The anti-inflammatories had reduced the swelling of his face and joints, but they’d had little effect on the cuts and bruises. The small wound on his eyebrow had gotten larger and now gaped a little. He poked it and winced, setting off a series of sharp pains across his face and down his neck. He looked like shit, felt worse, and the idea that scars added character was a load of crap.
He started dressing, but could barely stand the touch of cloth on his skin. He swore and flung the bed up into the cabinet too vigorously, regretting the motion as every muscle cramped and ached. The bed banged into place, dislodging one of his three hoarded print books from the shelf. He cringed at the noise, which brought a clattering response from the neighbor on the other side of the wall—like acorns thrown down a hollow metal tree. He’d never seen this neighbor and had thought the flat was empty.
Matheson leaned against the counter, persuading himself that, once dressed, he wouldn’t notice the discomfort so much; he hadn’t considered how much it hurt just to pull the clothes on. Even the lightest things he owned chafed and pressed too much. The weight of his belt on his hips was misery, and he was glad he didn’t carry the weight of a personal firearm too—not that he had the seniority or assignment to exercise that option. He slipped his feet into lightweight shoes, unable to face the discomfort of bending down to lace his boots, much less pick up his fallen book. He hoped this stage would pass quickly, but he wasn’t optimistic. There was too much to do to give up and curl into a fetal position on his bed for the rest of the day . . . and it would probably hurt more to undress again and lie on his side than to keep on going. He bribed himself with the prospect of seeing Aya.
As he exited the flat and locked up, he banged into his mysterious new neighbor and hissed in pain. The other drew back, scowling, as Matheson turned stiffly.
Russet-skinned, just under average height, bearded and burly, the man was swathed in black draperies that covered his head, looped his neck and shoulders loosely, and then trailed to the ground behind him. He had a design of small, raised white dots on the back of his right hand, and he moved silently on bare feet. Matheson wondered what—if anything—the man had heard of last night’s conversation and if he’d just never realized he had a neighbor, before. He’d never heard any noise from the far side of their mutual wall before this morning’s Pelting of Disapproval. The thought of the solemn Ohba’s bare feet made him shudder with a sudden vision of icy water and furious electricity.
“I’m sorry. And about the wall this morning,” Matheson said. “I . . .” He didn’t really want to explain it, so he stopped trying. “I’m just sorry if I disturbed you.”
The man looked him over with brilliant green eyes, casting his gaze from top to bottom slowly as if he noted every bruise. Then he smiled, showing Matheson a handful of stained teeth. “O-sum,” the man replied in a low, gravelly voice. “Nor o-sum.” He turned away, chuckling to himself, to glide off down the open hallway.
Matheson remembered the terms from one of his cultural briefings—O-sum meant “nothing” or “worthless,” nor o-sum would have been “less than nothing” . . . or “less than worthless.” So . . . was the noise “nothing” or am I nothing . . . ?
The encounter was strange and Matheson had an urge to find Dillal as quickly as possible.
Matheson found the inspector in his office and thought the man looked worse for wear himself: eyes puffy, the left ringed in small, oozing scabs and bruising, a long nick on his cheekbone, and a raw patch on the side of his right hand and wrist that looked like an electric-discharge burn. He looks as tired as I feel.
“No key,” was the first thing Dillal said.
Matheson frowned. “What?”
“I’ve been unable to find a key of any kind in the materials taken from the run-off drain in the Paz da Sorte alley. It’s not impossible that a rat or some other animal carried it off if it was shiny and light enough.”
So, what had happened to it? Had Santos not, in fact, thrown the key away? Dillal seemed to be less bothered by the lack than Matheson was, though that could have been because he was obviously preoccupied with something else. But Matheson believed Santos. The man had been terrified and had no reason to tell him more falsehoods once he’d started on the truth. Matheson let it lie for the time being, probing for whatever might be bothering the inspector.
“What about the chemicals on Leran’s wrist?”
“Still processing. But if it is seal and solvent mixed with the brain ejecta, who used the wipes? Leran was dead.”
Matheson was pleased that he’d had the same thought, although his present discomfort made him question every memory of the night before. “Some other member of the gang must have done it,” he suggested.
“It was someone with a remarkably clear mind, considering that the situation had reversed completely in minutes. And yet . . .”
“You keep saying that whoever planned the crime is clever.”
Dillal scowled. “But not as clever as he thinks. Cleaning off the spray seal would have been intended to make Leran appear just another victim, but it was sloppily done. He didn’t think as far ahead as he should have—that appears to be a consistent weakness of our mastermind.”
“That’s a grand term for him.”
“I don’t doubt that he’d think it perfectly apt—criminals frequently hold higher opinions of their intelligence than evidence supports. Though not all . . .”
Matheson started to laugh and regretted it.
Dillal shook himself and said, “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“They said that about today.”
“I won’t expect to see you here, so you can start in the Dreihleat with whatever leads you turn up today in the blocks around the Paz da Sorte and Dohan Sewing. Robesh’s home address is nearby. The neighbors should be able to tell you more about the nature of her relationships with Dohan and Leran, and who else she may have spent time with. That may lead to at least one other member of the gang. It’s possible they may even be in the area, trying to appear unconnected to the crime, rather than slinking off into the tunnels.”
“Playing innocent bystander so no one will turf them?”
“Calling no attention to themselves. They had a plan and it went awry, but if no one left alive knows they entered the Paz da Sorte to rob it and walked back out as killers instead, they may think that we won’t connect them to Leran.”
Matheson nodded and flinched. How come I never noticed how many muscles that takes until they’re all screaming?
“I’ve sent the addresses for Robesh and her parents to your mobile. Start there and work outward.”
Relieved to be dismissed, Matheson started to go, then turned back. Was his brain as sluggish as his body? “Last night . . .”
“What of it?”
Matheson hesitated. “I may have misunderstood.”
“I doubt it. Ask your question.”
Matheson looked stiffly back at the door, reassuring himself that it was closed. “You . . . said you were going to the Ohbata . . . ?”
“Yes.”
Matheson did not glance at the inspector’s burned wrist, but there was no avoiding the new lacerations on his face. He held his tongue.
Dillal cocked his head slightly. “The contact I had hoped to meet was dead.”
Matheson frowned and the inspector nodded. “Shot. Four to six hours before I arrived. I believe she was the arms dealer who supplied the ammunition used at Paz—and she appears to have been killed with the same bullets—but I couldn’t confirm it.” He held up his burned wrist. “I ran afoul of old enemies and had some difficulty extricating myself—the damage is less dramatic than it appears.”
“Are these enemies connected to the case?”
Dillal shook his head. “They would have killed me if they were.”
“And it’s no coincidence that the arms dealer is dead, is it?”
“There’s no evidence one way or the other—and I couldn’t gather anything other than the imm
ediate scene impressions and chemical intake—but it would be unlikely.”
“But ForTech will have something.”
“No,” the inspector replied, bitterly. “By the time it was reported, the scene was scrubbed, the body gone. I had no communications, and I wasn’t there officially, though I may have given some people that impression. I hadn’t truly expected such a development and it’s my own mistake for letting the situation get the better of me.” He shook it away. “Regardless, this information must remain between us, for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The inspector glanced back to his displays. “We have a great deal to manage in three days. Concentrate on finding Leran’s associates in the Dreihleat—they must be there or connected to someone there.” Dillal’s tone was grim. “The mourning period and your condition make this more difficult, but we must find something to buy us more time or to close the case without bringing in the Ohbata evidence. Exploit every contact you have—even those you think you shouldn’t.”
“Sir?” Apprehension crawled up Matheson’s spine.
The inspector sighed and turned back to him. “Your informant, and the woman you’re sleeping with, even the unaff boy if you can find him without entering the Tomb unescorted. At the same time I remind you to be wary of them. There are factions within the Dreihleat that will use you to their ends as much as Pritchet would. Until you know where each of these contacts stands, you can’t entirely trust them, but we have no choices left.”
Dillal closed his eyes a moment before he continued. “I . . . have a habit of silence that is difficult to break and I can’t possibly tell you everything you need to know about this planet, this city, these people. I must rely on your intelligence, observation, and training. I’ve done what I can to make your job easier, but it’s still yours alone for now—though I wouldn’t forgive myself if you came to grief for lack of information I could have provided. I have a few more tests that may give us something, but they may not provide it quickly enough to satisfy Director Pritchet. We must turn up a new lead, and therefore I apologize for throwing you into dangerous waters ill-prepared. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
Tiny shocks of panic brought cold sweat prickling on Matheson’s too-sensitive skin. He dropped his gaze and nodded, unable to meet the inspector’s eye. “Yes, sir.”
He knows I slept with Aya. Why didn’t he say anything before? I didn’t either, but still . . . Dillal probably knew that Minje was the Confidential Informant Matheson was developing as well. The inspector knew them both and had put them in Matheson’s path when he sent him to the coffee house that first day. He’d also said Minje was useful to know . . . So, the inspector had wanted him to use Minje and he wasn’t angry about Aya, but he warned against them. There’s got to be some twisted history there and I’m not sure I want to know it.
Matheson cursed under his breath and made his way to the Dreihleat. All the businesses that didn’t cater directly to tourists were closed for the weekend and the area was thronged with both visitors and locals celebrating Spring Moon. There was no one at the clothing manufacturing company and no one nearby seemed to know anything helpful. The Dreihleen turned aside and shook their heads. He thought his battered face and uncomfortable posture did as much to make them back away as his questions. He was worn down, tired, even though he’d barely started. He tried Robesh’s address in an old-style open-stack building a lot like his own, but found no one home and began canvassing the building, in hope that someone wasn’t out celebrating.
It was well after noon when he found an elderly couple by the name of Tzeren one floor down from Robesh’s flat. They were uneasy in his presence, not wishing to give their names at first, but shocked about what had happened to their beautiful neighbor.
Finally, the wife turned her head toward Matheson, keeping her face lowered and her gaze aside. She spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear her. “For Dohan’s I’m do the training, until I’m too old. I’m work with Lele—Venn’s mother.” Matheson had to listen with all his attention to decipher her words in the low, lock-jawed Dreihleen accent that turned “worked” into “werrk’t.” “Very pretty. Venn’s so like her. So young . . .” She wiped welling tears from her eyes and pressed her lips tight for a moment.
“She worked as a model, didn’t she?” Matheson asked. “Venn, that is.”
Mrs. Tzeren nodded and sniffed. “Fitting model—pretty figure, so pretty . . . Everyone’s keep Venn in their eye. Company man’s almost fall in love with her.” She gave a small, trembling smile. “He’s say she’s model for all the line—so perfect. For her family’s very good. She’s not have t’go into service or prostitution.”
Matheson coughed to cover his surprise. “Why would she? Was the family—?”
Mr. Tzeren interrupted, irritated enough to meet Matheson’s eyes. “Is legal and such pretty girl should have chances better than sewing for half-real a day. What other chances we’re having if we’re not criminals like the red tars who’re kill our neighbors? Heh? How we’re to rise if we’re treated as animals only fit for work to death, only prey for criminals and Corporation too?”
Mrs. Tzeren put her hand on her husband’s shoulder, murmuring in his ear. He dropped his head, angry tears running from his eyes as he muttered, “Is not right.”
She tilted her head toward Matheson. “Venn’d good chances. Dohan . . . so proud of her, he’s take her everywhere, show her off in the Julian dress.”
“Is that how she ended up at Paz that night?”
Mrs. Tzeren ducked her head lower to the side. “I’m think so. I’m think . . . he’d thoughts of her.”
“What sort of thoughts?”
She lowered her head farther and shrugged. “Maybe marry her . . .”
He started to nod, but given Mrs. Tzeren’s posture, Matheson doubted there was anything so honorable as marriage in the thoughts Venn’s philandering employer had entertained. “Maybe not?”
Both the Tzerens flinched but said nothing.
Matheson shifted the topic a little. “And Denenshe Leran? Did you know his mother or his aunt from the factory, too?”
Mrs. Tzeren kept her eyes on the floor. “All family kind. But Denny . . .”
“Was he one of the children, there at the factory?”
She nodded. “All th’children together, also. I’m not know how he’s grow into what he was.”
“What was that? What was Venn and Denny’s relationship?”
Both Tzerens turned their mouths down. “Bad. Denny,” said Mr. Tzeren, his voice harsh, “he’s not best for Venn, but won’t let her free. He’s cruel to her. A wild boy. His friends . . . bad dogs.”
Matheson frowned over the phrase. “Who were some of these bad dogs? Were any of them sweatshop babies? Do you know their names? Any of them?”
The old man hesitated, then his wife shook her head and he followed suit.
Matheson tried to pry more information out of them but the Tzerens were done—something restrained them from saying all they knew. Working for Dohan would have brought them under the protection and pressure of a trade society, but Mr. Tzeren seemed too angry to be bowing to the clan. Could it be one of the factions Dillal had mentioned? The constant irritation of pain shortened his temper, but he took what they were willing to give and left before the aggravation got the better of him.
Dillal redirected a file from his official message queue to an offsite directory less easily hacked and deleted all record of its movement. Then he left and locked the office behind himself. Even on the weekend there were dozens of Directory-level employees heading up via the central lift to log in and keep GISA’s endless flow of paperwork from jamming up like a neglected watercourse. He waited with his left hand cupped over his mechanical eye, head bowed. Anyone would have thought he was upset or exhausted, but no one paid him any attention beyond a quick glance that turned away as fast, or faster, than it had arrived.
He sighed a little and brought his hand away from his face, study
ing it a moment, as if he wasn’t sure it was his. A moist red smear glimmered on his palm. He rubbed it away with the fingers of his other hand.
When the lift arrived, Dillal stepped in, keeping his head turned to the left, staying left, putting himself as far from the other passengers as was practical in the small space. They all alighted well before he reached his destination. Stopped at the top floor, he passed his wrist over a scanner next to the elevator’s door and the panels opened for him. He stepped out, bypassing a desk occupied by a stunning Gattian woman by turning right and going straight to the large goldwood doors at the end of the glass-paneled hall.
The woman started to rise and chase after him, but checked herself as a message appeared on her console. “Insp. Dillal directly to RD Pritchet’s office.” She glared after him for a moment, then returned to her work with a disgusted grumble.
Dillal touched the door with his left hand, the ID crystals in his wrist turned toward the glowing surface. The doors swung in with majestic grace, dwarfing the inspector in the gap. He strode forward, his gaze trained on Pritchet, who stood between the large goldwood desk and the unbroken curve of windows that stretched floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall several feet beyond it.
The director turned away from the view and waited for Dillal to come to him. He didn’t sit or invite Dillal to do so, but put one fist on his desk and leaned on it, looming over the inspector. “What’s going on with this investigation of yours?” He kept his voice civil and low, but he didn’t sound pleased. “The file’s been open for four days.”
“Three and a half.”
Pritchet gave a dismissive snort. “Irrelevant. Why haven’t you closed it yet?”
Dillal didn’t tilt his head back to look at Pritchet, but turned it sideways and watched him from the corner of his eyes, the prosthesis tracking just a bit slower than his normal eye and casting a bright reflection across the RD’s face as it moved. “Because the crime is not solved.”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 20
