It's night, to give the sniper cover. Night makes sense. Daryl's been partying. The sniper knows the alarm is off because Daryl is home. He can see Daryl through the sight. The sniper aims at Daryl's head, which might be bobbing to the beat from the comm. The sniper squeezes off a shot. The shot explodes, vaporizing the picture window.
The sniper squeezes off shot number two.
Daryl is sitting in the study, facing his comm, when his head gets blown away by the second exploding projectile belonging to the sniper's Levitt Mark II. It hits six centimeters from the base of the skull—dead center, according to the autopsy. It hits from behind him, through the picture window in the living room, through the dining room, and through the open door to the study.
The cops found remains of two Levitt bullets. One set in Daryl's head. The other set by the picture window.
There was a problem with this sequence of events.
It was those two words, "dead center."
Daryl Johnson should have turned to see what the noise was.
For Nohar, that was a big problem. Daryl was shot in the back of the head. Nohar couldn't see someone so jazzed-up he'd be oblivious to twenty square meters of glass exploding directly behind him—now that he thought about it, the whole damn neighborhood was oblivious. What the autopsy listed shouldn't have zoned Daryl out that bad. Even a reflexive jerk toward the noise, no matter how fast the sniper got the second round off, would have put the shell toward one side of the head or the other.
Also, what was a nine-to-five working stiff doing that jazzed in the middle of the week? Given the time of death, Daryl was doing some heavy partying for a Tuesday.
Finally, even in Shaker Heights, a house standing open like that, two or three days without the alarm or a window, and nothing else was ripped off? That didn't ring true.
The final portrait ejected from the printer.
Nohar stretched and got to his feet. His throat hurt from all the commands. Someday he was going to have to fix the keyboard. Despite the overstaffed cushions on the couch, his tail had fallen asleep again.
Nohar rubbed his throat and decided he needed a beer. He ducked into the kitchen. As he ripped the last bulb of beer from its envelope, he realized how hungry he was. The only food in the fridge was a plate of bones, and the last kilo of hamburger. Nohar only briefly considered the beef bones, even though a few looked fairly meaty. He grabbed the lump of hamburger and tossed it into the micro as he snapped the top off his bulb.
The cold brew soothed the raw feeling at the back of his throat, leaving a yeasty taste in his mouth. One of the few decent things the pinks did with grain was turn it into booze.
Outside the dirty little kitchen window, the storm was worsening. The thunder rattled the glass in its loose molding.
Nohar drank as he watched the lightning through hazy glass and rippling sheets of water. If Smith was right, and there never was any three million, why was Johnson killed? What was Johnson doing Tuesday night? Why didn't Johnson, or anyone else, respond to the shattering picture window
Ding, the burger was warm. Nohar dropped the empty bulb into the disposal and washed his hands in the sink. He pulled the meat out of the micro, and spent a few seconds finding a clean plate. The hamburger leaked all over the plate as soon as he began unwrapping it. The blood smell of the warm meat wafted to Nohar and really reminded him of how hungry he was. He ripped out a red, golfball-sized chunk from the heart of the burger and popped it into his mouth, licking the ferric taste from his claws.
Another thing the pinks did well, picking their domestic prey animals.
Cat was suddenly wide awake, mewing, and rubbing against Nohar's leg. Nohar flicked a small gobbet of hamburger toward the other end of the kitchen. Cat went after it.
Nohar ate, standing at the counter by the sink, looking out the window, thinking about Daryl Johnson. Occasionally he flung another chunk of meat away, to keep Cat from distracting him.
Chapter 6
The rain broke Thursday morning and the sun came out.
Nohar barely noticed. He spent a few hours attaching names to the faces he had excised from the funeral picture. The only real interesting aspect of that drudgery was the fact that Philip Young, the finance chairman, had not attended the funeral.
He spent wasted effort trying to get a hold of Young. He tracked down an address and a comm number, but Young wasn't answering his comm. Neither was his computer, which was irritating. He called Harrison, but the legal counsel's comm was actually locking out Nohar's calls.
Nohar had never talked to the lawyer before.
Thomson's comm was also locking out Nohar's calls.
That left Binder. Nohar knew that would be hopeless. He tried anyway, going as far as calling Washington long-distance. The guy manning the phones was polite, condescending, and totally useless. Binder was somewhere in Columbus, raising money and campaigning, and the only way to talk to him would be to have a press pass or a large check.
Nohar didn't know if it was because he was a morey, a PI, or because they were hiding something, Nohar would lay odds on all three.
No need to be frustrated yet, Nohar told himself. There were a lot more people employed by Binder than the executive officers. Someone out there knew Johnson, and would hand him a lead.
He scanned through the items he had downloaded from the library yesterday. He was looking for a likely subject to hit. Predictably, the picture that caught his eye was a photo-op at a fund-raiser.
Behind Binder, with the upper crust of his campaign machine, there was an extra player.
Nohar leaned forward on the couch. "Magnification. Times five."
The picture zoomed at him. The resolution was excessively grainy, but he could see the extra person in the gang of four. To Binder's right were Thomson and Harrison, to his left were Young and Johnson—and Johnson's executive assistant. Johnson's assistant happened to be a woman. The picture implied a lot about them.
Nohar ran a search through his Binder data base with her name, Stephanie Weir. Every time the software found something with Weir in it, there was Johnson. They seemed inseparable.
Now, here was someone who'd know about Johnson.
But would she talk to him?
He almost called her. However, when he thought it through, he realized this wasn't going to be one of those cases he could run from the comm. He had already seen how easy it was for the pinks to shut him out over the phone. He was at enough of a disadvantage as it was. He'd do this in person.
He should wear his suit for this. He hated it with a passion, but he was going out to the pinks' own territory. They had their own rules. He opened the one closet and took out the huge black jacket and the matching pants. He hesitated for a moment.
Maria wasn't here, but he could smell her tangy musk.
Nohar snatched shirt, tie, and shoes, and slammed the door shut. The memories didn't stay in the closet. He did his best to ignore them as he dressed. The relationship was over. It was only going to be a matter of time before he found one of her tops. She always left them here in hot weather.
He was still thinking about her by the time he got to the tie. The difficult ritual of getting the black strip of cloth properly wrapped around his neck was a welcome distraction. While he did so, he tried to force his mind off of Maria and on to Weir.
Nohar left the apartment comparing Maria's black jaguar fur to the long raven hair Stephanie Weir had in her pictures.
He had to walk three blocks to his car, because of the traffic restrictions. It was parked outside his office—actually a glorified mail drop—on the city end of Mayfield Road. It was a dusty-yellow Ford Jerboa convertible. Nohar wished someone would steal it. It was too old, too cheap, and for Nohar, too small. He could fit in the little thing, but the '28 Jerboa had a power plant that could barely push around its own two tons with Nohar on board.
He unplugged the car from the curb feed and tapped the combination on the passenger-side door, the one that worked. With the door
open and the top down, he stepped over the passenger seat. Nohar eased himself behind the wheel, slipped some morey reggae into the cardplayer, and pulled away from the curb.
Shaker Heights was a different world. It was only separated from Moreytown by a sparse strip of middle-class pink suburbia. It could have been on the other side of the city. Driving into Shaker required some effort, since most of the direct routes were blocked off by familiar concrete pylons. In keeping with the neighborhood, these barriers were faced with brick and sat amidst vines, bushes, and tiny well-kept lawns. Nohar actually had to drive into Cleveland proper before he could weave his way into Shaker.
He expected to be stopped by the cops at least once, but he wasn't. Could be the suit. It didn't lessen the tension he felt. The roads were smooth and lined with trees. Not a morey in sight. The cozy one-family dwellings stared at him from behind manicured lawns.
Stephanie Weir lived in one of those intimidating brick houses.
Nohar pulled the Jerboa up to the curb in front of her house. Brick, one family, seven rooms, a century old or so. It was the kind of building that reminded Nohar how young his species was.
Come on, he told himself, a few questions, nothing major.
After saying that to himself a few times, he climbed out of the car and stretched. Before he realized what he was doing, he had reached up and started clawing the bark from the tree next to his car. No matter how good it felt, when he noticed himself doing it, he stopped. He hoped the Weir woman hadn't seen. It was embarrassing.
He shook loose bark from his fingers and walked up to the house. He pushed the call button next to the door and waited for an answer.
A speaker near his hand buzzed briefly, then spoke. "Damn, just a minute."
There was a very long pause. "Who do we have here?"
Nohar tried to find the camera. "My name's Nohar Rajasthan. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to talk to a Ms. Stephanie Weir."
Another long pause. "Well, you got her. You have any ID?"
Nohar fished into his wallet and held up his PI license.
"Stick that into the slot."
A small panel under the call button slid aside. Nohar tossed it in.
Nohar stood and waited. He was tempted to push the call button again. But, without warning, the door was thrust open. Nohar had to suppress an urge to leap back. Weir offered his license back. "What can I help you with, Mr. Rajasthan?"
Pronounced it right her first try. Nohar was relieved, and a little puzzled, not to smell any fear. He was also grateful Weir didn't wear any strong perfume. She had an odd smile on her face and he wished he was better at reading human expressions. "I'd like to talk about Daryl Johnson."
Weir bit her lip. "Complicated subject. You better come in."
Nohar watched her walk away from the door before ducking in and closing it behind him. He could stand in the living room and not feel cramped. He wondered what she did with all the space. A comm was playing in the background. He recognized the voice from his research, ex-mayor Russell Gardner, Binder's opponent.
. . . is in a crisis. Our technological infrastructure was fatally wounded when Japan was invaded, as surely as if the Chinese had landed in California. For nearly a decade my opponent has been leading a policy of government inaction. For twenty years our quality of living has been degrading. There are fewer engineers in the United States now than there were at the turn of the century—"
"Sit down." She motioned toward a beige love seat that looked like it could hold him. "I was just about to fix myself a drink. Want one?"
Nohar sat on the love seat and wriggled to get his tail into a comfortable position. "Anything cold, please."
Gardner went on as if he had found a new issue.
"... space program as an example. It's been four decades since a government program—a program since disbanded for lack of funding—discovered signals that are still widely believed, in the scientific community, to be an artifact of extraterrestrial intelligence. NASA's nuclear rockets have been sitting on the moon ten years, waiting for the launch and we are losing the ability to maintain them. We’ve lost the ability to maintain cutting edge tech ..."
Nohar wasn't interested in the political tirade. Instead of listening, he wondered why the pink female was acting so—relaxed wasn't quite the word he was looking for.
Weir walked into the kitchen and Nohar's gaze followed her. He enjoyed the way she moved. No abrupt motions, every move flowed into every other seamlessly. He watched as she stretched to get a glass from a cabinet. The smooth line of muscle in her arm melded into a gentle ripple down her back, became a descending curve toward the back of her knee, and ended in the abrupt bump of her calf.
She said something, and Nohar asked himself what he'd been thinking about.
"What did you say?"
Weir apparently assumed the comm was too loud. She called out, "Pause." Gardner shut up. "I said I've been waiting for you to mention it."
Nohar felt lost. "Mention what?"
She returned with two tumblers and handed one to him. He couldn't read the half-smile on her face. "Well, I'd picture a detective jumping all over me for not being more broken up about Derry."
"I was just trying to be tactful." That was a lie. The fact was, Nohar had been so nervous he hadn't even noticed. He took a drink, hoping it was something strong. It turned out to be some soft drink whose carbonation overwhelmed any taste it might have had. At least it was cold.
"I guess I'm not used to tact." She sat down in an easy chair across from him. He could identify her natural smell now, somewhere between rose and wood smoke. He liked it. "So, let's talk about Derry."
Nohar took another long pull from the glass. It did little for him but give him a chance to think. "Could you describe your relationship with him?"
"We weren't that close. At least, not as close as it was supposed to look. I suppose you've gotten the intended message from all the photo-ops and the social events. All window dressing, really."
"Meaning?"
"Just what I said. It was supposed to look like Derry was hot for me when he could really care less about women. It was all an elaborate game. I was supposed to cover up one of Binder's political liabilities." Now Nohar could read her expression. The hard edge in her voice helped.
"Daryl Johnson was gay?"
She nodded. "I got recruited by the Binder campaign right out of Case. Major in statistics, minor in political science. So I can go to parties and look cute. All because Binder is too loyal to fire his chosen, and is too right-wing to accept a homosexual on his staff. Publicly anyway."
That was amazing, even though he had some idea how extreme Binder was. "That attitude's bizarre." He had to restrain himself from adding, "Even for a pink."
"You don't know the man."
"You put up with that?"
That brought a weak smile. "Selling out your principles pays a great deal of money, Mr. Rajasthan. Until he died, anyway."
She noticed they both had empty glasses. She got up. "Can I get you a refill? Something a little stronger this time?"
Nohar nodded. "Please—"
He didn't like questioning good fortune, but he was beginning to wonder why she was so open with him. "What was playing on the comm?"
"One of Gardner's speeches. Sort of self-flagellation."
Odd way to put it. "Are you still with the Binder organization?"
She stopped on the way to the kitchen and shook her head. "Binder's legendary loyalty doesn't apply to the window dressing. After all I put up with—you know, someone even started a rumor I was a lesbian."
"Are you?"
Weir's knuckles whitened on her glass. Nohar thought she might throw it at him. The smell Nohar was sensing was powerful now, but it was more akin to fear and confusion than anger. The episode was brief. She quickly composed herself. "I'd really rather not talk about that right now."
Nohar wondered what he'd stepped in with that question. Pinks tended to lay social minefields aro
und themselves. Nohar wished he had a map. "Sorry."
She managed a forced smile. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I’ve never been very good around people ..." She sighed.
Nohar tried to get the conversation back on track. "I'm supposed to be here about Johnson. Not you. What do you know about Johnson? What kind of enemies did he have?"
Nohar watched covertly as she walked to the kitchen and went from cabinet to cabinet. "I suppose his only enemies would have been Binder's enemies. He had been with Binder since the state legislature. Straight from college. Loyal to a fault. A big fault considering Binder's attitude toward homosexuals. I never understood it, but I wasn't paid to understand. Young and Johnson were already an organizational fixture when I came on the scene."
"Were they—"
She came back with the drinks. "I really shouldn't talk about it. It's Phil's business. But he shouldn't have snubbed the funeral. After fifteen years, Derry deserved more than Phil worrying about someone figuring out the obvious."
"Could you tell me about what Johnson was doing the week he died?"
"I didn't see him the week he died. I think Young mentioned him seeing some bigwig contributor.''
"When was the last time you did see him alive?"
"A fund-raiser the previous Saturday. On the end of his arm as usual. He left early, around nine-thirty." She lowered her eyes. "You know what the last thing he said to me was?"
"What?"
"He apologized for consistently ruining all the dates 'an attractive girl' should have had." She lifted her glass. "To the relationships I should have had." She drained it.
The way she was shaking her head made Nohar change the subject. "Can you tell me why Johnson would have three million dollars of campaign funds in his house when he was killed?"
Weir looked back up, her mouth open, and her eyes a little wider. "Oh, Christ, in cash?"
"According to the police report's interpretation of the finance records, yes."
Forests of the Night Page 6