It seemed like a million years ago now, even though it was yesterday.
I walked up to Roscoe’s front door and knocked, not too hard. An older lady answered wearing funeral clothes and I felt pretty out of place in my shorts and t-shirt. “Uh,” I said, “my name is Augustus Coleman, and I used to work with Roscoe—”
“Come in,” the woman said, drawing me into a hug that just about squeezed the life out of me. “Come right on in,” she whispered in my ear as she turned me loose. “It’s good of you to come.”
“Are you Roscoe’s momma?”
“No, I’m his mother-in-law,” she said, closing the door behind me as I stepped into a front hall. “His momma died years ago. Ever since he and my Shelia have been together, I’ve always considered him like one of my own.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “I just heard about it a little while ago.”
She nodded. “Shelia’s on through there if you want to give her condolences. Some of the ladies from my church brought by food, if you want some—”
“I’m not hungry,” I said, “but thank you.”
I walked through into a dining room where a younger woman, probably about five-ten years older than me, was sitting in a chair. She was all done up fancy, wearing a string of pearls around her neck. There were gold inserts between each pearl, and they gave the necklace a nice gleam.
“Mrs. Marion?” I asked, and her eyes fluttered as she looked up in surprise, like I’d snuck into the room and blown a bullhorn or something. “My name is Augustus Coleman, and I used to work with Roscoe. I came by to … pay my respects.”
She blinked at me a couple times, and it was obvious as hell the woman was in shock. “Would you like to sit down?” she asked, voice almost dead.
“All right,” I said and started to scoot out the seat next to her. She actually blanched a little, and I halted, moving around the table to sit opposite her instead. I figured maybe I got Roscoe’s old seat, and I didn’t want to bring up any bad memories.
“You said you used to work with Roscoe?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m a line supervisor at Cavanagh.”
“You’re so young,” she said, looking at me with eyes that could only be described as dulled. I suspected she’d cried all the emotion out of them in the last couple days.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Roscoe used to joke with me that I’d make line supervisor before he did. I used to be a floater when I started, and his work partner—Markeith—was always calling in sick, so he and I used to work the line together a lot.”
“Oh, yeah, Markeith,” she said, nodding. “I haven’t heard that name in a while. I almost forgot about him.”
We settled into an uncomfortable silence for a couple minutes. “I’m sorry to ask this,” I said, “but … can you tell me what happened? No one seemed to be able to give me an answer, and Roscoe was … I mean he was a young man.” He couldn’t have been older than mid-thirties.
She just stared at me with those unresponsive eyes and nodded, like all the emotion of the experience had left her. “I don’t entirely know. I came home late that night after working a long shift—I’m a nurse at the hospital, and I didn’t get here until after midnight.” She licked her lips. “Roscoe’s car was outside, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. The back door was unlocked, so I went out, figuring maybe he fell asleep on the back patio, under the umbrella.” If she’d had anything left, this was the part where she would have welled up with tears. Instead, she just kept talking in a flat voice. “I found him out there, scorched all to hell, no pulse, no respiration. He was cold.” She looked up at me. “I tried to … resuscitate, even though I knew he was gone. After … I don’t even know … an hour? It was like my brain kicked back in, like I was dealing with any other patient. He was long gone.”
“That’s a damned shame,” I said. “Just doesn’t make any sense that he should be gone. He was a good man.” He’d always been nice to me when we worked together.
“Yes,” she said, voice hollow. She blinked a little, then sniffed like she had been crying even though she hadn’t for a while, I guessed. “How long ago was the last time you worked with him?”
“Long time,” I said. “I haven’t even seen him lately. I didn’t even know where he was working now. Was he still on the line?”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head, a little quiver of rueful excitement making its way out. “He got a promotion. He was being trained for something else, see.”
“Did he move up to line supervisor?” I hadn’t heard about it, but it could have happened. “Move into the office?”
“No,” she said.
I made a little frown at that. In the Cavanagh factory, there was a pretty clear path to advancement.
“He was being trained,” she said, “as a lab tech.”
That one furrowed my brow. “I didn’t even know Cavanagh had a lab down here.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It was off-site, though. Roscoe was so excited when he got the promotion. Said they chose him, gave him a fifty percent raise.” Her fingers fell to the pearl and gold necklace. “He brought this home with him the day he told me. We were … planning on getting a new car now that he was on salary.” This caused her face to squinch with emotion in a way that telling about his death didn’t. Probably because now she was talking about their dreams for the future, and no one had asked about those like they had his death.
“It’s all right,” I said, and reached out to brush her hand with reassurance. “Please. We don’t have to talk about this any more.”
She slipped a little and then composed herself. She swallowed hard and held it all in. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”
What do you say to that? The woman just lost her husband and she was putting on a brave face. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
She nodded. “It’s going to be tough without him.”
“I imagine it is,” I said and stood. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I don’t suppose there is,” she said, looking up at me, eyes restored to their comfortable balance of apathy. I felt for her. I didn’t know what to do; if she’d been a close friend I would have given her a hug and told her to let it all out. But I was a stranger, a man who used to work with her husband. There was no way I could approach this that wouldn’t be desperately awkward for both of us. “Thank you for stopping by, Augustus Coleman.”
I nodded to her and headed for the door. I paused, wincing inside, not really wanting to get out before I asked that last, nagging question that was eating at me. “Shelia?” I turned to see her looking at me with as close to a quizzical expression as she could muster with her subdued emotions. “Where was this Cavanagh lab that Roscoe was working at?”
She thought about it for a moment. “I don’t rightly remember,” she finally decided, and I could tell it was eating at her. “I don’t know that he told me, just that it was a clean room and he was handling … samples and such. He had to take some classes so he could handle biological materials.” Her face creased slightly with grief. “He joked he’d just learn from me, because I already knew how to dispose of sharps and such.”
My first instinct was to freeze, because Edward Cavanagh himself had assured me this very morning—in an offhand comment, but still—that they didn’t a have any bioresearch divisions. Hadn’t he? It felt like a cold gut-punch, a chilling sensation that started at the stomach and spread through me, slow as a knife dragging across a frozen flank steak.
But I smiled at her, reassuring as I could. “Thank you. And I am so sorry for your loss.” And I excused myself to let the widow Marion grieve—or not, given her current state—in peace.
27.
Sienna
As it turned out, Cordell Weldon was not a particularly tough guy to find. Which worked for me, because I wasn’t necessarily convinced I needed to see him for the purposes of this investigation. If he’d been unlisted, tough to track down, shown up with an
office in another state, I probably would have given that one up. ‘Why bother?’ would have been my mantra on that one. He just funded the shelter that the homeless victims came from, after all, and had had some aspersions cast on his good name by a drug dealer. None of that was necessarily anything other than a tangential connection to the case and an indicator that Darrick disliked his stance on something or another.
But when I performed a Google search, Cordell Weldon’s name, picture and even his office address came up in about 0.000000046 seconds, and since the address ended up mapping out about one mile from where I was standing, I figured what the hell. I headed straight for him and found a nice little three-story brick office building waiting for me with the doors open.
There was muscle waiting all around, by which I mean bodyguards in suits. I’d taken a few seconds to read the profile on the way to his office, and I remembered him now. Cordell Weldon was basically a local community organizer with big ambitions. Current city council member, likely future congressman, etc, etc. He had the bona fides, and I counted on the first page of the search results no fewer than three glowing pieces that wondered if he’d be appointed to a recently vacated senate seat. He hadn’t been, to the gushing disappointment of a fourth article that blamed the oppositional politics of Georgia's current governor.
I set down in front of the red brick office building under the watchful eyes of his bodyguards. They didn’t make any sudden moves, but they were eyeing me pretty heavy. Every single one of them looked like they’d played ball somewhere, and not one of them had the physique that indicated their sport had been soccer or basketball. They were brick walls, thick with muscle from more gym visits than I’d had hot meals in my life.
“I’m here to see Cordell Weldon,” I said, opening pleasantly. “Please.” See? Best behavior.
The head mook looked me over. “Just a moment,” he said and whispered into a microphone I hadn’t even seen at first. “Mr. Weldon will see you now,” the guy said after a moment’s pause, and opened the door. “Third floor.”
“Of course,” I said and wandered in to find myself in a stairwell. This didn’t look like a traditional office building. Had I accidentally wandered into the back entrance? I guess I hadn’t paid attention.
I saved some time by flying up the stairs and found a young lady holding a door open for me at the top. I floated through and shot her a tight smile. “Thanks.”
“You’re, uh … welcome,” she said, her eyes wide as I made my way through. She scrambled to the next door, and while she did, I looked around. We were in a hallway with dim, beige walls. She scurried forth and opened the next door for me. I waited, trying not to get out of place and make a faux pas by pissing off my presumptive host until he gave me a solid reason to.
I floated through into the next room and found a tastefully appointed office looking out at the Atlanta skyline. I came in through what was plainly a side door, as two wood paneled double doors waited to my left as I came in. There was a giant desk, and behind it was a tall man with zero hair on his head. He stood as I entered, but he didn’t smile. He did not look like he had the humor or ingratiating demeanor of a politician trying to curry favors. His eyes were narrowed, the look of a man constantly assessing both friend and opponent, and when they settled on me, I stared right back. The ebony skin on his bald head gleamed from the light of the window, and he came out from behind the desk to greet me.
“Ms. Nealon,” he said, his deep voice calling me forward. It wasn’t inviting, per se, but it was commanding enough that I obliged. He extended a hand, which I took, and then the flash from my side jarred me. I hadn’t even noticed that I'd been followed by the woman who showed me into the office. She had a camera in hand and was gesturing at me to move closer to Mr. Weldon, which I did only instinctively. I started to say something, but a plastic smile that only moved his lips a few centimeters had sprung up on his face. “Pictures first,” he said.
His assistant took a half dozen snaps of us and then retreated out the big double doors without another word, without offering me a water, nothing. I could have used a water. It was a hot day. I was thirsty. Still, this wasn’t quite rudeness of the level to warrant me beating Cordell Weldon’s brains in, I supposed.
He gestured for me to take a seat across from him and then sat straight upright in his chair, leaning back maybe enough that his body was at a fifteen degree angle. I suspected that for him, this was lounging. “I’m not surprised you’ve come to meet with me,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. “Why?” I figured I’d shut up and let him explain, since I hadn’t known just fifteen minutes ago that I was going to be here.
He pulled his hands apart in a gesture that seemed to me to be either “Isn’t it obvious?” or “Let’s be honest,” or maybe, “I am about to offer something to the rain god.” He settled it for me shortly. “When someone has a public image as badly mangled as yours is, oftentimes they look for ways to do some damage control through outreach, by gaining a favorable endorsement. In truth, I’m surprised you haven’t sought a blessing from someone in the black community sooner.”
I just stared at him, wondering if I’d heard that right. “Wait … you think I’m here to … what? Kiss the ring? Why?”
“Your reputation isn’t exactly glowing at the moment,” he said, meeting me with eyes that had some serious thought going on behind them. “I’ve been hesitant to leap on the bandwagon and make things worse since I’ve had … other concerns … but let’s face it, you’re ripe for replacement.”
“Excuse me?” I asked. I seriously blinked about a million times. “Replacement how?”
“Your record is terrible,” he said.
“My … fighting record? The internet videos?”
“Those are no picnic either,” he said. “But I’m talking your diversity record.”
“My …” I just stared, willing him to finish what he’d started.
“When you had your team together to fight Sovereign,” he said, “it was like looking at a country club luncheon. It was whiter than a Nickelback audience.”
“What the hell are you talking ab—?” I halted mid-sentence. I had completely forgotten that Dr. Zollers had been left out of all the press coverage afterward because he’d carefully manipulated the minds of the reporters and photographers into shooting around him. At the time I’d found it a little objectionable and told him so. Looking back on it now, I wished I’d had him do me the same courtesy. “Oh. Right.”
“Not a single African-American on your team,” Weldon said. “Not one in a visible position in your agency.”
“Well, our press flack is—”
“Now she is,” he said, “when you’re on the bottom of the barrel in terms of exposure. I’m talking about then, when you had some pull, some influence.”
“I don’t think you have the full story,” I said. “I actually had two black men on my team at the time, but neither one of them wanted to be exposed to the limelight. And I doubt they were thinking we’d run into this particular sort of … difficulty when they chose to remain anonymous.” Plus, one of them was now running for president of the United States and seemed like he might have a decent chance of winning, which would probably not be the case if everyone in the world knew he was a metahuman.
“That’s awfully convenient,” he said.
“Not for me,” I said, “at least not at this moment, since you’ve just accused me of racism.” This had gotten awfully uncomfortable, awfully fast. I wanted to clobber him now more than ever, though.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Weldon said, templing his fingers in front of him. “I’m just trying to make you aware of something that’s clearly problematic—and in your blind spot. Something that could be used to drive your nearly destroyed approval numbers further into the negatives.”
“Seems like a legitimate complaint,” I said, a little sarcastic. I had to admit, I was feeling it. I’d been attacked personally quite a bit lately, but this one
was making me madder than most of the others.
“There are no ‘illegitimate’ complaints,” Weldon said with a healthy sense of satisfaction, a man with the world as his oyster.
“Really?” I asked, sitting up straight. “Your actions are far too guided by the movement of Mars in Scorpio.”
His expression darkened. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“But totes legit, according to you,” I said. “What do you want from me?”
“Diversity, of course,” he said. “Visible people of color working in your agency.”
“Great,” I said, “I’m all for it. Send as many metahuman minorities as you can my way, because we’re hiring right now.”
“I’m talking about in office roles, staffing positions—”
“Then you want to talk to the head of the agency,” I said. “Because I’m just in charge of the portion that’s responsible for law enforcement, which means people with guns and people with powers. That’s who I have the power to hire.”
His eyes narrowed at me. “Are you trying to be purposefully difficult during these negotiations?”
I felt my jaw drop a little. “‘Negotiations’? Okay. Let’s say I hired a sufficient number of, uh … minorities to satisfy your requirement. What else?”
“We should partner on some initiatives,” Weldon said and stood up, adjusting his suit as he did so. The guy was tall and thin, but he looked like he had some power. “Things to provide opportunities for you get your face out there doing good works. Charitable events, things like that. Chances to repair any damage that might have been done to your name by … intemperate actions and poor hiring choices. Naturally, you or your agency will have to front the cost for these events, but pretty soon you’ll find some more sympathetic press stories to help abate the current crop of … how shall we put it delicately?”
“Perpetual flagellation?” I asked. “Repetitive flaying?”
“That’s not very delicate.”
“Feels accurate, though,” I said. “How much will this good press cost me?”
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