Hace saluted and waved for a handful of marshals to follow him down the back stairwell. Three marshals descended on Minox’s desk.
“Captain,” Minox said, noticing Joshea was talking to Corrie and Nyla by Nyla’s desk. “We should probably escort all the civilians off the floor during this—situation.”
“Not a terrible idea,” Cinellan said.
“I’ll handle it,” Minox said. “It’s not like I have anything else to work on right now.”
He went over to Joshea, taking him by the arm and directing him toward the main stairs. “I need a favor,” he said in a low voice.
“Now?” Joshea asked as they left the floor. “I think that—”
“Please, this is critical. You’re a civilian so the marshals won’t—”
“Fine,” Joshea said, though he looked put out. “I’ve had to deal with a lot of sewage here today.”
“I understand, and I will make it up to you,” Minox said. It wouldn’t be fruitful to mention that he had sacrificed himself to Miss Morad and Mister Olivant to protect Joshea’s secret. This was not the moment. “Take these sketches across the river to Riverheart Ward; look for a man named Dayne Heldrin.” He pulled out the envelope and slid it under Joshea’s vest.
“How will I recognize him?”
“He’s a seven-foot-tall man in a Tarian uniform.”
“So he stands out,” Joshea said.
“Yes, rather.” For once, Minox got the joke Joshea was telling, even if this was not the moment. “You should hurry.”
“But what do I—”
“Go over those sketches with him, tell him I sent you. I will join you both as soon as I can.”
“The last time we were both in a hospital ward—”
“We will endeavor not to repeat that.”
Joshea gave him a big grin, and with a slap on the shoulder, went down the stairs.
Minox returned to the inspectors’ floor, where the marshals were nearly tearing apart his desk.
“What is this?” Minox said, feeling heat and magic flow to his hand as he came up to Chief Quoyell. “What do you think you’re doing to my work?”
“We’re taking everything connected to the case,” Quoyell said. “It’s not my fault that your files and reports are so disorganized.”
“Is this about the Gearbox?” one of the other marshals asked, pointing to the slateboard.
“Not exclusively,” Minox said. “While I’m certain you have the authority to claim evidence, reports, and files, I’m also certain that you are not empowered to claim anything that isn’t an official part of the investigation.”
“I have a royal edict—”
Minox didn’t let him start on that. “Even the king himself couldn’t empower you to claim my personal notebook or my slateboard musings without specific writs to that end.”
“We could charge you with Crimes against the Throne and claim them as evidence for that.”
“Do not be petty, Chief,” Minox said. “You have what you need.”
Leppin came up the back stairs, still in his blood-spattered examinarium apron and gloves. “I want to file a protest against these marshals! Damaging evidence! Tampering!”
“Who is this fool?” Quoyell asked.
“Fool?” Leppin nearly spat in his face, his northwestern Druth accent thickening with anger. “This fool is Maricus Leppin, Master of Sciences. This fool has no less than three Letters of Mastery from RCM and The Acorian Conservatory, and I know about more things than you’ve even thought of. And I know that even with a damn Royal Edict and writs of any sort, the proper handling and transfer of evidence requires more than a handful of meatheaded cretins shoving things in crates with a sinner’s care!”
“Leppin,” Captain Cinellan said calmly. “We’re obliged to cooperate.”
“The way they’re—the integrity of evidence is at stake, sir. I thought that mattered when solving a crime is paramount.”
“That’s not your problem, little man,” Quoyell said. “Where are we, gents?”
The marshal who seemed to be in charge of Minox’s desk gave a halfhearted shrug. “I think we’ve got it all. I can’t read half this handwriting.”
“Err on the side of caution,” Quoyell said. “If you’re not sure, take it.”
“I have material on several cases—” Minox started.
“Try my patience, constable,” Quoyell said, cutting him off. “Maybe a night in the marshal’s holding pens would cool you off.”
“You wouldn’t—” Leppin said.
“The both of you. All of you.” Quoyell locked eyes on Inspector Rainey, who had been cool and impassive all this time. No, not that. She had been watching and studying Quoyell. “You have anything to interject?”
“Not right now, Quoyell.” She made a strange point of over-pronouncing the syllables in his name, as if his name itself was an insult she was emphasizing.
He scoffed, and then his expression changed. “What are you burning in here?”
Minox realized that the glove he wore over his altered hand was lightly smoking. He didn’t realize how much heat and anger he had shunted into that hand. He quickly drew energy back, taking control over himself.
Maybe Olivant was right about him.
“All right,” Quoyell said, noting that his people seemed to be finished. “This office will, as of this moment, cease any further pursuit of the Gearbox Killer case and the Parliament Atrocity. Any further revelations made by this office should be reported immediately to the King’s Marshals. Good day.”
The marshals all marched out.
Captain Cinellan waited for them to be gone, and then closed the main doors to the inspectors’ floor. “Enough gawking, people. Back to work. I’m sure you all have something to do.” He went back into his office.
Minox sat down at his nearly empty desk, only a handful of notes and paper scraps remaining. Rainey sat down, and Leppin came over, his face filled with anger. Then he leaned down. “I have copies of all my own reports, sketches, and findings. Those were hidden and safe.”
“Were you expecting this?” Minox asked.
“If not this, something like this,” Leppin said. “Ever since the spikes vanished, I’m taking no chances with anything. My own files, my own evidence.”
“That will be helpful,” Minox said. “Though this might just be an academic exercise from now on.”
“We’re not giving up on this, I assume?” Rainey said. “Even if this goes to the ‘unresolved,’ I can’t imagine you’d just let it go.”
“Hardly,” Minox said. “While I may not have the files, I still have my memory. And no Royal Edict can stop us from interviewing people who were not listed as victims of the Gearbox or the Parliament Atrocity.”
“So who are the functionaries we’re going to visit?” Rainey asked.
“Three men by the name of Tenning, Hunsen, and Cole.”
Chapter 17
THEY WERE ACTING in deliberate defiance of the King’s Marshals and Royal Writs. Despite that, Satrine hadn’t felt more excited in months. The fight with the Kickers had gotten her blood up, and she was hungry for more. It was clear Welling was in the same frame of mind. He looked like he was ready to take on every bit of corruption in law enforcement in Druthal. Probably the axe over his head had lit the fire in his belly.
Not that Welling was ever lacking in that. He always had drive, but now he seemed to have passion as well.
“All three addresses are on the north side,” he said as they left the stationhouse. “Are you going to be all right with that?”
He pointed to the Kicker boot she was still wearing. Nyla had said that it would take a few days before they could get her a new pair of boots. Satrine imagined Nyla wasn’t exactly pushing the paperwork through with any great expedience.
“It’s fine,” sh
e said, though it wasn’t true. The boot fit, essentially, but there was something about it that was bothering her. Too stiff along her ankle. She’d make do until she could get new ones.
Jerinne was waiting outside, looking concerned. “I saw the marshals come and go. Everything all right?”
“The case isn’t ours anymore, officially,” Satrine said.
“And unofficially?” Jerinne asked.
“Unofficially, you should probably check in with your superiors,” Welling said. “Given the change of case, they may not wish for you to be shadowing us any further.”
Jerinne’s face fell a little. “Are you sure, Missus Rainey?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Satrine said. Then something occurred to her, “but stop by my house if you can later this evening. I’m sure Rian would appreciate it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerinne said, her face brightening immensely. “It was a bracing morning, to be sure.”
“You were amazing,” Satrine said. “Thank you.”
Jerinne saluted and went off.
“All right,” Minox said once she left. “I need to stop at Missus Wolman’s.”
He went up to the food cart camped on the other side of the square from the stationhouse, always Welling’s favorite. Though it was probably his favorite just due to its proximity to the stationhouse.
“How many today, Inspector?” Missus Wolman asked, working her flatbread dough and throwing her mysterious meat substance on her grill.
“Three,” he said.
A perverse urge struck Satrine, probably because she hadn’t eaten anything since this morning. “Make it four.”
“Really?” Missus Wolman asked. “You ain’t afraid it’s cat kidneys or something?”
“Is it?”
“I ain’t telling you.”
“Just give me one,” Satrine said, pulling out a tick. She noticed even Welling looked surprised. “I’m starving. I literally forget to eat when I’m not out there with you.”
“You’re usually quite critical of the fast wraps.”
“Well, if half a dozen Kickers can’t kill me, then what can this do?”
Missus Wolman flipped the flatbreads over, and then portioned the meat in each one, and with practiced dexterity, rolled them up and then wrapped them in yesterday’s newsprints. “You two are in the prints a lot more of late,” she said as she finished the last one.
“That won’t last,” Satrine said.
“The bastards are boxing you out?”
“Where did you get that idea?” Welling asked.
“Boy, I sit outside that stationhouse all blasted day,” she said. “I saw a swarm of marshals drop on your head. And it was your head, eh?”
“It was,” Welling said. “But that’s over, and we have further work to do.”
“Get all the bad ones off the street,” she said, passing over the wraps.
Welling tucked into the first one as they started walking toward the bridge. Satrine unwrapped hers a bit more gingerly. Despite the number of times Welling would eat as they walked the streets, she had never quite mastered his grace in juggling food while navigating the crowd.
Also, the spicy, fatty scent was already giving her regrets.
Still, she was hungry, so she cautiously took a bite.
It wasn’t as horrible as she feared, but it certainly wasn’t good.
“I can’t believe you eat, like, ten of these a day.”
“They are convenient in location and price,” Welling said, already working on his second. “Especially since Missus Wolman only charges constables half price.”
“At least someone appreciates us.”
They crossed the bridge, went through Satrine’s High River neighborhood to North High River. Satrine always felt this neighborhood was warm and inviting, in part because the shops here all spilled out into the street, and just strolling through the walkway brought about kind and well-meaning solicitation. As opposed to Inemar or Aventil, where the invitation to purchase something almost felt like an assault.
Also, when people saw her and Welling, in their Constabulary uniforms, they would nod and say “good day” instead of shoving their hands in their pockets and keeping their eyes to the ground.
“Tenning first?” she asked.
“He’s the farthest out,” Welling said. “I thought it made sense to go to him and then work our way back.”
“What do we know about these three?”
“Other than they should have been in the Atrocity—is that the formal name for this event?”
“That’s what the marshals called it.”
“Apt, but terrible. Anyway, our information is limited. I only had time to read the files to find names and addresses.”
They came to the address—a tony and posh-looking building with intricate brickwork and several trees and flowers bordering its front walkway, much like every other building in this part of the city.
“Second-floor apartment,” Welling said, leading them in.
The obvious thing when they got inside was that something untoward had happened in this building. There was a hole smashed in the wall—recent, to Satrine’s eye—and the handrail of the stairwell had been knocked loose. With just a nod of mutual understanding, she and Welling pulled their crossbows out and went slowly up the stairs. The door to the second-floor apartment was broken—like it had been kicked in.
“Mister Tenning?” Welling called out. “Are you there?”
No response.
“City Constabulary. Is everything well? I will presume a lack of response means you are in need of aid.”
In this, he was going by the regulations. Which was probably wise, given that they were well off the path at this point.
After a reasonable pause, Welling pushed the door open, and he and Satrine went in, quickly sweeping through the apartment.
Satrine almost slipped on the blood on the floor.
“Sweet saints!” she cried.
There was a dead man on the floor, at least two stab wounds in his neck and chest. And the room was a mess—when this man was killed, there had been a fight.
Welling crouched down next to the man, touching his face briefly.
“He’s dead. But for barely an hour, I’d guess,” he said. “The question is, is this Tenning, or did this man come for Tenning and he killed him and ran?”
Satrine looked closer. “I’m not sure, but I can tell you—this was one of the three men in the boiler room.”
“Really?” Welling, for once, showed some surprise. “But that would mean . . . you’re certain?”
“Rather,” Satrine said. He was the one who had all but lost his mind in there. “But we had different names for them, right?”
“We did,” Welling said, frowning. “And I didn’t memorize all the details, but the names of the men in the boiler room—we were told—were Ollick, Brens, and Gennan. So is this man one of them, or is he Tenning? And in either case, what does this mean?”
“I know one thing this means,” Satrine said, pulling out her whistle. “We’ve got to call this in.”
* * *
The dead body of Mister Tenning was definitely a curiosity. Everything about the situation raised questions. First of all, the body was definitely Tenning, unless the neighbor who identified him was part of a larger conspiracy. Minox did not suspect that was the case—there was too much shock and honesty in the neighbor’s reaction when he saw the body.
Which meant that Tenning had been one of the three in the boiler room that Rainey had rescued. And if that were the case, why was his name removed from the roster of the survivors, and replaced with another? Was it as simple as Tenning, Hunsen, and Cole giving false names, and if so, why? Why had Tenning been killed now? And by whom, in a simple, rough, and violent way?
One thing was certain,
it was not the work of the Gearbox Killer—or, at least, not his signature work.
That was probably fortunate, as it did not raise any need for explanation to the North High River constables about the murder or what they were doing there. Minox and Rainey had simply introduced themselves as inspectors with the GIU and that they had come to ask some routine questions when they found Mister Tenning dead. The North High River inspectors were quite pleasant and cooperative, willing to share any revelations their investigation brought with the GIU. One of them, when his partner was otherwise occupied, slipped his calling card to Minox, hoping to be transferred to the GIU if an opening arose.
“You all are doing great stuff,” he said. “I’d love to be a part of it.”
Minox agreed to pass the card to Captain Cinellan. He could even do so in good conscience—these inspectors both seemed engaged, inquisitive, and competent. They were everything that inspectors ought to be. Minox thanked them for their help and gladly passed the case on to them.
“And now to Cole?” Rainey asked as they left. It was already midafternoon, a bit too much time wasted at Tenning’s place.
“With some urgency. It’s just a few blocks this way,” Minox said. “Hopefully it won’t be the same scenario. The North High River Stationhouse would probably have some concerns.” Them finding two dead Parliamentary functionaries in North Maradaine would likely get the marshals’ attention, if the first one alone didn’t.
Cole’s apartment was not the same scenario, but it did have similarities. There was no body, or signs of a struggle. It was a similar mess, but a mess that put Minox in mind of someone quickly gathering a few necessary belongings and running off. Including a lockbox that had been taken out of a hidden spot under a desk and left open and empty on the bed.
“So, was Mister Cole robbed or did he run?” Rainey asked.
“My guess is run,” Minox said. “But why and to where?”
“Why is likely because he doesn’t want to get killed like Tenning.”
“Presuming he’s aware. Presuming he isn’t the one who killed Tenning.”
“So here’s the big question in front of us,” Rainey said. “These three, Tenning, Cole, and Hunsen, were missing from the list we had for a reason. Tenning we know was one of the three in the boiler room. I don’t know about Cole and Hunsen . . .”
A Parliament of Bodies Page 24