The SO’s nod could barely be told apart from her shiver.
Dillal gave a thin half-smile that did nothing to dispel the mood of the room. “Thank you.”
Dillal turned on his heel and left. As the door closed, the SOs erupted in chatter. No one moved to help Jora to his feet.
Dillal ran to his own office next, but Matheson wasn’t there. A stiff piece of contour sheet lay on the inspector’s desk, but there was no other sign of the younger man. Dillal did not stop to check the ID swipe logs, only took the contour, locked himself back out, and went into the lab next door.
A handful of med/legals were still busy with evidence from the Santos apartment and other cases, but they were winding down for the day. Neither Starna nor Matheson was among them. Dillal caught the attention of a round, mid-brown woman who approached him with the wariness of a cat. Her hair and eyes were the color of dust.
“Jem Starna or SO Matheson,” Dillal said, curbing his temper. “Have you seen either recently?”
She looked ready to flee, but swallowed before answering. “Uh . . . the SO was here earlier. For contour flimsy. Is that it?”
“I would assume so. Who are you?”
She flinched. “Dr. Woskyat. Can I . . . can I take that?” she asked, putting out a tentative hand for the contour.
Dillal glanced at the formed sheet as if he’d forgotten its existence. “Yes. Model this and run comparison against the prints from Paz da Sorte scene database.” He handed the sheet to her, scowling. “This should be Starna’s job.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours. He was here, but I don’t know where he is now. He might have taken a break for dinner or . . . or something.”
“Hope for his sake it is not ‘or something.’”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Day 5: Afternoon in the Dreihleat
“I just want to know which it was—did you lie to me, use me, or set me up? Or all of them? Is that it? You kept me close to keep an eye on your brother’s investigation for Tchintaka’s benefit . . . ? And then you let them come after me. The man’s a spellbinder—if the crowd had caught me, they’d have killed me! Is that what you wanted?” Matheson had hoped that running across town, crossing the eastern barrier, making his way to her on the roof would calm his temper, but it hadn’t changed the sickening sensation one bit. He was shaking under the weight of his angry disillusionment and he spat out his words from between clenched teeth. “You play a remarkably cool game, Aya. And I fell for it.”
Aya’s expression was calm, but her posture was tense and wary. “I’m answer what you’re ask. I’m find you when I’d things to tell you, and I’m think on what you’re say. And is’t a crime to be kind? Left you on the street bleeding, sent you away last night, would’ve pleased you more?”
The breeze across the rooftop smelled of cinders and smoke and the noise of the riot—now reduced to pockets of desperation—clattered in the distance. “That first night, you didn’t come to render aid,” he snapped. “You came to keep an eye on me—on the investigation.”
“Why you’re think I would?”
“For Tchintaka, for the cause. Because you’re the inspector’s sister, and I’ve got to wonder why no one said so! When I told you my partner was dead, you were shaken, but it wasn’t over Santos—you said you were relieved to know it was him. You thought it was Dillal. Oh and I’m sorry—I’ve been mispronouncing that—it’s ‘dil-HAL’ isn’t it? Like your name is pronounced ‘le-HYAN’ because that’s how Dreihleen names work when you’re related. And I was too damned stupid to see it! You got close to me, seduced me, you picked my brain about the investigation and I didn’t even wonder why. I believed you and now I can’t trust one thing you’ve done or one word you’ve said—in bed or out of it.”
“Nothing I’m tell you’s a lie.”
He stepped closer with every angry sentence. “The lies are in the things you didn’t say! You didn’t say Tchintaka is the heart of your revolutionary hopes.” Nearly standing on her feet, he yelled at her, “I doubt it’s a coincidence you practically sent me into his grasp this morning and he incited a riot that could have gotten me killed!”
Aya slammed her palm against his chest, jolting him back. Her expression was icy-sharp. “I’m not send you to be harmed.”
Matheson took a step back, the near-hysterical edge knocked off his unreasonable anger, though the heat still remained. He’d known she was dangerous. Confirmation brought no comfort. “You made a damned fine job of it anyhow,” he said.
“You’re th’one’s convince me to speak, Eric. You’re know why we’re hold our tongues, why we’re bleed silence. When you’re convince me our hope’s corrupted, I’m tell you who’re the worms you’re seek.”
“For your own sake!”
“What’s matter when you’re get th’answer you need?” she spat back.
“‘What’s matter’ is that you manipulated me into your bed and used what I was idiot enough to tell you to protect your friends, so two more people died! And now more are dying and I could have been one of them.”
“I’m tell no one what you’re say in my bed.”
“I can’t believe that—you’ve played me too well. I was stupid enough to imagine that for once in my life a potential lover—you—had no ulterior motive, except simply wanting me. Merry fucking idiot that I am. But now, whether you’ve told them or not, I have no choice but to think you were using me to keep an eye on your brother’s investigation to benefit your political friends! Why else would you use me? Why not go to him—”
“Because he’s only half my brother and I’m hate him!”
She spat the words so furiously that Matheson was taken aback. He stared at her. She glared back at him, her face flushed as she took agitated breaths through flared nostrils.
A spike of curiosity let his anger ease to a simmer. “Then why did you care when you thought he was dead?” Matheson asked.
Aya closed her glittering eyes and turned a little aside with a frustrated growl. “You’re not believe me, no matter what I’m say.”
This is too much and I am too raw. “Aya, I wish I could. But I have been beaten, informed of my TO’s death, menaced, chased, assaulted by some haunt of my own mind, threatened, and now I discover that the woman I’m . . . fucking is not who or what I thought. How can I trust anything when I’m standing on quicksand?”
“You’re trust him.”
“I’ve told you—Dillal and I have to trust each other or we both go down.”
She turned back to look at Matheson, her expression tired. “And so you’re also trust me. When I’m tell you of Hoda and Oso, I’m betray the Friends for hope of making them clean again. If you’re not arrest them, if you’re persuaded me to think wrong, all’s done. I’m ruin every hope and the Friends are ruin me.”
The way she said it rang a bell. “Friends . . . ?” Matheson asked.
Aya nodded. “Friends of th’Idea.”
The Velas had spoken of “friends”—one of the few Dreihleen words he knew—and Minje said something about “they knew Friends”. . . “Friends of the Idea” . . . and the Three R movement . . . How did I miss it? “I see. But you did lie to me.”
“How?”
“I told you the boy said ‘They’re no friends’ and you said they had friends in common.”
“They’re did. The Friends.”
He laughed bitterly at himself. That Dreihleen thing of talking sideways. “And the Friends are Tchintaka’s followers—which I didn’t know. How does that explain the rest? You sympathize with Tchintaka—leaving aside whether you nearly handed me to him—and you claim to hate the inspector, but you almost collapsed when you thought he was dead. Tell me why.”
“Because of him, our mother’s die. How I’m trust such a one’s only half Dreihle and half machine? What’s his care for us? But I’m not expect to feel such pain for thought of him dead.” She paused to close her eyes again and swallowed as if something had ca
ught in her throat. “Or such doubt for the cause I’m always think’s right. I’m even argue with Friends in my own shop. Is like a knife with no handle, this . . .”
Matheson stepped back, worn down with uncertainty, and the ache returning to his muscles. He wanted to believe. He took her hand and pulled her to the bench. “Sit down and tell me the rest.” He stayed on his feet.
She sat, pole-straight, and looked out at the flowering garden. “I’m tell you the truth last night—Oso would be here and the tunnels’re not safe for you alone. You’re make me think of what he’s done that should not have been done and see he’s not a right man.” Her voice became sharper as she grew more angry. “He’s wear the face and we’re all believe, but he’s only a bad dog who’s piss on what we’re work for, and I’m shamed Friends’re turn a blind eye. And if he’s done what’s done at Paz, I’m rather tear the heart from us and hand it to Djepe than go where Tchintaka’s take us.” She nearly spat these last words. “And that’s why I’m tell you—and by you, Djepe.”
“Djepe?” Matheson echoed.
She tilted her gaze at him. “Your inspector. Is his name. Our mother’s name him for his father, who’s arrested and died in Agria.” She shook her head and stared out into her garden again. “She’s not give him his father’s family name—is Ohba and too dangerous here—but a Dreihle name that’s like. Djepe Inza Dillal. I’m three when he’s born. Ten when she’s leave.” She sounded bitter.
“Leave?”
“Die.”
Matheson nodded. “And you held him responsible.”
She shifted her gaze farther aside. “She’s ill from his birth, never healed. She’s not work. I’m work for my uncle—Minje’s father. He’s take us in, even after what’s happen. And then my mother’s die. I’m not want Djepe and my uncle’s not like him in his house. So, I’m give him away.”
“But you kept track of him.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hear of him again until he’s twenty and returns here as an ofiçe. Then I’m not wish to know more about him—not wish to see him or know him—but he’s here, in Dreihleat Ang’Das . . .” She shrugged, but it was stiff and forced. “And I’m not trust him.”
“Because he’s with GISA or because he’s half Ohba . . . or just because he’s your brother?” Matheson’s fury was gone and what remained was broken and sad.
“How you’re trust an ofiçe when they’re no better than bad dogs?”
“I’m not a bad dog. If I’m to believe what you’ve just said—anything you’ve said—then I have to believe you trust me. So do you?” It was all senseless and terrible enough to be the truth and he did believe it. But he wanted her to say the same.
Her brow puckered and her mouth turned down for a fleeting instant. Then she turned her head down and away from him. The gesture gave him an unwanted pang.
“You do.” He sighed, resigned to it. Neme had been right. “You trust me because I’m such an eager, innocent puppy. And you played me. Maybe for what you thought was a good reason, but you did it anyway.” He sighed. Better get used to it—you’re a cop and people will fuck you for their own ends.
Matheson gazed at her garden a while in silence and out toward the rest of the Dreihleat while the midday sunlight fell on the roof like a hammer. He hadn’t been wrong, but his common sense had gone jumpwise where she was concerned and he’d gotten the right answers almost by luck as much as work. And I’d have solved it days ago if I’d just known what the unaff kid—Zanesh—meant by “friends.”
Matheson sat still beside Aya and rested his forearms on his knees, wincing a little from the bruises and the ache in his back as he shifted his weight. He could smell acrid smoke lingering in the air as the ghetto became unnaturally quiet around them, the last of the resistance being beaten away before the sweeping-up started.
“I think you’ve misjudged your brother,” Matheson said. “He is a good man—better than me. He cares about the people who died at Paz and what’s going to happen to the rest of you if this goes unsolved.”
She scoffed, but it sounded uncertain. “You’re know him a week.”
He turned his head toward her. “And you don’t know him at all.”
She turned her eyes away.
“You’re certain of the connection between Tchintaka, Banzet, and Leran? You didn’t just drop me in the shit?”
“That they’re know each other, that they’re speak together often, I’m do—all friends together and all eyes for Venn. What they’re say, I’m not know. I’m not listen. I’m not asked.”
“So you’ve been in the Tomb.”
She nodded, still not looking at him. “Many times.”
“Could you help me find Tchintaka and Banzet? Given what happened earlier, I’m afraid that if they knew Leran as you say . . .”
Aya rose slowly to her feet. “I’m know what you’re think—if they’re friends, perhaps, they’re murderers also—and I’m fear the same.”
The windows of the coffee house lay shattered inside, goods and furniture scattered in the street like all the rest. Dillal strode through the maze of destruction and into the café by the broken front window, rather than the still-locked door.
Minje swung a length of construction bar at his head and Dillal ducked, grabbed, and shoved the taller Dreihle around and down by the momentum of his own motion. Minje rolled to get back up, but Dillal caught his foot and flipped him to his back. The inspector came down on one knee beside him, right hand drawn back to deliver a palm strike that would have smashed the other’s nose.
Minje flinched, bringing his hands up to protect his face, which was already bloodied on one side. Then he relaxed flat on the floor with a loud exhale of relief. “Is you.”
“Where’s Aya?” Dillal demanded.
“Don’t know. Been here five minutes. Thought you were looting.” He sounded amused at the idea.
Dillal stood up, helping Minje to his feet, then started for the work room door.
“She’ll not want to see you,” Minje said, rubbing the back of his head and checking for damage.
Dillal turned back. “It’s not her I’m after.”
Minje raised his eyebrows. “Your pretty hound, heh?”
The inspector’s expression was cold. Minje looked him over for a moment, cocking his head in curiosity and narrowing his eyes. His gaze lingered over the artificial eye and a small red patch below it on Dillal’s cheek.
Then Minje shrugged again and pointed to the ceiling with his thumb. “The roof. If here they are. I’m clean up this mess. Hey . . . go soft—he’s young.”
“And blissfully ignorant, I pray,” but Dillal’s tone said he doubted it.
The inspector went through the work room and up the stairs swiftly, seeming not to care how much noise he made on the way. He burst through the door of the loft, nearly colliding with Aya and Matheson as they were walking toward it. They stepped back, startled, and Dillal stepped forward, an expression of restrained fury on his face.
“Sir?” Matheson started.
Dillal reached out and plucked Matheson’s mobile from his pocket, swiping past the lock and several commands as if it were his own. Then he flipped the display side toward Matheson. “Explain this.”
The riot footage from Camp Donetti started at midpoint and streamed forward. For the first few minutes, Matheson and Aya both frowned at it, confused. Then Aya backed away, her eyes wide, covering her mouth as if she might scream or vomit.
Matheson’s face went slack, staring in horrified recognition, his breath coming in sharp, hysterical pants. When the water cannon came to bear, he flinched and gasped as if he’d been struck and wrenched his face aside, squeezing his eyes shut. His hands came up as if he could push the images away and he took an unsteady step back from the inspector.
Dillal didn’t let him go. He closed the distance and snatched Matheson’s hands aside. “Don’t look away,” he snapped. “You have no right to look away. You said you’ve been on Gattis a month, but th
is was more than a year ago. One-hundred twenty people died there. One-hundred twenty. All Dreihleen and Ohba. And they will die here, too, after today. So tell me why you were there. Or tell me this isn’t you.” He let Matheson go and flicked the stream to the end, to the freeze-frame of the young man’s face as he collapsed in the mud.
Matheson buckled to his knees the same way now, folding on himself, covering his face with his hands as Aya leapt at Dillal, slapping the mobile from his grip.
She let out a grinding shriek, lashing out, double-fisted, at his throat. Dillal wrenched aside and took the impact on his shoulder, but it spun him and he dropped to one knee in the white stones at the verge of the garden. “T’ulfeshté!” she spat, taking another swing at him.
Dillal caught her forearm, deflecting the blow, but she’d locked her foot behind his other leg and swept it out from under him.
He didn’t let go and she fell across him as he went down on his back. She rammed a knee into his groin. He doubled up with a ragged gasp of pain and she scrambled over him to Matheson’s side, saying his name.
The young man twitched away from her touch, muttering, “No. I can’t . . .”
Aya froze where she crouched, her hands fisted and arms rigid, watching Matheson curl tighter on himself as he shuddered. She ground her teeth and glared.
Dillal picked himself up, wincing, and stood near them, bowed in discomfort. “Do you believe in his innocence? Or do you want to defend him only because you hate me?”
“What’s that . . . thing you’re showed him?”
“Illegal riot suppression. Fourteen months ago on Agria there was a workers’ demonstration at Internment Camp Donetti—they refused to work in the conditions of the camp any longer. They gathered in the common square and asked for relief. For redress. Does that sound familiar?”
Aya’s eyes grew wide and horrified. She stared up at her brother.
Dillal continued, “They were locked out of their dorms, starved, left standing in the square during a storm. A few became ill, two died. That is where the official story ended—media claimed they returned to work. But that wasn’t what happened. After five days, those still strong enough became violent—counseled to revolt by a visitor who disappeared in the chaos. So they tried to break into their own homes, into stores or offices for food. They found weapons—very few, but enough—and tried to force their way into the administration building. Troops arrived illegally from out-system without documentation or record and put them down. One-hundred eighteen more dead. No word of it ever passed beyond the GISA regional director and the agricamps.”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 28
