The overalls were worn but clean. She sniffed and frowned at the almost familiar scent.
His boots were a style five years old at least. Not that it was unusual for broke kids to wear secondhand clothing.
Even without an official investigation, the body would be scanned before recycling; Plexis preferred to know what went into the waste stream. Elaine lowered the diagnostic scanner and positioned it over the body. If it was going to happen anyway, she’d be breaking no rules and, more importantly, setting off no alerts.
Technically, security personnel didn’t play with the tech in the morgue, but what were they going to do? Fire her? “No poison. No drugs. Not even recreational.” The insides were as aggressively unremarkable as the outsides. Except . . . “Trace amounts of rodamine, but not even close to what would have killed . . .”
“Mmmrup?”
Elaine turned to see a black-and-orange head poke out of the duffle bag. “Come on, then.”
Oozing out onto the floor, moving more like a liquid than a solid, the cat stretched both rear legs, crossed the room, jumped up onto the end of the table, and landed back onto Elaine’s shoulder.
“Does she understand what you’re saying?” Chambal asked, dark eyes wide.
“Not unless someone’s messed with her intelligence levels.” The variegated fur was soft and plush under Elaine’s fingers. “And it wouldn’t matter if they had. Cats do what they wa . . .”
“Is that . . . ?”
The tag had attached itself to the back of Elaine’s hand. If asked, she’d have scoffed at the thought of a cluster of microorganisms looking disgruntled, but that was the best description of the waxy blue patch at the base of her knuckle.
* * *
• • •
“DoyouacceptresponsbilityfortheairyoushareonPlexis?” Barely waiting for an affirmative response, the Ordnex applied a tag to the Denebian’s right cheek, obscuring most of her starburst tattoo. As she hurried to catch up to the rest of her crew, the Ordnex began to turn to the next in line.
Elaine cleared her throat. “Andohbay.”
The Ordnex sighed and closed her station. “HowcanIhelpConstableHutton?” she droned, ignoring complaints from those waiting to be processed.
“Sorry to slow things down, Ando. I need the data off this tag.”
“Thereareproceedures.” Andohbay paused. Took a long look at Elaine’s face. And sighed again. “Ihonorthememoryofmymaternalunit . . .”
* * *
• • •
“Thisisnotthemomentofdeath.” One long, multi-jointed finger tapped the screen. “Thetagwasdisplaced.”
“How? Best guess,” Elaine added quickly.
“Electricshock. Bigonethough.”
“HEY! I have places to be!”
Elaine turned slowly to face the big Human at the front of the line and locked her gaze on the florid face. “Please excuse the delay, Fem. This booth will reopen when we conclude a security investigation.” Her tone made it clear what security would be investigating next should there be any further shouting. When she was certain the other understood—few of those who parked in the less than prime spaces on Plexis’ belly wanted to attract security’s interest—Elaine turned her attention back to Andohbay. “Electric shock strong enough to stop a Human heart?”
“Mybestguess—absolutely. Broadenoughbeamwouldthrowoffelectronicsintheareatoo.”
“Thanks, Ando. Haglen-durnon.”
“Sure.Whatever.” Andohbay waved it off. “Enjoyyourdirt. Andyourpronounciationstillsucks.”
“Maternal unit?” Chambal asked as they walked away and the line began moving again.
“Old friend. Made the best hurglon you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’ve never tasted hurglon.”
“Your loss.”
* * *
• • •
Sorge Nolan. The body had a name. Elaine studied the information they’d pulled from the tag point’s database, while Constable Chambal gave directions to a lost shopper. He knew his way around, she’d give the kid that. “Ident card’s a fake,” she said as Chambal joined her. “A good one, but a fake.”
He peered over her shoulder at the image on her wrist com. “How can you tell?”
“Experience.”
“That’s not . . .”
“Do you have any idea how many fake ident cards I’ve seen?”
“No, but . . .”
“Neither do I. This is fake.” She slid her hand into the duffle and stroked the cat. The quality of the forgery didn’t match the quality of the dead kid’s clothing. Or lack of quality. “Looks like we’re checking used clothing stores.”
“All of them?”
A little too slow to avoid a playful claw, she pulled her hand out of the bag and rubbed the blood off her finger with her thumb. “If we have to.”
* * *
• • •
Chambal tripped over a loose pile of shoes, righted himself, and twitched his tunic back into place, trying to look as though he’d meant to do that all along. “What are you doing?”
“Ever notice how used clothing has a particular scent?”
“No.”
Of course he hadn’t. Up on level 104 they didn’t wear used clothing. “The cleaning chemicals linger.” Pulling a heavy sweater from the overflowing bin, Elaine held the fabric under her nose and breathed in. Cleansers weren’t necessarily unique to each establishment, but she’d recognize the almost familiar scent of the overalls should she smell it again.
* * *
• • •
“No, it wasn’t him.” Kir Whol, the proprietor of Why Wear Worn, commonly known among its more frequent customers as W3, waved a tentacle over the image on Elaine’s wrist com. “Is he dead? He looks dead.”
Elaine sighed. “Kir Whol, I’m out of here in less than two days. I don’t have time to gossip.”
“Fine. Was another Hom bought the overalls. Taller. Like him.” He pointed past her at Chambal. “But older. More colorful.”
More colorful could mean any number of things. Comspeak took interesting turns species to species. Following the old StaSec truism that the simplest answer was usually the right answer, Elaine asked, “Multiple tattoos?”
“Yes. Many.”
Which raised the odds the Human they looked for was Denebian.
“Did you get a name?” Chambal asked.
Elaine and the Whirtle exchanged a look as identical as differing physiognomies allowed. “Can you remember anything unique about him?” she asked, both of them ignoring the kid’s question.
Tentacle drumming on the counter, the Whirtle narrowed two of three eyes. “His scent was . . .”
Another tentacle touched the respirator he’d removed to hang around his neck as they talked. “. . . sweet. And sharp. Sweet-sharp.”
“Pickles!” Chambal exclaimed, then flushed as he realized he may have been a bit overly emphatic.
Kir Whol nodded. “Yes. Like pickles, but sweet like fruit.”
* * *
• • •
“Shouldn’t we have searched the shop for the original clothing?”
“No.”
“But . . .”
“The killer couldn’t possibly have been stupid enough to sell the clothing he stripped off the body to the same shop where he bought the overalls and boots.” Elaine sidestepped a hurrying shopper, set the duffle bag on the edge of a waist-high planter and leaned back against it, feeling the warmth of the cat and the vibration of her purr even through layers of fabric. “Daniel!”
Chambal turned a confused expression her way. “What?”
“Who,” she corrected, nodding across the concourse at a young Human male hurrying toward them, his heavy boots clumping against the floor.
“You bellowed, StaSec?” he asked sulkily as he arriv
ed.
“Hey!”
Elaine cut Chambal’s protest off. “Any chance you or yours were in the maintenance passages in behind Claws & Jaws last spin or so?”
His green eyes narrowed. “We had nothing to do with it.”
“I know what caused the power outage, Daniel, I want to know if you saw anything unusual.”
“Like?”
She raised her brows. Daniel used the maintenance passages as his personal shortcuts around the station and knew exactly what she meant by unusual.
A lock of shaggy dark hair fell into his face, but his hands remained in his pockets. “We haven’t taken the backway for forty-eight. Rose got inventory in, so we’ve been burning.”
“You’re going to take his word for it?” Chambal loaded the pronoun with disdain.
“Daniel doesn’t lie to me.” She noted the flash of pleasure under the sullen exterior and added, “Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Why?” he muttered. “You’ll be hitting dirt in another two.”
“We talked about that.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m leaving you the contents of my quarters.”
“What?” There were two spots of color high on his cheeks as he finally raised his head to meet her gaze.
“Everything that doesn’t belong to the station, everything I can’t fit into a carryall, is yours. You can keep it. You can sell it. Your choice.”
Eyes wide, arms waving, he had to close his mouth before he could speak. “That’s . . . nebular! That’s totally stardust!” Then he frowned, remembered, and slumped back into his sullen posture. “You’re still leaving.”
“I’m still leaving. So will you someday.”
“Yeah. Right.” He spun on a heel, took two steps, paused, sighed, straightened, and turned again. “Hey, Hutt-hutt? Thanks. And, you know, have a life.”
“You, too. Actually, wait, I need you to do something for me.” She picked up the bag just as the cat climbed out of the planter and back into it, shaking dirt off one back foot. “Take this to my quarters.”
Holding a handle in each hand, he stared down into amber eyes then up at her. “Can Jack visit? I mean, he’ll fusion!”
“Sure.” Jack was crazy about animals. The cat would be safer with him and Daniel than anywhere else on Plexis. “Make sure she has water. She likes shrimp paste. Don’t let her out, and don’t spread the word. This is important, Daniel. Don’t tell Rose. Don’t tell Warren. The cat witnessed a crime, and no one can know where she is.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please.”
“We have history,” she explained to Chambal as Daniel left cradling the bag.
“I got that,” he muttered, sounding remarkably like the younger Human. He perked up halfway across the concourse. “Are we going to Claws & Jaws? I’ve never been. My mother has a . . . thing.”
“Sympathies to your mother, and no. We’re going next door.”
Chambal glanced at the hostel, then at the arched entryway to the Skenkran-operated cafeteria on the other side, then at Elaine. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t have a sense of humor. The cafe’s the only place on the station that sells pickled nicnic which . . .” She held up a hand to forestall an interruption. “. . . smells both sharp and sweet and tastes disgusting to everyone but a Skenkran.”
“But we’re looking for a Denebian.”
“And there can’t be more than one Denebian who eats enough pickled nicnic that the smell clings to him. We’re lucky they’re open. Must’ve paid their taxes this quarter.” She led the way past the nearly empty tables to the service counter.
“There’s no one here,” Chambal pointed out, using his height to peer over the top of the displays.
“It’s self-serve.” Diners tapped their ident cards against the containers and took their chances.
He squinted up at the two flickering lamps above the counter. “These lights don’t do the food any favors.”
“It’s not the lights. There.” She pointed. “Pickled nicnic.”
“That’s edible?”
“That’s what I’ve been told. Come on.” She tapped her ident against a reader set into the surface of the counter. A piece about half a meter wide folded up out of the way. “There’s an office in the back.”
“Should I be worried about the way you said office?”
“Not if your shots are up to date.”
The two Skenkrans working desultorily in the prep room barely glanced up as they passed. Security personnel were there often enough they could be ignored.
She’d seen the office in worse shape. Fresh “mud” had been packed against the walls, leaving the center of the room clear. “Flir.”
“Constable Hutton.” Flir raised both arms, the fold of gliding skin flapping. “My old friend. You’ve made a trip to our wesong for nothing. Our taxes have been paid.”
“I’m not here to close you down. I need to know where I can find a male Denebian who eats pickled nicnic.”
Translucent membranes slid across Flir’s eyes. “That’s . . . unusual.”
Elaine shrugged, the motion aggressively nonaggressive. “Easier to remember him, then.”
“Unlike people who desire an audience while they eat . . .” Flir tossed their head in the general direction of the Claws & Jaws. “. . . . my customers are here for privacy.”
“Your customers are here for cheap food and a near-death adrenaline rush. I’d rather not check your stasis chambers, but I will if I have to.”
“I’ve heard you have a ship to catch.”
“Won’t take long to get a StaSec team down here.” She raised her wristcom.
* * *
• • •
“Keevor’s . . .” Chambal stared wide-eyed at the entrance to the Every Kind Friendly Eatery. “I’ve heard about this place.”
“As StaSec, you’ll hear about it a lot more. And learn to call it the Swill and Heave. Try to not to look so . . . young,” Elaine added, pulling open the door.
The smell hit her first. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted three Lemmicks in one of the booths, the prevailing odor of Keevor’s masking their scent.
“I always thought Lemmicks were kind of pleasant and inoffensive. You know, except for . . .” He rubbed his nose.
“There’s a top and a bottom to every species, kid. This is where most of them hit bottom.” She made her way toward the bar, ignoring the resentful silence.
“What do you think you’re doing, Jelly?”
She turned in time to pull Chambal to her side as the big Human rose to his feet and swayed belligerently in place. Fingers wrapped around Chambal’s wrist, she kept the rookie’s hand away from his weapon. “Do you have any idea of the paperwork you have to fill out if you fire that thing? Even in here?”
“Your baby Jelly bumped into me, Hutton.”
“Don’t care, Murray. Sit down.”
Mouth open, bellowing inarticulately, Murray dove forward.
Elaine shoved Chambal out of the line of attack with one hand and punched Murray in the throat with the other. When he went down, she kicked him in the stomach. Twice. As half a dozen others surged to their feet yelling abuse, she snarled, “Are you stupid? You want to fight, you wait until I’m gone.”
Multiple forms of respiration sounded loud in the sudden, reclaimed silence.
Chairs and other seating arrangements scraped against the floor as the fighters sat and picked up their drinks.
“You okay, Murray?” When he grunted an affirmative, she continued to the bar, Chambal hurrying to keep up. “Sal.”
The bartender polished a glass. “Constable Hutton.”
“I’m looking for muscle going by Dillon Bryant.”
Sal nodded her fluorescent pink head toward the door. “That’s Bryant tryin
g to run.”
Bryant turned at the sound of his name and pulled a weapon, although Elaine couldn’t identify the type. Before he could pull the trigger, Chambal picked up an empty beer stein and threw it, hitting Bryant’s forehead with a meaty thud. Bryant’s shot went wild and half the lights in the back of the bar went out.
“That’s going on StaSec’s tab,” Sal said, cleaning another glass.
“Take it up with the inspector. Good arm, kid.”
He blushed. “Cricket. Top bowler of the Retail League. I expected the mug to shatter.”
“Keevor knows better than to stock the bar with breakables,” Elaine told him as she slapped Bryant in restraints. “He’d never cover his overhead.”
* * *
• • •
“Has he talked?”
“Good morning, Constable Hutton.” Burr flashed dimples. “Excited that it’s your last day before your dirty retirement?”
Maybe she’d drop by before leaving and punch that smarmy smile off Burr’s face. “Has Bryant talked?”
“About what?”
“About the body.”
Burr spread both hands in the universal gesture for I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m lying when I say that. “He’s in on a restricted weapons charge.”
“He’s wearing expensive clothing that doesn’t quite fit him and, if we check, has probably been made to measure for the body in the morgue. A body likely killed with that restricted weapon he’s carrying.”
“I didn’t know you cared so much about fashion.”
Punching Burr was looking better and better. “I want to talk to Bryant.”
“No one talks to him. Inspector Wallace’s orders.”
Punching Wallace had begun looking pretty good, too. What, or who, was powerful enough to keep Bryant from talking? She knew the type; he’d spill at the first opportunity to cut a deal. More importantly, what or who was powerful enough to to bring Inspector Wallace in on it?
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 40