Buchanan, not missing the rebuke, grunts skeptically. “Why? What the fuck’s so interesting about the bathroom?”
Justus shrugs. “A high-profile businessman enters a mid-range brothel with a prostitute. We can’t say for certain that they’re here for sex, because neither of them is unclothed. But we can conclude with some certainty that this was a setup. The wounds to Mr. Zachary’s body—and I’m only assuming the body hasn’t been moved by now—tell us he was attacked from behind. So he had enough time to enter the room, maneuver around the bed here, and turn to the girl. Meaning the killer wasn’t visible when he came in. Meaning that more than likely he or she was hiding in that bathroom.”
“Very sweet,” says Buchanan, and addresses the others. “Didn’t I tell you this guy was like Sherlock Holmes?” Mumbles of agreement, then Buchanan raises an objection. “But you say Zachary wasn’t here for sex?”
“I said we can’t be certain.”
“Well, why would a man come to a fuck shop if it wasn’t to fuck?”
“Did he have a history with prostitutes?” Justus asks.
“Who doesn’t?”
“I mean, would a man like that—a very high-profile and successful businessman—really need to come to a sordid place like this?”
“Sometimes the restaurant is the best part of the meal.”
An image of Buchanan in sexual congress appears in Justus’s mind but it’s mercifully brief. “Well, it’s not important at this stage, I grant you. But he was lured up here on false pretenses, that’s almost certain. The girl didn’t flee when the killing started, so she’s possibly in on it. When the killer finished with Zachary he turned on her—she wasn’t expecting that. So she was probably hanging around for a payoff. And what we need to find out now is where Mr. Zachary met her in the first place—I’m assuming it wasn’t Reception?”
“They didn’t see anything,” Carvalho offers.
“So prostitutes just take their clients up these side stairs, is that it?”
“That’s about right.”
“And this room is the regular office of this particular prostitute?”
No one seems sure.
“Okay,” Justus goes on, “then we’ve got some work to do. We’re gonna have to look for a murder weapon in this building—the size of these wounds suggests something that’d be difficult to conceal in your pocket. Maybe a bloody coat was disposed of as well—there’d be more than enough red stuff to leave a mark. And we need to find out where this prostitute solicited for customers. Was it a bar? A hotel lobby? The streets?”
“Could be any of those,” says Buchanan.
“Either way, we’re gonna have to find out. And then we’re gonna have to visit those haunts and find out if anyone saw her with Kit Zachary. If anyone overheard a conversation between them. If she’s got any friends or colleagues she might have confided in.”
“And what’s that going to prove?” Buchanan says.
“It might be crucial.”
“Doubt it. Zachary was lookin’ to get laid. Found some hooker and took her to a room. Some guy pops out and kills him, that’s all.”
Justus blinks. “You’re not seriously suggesting that the killer just happened to be in the bathroom? By sheer coincidence?”
“I ain’t suggesting that at all,” Buchanan says. “I’m just sayin’ that even if it was all arranged, wasting time with cockamamie questions ain’t gonna get us anywhere.”
“This is hardly cockamamie—this is procedure.”
“On Earth, maybe—not here.”
“That’s funny. I thought I was in charge of this investigation.”
“You are in charge. But you’re green.”
“Then you’re welcome to appoint someone more experienced if you like.”
“I ain’t doin’ that. You’re doing a great job.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I ain’t lyin’.” Buchanan turns to the others. “Am I lyin’, fellas? Haven’t I been tellin’ you what a great job this guy is doin’?”
Everyone nods. But some of them are smiling.
“Okay, then,” Justus says, “well, while I’m still in charge I want to know everything possible about the girl—and I don’t care how cockamamie it sounds. I want to know where she operated, who she worked with, if she’d been hired by Zachary before—I want to know all that, and I want to know it by six o’clock. I also want to know everything about Zachary’s movements. I want to know his general routine. I want to have a list of everyone he’s spoken to in the last forty-eight hours. I want a preliminary report from the FRT on my desk as soon as possible. And I understand there was a terrorist statement?”
“More bullshit,” says Buchanan.
“Who’s got it?”
“Prince’s got it.”
“Then may I have a look at it?”
Buchanan makes a dismissive gesture to Prince Oda Universe. “Prince—give the lieutenant here a look at that garbage, will ya?”
The eight-foot Nigerian, his head almost touching the ceiling, hands across a printed page which, much to Justus’s relief, is in a Ziploc bag.
He glances up. “Turn off that mirror ball and get me some light in here.”
“De ball is de light,” rumbles Price Oda Universe.
So Justus squints and reads the page.
THE PEOPLE’S HAMMER BANGS ANOTHER CROOKED NAIL
KIT ZACHARY = BIG-BUSINESS BLOODSUCKER
NO MORE LANDLORDS!
NO MORE BRASS!
VIVA REDEMPTION!
“Bullshit,” Chief Buchanan says again. “I told you we’d get more of the same.”
“You did,” agrees Justus. “And you also said we’d get more murders.”
“What about it?”
“Nothing—I just admire your foresight.” Justus hands the statement to Jacinta Carvalho, saying, “Get it to Forensics immediately—see if it gives off the same DNA signatures as the first statement. And don’t let any of this leak to the Tablet until I say so, understand?”
“Too late for that,” says Carvalho.
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s already in the Tablet. Special edition. Front page.”
“And how did that happen?”
“They got their own copy.”
“They got their own copy? Well, okay, I want that too. And I want that with Forensics as well, before anyone else from the paper gets their paws on it.”
Carvalho looks dumbfounded. “You want me to go to the Tablet?”
“You got something better to do?”
“But it’s lunchtime, and I—”
“No,” says Justus, “it’s hunting time. So eat in the saddle. Or save your appetite for Chief Buchanan’s barbeque. I’m sure the chief himself agrees.”
Silence from Buchanan—the whole mood in the room is that of a churlish road gang ordered back to work—so Justus turns and looks at the chief directly. “Isn’t that right, Chief?” he says.
And finally Buchanan, like a man cornered, blows out his lips and forces a nod. “That’s right,” he says to the others. “You heard the lieutenant—and he’s the man in charge. So snap to it. Get back on your fuckin’ ponies!”
The cops start filing out of the room. The surly Russian spares enough time to snarl something in Justus’s ear. Then Buchanan himself waddles over, looking disingenuously contrite. He slaps Justus on the back.
“Hey, we’ll talk about this later, yeah? But for now, just don’t get the wrong idea—it’s just the way things are around here. The boys have to deal with so much shit in this town that they have a sorta natural reaction to a scene like this. But they’ll get over it in time, you’ll see. Just don’t take anything personally, okay?”
“Yeah,” Justus says blankly, staring at the hacked-open body of Kit Zachary. “Yeah.”
But he’s no longer thinking about insubordinate cops. He’s no longer thinking of procedure. He’s not even thinking about Kit Zachary and the dead prostitute. He�
�s just trying to make sense of the word Grigory Kalganov whispered to him on the way past.
Pazuzu.
28
THE DROID IS NOW inside the VLTV. When he first spied its deep tracks, twenty minutes earlier, his intention was to take over the vehicle as quickly as possible. Accordingly he followed its trail, came in sight of the VLTV itself, and then sprang on top, hoping to bust his way inside and kill the driver by depressurization alone. But the roof, he discovered, was sealed over with an impenetrable radiation shield. So he peered over the top of the vehicle, aiming to break the front window, but in so doing he could not help noticing the many passengers within. And it suddenly occurred to him that this was an all-new opportunity—to reach his destination incognito, as it were, hidden within a group. So he dropped to the ground and through gestures made it clear that he would like to be permitted inside.
The VLTV had its own cubicle-like airlock situated at the rear. After the customary pressure-seal checks and cleaning procedures, the droid squeezed through into the passenger compartment, where his arrival was greeted with much amusement.
“—careful of his dust,” the driver was saying.
“Hey, dude, we’re Dustproof, remember?”
“Step aboard, my man.”
“Someone make room for the new guy!”
“Brenda, you wanna sit on Daddy’s lap?”
“Here’s a seat, man.”
“What’s your name, dude?”
The droid, lowering himself between the man with dreadlocks and the man with a blue spider tattoo on his forehead, sees visible affection on the faces of the passengers, as if he has relieved them of a great boredom.
“I am the Wizard,” he says.
“ ’Course you are, man.”
“I told you he was.”
“You said he was a kangaroo.”
“I said he looked like a kangaroo.”
“Sure you’re not a narc?”
This last is said by the man with the imposing beard.
“What is a narc, sir?”
“Never mind. You’re not one?”
“I am not, sir.”
“You’re not a security guy or anything? You’re not gonna arrest us?”
“You have no reason to be concerned. I only want to sit here and enjoy your company. Are you the King?”
“The King?”
“Sure thinks he is,” says the girl in his lap.
The bearded man chuckles. “The King is in Memphis, man—in a coffin.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir. Who are you, then, if not the King?”
“I’m Maxx Dee. With a double X and a double E.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dee with a double X and a double E.”
“And this here is Brenda, and that’s—what the fuck’s your name again?—Maia. And Q’mar Kent is my man on drums. And Massive Richard is the little guy who’s totally wasted there. And that ugly motherfucker to your left is Spyder Blue.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Brenda, Maia, Q’mar Kent, Massive Richard, and Spyder Blue.”
“And I’m Torkie,” Macleod sings out from the front. “The driver.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Torkie. Why are you not driving, if you are the driver?”
“Yeah,” says Maxx Dee, “why are you not driving, man?”
“Let’s get movin’.”
“Back on the road, man.”
“I wanna see those diamonds.”
“I wanna see those nebulas.”
“What about our new guy here?” Q’mar Kent asks. “What were you doin’ out on the surface?”
The dreadlocked Q’mar has a red pulse-light in his left nostril that flashes with each heartbeat. The droid looks at him steadily.
“I am going to Purgatory, sir.”
“Purgatory, huh?”
“That is correct, sir. To Purgatory. El Dorado. Oz.”
Chuckles all around. “Hey, man,” says Spyder Blue, “you wanna go to Oz, we can get you there right now.”
“I do want to go to Oz, sir.”
“Just a sec.”
Spyder Blue reaches into a plastic bag and hands the droid a milky white tablet in the shape of the Moon.
The droid looks at it skeptically. “And what is this, sir? Is it sugar?”
“It ain’t sugar.”
“Is it fuel?”
“You could call it fuel.”
The droid holds it up in front of his eyes, but Spyder Blue interjects. “It’s best if you just swallow it, man.”
“And by performing this action, sir, I will get to Oz?”
“Oh yeah, man.”
So the droid places the tab on his tongue and gulps it down. But in analyzing its chemical composition he is severely disappointed.
“Sir,” he says, “this contains only trace elements of glucose. It does nothing for me. It takes me nowhere.”
Everyone laughs and mocks Spyder Blue.
“Hey, man, that was three hundred bucks right there.”
“Serves you right, dude.”
“Giving Blue Moon to a tinnie.”
The droid, still disappointed, looks at Spyder Blue. “You told me I would get to Oz, sir.”
“You just gotta wait.”
“Wait, sir?”
“Till Oz comes to you.”
Torkie Macleod interjects from the front: “Forget about Oz, man—we’ll be hitting Nocturnity soon.”
“Nocturnity?” asks the droid.
“That’s right—you got good visual sensors?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then turn your eyes to the sky, once we get there, and you’ll see more stars than you ever dreamed of.”
“And is this Nocturnity to the north, sir?”
“Not really.”
“But I need to head north.”
“We’re not goin’ north.”
“But it is easy enough for you to change direction, if you are really the driver.”
“We’re not goin’ north because it’s not what these folks paid for.”
The droid, still smiling, looks back at the others and says, “I need to go north.”
The others think about it but don’t respond. So the droid says, more firmly:
“I need to go north.”
Q’mar Kent, to his right, is the most accommodating.
“Was it north where you were heading when we picked you up?”
“It was, sir.”
“To Purgatory, you said?”
“That is correct, sir. Purgatory. El Dorado. Oz.”
“Is it an emergency or something?”
“I consider it an emergency.”
“What’re you gonna do when you get there?”
“I am going to be the Wizard. The conquistador. The King.”
Q’mar chuckles. “I can buy that, man. They got some serious Lucy in Purgatory, I know that much.” He half turns to the others. “Say, how about we go to Purgatory anyway? The Wizard here needs to go to Oz. And I want to check out their Lucy.”
Silence for a few moments, then Maxx Dee sniffs and says, “Nah, man, we can’t go to Purgatory.”
“ ’Course we can—we’re halfway there already. More than half.”
“What are we gonna do there?”
“Get some Lucy. Some White Lightning. Some Felix the Cat. You’ll be needing some more by then anyway.”
Maxx Dee chortles but shakes his head.
Macleod speaks up. “I can’t just take you into Purgatory, you know. You got your passports?”
Q’mar says, “We got our chips, man—that’s the same thing.”
“They can still knock us back.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Well, I can’t take you there for free, anyway.”
The droid interjects. “I will pay.”
“You’ll pay?” Macleod asks, looking at him.
“That is what I said, sir.”
“You sure you got that sort of dough?”
“I have unlimited resources at my disposal, sir.”
“You mean your master will pay?”
“You will be paid all that you require, plus a substantial bonus, when you deliver me to Purgatory, sir.”
“There ya go!” Q’mar says to the others. “The Wizard’s loaded—and we’re not even payin’ for it! Whaddaya say?”
“Nah,” Maxx Dee grunts. “I want to see Nocturnity.”
“If we head north now,” Macleod points out, “Nocturnity will overtake us anyway.”
“I dunno, man,” says Maxx Dee. “I dunno.”
“Let’s vote on it,” Brenda says.
“Yeah,” agrees Spyder Blue, “let’s make it democratic.”
“Leave me out of it,” says Macleod, laughing. “I got no dog in the fight.”
“Well, okay, then,” decides Maxx Dee. “There’s—what?—seven of us, including the narc. That oughta settle it.”
The droid shakes his head. “But I do not want to vote, sir. I already know where I need to go. And I will pay.”
“Chill out, dude,” says Maxx Dee. “We gotta vote. You believe in democracy, don’t you?”
“I believe in capitalism, free enterprise, and natural rights.”
“Exactly—so we vote, and the majority rules, okay?”
“I am the majority,” says the droid.
“No, you’re one vote. And I’m a second vote. That’s one vote says we go to Purgatory, and one says we don’t.”
“And I say we don’t,” says Brenda. “That’s two against.”
“Well, I say we do go,” says Maia.
“That’s two votes all,” says Maxx Dee. “What about you, Massive Richard?” He prods the sleeping figure in front of him.
Massive Richard tries to open his glued-together eyes. “Wassup?”
“You wanna go to Purgatory?”
“Wha—?”
“Do you wanna go to Purgatory? Up north? We’re having a vote.”
“Wha—?”
“Just say yes or no, man,” says Maxx Dee. “Yes or no.”
Massive Richard shrugs indifferently. “No,” he says. “I dunno—I just wanna fuckin’ sleep.” He closes his eyes again.
“That’s three votes to two,” says Maxx Dee.
“Well, I sure wanna go,” says Q’mar Kent. “So that’s three votes all.”
Everyone turns to Spyder Blue. “Looks like it’s your choice, man,” says Maxx Dee. “You hold the deciding vote.”
The Dark Side Page 18