Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel
Page 16
He helped her to her feet and stayed closer than he should have. He handed her his untouched tea. “I hope this mood is better.”
She gave him a small smile and took the bowl. “Felje.” She sipped, then stood taller with great effort. Her hair was tangled, but she left it alone. “You’re . . . have more questions?”
He’d almost forgotten. “No. I think we’re done. Though I may have questions some other time.”
“Is fair,” she said, and nodded. She put the tea bowl on the counter and gazed into it, resting her hand beside it.
Matheson turned off the recording and put his hand over hers. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry it was so . . . terrible.”
“We’re all grieve, but the ones who did this, they’re profit by our grief. Our terror. Who’s spoken to you but me and Minje?” she asked.
“Only Vela and a neighbor of Dohan’s. Your neighbors are reluctant to talk to a . . . shashen about it.”
Her smile was bitter. “Most won’t. They’re cling to silence and pain, hope it will disappear—blow away like flowers dried in desert air. I’m not cover my door in black paper and hold out the world.”
Black paper, like the seamless sheet that had hidden the Dohans’ doors. Blackened doors. Dillal could have been more specific, exhausted or not . . .
“It’s getting late. I should go,” he said, excusing his frowning silence.
She looked at his hand and he started to draw it away, embarrassed. She caught it and held on, then turned her gaze up to his. “Your touch’s not burn me.”
“You shouldn’t—I shouldn’t touch you . . . like this.” He had a squeezing, dropping sensation in his chest that felt like a heart attack and he had to swallow hard and force himself to breathe.
She said nothing and didn’t let go.
“It’s unprofessional,” he managed to say. A paltry, transparent sop to ethics that parts of his body were giving no sort of damn about.
“We’re done with that. I’m want you should stay.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t is not won’t.”
Matheson made himself move, withdrawing his hand from hers. He was breathing too fast, and sure that he was shaking, but he couldn’t see his hand tremble. This is a bad idea . . . “I can’t.”
She turned her head and glanced at him sideways. Not as she had before. Now it was deliberate. She offered him a small smile. “A good police. Won’t take advantage of a woman who’s broken.”
“You’re not broken. You’re angry and I think you might be a little . . . confused.”
“Not confused. I’m know what I’m wanting.” She gave a quiet snort and reached up, touched his eyebrow. “You’re bleed again.”
“It’s becoming a bad habit of mine,” he replied.
She chuckled low in her throat and handed him a cloth from the counter. He pressed it to his brow before blood could drip into his eye. He was grateful for the excuse to withdraw before he got in too deep. But those depths were tempting.
“Then don’t make people angry.”
No, and especially not women with eyes like yours. If he were smart, he would leave—he was a little too attracted by her knowing gaze, the sense of something dangerous coiled in her depths. He started to back toward the door. If he had more questions, it might be better to send them by message, no matter how tight Pritchet’s schedule was.
Aya cupped her hand around the back of his neck, stopping his progress. Her long fingers brushed his ear on one side, eliciting a shiver. She stepped close and pressed a chaste, closed kiss on the corner of his jaw. Or it should have been chaste if he had not let his arm curl around her and if he had not been thinking about all the other places she could put her lips.
“Right man,” she murmured into his ear, but she didn’t let go.
He didn’t either, and in spite of himself he knew he wasn’t going to.
She took the bloodied towel from his hand and urged his head down until she could kiss his cut brow.
He tightened his arm around her and turned his head, trying to catch her mouth under his. She evaded him, lifting her face as her hands swept down his back. His lips brushed her throat instead. If that’s what she would give him, that’s what he would take. He pressed his free hand between her shoulders, drawing her closer while he kissed his way down her neck.
He wasn’t going to leave and he wasn’t going to be a right man after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Day 3: Friday—Morning into Afternoon
No nightmares, no sudden starts to waking as he had for the past few months, and Matheson wasn’t sure where he was when he opened his eyes. He couldn’t hear the whine of struggling ventilation fans, the air didn’t have the musty stillness of his flat, and blood-orange light moved across the high, planked ceiling. A wisp of white flicked across his view—a bit of gauze borne on a breeze perfumed with rose petals and cut grass.
Aya’s loft above the coffee house. Even as he turned on his side to find her, Matheson knew she wasn’t in the clean, white bed with him. He sat up, blinking the tailings of sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t expected to spend the night, and he’d had other things on his mind when he did, so he hadn’t paid much attention to the room when they’d come upstairs. He’d heard the distant sounds of the celebration in the street and the light had had a peculiar, moving quality that reminded him of camping in the woods, and the second-hand streetlight through Dillal’s office windows. Now he looked out toward sunrise with nothing but air between him and the light.
The room had no eastern wall, only a few support pillars. Ahead of him, more than half of the old building’s roof spread open, contained only by tall posts hung with bird netting and fluttering streamers of colored fabric. A dense perimeter of potted plants ringed the open roof edges in greenery and blossoms. Aya had her back to him. She used a silicone rake to turn petals that lay strewn across stretched cloth set on the sun-struck expanse of rounded rocks and gravel.
Matheson was rooted in place as he watched her moving, swaying slowly forward and back, sideways a step, then forward and back . . . The low morning sun burnished her and the light dazzled in her black hair as it hung loose down her back. He remembered the heavy, almost rough feel of it against him, and the taste of tea dust on her skin.
She turned, leaning her rake into the corner where the covered section gave way to the open roof garden. She reached high upward, stretching, her shirt pulling taut across her small breasts and riding up to show a hint of her waist. Her feet were bare under her skirt and she curled her toes into the white pebbles. She looked ecstatic and it left him breathless.
She turned her head and saw him. Her hair partially obscured her face, but he could still see the wicked curve of her smile as she looked him over sideways. She caught his eye, her smile widening a little, and turned her head away as if beckoning him to her.
There seemed little point in dressing, so he walked out to her as he was. He started to put his arms around her and she turned, sliding into his embrace so her back pressed to him from chest to groin. It was arousing, but he didn’t want to be teased. He wrapped his arms close around her waist so she could feel him more firmly against her. “Do I stay or go?”
“What would you?”
“You know what I would. The sun’s barely touching the crater’s lip and the streets are still full of fog. Even my boss wouldn’t notice if I spend another hour in your bed. But it’s not up to me, and if you tell me to stay this time . . . are we starting something or are we just fucking?”
She tilted her head with a mild shrug that exposed the long line of her neck. “Fairzee-mairzee.”
“What does that mean?”
“Is . . . either/or . . . some of each . . . as you like.”
“You keep putting this back on me,” he said, and bit lightly up the exposed line of her neck, “but ‘as I like’ starts this way . . .” He turned her to face him, hauled her in hard for a kiss, but she turned her head aside. He e
xhaled against her cheek, letting her go. “And you keep doing that.”
She took a half step back, pressing her lips hard together, and lowered her head. It was hard to tell in the ruddy dawn light, but, was she blushing?
Frustration—that’s what this irritation is. “Have I done something wrong or are you just toying with me?”
“Neither,” she muttered.
“Then what is it? I’m attracted to you and you don’t seem to despise me. We’re good in bed, but if this were just about sex, I’d have left last night. Or you’d have thrown me out. So why do you always pull away when I go to kiss you?”
She looked up from under her brows. “We don’t . . .” She rubbed one folded knuckle against her closed lips. “We don’t.”
“You don’t kiss?”
“Not—Dreihleen don’t . . . with the tongue.” Was she disgusted? Embarrassed? Flustered? Not Aya—poised, shiver-inducing Aya. Not after what they’d done.
He peered at her, thinking aloud. “Dreihleen don’t open their teeth . . .”
“Killing cold can’t pass closed teeth.”
“It’s not cold here. At least not this part of Gattis.”
“Is a very old saying.”
He nodded, keeping his train of thought to himself. Gattis hadn’t been hospitable in the early days—they’d had to drop in sealed environments like Yshteppa Dome for the surface workers. The Dreihleen must have been among them. And they’d learned to keep their mouths shut or die—you had to drag words from them and they still came out sideways. Only children ever smiled widely or laughed out loud. “And you don’t open your mouth when you kiss.”
She shook her head. “Only whores.”
A telling word to choose since Dreihleen, though small in number, held the highest profile among Gattis’s licensed sex-workers. Gattis Corporation raked in millions of reals annually from the trade—it was regulated, paid well, and was generally safe—but it was still distasteful.
“Swimming doesn’t make you a fish,” he said.
Aya gave him a sharp look.
He should walk, but he wasn’t ready to give up—merry hell, even with her glaring at him he still wanted to drag her back to bed.
“You kissed my cheek, and I’ve kissed you . . . all over. But it doesn’t make me a sex worker.”
“Is not the same.”
“You’re right—it isn’t a business transaction. It’s a pleasure I want to share with you—like you shared with me.”
She looked curious. “You’re . . . enjoy that?”
“I’m a man—I think it’s fairly obvious when I’m enjoying something.” He caught her nearest hand and drew her closer so he could whisper into her ear, “But I also enjoyed hearing you moan when I put my mouth on you, feeling you shudder . . .” He slid his own hand along her arm and under her hair at the back of her neck. “Let me kiss your mouth.”
She closed her eyes, turning her face away.
He sighed and let her go, contenting himself with pressing his lips to the height of her cheekbone, where the sun had set small wrinkles below the corner of her eye. “Then show me something else. Something you like.”
She gave him a wicked sideways glance. “I’m already show you what I like,” she said, sliding one hand down his chest.
“Oh, we’ll get to that,” he said, catching her wrists. “Teach me something new. I’m an eager student.”
Aya hummed speculatively and looked him over. “You’re say.”
“I’ve always done well at oral exams.”
“Is too easy for you.”
Matheson smiled and let go of her hands. “Whatever you will—I’m at your mercy.”
“You’re will be . . .”
He caught his breath.
Dillal frowned at Starna and the tech shivered, dropping his gaze. “I’m sorry sir, they run much slower on the old machines that are off-circuit. It will take a day to get a complete sequence. Ohba is all I know and if there’s no record of the individual in the database—if he or she is a phantom—the best I’ll be able to do is specify the family line, and I’ll have to match that by hand as it is.”
“That will do.”
“This would be easier if we could use the database . . .”
“I’ve already told you. This must remain discrete, isolated from the system. Any request to the database through normal channels will be noted and the result will be open to anyone with access to these case files. Which includes Detive Neme and Director Pritchet. Can you not imagine what will happen if this is known to either of them?”
Starna looked ill and nonplussed. “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Oh, blight it all!” he shouted, looking up, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. “Yes, I know what will happen! I grew up in Centerrun! One of my uncles died in the race riots! When you’re like me it’s not good enough to be ‘good enough.’ It’s not good enough to keep your head down. Yes, I understand. Yes, I do. So do you.” He clapped one hand onto the opposite forearm, clutching his red-brown skin as if he would tear it off. “You don’t let this stop you. Why should I?”
“I don’t allow it to break me, either. Or become an excuse.”
Starna clenched his jaw and leaned toward the inspector, glaring. “You don’t—”
The door chime sounded and Starna yelped as if he’d been jabbed with a needle, whipping around to face the office door.
Dillal called out, “Come in, Matheson.” But the inspector wasn’t watching the door—he was watching Starna who turned back with his eyes wide. Dillal served the tech a hard look and a minuscule shake of the head.
The door unlocked and the inspector’s acting IAD entered, blinking against the dimness of the room as everyone did. The lithe, light-skinned young man was uncharacteristically mussed, unshaven, and a faint scent of woman and crushed leaves clung close to his skin. He paused and frowned at the other two men, as if he could read the tension between them. “You called me in?”
“I did.” Dillal’s gaze hadn’t left the technician. “Get some sleep, Starna. The tests will run on their own.”
The tech looked away, ducking his head. “Yes, sir,” he replied, turning to brush past Matheson with more force than necessary on his way out the door. He didn’t raise his eyes or apologize.
The tall ofiçe took a step back and watched him go with a bemused frown. He turned to the inspector with the expression intact.
Dillal tilted his head. “Santos’s sole impression is not a match.”
Matheson blinked and looked relieved. “Oh. I suppose that’s good.”
“Why?”
Matheson looked confused. “I . . . like him, so . . . I am glad he’s not, apparently, a killer.”
“But you never thought he was.”
“No, I didn’t. But confirmation in evidence does make me more comfortable with my gut feeling—which you seem to want.”
The inspector shrugged. “It was expected. Other problems with the forensic evidence were not. Scene contamination . . .”
Matheson heaved an irritated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Merry hell. Neme’s cigarette ends.”
Dillal gazed at him sideways. “How do you suppose that?”
“She smokes Salfrin. I noticed a couple of days ago and thought some of the lip ends we found were crushed out the same way she does hers. I should have mentioned it before.”
“It matters less than the as-yet-unidentified Ohba DNA. And as I’ve had a discussion with the Dreihleen trade societies—who want this closed as swiftly as Pritchet does—there will be even greater pressure to make a case from nothing if this information comes out. It’s not enough simply to eliminate someone—we need a positive lead. Your report from last night wasn’t complete.”
“It wasn’t?”
“There was an interview file that was improperly closed. It never uploaded. Was there something useful in that?”
Matheson blushed and looked aside, missing Dillal’s quizzical lift of one eyebrow. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realiz
e it didn’t go. I’ll send it now—”
He reached for his mobile and the inspector waved it away. “In a moment. Thus far, your reports are hollow—filled with facts and interviews, but devoid of conclusions or observations that link information into a pattern. I remind you: it’s not your ability to record that is important but your ability to think. Summarize your report for me now. Surely something stands out?”
Matheson gave an irritated shake of his head that let a curl of disordered hair fall into his eye. He flicked it away, flinching as his fingers hit the scab in his eyebrow. “It was frustrating—you didn’t brief me very well about Dreihleen mourning. I could barely get anyone to talk to me about Dohan—only the one woman who said she’d hoped Dohan would get married. I’m not sure if she meant that he was considering marrying Robesh or if it was just a neighborly opinion that he should have settled down. Another woman—that’s the file I missed sending—was able to make a more decisive connection between Leran and Robesh and described some prior instances of violence between them, but her information is too removed to prove a motive—only to imply that Leran was jealous and possessive toward Venn. The woman wasn’t able to name names or make a connection to other possible suspects. I’m developing another informant, but he won’t speak on the record, and this latter woman probably knows more than she’s said, but—I don’t know how to deal with the screaming . . . or crying, if that’s what it is. I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing I need to be careful of or if I’m being snowed in. There’s nothing in the brief or the protocol—”
“Describe it.”
Matheson shifted on his feet and replied slowly, “Mrs. Vela and this latter woman both did it—a sort of screeching and tearing at their hair, which they pulled over their faces. It went on and on, like they didn’t even need to breathe, just . . . screamed.”
Dillal nodded, his expression remote. “A Trizesh. It’s a . . . howl—at the injustice of loss. Part despair, part rage. The mechanism of the long breath that makes it possible is specific to Dreihleen physiology. Usually, only other Dreihleen witness it.”