Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  As we approached our destination, I spied a multitude of crude, hand-drawn advertisements festooning most of its windows and the entry door.

  I was about to enter Armin’s when I realized Besim had paused before one window. She was scanning the flyers with great interest.

  “You know any of these?” I asked.

  Standing that close to her reinforced our difference in height. I’d never literally been in someone’s shadow before. It was disconcerting.

  “I am familiar with all of them,” Besim gushed with enthusiasm. She pointed at a drawing that was the progeny of a peace sign and three electrocuted cats. “They are known as Peaceful Intentions, a three-piece acoustic group from New Chicago. I find their music to be quite soothing.”

  I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets while I fought the urge to grab her by the arm and drag her into Armin’s. She was tall yet thin, and I was wiry muscle, so it couldn’t be that hard, right? How heavy could she be? I calculated the math in my head.

  “Forgive my indulgence, Detective,” Besim said quickly. “You must be anxious to continue the investigation.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I waved my hand expansively. “It’s just not my scene, that’s all. My taste runs real old school, like Mozart, Beethoven, Led Zeppelin, that sort of thing.”

  She offered me a quizzical look. “I am quite familiar with the first two composers, but who is Led Zeppelin? I have never heard of him. Does he hail from the Scandinavian Fellowship?”

  “No,” I chuckled. “Zeppelin is classic rock and roll. It’s music from the days of my youth, when I was told what it meant to be a man. Maybe I’ll have EVI play a song or two later.”

  She nodded, a bit uncertain, and I held the door open for her as we entered Armin’s.

  Soft music greeted us, piped in from a sound system not readily visible. The coffee shop’s interior was an eclectic mess of mismatched tables, chairs and benches with throw pillows of all shapes and sizes. All the furniture bore gaudy upholstery that was patched and faded with the wrong colors and fabrics as if they’d been repaired by some madman with no taste. The concrete floor was littered with Oriental rugs and Berber carpets arranged with no semblance of order. To our right was a row of stools, along with a rainbow-painted countertop running halfway along the windows overlooking Peck Slip. A few recliners surrounded three small tables to complete the ensemble. Off to our left was a stage constructed from the bones of a Metro pod. The hollowed-out shell included three stools, and a flower-paneled couch.

  Pungent aromas filled the air, brewed coffee and tea, as well as stale cigarette and hookah smoke. I glanced up. The ceiling was an open display of rusted ductwork and piping, with dozens of decorative string lights, better suited for the outdoors, hanging low like jungle vines. Two fans oscillated in slow circles, each content to sweep the heavy air in steady, lazy twirls.

  What few patrons there were lazed on the furniture. Some sipped from their cups while remotely jacked into their holo-phones, bebopping their heads in time to music buzzing from their personal collections. No one paid us much attention.

  At the far end, opposite the entrance, lurked a waist-high counter, dominated by a five-foot pyramid of stacked colored coffee mugs. Behind the counter space was an open window leading into a kitchen, as well as a closed door covered in more advertisements.

  Four glossy menus hung from wires, offering a staggering array of liquid libations. My mouth watered as I ran down the list of potent potables, from the Triple Mocha Pumpkin Spike Polka Latte to Hazelnut Yo Mama’s Tea.

  It was love at first sight.

  A lean young woman in her mid-twenties, with eyebrow and nose piercings and variegated hair, lounged behind the counter. As we stepped up, she welcomed us with a bored smile. Her nametag read “Moonbeam.”

  “Care for an Exotic Chocolate Caramel Monkey today?” she asked in a breathy voice. “It’s our Flavor of the Week.”

  “I’m not into monkeys right now,” I deadpanned, peering at the list of coffees. “But I will take the Not Your Average Joe with extra cream and sugar, please.” I turned to Besim. “You want anything?”

  Her back was to me while she took in the place. I asked her again, and she declined. Once Moonbeam crafted my order and rang me up, I produced my badge and introduced myself.

  Her eyes widened in fear.

  “I’m investigating the murder of a young woman,” I said. “She may have been a regular.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said in relief. “I thought you were with the freaking Department of Health again about the rats!”

  “No, ma’am,” I gave her a long-suffering smile. “Is Armin here?”

  “Yeah,” Moonbeam replied, rolling her eyes. She hooked her thumb in the direction of the closed door. “He’s in his ‘sacred space,’ down the hall on the left.”

  I thanked her. Besim was content to leave me to my own devices, so I went to find Armin. The floor was sticky. A quick glance in the kitchen revealed a young man with the butt of a lit cigarette clinging to his lips. He plucked two pieces of burnt toast from the toaster and slapped them onto a plate with some nameless substance that may have been edible once. He gave me a quick nod while wiping his hands on his black t-shirt bearing the caption “If I did it, would you know?” scrawled in white block letters.

  Returning the nod, I strode past him to a plain wooden door with a hand-written sign taped to it that read “Meditation in progress. Fuck Off.” Incomplete strains of high-pitched acoustical caterwauling echoed from behind the door.

  I pounded it with my fist. The sound of the screeching felines faded.

  “Read the fucking sign, jackass,” a grumpy voice groused.

  The ridiculous sounds started up again. I struck the door a second time. The music died. Shuffling feet approached. The door was ripped open by a very short, balding man with thick eyebrows and elephant-sized ears wearing a maroon bathrobe and blue, fuzzy slippers. Cigar smoke hugged him like shit on a pig.

  “I told you—" he began.

  “Tom Holliday,” I interrupted, shoving my badge into his face. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Chapter 11

  The badge stopped him short, pun intended. Armin self-consciously tugged his bathrobe closer to cover up the out-of-control salad on his chest. His beady eyes stared at the badge, then moved up to regard me.

  “Yes, hello, Detective,” Armin stumbled over his words. “What can I do for you?”

  I stepped inside and maintained a brittle smile as we shook hands.

  “Please forgive the mess,” he said as he windmilled his arms to clear the smoke lingering in his office.

  The windowless office was a closet, with enough space to accommodate a desk and two chairs. A lit cigar nestled in an ashtray next to his holo-phone at one end of the desk. The image of Peaceful Intentions above the phone explained the noise.

  The remaining free space was occupied by plastic containers brimming with old record sleeves. Five were stacked on top of each other in one corner. Several vinyl records were fanned out in alphabetical order on his desk.

  Abbey Road, A Hard Day’s Night, Let it Be, Love, and Rubber Soul.

  “Nice collection,” I remarked, moving a container from one chair to sit down.

  “They’re all purchased legally,” Armin said quickly.

  “I’m sure they are.”

  “Three hundred and fifty from the sixties and seventies,” he explained in a proud, yet peevish voice. “There’s a refurbished record player in the back room. Still sounds great!”

  I made some bored noncommittal noises while glancing around his office.

  “So, what’s this about?” he asked, put off by my disinterest. “I’m in the middle of something important here, and I’d like to get back to it.”

  “I’m investigating the murder of Vanessa Mallery,” I said. “She was a frequent customer here. I was hoping you could provide some information about her.”

  I pulled my phone from my c
oat pocket, adjusted a setting, and set it on the desk’s surface. Vanessa’s face appeared above it, taken from her enclave identification. Armin leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawn together.

  I watched him closely, noting his tells, as his eyes raked across the image. He sported worry lines and wrinkles, and I guessed his age to be around fifty.

  “Nope, never seen her before.” He leaned back in his chair. “I spend most of my time back here dealing with these so-called ‘artists.’ Sorry, Detective, but I don’t fraternize with the customers. I leave that to my waitstaff. Maybe one of the baristas knew her?”

  I nodded, not surprised. Armin struck me as a small-time hustler with little ambition, and not a violent bone in his skinny, bathrobe-clad body.

  “Who worked Sunday night?”

  “Let’s see,” Armin tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “It was Bella, Trinity, and Jackass. I usually have three working on live nights.”

  “Jackass?” I chuckled.

  “No, that’s just what I call him,” he grunted without smiling. “His real name is Jesse, but he’s a complete jackass. He’s also my nephew.”

  “You notice anything unusual about Sunday’s show? Anyone in the crowd cause trouble?”

  “No, it was a good show,” Armin recollected. “The kids who come in here are an easygoing crowd. They’re interested in having a good time while listening to the best acoustical music in Empire City.”

  Armin held up a hand.

  “Everything’s legal,” he added quickly. “I run a legitimate business here. No drugs or anything. If I ever saw any of that shit in my establishment, why I’d throw them out on their rear, that’s what I’d do. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  I swept my gaze around the cluttered office, then settled on the little man.

  “I’m not interested in contraband today,” I stated in even tones, locking eyes with him. “I’m trying to track down a killer.”

  “Sure, sure, because we don’t serve killers here either,” Armin continued in earnest. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I understand that, but if you could—"

  I was interrupted by a dull roar from outside. The floor trembled rhythmically.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” Armin’s head whipped around in confusion. “Nobody’s scheduled to play today.”

  I opened the door and was greeted by dozens of voices raised in harmony. We exchanged a surprised look, then raced down the hallway.

  The place was filled to the brim with wall-to-wall customers who swayed and sang. From my vantage point, dozens of people lined up outside the coffeehouse pressing to get through the door.

  A singular voice rose above the crowd, modulating with such sweeping nuance that even I was captivated by the sound. It ebbed and flowed throughout the place like delicate thunder. Most of the gathering stood with their eyes closed while they sang along.

  “Oh my gawd!” Armin shrieked as if he’d just won the lottery. He pointed wildly at the performer on the stage. “I can’t believe it! She’s here, in my place!”

  “Who?” I asked in irritation. “Who’s here?”

  Armin latched onto my arm and pointed toward the stage.

  Besim sat alone on a stool, her large coat pooled on the floor beside her. Back straight and head tilted, her eyes held a faraway cast, witnessing something only she could see. No other musicians were on the stage with her, nor was she holding an instrument.

  Because she didn’t need any.

  Besim began another song, her voice crystalline in its purity, carrying perfect pitch and rhythm, and it was unlike anything I’d ever heard.

  Her ethereal melody was soft and strong, replete with emotional depth and range. Although it contained words, the subtle strength of her voice carried powerful images and feelings that washed over and through me. I envisioned the lonely mountaintop of which she sang, a whitecap high above the clouds, untouched by man or beast. I experienced the frost and snow, and I shivered with phantom cold. Her song soared higher still, lost amidst an endless tapestry filled with countless stars until it fell, burying itself within the bowels of the earth. She sang of loss and love, filling shadowed chasms with unquenchable light and turning stark emptiness into shining hope.

  A burgeoning audience had surrounded the makeshift stage in a semicircle. Some stood, while others sat on the floor or on the furniture, faces turned toward Besim in rapt attention. It was standing-room only everywhere else. The crowd floated in a sea of silent energy full of anticipation and excitement. We were all connected by one message, one voice. Many had tears in their eyes. I rubbed at the corner of my eye and felt it wet.

  Her song drifted into silence, and the moment was gone. Besim hugged herself as she bowed her head, drained by the musical effort.

  Thunderous applause rocked the coffeehouse. Armin flew past me and onto the stage, staring wide-eyed at the Vellan towering above him. She raised her head to say a few words to him, a worn smile on her face. He gesticulated wildly, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the crowd’s frenzied chants of “We want more!”

  “I knew it was her!” Moonbeam babbled at me from behind the counter. “When the two of you came in, and she was like all shy and shit. And then she just sat over there while you pretended to be a cop.” She laughed in delight. “You’re her manager, right?”

  I stared at the young barista, but my mouth wouldn’t work.

  “I was like ‘No, that couldn’t be Saranda’,” Moonbeam plowed ahead. “She hasn’t been on the scene in, like, months! But then you went back to talk to Armin, and I figured you were working out a live gig or something. And it was, like, not busy or anything, so I went over and introduced myself. Oh my gawd! I still can’t believe it! I met Saranda! I can’t wait to tell Audrey! She’s totally going to flip!”

  “How…when…why was she singing?” I asked.

  As I struggled to settle my thoughts, thirsty customers surged toward the coffee counter. I staggered to the side.

  “I asked!” Moonbeam replied as a broad grin spread across her dimpled face. “I told her how much of a fan I am and, like, how sad I’ve been that she hasn’t dropped any new music in such a long time. I mean, her songs really touch a part of me, like she can ‘read the secret places of my heart.’ Those lyrics are from Awakenings, y’know, the one she just performed? It’s, like, her best song ever!”

  I rubbed my temples, wondering once again why I had agreed to allow this consultant to accompany me on the investigation.

  “But she wouldn’t sing,” the ebullient Moonbeam continued in-between prepping customer orders. “And I was like, ‘Why not?’ And she said she was here with you, and that you had some questions about a girl who was here Sunday night. That’s why you wanted to see Armin. So I was like, ‘Well Armin is jacking off in his office, so if I answer the questions, would you sing?’ And she said yes! And then I posted about it!” She swung her head around in wonderment as if it were on a pivot. “Would you look at this crowd! Holy shit!”

  “Questions,” I muttered, and focused my attention on Moonbeam, shutting out the crowd noise. “What did she ask you?”

  “Let me think.” Moonbeam paused, folding her arms while tapping her chin with a finger. “First she asked who was working here Sunday night. I don’t normally on Sundays, but I told her I took Trinity’s shift because she had to study for one of her midterms, and I needed the extra credits. And then Saranda pulled up the girl’s image on her phone.”

  I placed mine on the counter with Vanessa’s image displayed above it while the next customer in line mulled over what to order.

  “Her?”

  “Yeah, I rang her up here.” Moonbeam nodded vigorously. “She was definitely my type, tall and pretty, with long red hair.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope, that was it,” she replied.

  “Was she with anyone?”

  Moonbeam narrowed her eyes as she tried to remember. “Yeah, some old
er chick, like maybe it was her aunt or something, but they didn’t look alike. She was shorter but, like, in shape, and wore her hair in a ponytail. I really didn’t look at her face much, though. She was, like, giving off all kinds of negativity, and I don’t need that kind of shit messing with my aura, y’know?”

  I could appreciate that.

  “Was there anyone else with them? Did anyone try to join them?”

  “No, just those two.” Moonbeam shook her head.

  “Did you notice anything unusual about either woman? Were they agitated? Afraid?”

  “Well, the redhead didn’t look like she wanted to be here. She kept staring out the window. Didn’t drink much, either.” Moonbeam gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I kinda checked her out and wanted to see if she was, like, with her friend, or with her friend, if you know what I mean. I thought maybe they were on a date, and it wasn’t going well.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see Besim still locked in conversation with Armin.

  “So, which one was it?”

  “Definitely not a date,” Moonbeam explained with authority. “It seemed more like a business meeting. The redhead was nice, although her friend was an obnoxious bitch. When I took the redhead’s order, her friend kept giving me the evil eye, and had that ‘kiss my ass I make more credits than you’ kind of attitude. I hate that type, y’know? Like the freaking world owes them or something.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she was pushing the redhead to hurry up and order something so that they could sit down,” the barista responded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She kept saying she wanted to get a good seat before the opening act. They sat in the recliners by the window, which isn’t a good spot. The acoustics suck, and you’re near the door, so there’s always someone coming in and out of here. I don’t know about you, but that kind of distraction really pisses me off when I’m trying to listen to the music. I mean, it’s, like, why—"