by John Bowers
“Whoever did this probably got soaked,” Nick said. “If you check the restroom you may find evidence that someone tried to wash it off. They wouldn’t dare leave the building otherwise, or someone would notice.”
Thomas turned to Stanfield.
“Check the lavatory.”
Nick surveyed the body again, looking for anything that might provide a clue to who had murdered Harry Jones.
“Your killer is left-handed.”
“How do you know that?”
Nick pointed. “The wound is on the right side of his neck, so the kill thrust came from that direction. The person facing him would have used his left hand.
“From the size of the cut, the weapon is probably a small hunting knife, maybe an inch wide and razor sharp. There’s no slicing, so the killer knew exactly where to stab to cut through the arteries.”
Thomas rubbed his chin.
“I’ll be damned.”
“Was anything taken? Cash from the ticket counter?”
“Doesn’t appear to be.”
“Then it wasn’t a robbery. That leaves a couple of possibilities.”
Nick got to his feet and stepped back. Deputy Mike Scott moved in with a holocam to resume recording the scene for evidence. Nick walked a few feet away and Thomas followed.
“What possibilities?” Thomas demanded.
“Could be personal, if someone had a grudge against him. Could have been murder for hire—”
“A contract killing?” Thomas looked shocked.
“Maybe. It could be a terrorist act, it could be a thrill killing—”
“Cut to the chase, Walker—”
“Jones.”
“Right. Sorry.” Thomas glanced around with guilty eyes. No one had heard the slip. “So what do you think it was?”
“I have a theory, but I could be light years off base, and you shouldn’t take my word for it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Nick nodded. “I think maybe somebody wanted to shut him up.”
“Shut him up about what?”
“I had a chat with Harry Jones this morning about the union meeting last night. He gave me some information that might be important.”
“What kind of information? What did he say?”
“He told me about some union thugs who made him nervous. He was literally afraid of them.”
“Who were they?”
“Three guys who work for Bert Carter. Jones told me they made his skin crawl.”
“Did he give you any names?”
“Just their first names. However…” Nick grimaced. “I can alibi all three of them.”
“How’s that?”
“I ran into them in Orosi this morning. We had a little encounter and they’re probably still in police custody.” He shook his head in irony. “Unfortunately.”
“Then where does that leave us? You think Bert Carter is behind this?”
“He could be, but I doubt it. My money is on Ken Saracen.”
“Saracen! Why would he want to have Harry Jones killed?”
“The three thugs that Jones told me about—they’re Saracen’s men. I think Saracen loaned them to Carter as union muscle, but I already knew about them back on Alpha Centauri. They’re terrorists, hired killers—”
“So this is a terrorist killing?”
“No, I don’t think so. If I’m right about Carter, and he has ties to Ken Saracen, then Saracen knows I was at the union meeting last night. Saracen wants me dead in the worst way, and he won’t blink an eye about killing anybody who might be useful to my investigation.”
“Why does Saracen want you dead?”
“I broke up his playpen on Alpha 2 a couple of years ago. That’s why he fled the planet.”
Thomas frowned as he tried to wrap his mind around it.
“Okay, explain to me again how Bert Carter fits in. What does Saracen need with Carter’s union?”
“He doesn’t need Carter’s union, but it’s a convenient tool to help further his agenda.”
“I still don’t understand how.”
Nick heaved a patient sigh.
“Saracen’s thing is communism. Communism is a political philosophy that pits the haves against the have-nots. It feeds discontent among poor and underprivileged people and teaches them to hate the wealthy.”
“I still don’t see the connection.”
“Unions operate in a similar manner, pitting the working class against their employers. If you talk to a union worker, he will have nothing good to say about his employer. In most cases he will think of his employer as greedy and ruthless. Once people start thinking like that, a communist agitator can move in and nudge them to the next level. The union has already done half the work for them.”
Thomas shook his head in frustration.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. You’re talking a couple of feet over my head.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s just a theory. I could be wrong.”
He glanced back toward Harry Jones’s body.
“But I don’t think so.”
Billy Stanfield returned from the restrooms, looking grim. His right hand clutched a piece of clothing.
“You were right, Nick. There’s blood drops all over one of the sinks in the restroom. Somebody cleaned up in a hurry.”
“Did you see the murder weapon?” Thomas asked.
“No, sir. But I did find this.”
Stanfield held up the bloody garment. Nick’s eyes narrowed as he realized it wasn’t a shirt, but a blouse. It was still damp, but the blood had begun to crust and congeal.
“Which restroom?” he asked.
“The lady’s room.”
Nick’s eyes met Thomas’s.
“The killer is a woman,” they said at the same time.
Chapter 20
After thirty minutes at the crime scene, Nick turned to Sheriff Thomas.
“If you don’t need me anymore, I have a couple of things to take care of.”
Thomas looked disappointed. “We could sure use your help.”
“What you need is a detective and a good forensics person, and I’m neither.”
“Your instincts seem pretty good. You have more experience than the rest of us.”
With a sigh, Nick rubbed his chin for a moment, then nodded.
“Okay. Let me take care of something at the hotel, then I’ll come back.”
Barnes, standing nearby, scowled.
“You gonna meet up with your wife and get your stories straight? She probably did this.”
Nick turned to face Barnes squarely. Barnes had twenty years and fifteen pounds on him, but Nick suspected he was all bluster. Without taking his eyes off him, Nick spoke to Sheriff Thomas.
“Sheriff, I need you to look the other way. If this deputy says one more fucking word to me, I’m going to put him in traction.”
“Back off, Hugo,” Thomas growled. “You don’t have to like him, but he’s on our side.”
“How do you know that, Sheriff? You only met him yesterday. We don’t know anything about him.” He stabbed Nick in the chest with his finger. “I think he’s a fraud. Anybody can claim to be a lawman, but where’s the proof?”
“I checked him out. He’s legit.”
Barnes looked at Thomas in surprise.
“Are you sure? You said last night that he’s a former lawman, not an active one.”
“I tell you what you need to know, Hugo, but I don’t tell you everything that I know. Now back off.”
Barnes turned to Nick again and sneered.
“So which is it, Jones? Lawman or former lawman?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Because I figure, if you were a lawman once and you aren’t a lawman now, there’s probably a reason for that. Maybe you’re a rogue cop, on the run from the Federation.”
“You keep running your mouth, you’re going to be a dead cop. I’ve had about enough of your attitude.”
“Yeah?” Barnes
grinned. “You gonna shoot me?”
“No, that’s too easy. And not nearly as much fun.”
Barnes laughed again. “You think you can take me hand to hand?”
“With one hand. The question is, are you married?”
“What?”
“Are you married or single?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I hate making next-of-kin notifications. I guess the sheriff will have to handle that.”
Barnes swelled and his face fused red. Thomas stepped forward and grabbed his arm, but Barnes shook it off.
“Dammit, Hugo, walk away right now or I’ll suspend you without pay.”
Breathing heavily, Barnes shook his head.
“Go ahead and do that, Sheriff. It’ll be worth breaking this fucker’s head.”
With their faces only inches apart, Nick stood his ground. He didn’t really want to fight Barnes, but wasn’t about to back down. He’d hoped Thomas could control his man, but recognized the signs—Barnes was a hothead, and when his ire was up, his reason took a vacation.
The other deputies had seen the confrontation and now stood in a semi-circle, watching. Barnes was grinning. Neither man had taken his eyes off the other.
“You sure you wanna fight?” he asked.
“It was your idea.”
“Fists only. No guns.”
Nick unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Thomas. The sheriff, looking bewildered, took it.
“Jones, for Christ sake! You don’t have to do this. You’re better than this.”
“Once upon a time, maybe. Not today.”
Thomas handed Nick’s gunbelt to Stanfield and pushed his way between the two men.
“Goddammit! I’m disgusted with both of you. Hugo, go sit down, right now. Jones…” He turned to face Nick. “We can handle the investigation without you. Get out of here.”
Nick, tense as a scorpion snake, blinked. He took a step back.
Barnes grinned wider.
“Pussy!”
His blood racing, Nick took a deep breath. He wanted more than anything to smash a hole in that stupid grin, but Thomas was right. This wasn’t helping anyone.
“You should look into anger management,” he told Barnes.
“You first.”
Nick shook his head.
“I tried it once, but the therapist pissed me off, so I killed him.”
He stepped around Barnes and extended his hand to Billy Stanfield, who gave him the gunbelt. Nick strapped it on.
“Sheriff, I’ll be at the hotel for a little while. Be back as soon as I can.”
Without another word, he tilted his hat forward and walked out of the train station. Behind him, he heard Barnes laughing.
***
Nick was steaming as he walked the six blocks to the hotel. He was also irritated with himself. The confrontation with Barnes had been stupid and unnecessary, schoolyard stuff. As a U.F. Marshal, Nick had been in his share of fights, but only with criminals or suspected criminals. He never looked for a fight, but neither did he shy away from one.
Hugo Barnes had really jerked his chain. Barnes was clearly an asshole, but the galaxy was littered with assholes, some of them wearing badges, so why did this one get under his skin?
He didn’t know, and that pissed him off, too.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He breathed deeply and tried to calm his anger. He had important things to think about, like Ken Saracen. And Victoria Cross. Where was she right now? Had she taken his advice and ventured out to explore, or was she still at the hotel? He would find out shortly.
Harry Jones. Nick had talked to him just hours ago. Who had killed him, and why? Was he killed because he’d talked to Nick? Had someone, somehow, overheard their conversation? It seemed unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe Harry’s workspace was bugged. Or someone could have used a parabolic device to listen in. The timing of the killing was suspicious—it could be coincidence, but Nick didn’t buy it. Harry had said Saracen’s thugs made his skin crawl, and they had mouthed off to him in the past for voicing his opinion.
It sounded like Saracen’s work—communist ideology did not tolerate dissension—but the three stooges could not have killed Harry Jones. Nick had left them naked on the streets of Orosi, and they could not have reached Hardwood in time to commit the murder.
In any case, the killer appeared to be female. One of Saracen’s robot girls? How many had he brought with him to TC 4? Thomas had said he arrived with six men and “a couple of girls”. Just a fraction of the followers he had on Alpha 2, but Nick and Nathan Green had killed a number of those and arrested several others. Saracen’s entourage was shrinking, but he could always recruit more, and probably had already done so.
Well, Harry Jones’s death wasn’t his problem, at least not directly. It was a damn shame, to be certain—Jones had seemed like a good guy—but Nick’s priority was locating and, hopefully, killing Kenneth Saracen. Everything else came second to that.
He reached the hotel and stepped into the lobby. It was warm, almost hot after the chilly air outside. He glanced at the desk expecting to see Viola Fricke, but no one was in evidence. If Victoria had left the building, she might have told Mrs. Fricke where she was going, but…
His eyes narrowed. Two spots on the wall behind the desk had caught his eye.
His heart pounded as he walked closer, and his right hand automatically clutched his .44 Magnum. He reached the desk and peered over it.
Viola Fricke lay in a bloody heap behind the customer desk. Blood had sprayed laterally in several directions, most of it landing on the floor and coating the back side of the desk. Nick stared in horror as the coppery smell of the still-warm fluid flooded his nostrils. He saw the single wound to her throat—exactly like the one Harry Jones had suffered—and the surprised expression on her face was identical to his.
The same killer!
Nick stood frozen for all of three seconds, then his benumbed brain made the next, inevitable connection.
Victoria!
He turned and bolted for the stairs.
*
Nick thundered up three flights of stairs in fifteen seconds; he arrived, panting, at the top floor and turned toward the room he shared with Victoria. The door was ajar—not broken, but hanging half open. Fear surged through his veins and he drew the .44 as he straight-armed the door and leapt into the room. He swung the .44 left and right as he surveyed the damage, but no one was there. He burst into the bathroom with the same urgency, but it was empty.
He stepped back into the bedroom and looked around; after a moment he holstered his weapon. Victoria wasn’t there. Neither was her rifle.
But everything was a shambles. Their luggage had been dumped on the floor and scattered, drawers opened, clothing from the closet flung in all directions, the bed ripped apart. Whoever had done this was looking for something, but as far as he could determine, nothing was missing. What were they after? Identity papers? If that were the case, the search had been fruitless. He and Victoria carried their paperwork on them, had left nothing in their luggage.
Nick leaned against the wall and wiped his face, unaware until now that he was sweating. He heaved a deep breath.
Victoria was gone, but he saw no blood or any trace of her. The odds were ninety percent in favor that she had left the hotel before the killer showed up. And whoever trashed the room had to be the same person who killed Viola Fricke.
And Harry Jones. The wounds and mode of attack were identical.
The question was, who was she—and where was she now?
He had to let Sheriff Thomas know.
He started back down the stairs.
*
By the time he reached the lobby again, Nick realized he didn’t dare leave the hotel. Anyone at all could walk in and contaminate the crime scene. It was just pure dumb luck that no one else had, as far as he knew, discovered the body. But Sheriff Thomas needed to know about the killing, and quickly. The p
roblem was that Tau Ceti 4 had no cellular technology, and nobody carried pocket phones.
He checked on Viola Fricke again and found her just the way he’d left her. Her desk phone was covered with blood, so he couldn’t use that to notify the sheriff, and he didn’t dare leave the building to make the notification himself. With a frown and a twist of anxiety, he stepped out the front door onto the sidewalk. People were out and about, but at the moment no one was walking past the hotel.
Then he saw a kid.
The boy was perhaps ten or twelve years old, strolling down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. His clothing looked shabby, but he was warmly dressed, with both hands in his pockets. Nick whistled to get his attention.
The kid looked in his direction, and Nick motioned him to approach. The boy stepped off the sidewalk into the gutter, but came no farther. He had dark skin and bushy, jet-black hair.
“Hey, kid, can you run pretty fast?”
The boy stared at him a brief instant, then nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I need you to run an errand for me.”
“Run it yourself.” The kid stepped back onto the sidewalk.
“I can’t leave here. I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“How much do you want?”
The answer was instantaneous.
“A hundred taus.”
“I don’t have a hundred taus. How about a hundred terros instead?”
“What’s a terro?”
“Federation money. You’ll be the only kid in school to have some.”
“I don’t go to school. Anyway, what good is Federation money? I can’t spend it here.”
“Sure you can. I’ve been spending it all day.”
The boy chewed his lip in indecision. He stepped off the curb again.
“What’s your name?” Nick asked.
“Mijo. What’s yours?”
“Nick. Whose m’ijo are you?”
“What?”
“You speak Spanic?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Te necesito hacerlo. Es muy importante.”
Mijo’s eyes widened perceptibly.
