes resembled black holes, bottomless and impenetrable. This must be Leonidas the younger.

  “We’ll get to you soon enough,” Ritsuko told him. “As I advised Miss Wright, our questions are pursuant to an official investigation, and if you decline to cooperate, a magistrate might construe it as belligerent obstruction of justice.”

  “By all means, carry on then,” the Royale owner said, sounding amused. “I’m only belligerent and obstructive on Tuesdays.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Miss Wright put in. “He’s always belligerent and obstructive. Just ask him about replacing the fixtures in the lobby and see for yourself.” But her tone was gentle, and Ritsuko saw that she had some affection for the man she teased.

  “See if I attempt to protect you again,” Leonidas muttered, slipping away as quickly as he had come.

  “We’ll need to speak to him later,” Ritsuko said.

  “Good luck finding him. I swear this place was built on a labyrinth. But you were asking about my financials, I believe?”

  “I won’t need them yet,” she answered. “But we do need a list of everyone you’ve hired in the past six weeks.”

  “Why?” Ah, she’d reached the point at which Miss Wright could no longer give out information blindly.

  “A girl has gone missing,” Mikani interjected. He’d stood when Leonidas had entered: he remained standing by the door, leaning heavily on his cane. By his weary expression, the exchange had been taxing . . . and informative. “We believe she may have ties to the theater.”

  “Oh, of course. I have the work assignments somewhere.” In a lithe movement, Miss Wright leaned forward over her leg, sorting the papers on her desk.

  Ritsuko nudged her partner, indicating a cosmetic case that sat in the bin of props. After receiving a go-ahead nod, she went to work quietly, opening the case and collecting a sample. The case was in full sight, with a clear connection to their investigation; they needed no special dispensation beyond their discretion in pursuing the investigation. But they wouldn’t find out what they needed to know for several days, unless she charmed Higgins a bit more. Oddly, she didn’t altogether mind the prospect.

  “Here.” Miss Wright proffered the roster, and Ritsuko took it, skimming the names before surrendering it to her silent partner. “Am I being accused of something?”

  “If I thought you guilty, Miss Wright, you would be bound and on your way to HQ.” Mikani spoke absently as he perused the list. He hesitated, frowned, and glanced up. “I apologize if I seem brusque, but we are pressed for time.”

  Ritsuko considered hitting him. “I second the apology. Sometimes, Inspector Mikani forgets that citizens greatly ease our way with information they provide.”

  “Do you know Cira Aevar? She’s a House scion who disappeared recently.” Mikani flashed the black-and-white image in a heart-shaped frame.

  Miss Wright shook her head. “The name doesn’t ring any bells, and I can say with certainty that she’s not part of my cast. It’s possible she may have been hired as an assistant by one of the department supervisors, though.”

  Ritsuko could always tell when Mikani was finished with . . . whatever he did. He rose, paced a few impatient steps in the small room, then patted his pockets for a cigarillo that she wouldn’t let him smoke in here anyway. He seemed to realize as much; his hands fell quiet, but his face didn’t lose its faint discomfort, like he had one leg caught in a trap.

  “We need to ask around, then. Who would have access to your makeup kits? Do you maintain your own, or do you keep them in the theater?” Mikani was nearly out the door, asking over his shoulder.

  “Anyone. We’ll be using theater facilities, all across the board,” Miss Wright said. “Perhaps you’re unaware, Inspector, but I’ve never staged a show. Choreographed, but not staged. So I don’t have anything that’s my own, besides the script.”

  “Excellent. We shall start with the interviews, then. There may be more questions later . . . for now, however, we’re finished. Thanks for your time.”

  “I appreciate your assistance, Miss Wright. I wish you much success with the show.” Ritsuko stood, shaking hands with the woman before stepping into the wings.

  Once they left earshot, she smiled and elbowed him. “You remembered your manners. I’m proud of you.”

  “A result of your sterling influence, no doubt.”

  “I can only dream of such grandeur. What did you get from them?”

  His dark blue gaze met hers, filled with resigned amusement and pain in equal measure. It was quite unfair that a scoundrel like her partner should enjoy lush, curly-tipped lashes that would’ve looked too feminine if not for his sizable nose and his stubborn jaw, constantly in need of shaving. By the look of things, it had been three days since he had bothered to make use of his razor.

  “She wasn’t hiding anything.” He motioned toward the nearest knot of people, a dozen dancers watching with suspicious eyes. “So far as I could tell, she’s trying to put on a show, and that’s all. So if Cira’s disappearance is connected with the Royale, she’s not a part of it.”

  “And from her champion?”

  Mikani frowned. “He’s an odd one. Definitely in pain; though whether it’s emotional or physical, I can’t be sure. He’s surprisingly good at blocking, so I only received trickles from him.”

  “And that’s unusual?”

  “Very,” he said, sounding troubled. “People only learn to shield if they have something significant to hide.”

  Ritsuko lifted one shoulder, philosophical. “We’ll do it the hard way. Interview them all, one by one, and see if anyone knew her.”

  “Why don’t you take the technical crew? I’ll talk to the dancers.”

  His innocent expression made her laugh despite the weight of the investigation. “Are you sure it’s not too great a sacrifice? So many young women, so little time.”

  “I’ll endeavor to bear up under the burden.”

  “Excellent. When we’re finished, I’ll meet you down front.” So saying, she descended, immersing herself without delay in a sea of men, most wearing bad haircuts, spectacles, or both.

  Around them, the rehearsal went on as scheduled, except for those they were questioning. Miss Wright ignored their presence as best she could, opting to focus on the dancing. By the time she’d conducted a dozen interviews, Ritsuko was heartily tired of being propositioned by the crew, as they assumed her presence in the workforce meant she was a woman of loose morals and “game for anything,” as one hopeful put it. A stern look and a harsh word quieted most of them down, though she had to show one man her restraints to remind him she was a CID inspector.

  The fourteenth person she spoke to finally offered some useful information. This woman was the head of the costuming department, older and painted as if that would disguise her years. Her red lip rouge had smeared onto her teeth, but Ritsuko observed the fluttering grace of her hands as she spoke.

  “Oh yes,” the woman said. “I know her. I hired her three weeks ago to help with costumes. Dab hand with a needle and so eager to please. If I gave her two sh
eets and a length of rope, I do believe she’d try to sew me a ball gown.”

  So she worked at the Royale. The occasional donation would be acceptable by House standards, but bronze gods forbid she turn her hand to actual work. Pleased with the break in the case, Ritsuko soldiered on. In the end, six people recognized Cira Aevar’s photo. They all agreed that she was a quiet girl who seemed to derive pleasure by proxy: watching her costumes onstage. Everyone liked her, no one had seen her in days, and all were concerned about her.

  Ritsuko was completing her last interview when Mikani approached. “This is Mr. Gideon. He’s managing lights . . . and he says Cira was a costumer on the last show he worked, too.”

  Helpful revelation, that. At least we know Miss Wright’s production wasn’t her first foray into the workplace.

  “Did you know her well?” Mikani asked.

  “I’m afraid not. As I was telling Inspector Ritsuko, she kept to herself. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Ritsuko turned to Mikani, drawing him away from the curious cast and crew. “Did you finish the dancers?”

  He arched a sardonic brow. “Must you be so lewd? I’m only a mortal male.”

  “You are incorrigible.” Only Mikani could make her laugh with such an inappropriate remark. Anyone else would receive the icy death stare she had perfected over years of clawing her way up the hierarchy.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “More than.” As they walked out together, she glimpsed a swirl of movement overhead, fabric, perhaps, from the reticent owner. “Why do you suppose Cira went to work in the theater? She didn’t need the money.”