“Pity. Did you learn anything from her?”
“A week ago two men came to see her husband. After they left he was very frightened. She identified one of the men from a photo I showed her. It was Hubley.”
“Aw-right.” Sykes sat a little straighter behind the wheel. “What about the other guy?”
“She didn’t know him. But she said her son might.”
A little of Sykes’s elation seeped away. He’d been hoping for a positive ID on the surviving killer. Still, taking a make on Hubley was important. The visit hadn’t been wasted.
“What about the son? Did you talk to him?”
“He has not been home since that day. But she told me where we might find him.”
Sykes nodded. Patience, he told himself. Two pieces to fit in one side of the puzzle, two more on the other. Borders first, then fill it in.
The main ballroom of the Biltmore was a sea of black, white, and all shades of gray. Tuxedoes and evening gowns were the rule, though since this was Los Angeles “formal” could include any color in the rainbow and often did, depending on its wearer’s profession. The Hollywood male contingent boasted more ribbons and rhinestones than the gaudiest of the female guests.
Circulating through this select gathering a very few Newcomer faces were visible, not including the servers, security personnel, kitchen help, and others who happened to be working as opposed to attending the gala. Kipling was one of the select. He managed to thread his way unobtrusively through the crowd toward his goal. None of the celebrants paid him the slightest attention. He was simply another guest. The sight of a Newcomer in a tux was no longer a novelty.
The crowd’s attention was on the Mayor, who was holding forth from his position at the speaker’s table. Nobody minded the fact that instead of directing his words at them he was speaking to the half dozen television cameras lined up on the table’s right. He would have been doing exactly the same had he been pontificating at the opening of a new bowling alley. No matter what their social status, Los Angeles audiences always shared one thing in common: media sophistication.
“Our guest speaker tonight has done so much in his community and for his community in such a short period of time,” Hizzoner was declaring. “And I must add that as the founder of the first Newcomer owned and operated business to be incorporated in the state of California, he certainly has come a long ways in the last few years. Granted, though, not as far as he came in the years before reaching Los Angeles.”
It was a good line, and the audience was spared the necessity of laughing politely. They liked the current Mayor. He was a lot more easygoing than his predecessor, who’d been unlucky enough to preside over some botched earthquake relief. The city preferred a laid-back style for its elected officials. The Mayor was a relief, an antidote, a feel-good alternative to the 7.3 that had smashed the San Gabriel Valley a year ago. Nobody paid much attention to his real politics, though behind the smiling, wisecracking veneer he seemed serious enough about his office.
As his rambling discourse held the attention of both the audience and the TV cameras, Kipling slid into an empty seat at the front table, then leaned over to whisper into the head of the individual seated to his immediate right. The tall figure listened without once changing his expression or taking his eyes off the Mayor. Occasionally he would respond with the slightest of nods.
When he’d said all he had to say, Kipling straightened and joined everyone else in listening to the Mayor. Leastwise, he looked intently in his direction. Kipling actually had no interest in politics of any stripe, human or Newcomer.
The Mayor was winding down. A few of the reporters were starting to look bored and the last joke had drawn only a few chuckles instead of the hoped-for big laugh. Like any good politico-performer the Mayor knew when to quit a winner. So he ditched the rest of his speech and turned to his left as he marshaled his concluding words.
“As Mayor of this great city, the greatest in the country, it gives me great pleasure to introduce someone who has so readily made our city his home, someone who has added greatly to its stature while adding simultaneously to his own. Who has literally built something vital and important out of nothing, and who has done so under the most trying and stressful circumstances imaginable. Someone who has made all of us who live here his friends.” He gestured magnanimously with his right hand, and the TV cameras genuflected approvingly.
“Ladies and gentlemen—William Harcourt.”
Everyone seated at the tables and standing on the ballroom floor applauded vigorously as the TV lights and ballroom spotlight swung away from the Mayor to the newly designated doyen of media attention. Having been forewarned, the camera people knew where to aim their autofocusing equipment. The lenses came to rest on the outsized figure Kipling had been whispering to moments earlier. Kipling tried to stay out of the lights.
Harcourt dwarfed the humans seated at the front table with him. For that matter, so did his strikingly beautiful alien female companion. Everyone recognized him, including those invitees who were attending as guests of guests. Harcourt had appeared on TV and in the papers more than most Newcomers. He was handsome, even suave-looking, despite his lack of hair. His manner was charming and his cool blue eyes could weaken the knees of females of both races. Men stood a little straighter when that gaze focused on them. He was much more than admired. He was well liked.
William Harcourt was the epitome of the successful Newcomer, someone who had moved beyond integration to acceptance. His success was real and of his own making. As his warm smile swept over the audience the Newcomers waiting tables and passing hors d’oeuvres felt a shared sense of pride in the achievements of one of their own.
Harcourt winked down at his date as he stepped behind her to approach the podium. Once there, he further brought the audience into the palm of his outsized hand by making a production out of trying to raise the microphone high enough to reach his lips. As the laughter subsided he shielded his eyes from the spotlights, studying the crowd. When they had quieted, he reached into a breast pocket and extracted his carefully prepared notes.
“Thank you all for that very warm reception.” He paused to scan rapidly through the notes, then looked back out at the crowd of expectant VIPs. “I’m particularly grateful because I actually had the gall to write that in my notes.” He changed his tone to that of a man reading from a news monitor as he “read.”
“ ‘Thank you all for that very warm reception.’ Imagine how embarrassed I would’ve been if it hadn’t been such a warm reception.”
Fresh laughter from the crowd as they realized that here was an alien you could warm up to, an individual of charm and candor, who was not above self-parody or having a joke at his own expense.
“I don’t have a great deal to say tonight.” Harcourt turned to the Mayor and his entourage. “You have His Honor and three council members here tonight. I’m sure if I fail in my poor jests that we won’t lack for entertainment.” More chuckles bubbling up out of the crowd, just the right amount.
“As for myself, I stand before you a simple businessman. What you call a capitalist. I’m still not sure of certain English terms. Your politics are also still strange to me. But then, you appear to find them rather peculiar yourself. Still, one doesn’t need to know all the words to be a success in this country, does one? Perhaps even one of my background may dream someday of reaching for high office.”
A few encouraging cheers rose from the back of the crowd. Harcourt was silently delighted to see that they came from young humans, not Newcomers. It was a measure of how far he’d come that he could generate that kind of enthusiasm among members of the host race. It made him feel very good inside. Confident.
They had a hell of a time finding a place to park. Sykes finally decided the hell with it and squinched into a red fire zone. Francisco politely pointed out that it was illegal for them to park there except in emergency situations.
“This is an emergency,” Sykes groused as he headed for a side entr
ance, hands jammed deep in his pockets. “I’m ten minutes overdue for a trip to the can.”
“But I think we should . . .”
“Shut up, George, and just follow me, okay?”
Francisco nodded once, reluctantly, as they entered the hotel.
The official function was over and the long line of limos out front had traffic backed all the way up to Fourth Street. Sykes and Francisco forged on through the cavernous hotel, homing in on the buzz of departing guests. As it was they were almost too late, but Sykes spotted the man he was after as he was exiting the main entrance.
“Move it,” he snapped at his partner. Francisco did not have to lengthen his stride to keep pace.
Harcourt didn’t look at the approaching detectives. He was too busy smiling and chatting and shaking hands with his human equals. But Kipling recognized Sykes right away. His instincts told him to get away, and fast. But if he left in a hurry that would make him stand out when all he wanted to do was blend into the crowd. Humans rarely recognized individuals of his kind at first sight. He made the hard decision to remain at Harcourt’s side. He needed to know how the policeman would react to his presence, and he badly wanted to hear what he had to say. So he held his ground and kept his face turned toward the street.
Sykes saw him, but only momentarily. His gaze and thoughts were on Harcourt as he mentally readied his questions. A slight sense of unease came over him and he couldn’t isolate a cause. He shook it off as he came around in front of the alien.
“William Harcourt?”
The entrepreneur turned, still smiling broadly. “Yes?”
Sykes flashed his badge, returned it to his breast pocket. “I’m Detective Sergeant Sykes and this is my partner Detective Francisco. Los Angeles Police Department.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.” Harcourt nodded condescendingly. His gaze was on the silently staring Francisco. “Detective. I wasn’t aware any Newcomers had achieved the rank of Detective yet.”
“I am the first,” Francisco informed him.
“Congratulations. This must be the evening for declaration of achievement.” He added something brief in his own language. Francisco said nothing, instead responded with a peculiar jerking movement of his head.
Ignorant of whom he was addressing, Harcourt then gestured unknowingly to his companion. “This is my administrative assistant, Rudyard Kipling.” Kipling flinched at being pointed out.
Sykes gazed curiously in his direction. “Rudyard Kipling? No shit?” Kipling held his ground tensely, staring at the street, and let out a long slow breath when Sykes turned innocently back to Harcourt. “Listen, we need a minute of your time.”
Harcourt’s smile faded slightly. From inside the idling limo his date beckoned impatiently. He gestured to her, then turned back to Sykes.
“Always glad of an opportunity to be of assistance to the police. The Mayor and I often discuss law enforcement matters. What can I do for you two gentlemen?”
Francisco took a step forward. “We’d like to ask you about a business associate of yours. Warren Hubley.”
Sykes was watching Harcourt closely, but the businessman didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, yes. I heard about poor Warren. It was in all the papers, but I knew about it earlier than that. Since I work hard to keep tabs on my many interests, something like that would immediately come to my attention. Tragic.”
“You were partners with him on some Slag—uh, Newcomer real estate venture.”
Harcourt nodded easily. If he was trying to hide something he was doing a good job of it.
“That’s right. He and I, along with seven or eight others.” The smile vanished altogether as Harcourt checked his expensive watch. The custom band encircling his wrist was fashioned of gold bars. “Gentlemen, I will be happy to assist you in your investigation in any way I can. Unfortunately, that must wait as I am already overdue at another function. If you will call my office for an appointment I am sure I can spare you a few minutes some day late this week. Kipling?”
The assistant passed a business card to Francisco, who accepted it without looking at Kipling’s face. A loud voice cut through the crowd noise and they all turned to see the Mayor and his wife approaching.
“William?”
“Mr. Mayor.” Harcourt’s smile had regained its previous brilliance.
“William, I was wondering if you wouldn’t rather ride with Luisa and me. Two limos trying to make it across town in all this traffic, we’re bound to be later than we already are. You know how the Santa Monica can get this time of night.”
“I certainly do. What an excellent idea.” He turned to gesture at Sykes, taking the sergeant by surprise. “Ray, I wonder if you know two of your fine police officers. Detectives Francisco and Sykes.”
The Mayor shook Sykes’s hand first, then lost his in Francisco’s huge mitt. “A pleasure,” he said professionally without really seeing either of them. “William, we really should be going. Can’t keep the constituents waiting.”
“That’s something I’m learning fast, Ray. I’ve learned a lot watching you.”
Sykes had a whole raft of queries to put to the Newcomer entrepreneur, but the presence of the impatient Mayor took the wind out of his sails. He was impressed despite himself, not the least by the fact that the Mayor and Harcourt called each other by their first names. Confronted by Harcourt’s courtesy and the Mayor’s impatience, he quietly gave up.
Harcourt’s concern didn’t make him feel any better.
“Don’t look so distraught, Sergeant. Your world’s an impatient place, you know. Please feel free to call my office Monday for an appointment. I promise I will answer all your questions.” He turned and extended his hand to help his date out of their limo.
As he started off, something made him pause and he turned to gaze back at Francisco.
“Congratulations again on your promotion, detective. Remember, you’re out there setting an example for all of us. When you accept a high-profile position you are also taking on a great deal of responsibility. With so much bad press it is vital for those of us in a position to counteract it to be aware that we are every day working under a microscope. I’ll be keeping an eye on you and following your progress with great interest.”
Francisco met the entrepreneur’s stare unflinchingly. Sykes ignored them both. He was left frustrated and angry as the Mayor and Harcourt strolled off practically arm in arm.
“Let’s get out of here.” He spun on his heel and began pushing his way back through the rapidly thinning crowd.
“I thought he was most cooperative,” Francisco commented gingerly.
“Just shut up, George.”
Francisco eyed him uncertainly but acquiesced. Asking questions wasn’t the best way to learn human behavior.
Kipling touched Harcourt’s arm lightly. Turning from his date, Harcourt noted the expression on his assistant’s face and allowed himself to fall slightly behind the other members of the Mayor’s party. His date didn’t miss him. She was conversing merrily with the Mayor’s wife, thrilled and awed to find herself in such exalted human company. Harcourt was not so easily impressed.
“Something bothering you, my friend?” He spoke softly in English. That would draw less attention than speaking their own language. It was considered impolite to speak the Voice of Origins while in human company. English conversation would be ignored by those around them. He continued to smile and nod at faces in the crowd, never failing even as he listened to Kipling to acknowledge someone he recognized or who recognized him. Every contact was a potentially useful one. Amazing how you could make a human your friend simply by judicious use of the expression they called the smile.
It was an indication of his considerable self-control that his own smile did not vanish completely at Kipling’s next words.
“That cop, the one who was just talking to you? The human?”
“What about him?”
“He was the one who killed Anderson and the driver.”
Harc
ourt nearly stopped in his tracks. Nearly, but not quite. “This is becoming a serious breach of security. We have to put a stop to it immediately. There’s too much going on, everything is going far too well to risk something like this now. I don’t have the time to deal with it. Everything is at a very delicate stage of development.”
“I know.” Kipling smiled, but it wasn’t anything like Harcourt’s expression. Where the entrepreneur’s was warm and reassuring, his assistant’s was feral. “Don’t worry. He didn’t recognize me.”
“I’m not worried about some ’ss’askli human cop. It is his new partner who concerns me.”
Kipling nodded thoughtfully and turned to search the crowd. But the persistent human detective and his tall partner were already gone.
Maffet had retired years ago, but like some career cops he couldn’t keep away from police business. There was always a job for lifers like him, and the younger cops viewed him with sympathy. As for themselves, they couldn’t understand a mindset like Maffet’s when all they wanted was to do their time with as little trouble as possible and retire early. Not Maffet and his kind. They loved the rapid-fire banter of the station house. Maffet wasn’t an enthusiast. He was an addict.
The old man had a special fondness for guns. So they’d put him to work down on the firing line. The range was empty now, quiet, only half the lights on. Footsteps echoed through the subterranean chamber as the old man led his visitors through the grill that served as a gate. The clang of it shutting behind them boomed in the enclosed space.
Stepping behind the counter, he unlocked the cage that held the range supplies and removed a bag of reloads and a handful of silhouette targets which he passed to Francisco. The Newcomer detective glanced questioningly at his partner.
Sykes gestured rangeward. “Go on ahead. I’ll be right in.” Francisco nodded, turned to leave. As soon as he was out of sight, Sykes whispered to the old man. “Okay, what did you dig up for me?”
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