“I expected more of this project, considering what we’ve invested in you.” Pritchet gave up trying to intimidate Dillal and sat down behind his desk. Dillal remained standing, turning his head to follow Pritchet. “Surely with your . . . skills you should have been able to round up a bunch of Dreihleen clan boys by now.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Pritchet laughed. “Oh, please. What’s so complicated? Find a dreck who’ll cop to it and close the damned case. Unless by complicated you mean this is an inter-racial problem . . .” He eyed Dillal significantly.
Dillal returned a flat expression. “It is unlikely that the GISA Directors and their friends at Corporation House have thought through this idea they’ve put into your mouth further than their own agendas. Any racial element is incidental to the true focus of this case—which is capital murder and should be addressed with all due gravity. If you will allow me to do my job rather than attempting to pull my strings like a marionette, you and the board will be adequately satisfied with the blood of the guilty soon enough, and not that of more innocents. Significant progress is being made, but with sixteen victims from a community that is resistant to police interference and resentful of government intrusion in their lives, the case is, as I said, complicated. But solvable.”
Pritchet frowned slightly and looked askance at him. “There is a rumor—it’s not just the board who’s talking—that there’s a racial element involved, beyond the mere fact that it happened in our Dreihleat.” He leaned forward. “Dillal, I, personally, put a great deal at stake with you. Not just with the project—my project—but in picking you specifically. You are a risk in yourself.”
“I’m aware of that. I also know that the qualities that persuaded you to choose me are what make me disposable and an easy scapegoat if you need one. If I fail, I expect the worst. Therefore, I won’t fail.”
“Well, you’ll have to start not-failing on a tighter schedule. The board and a lot of other people want this off the books and they are very concerned with the rumors that have started grumbling around—not that they’ve ever been happy with the issue of the ghettos and their residents. Just give me something I can take back besides ‘It’s complicated’ and ‘we’re working on it.’”
Dillal closed his eyes a moment, the mechanism above his left ear making its unnatural ripple beneath the lengthening red stubble of his hair. A small tear of pink liquid formed on one of the fresh cuts below the metal rim of his eye socket. Pritchet winced and turned his gaze aside.
Dillal reopened his eyes. “I’ll have something for you tomorrow. I have a metallurgical test finishing up that should tell me the origin of the bullets used in the crime.”
“Bullets? Surely a projectile is a projectile?”
“These were unusual.”
“They’d better be downright rare.”
“The preliminary results should be on my desk by now.”
“Not just rattling around in your skull with all that . . . ?” Pritchet waved one hand vaguely.
“Yes and no. I could read the results aloud right now, but I think you’d rather have the summary when I’m done with the complete report.”
Pritchet looked disturbed at the idea. “Tomorrow,” he said, uncertain.
“Or sooner.”
Pritchet still looked unconvinced, but he waved Dillal away. “Better be sooner.”
Dillal left quicker than he’d arrived, covering his left eye with his hand as he went.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Day 4: Afternoon and Evening
The Robeshes lived at the top of a cement-printed box stack that was old, unfashionable, and half-covered in aminta vines. There’d been no security system at the main entry—just two graceful, green cerm-glass spires topped with fluttering ribbons to frighten off birds. A flight of black-winged macaws had taken roost at the corner anyway, spattering the wall, vines, and ground below with the evidence of long residence. A lone Dreihle girl in tattered, sweat-dampened clothes had been scrubbing at the mess on the walkway, creeping forward by centimeters as the cleaned sidewalk behind her gathered new shit.
She hadn’t looked up as Matheson paused to ask her about the Robeshes, only shaken her head and returned to her unending task.
The climb to the flat was misery. Aging ventilation fans muttered and shushed in rickety mounts, barely moving the thick air in the stairwell, and Matheson reached the landing aching, panting, and mentally cursing the slack lift maintenance in the ghetto buildings. He took a few deep breaths, loosening the pain-knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders so that he didn’t hunch like an ape. There wasn’t much he could do about the bruises but try to ignore them.
The interior doors were all dull-colored fireproof types with hardened security shells that didn’t match one another. The residents had placed various identifying objects and air-scrubbing plants at their thresholds, and with the mismatched doors the hallway had a pleasantly eccentric look. The Robeshes’ south-facing unit at the end of the hall broke the effect.
Like the Dohans’, the Robeshes’ door and bell were completely hidden behind smooth black paper. A tall straight spray of dried maiden grass stood in a jar to one side beside a small box of rough slate holding a pitiful collection of black-edged envelopes and small black-wrapped objects. A young Dreihle woman peeped out of the next doorway and gave Matheson a disapproving glare before turning her gaze down. She didn’t return inside, but seemed to be waiting for him to leave.
He took a step back, studying the paper-covered doorway. The residents wouldn’t answer his knock any more than the Dohans had, and buildings like this didn’t have kitchen doors to try. How does anyone get in to bring food or carry in the mourning gifts? What about the funeral? The bodies’ll be released in a day or so and what’ll they do about that? Not leave them with GISA.
Matheson walked forward again and put his hand out flat on the paper, pushing slightly. The paper shifted back with a grating sound and he looked down to see a line of dust on the floor. It was mounted on a removable board.
The woman in the next doorway started to come out and stopped as he turned to look at her. She jerked her head down and tried to sidle behind her shaggy-leafed procullus plant. Matheson closed the distance and pulled out his ID.
“I’m SO Matheson. I need to speak to your neighbors about the death of their daughter.”
The woman backpedaled, trying to duck through her open door, but Matheson swung around her and blocked the way.
“You must be a friend, since you’re looking after them. Help me, or I’ll have no choice but to open that door.”
The woman gave a violent shake of her head. “Shouldn’t!” Her voice squeaked in anxiety.
“I don’t want to. I understand that they’re in mourning, but I have only days to discover who murdered Venn and the rest. That must be worth a great deal more than the silence of a black paper cocoon.”
She twisted her shoulders aside as if he’d tried to touch her, her expression curdling with disgust. “None should speak with you, dehka! Yours is no help for us!” Her low voice was venomous.
He peered at her, but he didn’t back off. “If you think doing nothing would be better, you’re wrong. The trade societies can’t fix this.”
“Clans’re no more help than you—bow to the corporation you work for.”
“That might be true—I don’t know—but I don’t bow to anyone. If not me, who do you think will find the people who killed your neighbors’ daughter?”
“Some are martyrs for justice—”
Merry hell. “Martyrs? Venn and the rest didn’t give themselves up for a great cause—they were murdered by criminals for their own ends. That’s no form of justice I—”
“The world will change because they’re killed. People are see how th’corporation and men like you do nothing t’avenge our cousins.” Cousins? Real or rhetorical?
Irritated, he pushed the distraction aside and snapped, “I would do anything in my power to find the m
en who killed them—regardless of what the corporation, the trade societies, or any park bench revolutionaries think. It’s my job, and I’m only asking you to help me do it.”
She drew back until she was pressed to the wall and looked sideways at him, snorting sharp, angry breaths. “Is easy said . . .”
“So’s the thoughtless parroting of other people’s ideas. If you actually want justice for Venn and the rest, I am a far better bet than hoping that the world will change before next week. Talking to me can’t make it worse, but stopping me can. So . . . you want to keep on arguing in the hallway or will you help me? Or should I override the door?”
She glanced at the floor, her mouth setting in a hard line. Then she looked toward the Robeshes’. After a moment, she said, “They’re can’t help.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Lele’s sick. She’s . . . she’s hurt herself when she’s hear about Venn.”
“Hurt herself? Why isn’t she in the hospital, then?”
The woman scoffed. “Hospital? Think Dreihleen can afford hopper’s doctors?”
“It’s public health.”
“Went to Public Health. Pumped her stomach, sent her home.” She glared at him again. “Think I lie?”
He shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t help me. I want to know how Venn and Denny came to be in Paz at the same time, who they were with, and why they went. I know they grew up together, but why did she keep seeing him after the things he’d threatened to do to her? What did they have in common that kept drawing them together? One of Denny’s bad dog friends?”
She only glared at him.
He turned and looked at the black-papered door. “I guess I’m going in alone.”
The young woman bolted to get between him and the barrier. She was quick, but he’d had his fill of being polite and it only took one well-placed foot to trip her.
She fell against the black panel and it crashed against the door hidden behind it. Matheson stepped past her as she scrambled to her feet. She swung around, raising her hands like claws. He checked her with his forearm and stared her down. “I wouldn’t advise it. I’m not in a good mood.”
The blackened door toppled forward and they both had to jump out of the way.
A bleary-eyed Dreihle man in rumpled clothes stood in the revealed doorway. “Rela,” he started, his voice querulous and low. He was middle-aged with dark hair hacked unevenly short, streaked with gray, and his skin had a sickly cast that turned his complexion an ugly khaki. He had the air of a sleepwalker, but as he focused on Matheson, he fell silent.
Rela turned back. “Trahna, Cousin,” she said in a rush. “Apologies. This . . . ofiçe’s come t’disturb you. I’m try to keep him out.”
The older man nodded. “Is nothing, Rela.” He looked at Matheson. “For you I have nothing.”
“Sir, I doubt that.” He produced his ID, hashed the recording, and continued, “Are you Con Robesh?” The man nodded again, leaning as if exhausted on the doorframe. “I’m trying to discover a connection between your daughter, Venn, and Denny Leran that would explain why they were both in the jasso that night and who was with them.”
Con flinched at the words as if they were blades stabbed through his chest. “Venn . . . was in every eye. Our little beauty. Who’d not wish t’see her?”
“I’ve been told their relationship was abusive, on-again-off-again. Off at that moment. Is that true?”
Con Robesh nodded, keeping his eyes down. “Rela,” he said. “You’re go to Lele.”
“Cousin,” she objected.
Con turned an angry expression on her and ground the word between his teeth, “Go!”
Rela ducked her head and scurried past him, into the apartment.
Con beckoned Matheson closer with a crippled hand. “You serve nothing here.”
“I serve the law—”
“Law’s grind us to death. Is not for Dreihleen. I’m waste my breath t’speak t’you.”
“If you tell me what friends they had in common, I may find the people who murdered your neighbors. If I can understand why Venn and Denny argued at Paz—”
“How you’re know what they did?”
“Evidence. They were together, away from the rest. He killed her.”
Con sucked a breath through his teeth and shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. “He’s not good enough for Venn—she’s want better. Thought they wanted the same, but two can chase same idea to different ends.”
“What was it they chased?”
Con shook his head again. “Is not for you.”
“Then who believed as they did? Who was with them? Who were their friends in common? Where can I find them?”
“You’ll not change it,” Con said, a tear escaping from his eye. “My wife’s try t’kill herself, but this nor you won’t bring Venn back. Will not unmake th’unfair world.” The older man’s voice shook.
“The people they knew in common may be as responsible for your daughter’s death as Leran was.”
“Nothing more for you, dehka. Cannot bleed two colors.” Con stepped back as tears flooded onto his cheeks. He started to shove the door closed.
Matheson blocked it with his leg and shoulder, swallowing a jolt of pain as the door rammed against his still-tender bruises. “I can change it—not the world, but what the world believes about the deaths of your daughter and your neighbors. If you know who killed them, tell me.”
“You’ll carry nothing,” Con said, his voice breaking, and rammed the door into Matheson.
Matheson flinched and jerked away from the sharp impact. The door slammed shut as he pulled back and the bolts clanked home. He stared at the door and its fallen screen of black paper. He knows—or suspects—who was there, but he’s not going to say. At least not to me.
Venn and Denny had believed something in common, if Matheson could find out what it was, he could find their mutual friends—mutual killers.
The howling began as he walked toward the stairs.
A Trizesh . . . Except for the register, it seemed no different from the pained cries of Chanan Vela or Aya . . . except that Mrs. Vela had fallen apart suddenly and the others had built slowly to their collapse. Which one of them’s yanking my chain? The thought distracted him as he hit the street and he had to push it aside. He needed to find the “bad dogs” who might connect Venn and Leran to someone else and he looked among the weekend tourists for the petty criminals, the grifters, the pickpockets, and drug dealers . . . but each time he saw someone he recognized from the street, they faded back into the crowds before he could get close. Even black-and-blue and without his uniform, he looked too much like a cop.
He returned to Canoe Street, but the Velas’ apartments were empty and the neighbors gave no leads to where they’d gone or when. If he hadn’t been played, it was a damned strange coincidence. What had made Chanan Vela so desperate to get rid of him? Temote had made the first connection to Venn, but there’d certainly seemed little love lost between the Velas and their wayward nephew.
Matheson stared up at the crater wall. The unaff boy had vanished into a hole near the Velas’ door. Does it connect to the Tomb? He’d have given a week’s pay to find that kid and learn what else he knew about Denny Leran, but he doubted he’d have the luck to simply stumble on the boy this time. Putting the word out might do more harm to the boy than good for Matheson—he wasn’t sure what the status and relationship of the unaffiliated was to the bad dogs and trade societies, but the scarring across the kid’s tattoo had looked deliberate and painful, as if he’d been cast out as much as cut loose. That would be why Jora and Halfennig hadn’t hesitated to go after him.
Matheson was nearly out of options, but not quite: Minje—chatty, quick-eyed, “useful” Minje . . .
Matheson waited at the edge of the park, watching down the road until the foot patrol had walked past. Not Jora and Halfennig, but he didn’t know which of the other SOs had attended his beat-down and he wasn’t going to chance it. He looked at his
mobile and marked the patrol’s check time for future reference.
The café was quietly bustling. Tourists and locals mixed together under the buzz and mutter of Dreihleen conversation and both Aya and Minje were occupied. Minje had the floor and glanced up as Matheson entered. The man blinked in surprise, then scowled and jerked his head toward the counter where Aya was working, casting his gaze quickly the same direction. Matheson shook his head and received a puzzled look in reply.
He found a stretch of unoccupied ledge near the back wall. Several Dreihleen stood nearby, resting their cups on the flat, narrow wooden rail at waist height to them. They’d turned sideways to look out the window, or put their backs to the room for privacy. He didn’t recognize any of them as they made space for him. He started to lean against the rail, but the first touch of the hard edge through his clothes made him wince. Merry hell, but that hurts. Standing still he was more aware of his weariness, ground in by the constant ache of motion against injury.
Minje walked past him with his arms full of used receptacles. “What’s bring you this time, right man?”
“More damned questions,” he replied in a low voice, as much from frustration as discretion.
“You’re ask z’wrong folk these questions?” Minje gave Matheson a pointed stare.
“No. I had a disagreement with a shower.”
“Heh. You’re fall in the shower?”
“I had help.”
Minje grunted with a knowing nod. “Is usual, this help?”
“No. Why would you think so?”
Minje shrugged. “You’re a police. If you’re good police, z’other police don’t like you. If bad police, bad dogs challenge you.”
Matheson looked sharply at him. “Tell me about the bad dogs—the ones Denny Leran knew that Venn Robesh also knew.”
“Why you’re ask me?”
“You know a lot you don’t say.”
Minje closed his eyes and shook his head. “Can’t say.” He opened his eyes again, glancing around and then back to Matheson with raised eyebrows. “Is not good for you,” he whispered.
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 21
