“More stuff here, David,” the computer said softly.
Thinker’s file came up on the screen. He had, as Della warned, constructed his own software, bypassing the old glitchy system Della had implemented.
Thinker had interviewed the security guard, Boyd Watkins. Watkins was a long-time friend of Arnold’s. He’d been off duty the night Arnold was killed, but he said Arnold was being extra careful, and no stranger could have made it into his office without Arnold calling for help. The maintenance man had backed this up. One of the cleaning bots had needed work, but Arnold hadn’t given him clearance to come in and tinker with it. He’d had to wait till morning—which was his off time, a point he harped on.
In Thinker’s opinion, Arnold had been killed or lured to his death by someone he knew.
Angel. Why?
Stephen Arnold had been studying the relationship between the Izicho and the Guardians. By his own estimate, his work was crucial. What was it he’d said that night at the lecture? Pretty much that it was done.
Had he kept on it? Or gone to the next study, maybe, moving from past relations to the here and now? Had he stumbled across the missing Izicho?
His storage crystal cracked the night he died. If anybody could retrieve it, Della could. Della and Thinker. The key to Stephen Arnold’s death was in his work. David pulled up Della’s E-mail code.
She was logged on. Mel hadn’t sent everybody home.
“Code name chocolate,” he said.
An answer appeared rapidly across the screen.
YOU MIND, SHALOM? I GOT PEOPLE LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER HERE.
David felt a chill. “Classified communication, eyes only.”
HANG ON.
David rubbed his finger on the arm of his chair. The door creaked open, and Alex slid in through the small gap. The cat meowed, padded close, and leaped. David braced himself for the sudden weight. Alex stood on David’s knees and purred. David scratched the cat’s ears. Alex kneaded his thighs, claws pricking the jeans.
“Settle,” David said.
An answer flashed on the screen.
JUST HANG ON.
David scratched his neck, thinking that there were certain advantages to the old keyboard system.
OKAY, SILVER. CLEAR. WHAT’S THIS EYES ONLY CRAP?
“Who’s that looking over your shoulder?” David asked. “Ogden’s guys?”
FBI. HANDPICKED BY OGDEN. LOOKING FOR WHERE WE SCREWED UP.
“Finding an embarrassment of riches,” David said. “They got any interest in figuring who did it?”
NONE I CAN SEE.
“Good.”
YOU WORKING TOO HARD?
“Ogden’s going to disassociate,” David said. “You hide and watch.”
THIS HELPS US?
“Yeah, because we’re going to get it figured out and he’s going to look like shit.”
YOU ON TO SOMETHING?”
“Pay attention, sugar.”
The screen beeped. A warning about terms of endearment and sexual harassment slid across the bottom of the screen.
OKAY, SUGAR.
The computer beeped shrilly.
“Stop playing with the computer, Della, and pay attention. The night Arnold died, his storage crystal cracked. It may have happened right as he was murdered.”
BY THE KILLER?
“Could be.”
THEN WE’RE SHIT OUT OF LUCK, IF PERP’S GOT ANY BRAINS.
“The appliances may remember something from before they jammed. A vid, maybe, where we can see the screen. Who knows? Just see what you can do. Get Thinker to help if you want, but get on it. Whatever Arnold was working on the night he died could be the key to this whole thing.”
WHAT ABOUT THESE DICKHEADS OGDEN’S GOT ON MY BACK?
“Throw them out. Tell them you got real work to do.”
THAT SHOULD GO OVER.
“Walker there?”
YEAH. INFLAMMATORY BEHAVIOR, I THINK THEY CALL IT. AND SHE DON’T LIKE MY SCALE BRACELET.
“Let her run them off.”
BRILLIANT, SILVER. GOOD BOY.
FIFTY-ONE
The light in the stairwell was harsh. David ran up the steps to the bullpen, thinking that the office felt more like home than home did. Two cups of old coffee, brown with white streaks, sat on the edge of his desk. He ought to have dumped those.
Captain Halliday’s door opened. The ancient female Elaki came slowly out. David felt guilty. He’d forgotten her.
Halliday’s shirt had come untucked, and a suspender sagged off his shoulder. He saw David and nodded his head. “Good. Just the man we need.”
Yahray had deteriorated, her palsy more pronounced. Her mid-section sagged, compressing the web work of white torture scars. David frowned at Halliday. If he’d come in just fifteen minutes later, he’d have missed all of this.
“You told her?” he asked.
“Yeah, she knows.” Halliday glanced back in his office. “Look, David, we got trouble.” He looked up at Yahray. “Excuse me, just one minute.” He pulled David to one side and leaned close. “We got bomb threats being phoned in all over the city.”
“More stink bombs?”
“No, supposed to be the real thing. The initial word is they’re all fake, but we have to follow up. Every available officer is on it.”
“Is it the Guardians?”
“We think so. I may snag you any minute. But first—” He glanced at Yahray. “Get her wrapped up and cleared out.”
Yahray was watching them. “I must please have remains for death watch.”
“Take care of this.” Halliday disappeared back in his office.
“Please to discuss arrangements.” Her voice had thinned. The commanding presence was gone.
David moved close to Yahray, but did not touch her. “Come over to my desk. Can I get you something? Some … some cream?”
“Nothing.” Yahray skittered and slid, her body lurching sideways until her head hung over his desk.
“You understand what Captain Halliday told you?”
“I am old and slow, Detective Sssilver, I am not stupid. My Calii is most hideously dead. A homicide.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And so I please to perform death watch for my pouchling.”
“There’s no body.”
“No body?”
“No remains. Likely, Calii has been dead since you first missed him.”
“All this time, already dead?”
“Yes,” David said.
“I not know … not feel this. Who kills my pouchling?”
David hesitated. “I don’t know yet.”
“You know.”
“I can’t say until I’m sure.”
“This I not like, but understand. Details of death I would have.” She looked like a gentle push would send her tumbling backward. “Now, please. Obey.”
The words were there, but the steel resonance was gone. David pretended otherwise. He straightened his back.
“Here’s what I think happened. Your son came through the EDC—the Elaki Documentation Center. Probably, he hadn’t gotten your message. He was funneled into the market area. In this market—you saw it when you came through? In this market, there is a kind of conspiracy to pressure Elaki to spend credits. But in this conspiracy, there is another, nastier conspiracy. To kill Izicho, as they come in.”
“Why do so this killing?”
“Your son came here because of the cho killings. The Izicho called him here.”
“He would no do such things.”
“No. Not to commit the crimes. To solve them.”
“Not—”
“This is what I think happened. Your son was killed. And his body was taken to an underground place called Little Saigo. His remains were … disposed of.”
“Specifics please.”
David looked at his feet. “His body was thrown down a sump pump sewage operation.”
“Sump and sewage. Sewage is human waste?”
David
took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He expected her to collapse. She stayed put, unmoving, one eye prong clouded, the other fixed on him.
“When you know ones responsible, I would know please.”
David nodded, then remembered that meant nothing to her. “Yes.”
She turned away.
“Wait,” David said. “I … are you all right? Is there anyone I can call? Another Elaki?”
“I am not known here, Detective Sssilver. What I need cannot be helped. I need remains of Calii for death watch. Cannot be done. I will follow the rituals—the remains are preferred, but there is allowance for other ways. Then I will die. And there will be no Calii for my death watch. But again, you cannot help me.”
He thought of Painter. “I know an Elaki who’s done a death watch for a neighbor. I could talk to her—”
“What is neighbor?”
“Someone who lives near you. Next house. Same street.”
“Neighbor does not do death watch.”
“But—”
“Detective, do not be ashame that you be ignorant, but respect what me say. Death watch is done in the close—would you say kinship? Among chemaki, or long-term closeness. Pouchling. Pouch-sib.”
David frowned. Painter had said she barely knew Dahmi, that as Mother-Ones they had little time for friendship. And yet she had done the death watch for Dahmi’s pouchlings.
“Are you sure?” David said.
“Rephrase or withdraw this question.”
“But is it always like that? Even on Earth?”
“In such matters variation most improper. Better none of the watch than not properly done.”
Why hadn’t String said anything? And then he remembered. String had not been there. Why would Painter lie about being close to Dahmi? They had been very close. So close that she was afraid of the association? So close that she knew more than she admitted?
“Good of the night, Detective.”
David looked at her. “Did your son have any dealings with Angel Eyes?”
Yahray quaked with palsy. “Why must you know?”
“Tell me,” David said.
Yahray moved from side to side. She looked away from David and was silent for a long moment. Then she slid close. “The time ago is hard for me to count in human terms. My pouchling younger than Angel pouchlings. Her two. Angel of course know Calii. Angel play the pouchling games with Calii. She can be most charm with the young ones, if it suits.”
David let his breath out slowly between his teeth. “Angel wouldn’t hurt him, then.”
Yahray emitted a long and guttural hiss and moved in close, too close. Her lime scent had a bitter whang. Her scales were a breath from his shirt.
“You do not know,” she said.
He had the oddest urge to turn away. He had felt it before, most often when he came face-to-face with a killer who was going to confess to crimes that would sober the most hardened detective.
He said what he always did. “Tell me.”
“You know about her baby ones? You know the pouchlings killed most terrible?”
“Yes,” David said. “I know.”
“It was bad, that. They suffered, the little ones. Suffered and died. These things happen then. To many.”
David swallowed.
“This incident most important the effect. This you must be understand. It is what you would call the major moment, the—”
“Turning point?”
“Ah. Nicety of expression. It was the turnpoint. We Guardians go from presence, but truly fringe status, to martyr, much known. All on this incident. Other pouchlings, many innocents, had suffer, but this is one catch the … catch the wave. Angel calculates this well, make none of the mistake. She uses deaths of pouchlings.”
David folded his arms. It was cold, but made sense.
The old Elaki canted sideways, her voice regaining, suddenly, the old hint of steel.
“Izicho not kill Angel pouchlings.”
David sat slowly down in his chair. He was aware of the room’s small noises. It was late, but people were working. The bomb scares were bringing them in. He heard the soft murmur as they talked to their terminals, the clack of keyboards from the old-fashioned. A knot of men in the corner laughed, a dirty, knowing laugh that meant the conversation concerned women. And always the hum of ventilation and light fixtures.
It seemed to David that he and the old Elaki were wrapped in a cocoon of impenetrable stillness.
“Who killed the pouchlings?”
“She order it,” Yahray told him. “Angel.”
And so it fell into place. One moment, chaos. The next, order. He closed his eyes, seeing the lecture hall, Stephen Arnold. Angel, Angel, the center of attention, drawing them all, Weid a shadow at her back. There had been another Elaki, moving purposely across the room. The other Elaki had looked at David and turned away, and David had been distracted—by Angel, always Angel—and he had not pursued it.
Painter. Painter had been there that night. Painter, who had been close to Dahmi, and afraid of police. Dahmi had trusted Angel. Had Painter trusted Angel?
The gun. Did Painter know where Dahmi had gotten it?
Dahmi had been warned of danger by someone she trusted—trusted enough to kill her pouchlings on their word alone. Weid had attacked as soon as David had mentioned the gun. It all centered on the gun. That was the point of vulnerability.
Painter knew where Dahmi had gotten the gun. David did too. But Painter could prove it.
David picked up the phone and tried to reach the Elaki Mother-One. Disconnected. Had she turned it off, or had someone turned it off for her? He glanced around the bullpen. Della, just Della, hunched over the computer.
“Della.”
“David?”
“Listen up, babe.” It was the tone of voice. The bullpen became quiet. People were listening.
“Get Thinker—he lives out near where Dahmi/Packer was killed.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Tell him to get to Painter’s house now, and warn him to be careful.”
“What, David?”
“I don’t know.” He could be wrong. “She could be in trouble. I think there may be a cho hit team on the way.”
“Jesus God.”
“Get me uniforms, whatever you can throw out there—”
“Everybody’s out on these bomb things. I’ll come with you,” Della said.
“I need you here, first. Get Mel and String, and then come.”
“David—”
“If you move your ass you won’t be more than ten minutes behind me.”
David looked up, remembering Yahray. She was gone.
FIFTY-TWO
The neighborhood was quiet. Dark, too, no streetlights. Elaki choice.
“Off lights,” David told the car softly.
“Traveling without proper illumination—”
“Shut up.”
David checked his rearview mirror. Still early for Della or anybody else.
Trouble reports were rolling in over the radio. The Guardians had issued a formal protest over the supposed cho killing of Stephen Arnold. A bomb had gone off in a grid terminal, locking traffic in its tracks for miles. So much for Halliday’s assumption that the bombs were duds.
David slowed to a crawl and squinted through the windshield. He had homed to Dahmi’s house. The plastic that covered the windows was sagging and peeling from the edges.
He got out of the car, leaving the door ajar, checking his jeans pocket for quick loads. Painter’s house was well lit, and he moved quickly but carefully in the dark. He grabbed the butt of his gun, registering fingerprints, leaving it at the ready.
He had the feeling he might be in a hurry.
He saw movement in the darkness, around the sides of the house, then heard a gun go off and the sputter of an automatic rifle. The lights in the house went dark. Sweat, sudden and rank, ran under his arms and down his back. He looked down the dark street for any sign of backup. Not
hing.
The ground crunched under his shoes, noisy. Something moved, several yards ahead, and instinct made him dive, twisting to the right and going down hard. His teeth came down on his tongue and he knew he’d hit hard, but he didn’t feel anything, not yet. The ground was warm, radiating the heat of the day.
Gunfire again, this time he saw flashes. It was all he could see. God, where were Mel, String, the uniforms?
He crawled, the ground gritty, scraping his belly, and dust clouded, getting up his nose and in his eyes. He was breathing too hard, too fast, and he coughed, and tried to choke it down.
Elbows and knees—what they called John Wayneing across the compound when he’d been in PD training. He had never figured out who John Wayne was, though he’d looked for him once, in a scan of contemporary and historical war heroes.
His elbows were raw, and blood welled, sticking his skin to his shirt.
Something, some noise, alerted him. They were rushing the house, a knot of them. More gunfire—this time coming from the house. Useless, he thought, trying to hit moving figures in the dark.
Elaki with guns.
David raised his own gun, then lowered it. Too much distance for him to hit anything, and no point giving himself away. And shooting without identifying himself would fry his ass with IAD no matter how justified. In the back of his mind, he felt their presence, second-guessing.
There was movement in the darkness. David squinted, counting five tall figures. They moved like Elaki. Two of them split off, heading around opposite sides of the house. The other three moved like a dark streak to the front door.
David went quickly, keeping his head down.
Painter must have barricaded the door. The three Elaki were having trouble. The door bowed inward suddenly, amid a clatter of gunfire. David heard a high-pitched whistle and a sobbing shriek that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. The door cracked and broke open.
God.
He saw shadows moving, going through the door. David was right behind them. He braced his legs.
“Police.” He zigged sideways immediately, going down. Gunfire, bullets over his head. Someone called out, then nothing.
It was pitch-dark inside the house. He stood up, tripping on a large, splintered piece of wood. His hair was wet and curly with sweat, his knees felt weak, the left one achy. Must have twisted it going down, he thought.
Alien Eyes Page 24
