Shadows Down Under: Shadowrun, #8

by Jean Rabe

  Ninn scratched her head. “Fine. Stay right here and watch the back door. I’ll scoot inside, take a look at the patrons, see if there’s any RighteousRight here tonight, poke around for anything that might be worth knowing about, and then I’ll be back. Like I said, Cadi has a double feature. If nothing gets my hackles up here, we’ll check another alley behind a different tawdry house. Maybe come back for his second show. Always the Cross Slayer—”

  “—kills in alleys,” Barega finished. “I know.”

  “Your galah told you that?”

  He shook his head. “I listen to the news.”

  “If you don’t feel safe here—”

  “I said I will be fine. Best if one of us remains here in the event the Cross—”

  “Here.” Ninn pulled Mordred from a fold in her longcoat.

  “I do not use—”

  “This gun and me, we’re…connected. It can ‘see,’ so to speak. If something goes down out here while I’m gone, I’ll know it, and I’ll come running.”

  “Not even going to introduce us?” Mordred’s thin voice seemed testy.

  Ninn was glad the gun’s banter was mental, and that Barega couldn’t hear it.

  “I’ll be back soon, Barega.”

  “And soon it will rain,” the old man said, raising his head up to the gunmetal-gray cloud. “I can feel it gathering.”

  The stranger edged farther into the alley, peering at the familiar elf on the far end. His eyes were large and keen, and they divided the shadows so he could get a better look at her face. Worn-seeming, she hadn’t bothered with makeup, nothing fancy about her hair, dressed in something a tourist might wear. But the stranger knew the elf wasn’t a tourist. She was a problem.

  He could smell her, even this far away; always he liked to smell his quarry. Sweet like fruit. He used to enjoy fruit. The elf hadn’t been on his list, but her very presence festered, and it had put her there. Three times now he’d noticed her…how many times had she been nearby and he hadn’t paid attention?

  The stranger slowly crept closer, careful not to step on something that might snap or crunch, always touching the outer wall of the buildings where it was darkest. He peered more intently. The elf was talking to someone, this person difficult to see because the shadows cast by a stack of crates hampered the view. That person smelled like rich earth.

  Who was it? Another elf? Someone small.

  The stranger’s lips curled back. He’d come to dislike elves. Too fast, hearing too fine because of those pointed ears.

  Closer so he could get a better look. Closer.

  The back door of the nearby Chinese restaurant opened, and the light that spilled out more clearly defined the elf and also let the stranger get a good look at the man. Old like the peeing dwarf had been, dark-skinned, fragile-seeming, not familiar. Puzzling. In the alleys behind the tawdry houses, the stranger usually saw beautiful women, sometimes with men who paid them. Maybe the little old man was waiting for a beautiful woman that he could pay. The elf wasn’t beautiful; she was a bother.

  Perhaps he would kill this elf and the old man, drop them in the sewers where the rats and worse would devour the evidence. He’d dumped bodies there before. They were not crucial to the Cross killfest, and so did not need to be discovered by the authorities.

  He moved closer.

  Closer…

  He could see the wrinkles on the old man’s face.

  Then he watched the elf hand the old man a gun. The back door to the Chinese restaurant closed, taking the light with it. The elf hurried away.

  It was just the old man now, and whatever tasty treats the kitchen worker from the Chinese restaurant had tossed into the garbage—those scents were teasing and coaxed his stomach to rumble.

  The old man wasn’t on his list. But...

  He inched closer still.

  The early show had already started. Ninn stood at the back of the theater, noting only about a third of the seats were filled. She hoped the later show would have more, both for Cadi’s income and so she could search for RighteousRight members. This audience wasn’t likely to yield a lot of possibilities. But she was here and so she’d take a good look, record some of the faces. Come back for the second show, go to another tawdry house or two in between, maybe go back to that RighteousRight bar, definitely download into her encephalon whatever information was on the chip in her office. Frag her to hell and back for losing all those hours to alcohol and slips! Cadi wasn’t paying her to black out.

  Sticking to the far aisle, she padded toward the front, scanning the sparse crowd as she went. Most of the people here were human—and senior citizens. Naturally, she thought, a blue-light special for the blue-haired ladies. They’ll be home and tucked in bed by eight.

  Hurdy Gertie was on stage, belting out “We Are What We Are,” from La Cage Aux Folles, a vid reference that was no doubt in Mordred’s database. Gertie wasn’t half-bad, but certainly no Ella Gance. Maybe the audience was sparser because Cadi’s headliner was gone.

  She captured some of the faces in the audience—those few who couldn’t yet qualify for AARP. Her encephalon pinged, a match from someone she’d seen earlier. Ninn stood against the wall, waiting for the image to appear behind her eye. Male, human, he’d been behind the AISE barricade when Ella was found, that’s where she’d seen him before.

  She looked closer, focusing on the man on the far side of the darkened theater. Despite her low-light natural eye and thermographic cybereye, it was difficult to get as many details as she’d wanted because only part of the audience was visible from this angle, but she noted a smudge on his neck that could be a tattoo. Maybe RighteousRight. She slipped toward the front of the auditorium, finding another familiar face. This time she didn’t have to check her encephalon; he was the smaller of the two men she’d fought with in the ЯɌ bar. Definitely worth pursuing the Right angle.

  Hurdy Gertie finished the tune, and as the crowd applauded, Ninn went through a narrow door. Up a short staircase, and she was backstage. A trio of elf tap dancers toddled past; she’d seen them once before. Cadi needed to get some better talent. She found the troll in the wings.

  “Anything?” He kept his voice lower than he needed; the music was loud enough to cover an elephant trumpeting. The troll said something else, but she didn’t understand it, some sort of slang tuskers used.

  Ninn gestured for him to accompany her, and they went into the hall. “You’ve at least one RighteousRight in the auditorium. I’ve been following that.”

  “What? Following that choob out there? Is that why I haven’t heard from you all day? I saw him. In the middle. He’s a regular.”

  “I’m following the RighteousRight angle. There’s some activity in the Cross. I think the Slayer is a Right.”

  “I think it’s a fraggin’ Righter, too.” He snorted. “Good you’re following that. But did you follow the news feeds at five?”

  That was about the time when Barega had come knocking at her office. She’d been out cold before that.

  “I was…busy. So no, I—”

  The music upped tempo, and the elf dancers tapped in time with the snare drum.

  “Tattered Cat lost a singer. Summer Peacock, a little slip of a thing, but she had a big voice. Ace visited just before it came on the news. Told me about it.”

  Frag it! “No. I—”

  “Somebody found her in a Dumpster in the alley behind the Cat, when they looked in it this afternoon to see what was smelling so bad. Ace named…oh, something Draye, he’d been here for Ella, too. Draye said Summer’d been dead several hours, killed late last night or early this morning. Said she’d apparently left the Cat alone after her last number, didn’t use the buddy system. Victim Number Six, according to Draye.”

  Victim Number Seven, Ninn corrected. She’d have to visit the spot of Victim Number One and where Summer Peacock died. Maybe tonight. Maybe she could get Barega to go back to the office and wait; she’d work faster alone, travel faster. But if he insisted on ta
gging along, fine, he was putting up the opals for the privilege.

  “That Ace guy…Draye…said it’s a serial killer for sure, said keep the girls out of the alleys. The girls, Gertie, wants me to close tomorrow. Guess they all knew Peacock. She was Jewish, they have funerals fast. Her funeral—they’re not gonna show her, from what I understand—is tomorrow at six.”

  Six. With Six You Get Eggroll, Ninn thought. Nothing from Mordred; she checked her smartlink to make sure it was still active. She was liking the idea of putting the Aborigine and her prized weapon in the alley less and less with every passing minute. She’d met Barega only an hour ago. Why the hell had she trusted him with Mordred?

  “Don’t let ’em go anywhere alone, this Draye said. An’ said I should hire extra security. Gave me a card for a firm, off-duty Aces, I’m thinking.” Cadi kept talking, and Ninn recorded it, as she wasn’t giving him her whole attention, was thinking about alleys and Mordred and why the hell she had handed her prized gun to the Aborigine, a stranger. “Tattered Cat’s at the edge of the Cross. Draye said maybe the Slayer is widening his range. I think the lumpers are worried he’ll start killing singers in the rest of the city.”

  Ninn stared at a spot on the wall over Cadi’s shoulder. She’d been a good cop in Chicago, had been doing fine with AISE, was a decent private investigator when she was coherent. This Cross Slayer business was serious, and maybe she was in over her head. But she’d taken Cadi’s nuyen and Barega’s opals, and it wasn’t her style to back down from anything. Her skin itched; a slip would fix that, smooth her rough edges.

  “I’m gonna look around here for a bit,” she told him when he’d stopped and took a breath.

  “What for? Inside my place? Draye and his partner did that yesterday. Isn’t an alley—”

  “I need a better feel—for this place, for Ella, for all of it. Then I’ll hit the alleys again. I’ll find—”

  “What I need you to find is the Cross Slayer,” Cadi said. “You or the lumpers. Just do it quick.” He turned and headed backstage. “That’s what I’m paying you for. Please, do it quick, Ninn. I want my girls safe.”

  Ninn waited until Cadi was out of earshot. “Mordred. Mordred.” She tapped her foot. “Mordred!”

  “What, Keebs?”

  She looked down the hall. “Anything in the alley?”

  “Do you mean other than me and the Koori?”

  She bristled. The gun had a fondness for derogatory slang.

  “Barega,” she said. “Anything in the alley other than you and Barega?” She held tight against the wall as the tap dancers scurried past, their number finished.

  “A little while ago there was a big homeless lug scrounging through the garbage behind the Chinese restaurant.”

  “I’ll be out in a few,” she said.

  “Oh, and there’s graffiti. There’s lots of graffiti in this alley. And I saw a cat. Maybe you should get a cat, Keebs. The big homeless lug wandered off after the cat.”

  Ninn walked through the dressing rooms, the air thick with sweat, cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. She took a long look through Ella’s things, finding a slip and putting it on her tongue. Crystal Dream, not as good of a rush as graypuppy. Still, it made her fingers stop itching. There were a few empty boxes; someone would pack up her dresses. “I should’ve brought Barega inside, had him go through this, see what he might want.”

  “You’ll have to tell him that, Keebs. I can only talk to you.”

  “I know that, Mordred.”

  “Hey, Keebs. There’s something else out here.”

  She stiffened and turned, intending to dash out the back door.

  “Bricks,” Mordred continued. “A couple of empty bottles, and—”

  “Shut your gob.” A pause: “Just let me know if someone comes out in the alley.”

  She didn’t see any microcomputer in Ella’s dressing room, no data directory, no comm, but that wasn’t surprising if the singer was living off the grid and staying SINless…or if AISE had taken it all. The RighteousRight holocard wasn’t here, probably in evidence. Maybe some of Cadi’s girls also got the cards. She’d check with Hurdy Gertie. Clothes, all with ribbons and sequins, expensive and over the top, and looking undisturbed. Makeup, perfumes, several pairs of high heels, a wig. Draped over a chair was a pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt…probably what she’d come to work in. Another slip in the jeans pocket; she took it and put it in her own.

  “I screwed up.” Ninn sat on a stool in front of a beveled mirror, but she glanced down, not wanting to look at herself. She should have gone through this room yesterday or earlier today, went to Ella’s flat. She shouldn’t have been so wasted that the hours had melted away on her. She’d lost time…time Cadi was paying for. “I’m screwed up.” She’d throw out the dozen slips tonight, try to go cold turkey, maybe give them to Talon as a parting gift, as no doubt he’d still be there, and she’d have to bodily toss his bony ass out on the street. Throw out the one in her pocket. She could handle the shakes, couldn’t she? She’d been meaning to hop on the wagon.

  The ceiling creaked, and she looked up, her audio receptors kicking in. Someone was walking—pacing from the sound of it—in a room on the second floor. What’s upstairs? Storage? Offices? No. Cadi’s office was on this level. There was a side door to the building, and that probably led upstairs. Maybe a way up from down here. Could get a good view of the alley from a higher vantage point. Worth checking out.

  Ninn recorded images from the dressing room, using her magnification to zoom in on the details, and then paused in the doorway as the hall filled with a chorus line waiting to go on, the air saturated with the warring scents of a dozen different perfumes. She held her breath. A door near the end of the hall was locked, but it was an old door and an old fashioned lock, and it took her only a heartbeat to pick it. The stairs beyond looked old too, iron railings, wood steps, a spiral case—one curl leading up, the other down. It smelled old, better than all the clashing perfumes.

  She felt goosebumps sprout on her arms, and the back of her neck tingled. A good sign something’s worth looking at upstairs, she thought. A good PI always played hunches, relied on her proverbial sixth sense, listened to the voices that sometimes whispered in her head. Or maybe it was the jitters, her body begging for some booze. There was some sort of metabolism bioware she could have installed, way too pricey at ten thousand nuyen, but it would keep her from getting drunk, from wigging out on slips. Would it cure the addictions? Booze was a lot cheaper than the bioware. Frag it all to hell, she’d drained the rest of her bottle last night, hadn’t saved a swallow.

  But she had a slip in her pocket if the itching came back again. Probably Crystal Dream. It would do. She could buy more booze if she really really needed it.

  The bottle as it empties, empties me. How hollow have I become? She started up the steps. Maybe I should have been a philosopher.

  The iron rail was rough against her palm and felt cooler than the air around her. Every step squeaked like she squeezed a tiny rodent.

  Whoever was on the second floor was going to know company was coming, especially when her pick broke off in the door lock and she ended up forcing it open.

  Eleven

  Victim Number Eight?

  “That door…that door was locked, and you didn’t use no key to get it open. You busted in here.” The speaker was human, sharply dressed, and with a face all angles and planes, probably had some sculpting work done. “So if you’d be so kind as to turn your patootie around, slap on some makeup, and get ready for your next number—”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re not a regular up here, that’s for certain. And you’re not very pretty. But you might clean up all right.” On the short side, but with broad shoulders, he took up half the hallway. He had a gun stuck in the waistband of his trousers. “Get gone. Now.”

  “Listen, I—” Ninn tried to use a polite tone.

  “Doctor Siland isn’t expecting you. Get gone, I say.”

>   “No. I don’t know who Dr. Siland is.” Ninn held up her left palm. “I’m a registered private investigator—”

  “Don’t care if you’re a registered Labrador Retriever, you can—”

  “I’ve got permission to be here,” Ninn pressed. “I’m investigating the Cross Slayer, Cadi Hamfyst—”

  “Doesn’t own this building. He’s just a tenant. You might have permission to toddle through the tusker’s burlesque house on the first floor, but this is off limits.” He took a step closer and puffed out his chest, the movement causing his jacket to fall open. He had a holstered Nitame sporter dangling under his armpit. “Last warning before this gets bloody. Get yourself gone, dandelion eater.”

  Ninn hadn’t realized Cadi was a renter, figured he’d owned the building. He’d been here for a dozen or more years.

  “So he rents from you?” Ninn looked past him. The hallway was long, running the length of the building, but there were only two doors off it. What did they lead to? Apartments? And was this fellow the one she’d heard pacing? Above that, did it matter? Shouldn’t she be out in the alley with Barega? Taking her valuable gun back and heading to another tawdry house? “You own the building? You?” Or are you just hired muscle?

  He drummed his fingers on the grip of the pistol. His fingers were big like sausages, manicured, a clunky gold ring on his left index finger had a green shield symbol dotted with stars—a cricket team logo. “I’m not going to ask another time, dandelion eater. Turn around now and—”

  The farthest door opened, and the big man looked over his shoulder. “Dr. Siland, the elf ain’t one of the tusker’s girls. She was just leaving.”

  “Not one of Hamfyst’s girls? I’m expecting an elf, one of the new—” The speaker glided down the hall, stepped around the big man, and shook his head. “No. I don’t know this one. Did Hamfyst send you?” The man looked Ninn up and down with an appraising eye and frowned. He was thin, well-dressed, handsome face, high forehead with thin hair, stylishly cut and long at the temples, probably in his early thirties. Could pass for a lawyer in the business suit. He smelled of expensive musk cologne, had dabbed it on liberally enough that she didn’t need the nose filter to detect it.