by Dan Stout
Harlan’s grin danced the line between a smile and a sneer. “There’s no shortage of people who’d like to slander our work at Rediron,” he said. “It’s a side effect of having resources that others would like to raid.”
“And you’re used to dealing with such people?”
He reached out and tapped two fingers in the center of his desk.
“The eagle suffers little birds to sing. But no sparrow will stand ’gainst the talons of righteous anger.” He looked at me for a long, quiet moment. “You may want to write that down in your notepad, Detective.”
We stared at each other, then he pulled back. “I am a passionate man. It’s one of my failings. If my words have given offense, I apologize.” He peered at me, head cocked to one side, sizing me up like I was a prize work beetle about to go on the auction block. “Have you ever even been on the ice plains?” he asked. “I don’t mean driven over them in a vehicle. I mean really been out on them and experienced what it’s like.”
“I have.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Walking from a heated motor car into a heated building is not what I meant.”
“I’ve been on the plains,” I said, with perhaps more bite in my words than was needed.
“Oh, well, I apologize—” He spread his hands out, as if offering me the world.
“My father was a rigger. On the Ursus Major.”
That stopped his mouth from flapping.
“I do apologize,” he said, and now his tone matched his words. “If that’s the case then I suspect you truly have been out on the fields.” He looked me over again. “I misjudged you, and that’s a sin I know myself to be prone to.” Harlan dropped his gaze and pursed his lips. When he looked up he slapped the leather of his office chair.
“Detective, would you do me a favor and stretch your legs enough to walk over to that display there?”
I followed his pointing finger to one of the many display cases, a walnut monstrosity on the opposite wall.
Harlan made a shooing motion at me. “Go ahead, get up,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Curiosity got a hold of me, and I did as he asked. The case was packed with antiques, items from every time in the history of Titanshade’s development. With an emphasis on oil discovery and the role Harlan’s family had played in extracting it.
“Go on, open it up—that’s right.” He stood as he gave me directions, urging me on from afar the way an athlete might urge a poorly thrown ball back on course.
“That’s the original city charter, and the first land survey my great-great had done. History made manifest, right there.”
There was more. There were mementos from almost every rig, Rediron owned or not. Aerial photos of the city’s development, pictures of the city’s founders, the settlers who’d wanted to escape civilization and found oil, and the oil barons who brought civilization right back to those settlers, whether they wanted it or not. Harlan’s family had been among the settlers and oil barons both.
“Your donations to the Therreau,” I said. “Is that because your family turned away from its roots? Pushed their own community out into the Borderlands?”
Harlan shook his head, refusing to be baited. “My ancestor was directed to drill in the ice plains. A vision in his sleep guided him, like it has so many other great folks.”
“Dream sight?” I asked the question, though I already knew how he’d answer.
“Yes, indeed.” Harlan beamed. “A holy vision of another world, showing him men and women drilling far below the ground and finding great treasure. Treasure enough to turn the gears of the world.”
“That’s something of an advantage.”
“Like cresting a hill and getting a glimpse of the Path ahead.”
I grunted. Most anyone with an agenda to push claimed dream sight granted them glimpses of other worlds on the Path. Maybe for some it did. But more likely it was smoke and lies. Like the lies a man tells himself as the last mementos of his old life crumble to ash.
Harlan returned to his seat and pointed to the display case once again.
“Now on the second row there’s several hip flasks, the kind men and women who work for a living keep on themselves to take a nip from time to time. To keep the cold of the ice plains at bay.”
The flasks were spread out in array. There were branded items from all the major rigs, and dozens of the smaller ones. Industrial operations, the names of which any good working-class Titanshade child could recite from memory. Javelin. . . . Imp’s Pike. . . . Shelter in the Bend. . . . Ursus Major.
My hand went out unbidden, lifting and examining the flask.
“Know what I think, Detective? I think you do what you do because this city’s in your blood just as much as it’s in mine.”
I stared at the filigree on the flask. Detailed, handmade, covered with tiny dents and scratches that showed it had been used on a job site. I didn’t remember my old man carrying one like it, but I could imagine him slipping it into the pocket of his thick canvas work overalls. It was exactly the kind of thing I wished I’d saved. Something to remember him by.
“You take that one on home with you,” Harlan called from his desk.
“I can’t accept gifts,” I said, though I didn’t exactly put it down, either.
“That’s no gift, that’s me returning a belonging of one of my employees to another employee’s child. It’s wrong that such a fine thing collects dust in a showroom. It should be out in the world, with someone making a difference.”
I hesitated. It felt good in my hand. Heavy, with the weight of a well-balanced tool.
There was a squeak as Harlan leaned back in his chair.
“Now, it’s empty of course, but I would be grateful if you would take it, fill it up with a spirit of your choosing and enjoy a nip from time to time.”
When I didn’t respond, he spoke again.
“You asked who wants to derail the oil field purchase, Detective. And I’ve spoken to you about truth. So here’s a bit of truth for you. I’m not looking to derail the talks, Detective, but I’m not hurrying them along, either.” Harlan chuckled. “Do I want the money?” He tilted his head. “Of course I do. But turning our back on oil, that changes everything. Lost jobs, lowered wages. Abandoning the work ethic that brought us this far. You think the Squibs will have a place for the roughnecks, for people who work with their hands? For people like your father?”
He raised his callused hands to stop me from answering. “Best hold your tongue, Detective. It might get you in trouble back at City Hall.” He favored me with one of his wide grins before continuing.
“When I look at those items”—Harlan pointed at the shelves filled with the history of the city, so much of it entwined with his own family—“I can’t help but wonder—shouldn’t there be a way for my family to profit without destroying the city that we helped build?” He closed his eyes and dropped his hands to his lap. “I remember where I came from, and it makes me proud. As sure as I walk the Path, I am determined to remember my family’s history.”
I ran a thumb over the flask in my hands. It was well polished and the sigil of the Ursus Major rig glinted in the light from the display case. I thought of my old man, and how I had so little to remember him by. I wondered how many times he’d taken a break from the backbreaking grind of roughnecking to swig from a flask like this one.
I slid the flask into my jacket pocket and gave Harlan a nod. “Thanks.”
“Well, thank you, Officer, for doing your best to protect the people of this city.” He bobbed his head. “The problem is that the populace of the city doesn’t appreciate the miracle that they inhabit. Did you know that almost none of the residents of Titanshade have actually been on the ice plains? With no way to see what they’ve been saved from, they don’t appreciate the sacrifices we make to allow them easy lives. This city,” he said
with wide, serious eyes, “is hallowed ground.”
His toothy grin returned. “And I’m sorry that I need to get back to work. Have a good day, now, and may your Path be smooth and easy traveling.” He sat down, calling out as he did. “Ammon! Show the detective out, please.”
The door opened, and I walked out of the office, past the hulking bodyguard. The big Mollenkampi didn’t give way as I edged by him in the hall, turning my shoulders so I could slide past. A surprising bit of intimidation from someone whose boss was sending me out the door with a gift. I looked up at him, staring above the intimidating mouth armament to look into his eyes. He kept his biting jaws thrust out, on display. That meant they weren’t protecting the soft flesh of his throat. I filed that away for future potential use.
“Tell me,” I said as I squeezed by, “have I seen you somewhere before?”
He was silent. But his eyes narrowed.
I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “I got it! When I worked Vice. Didn’t I see you at a roundup?” I moved in and stood close to him, nudging him with an elbow, like a conspirator sharing a taboo confidence. “You can tell me—you got a sweet tooth for the candies, right?”
It was a meaningless question, full of insinuation that led nowhere. But it gave me an excuse to advance in a nonthreatening way. Now that the intentional closeness was at my instigation, the oversized Ammon shied away. He had clearly been trying to intimidate, not assault.
“Not talking, huh? I gotcha. Discreet. I like that.” I reached out and patted his arm. His bicep was a steel spring beneath the fabric of his coat. I decided to leave before my luck started to change.
22
THE STREETS WERE STILL CROWDED when I left the Rediron building, protesters leading chants with megaphones, scuffles breaking out in a few different places. Crimson patrol cops closing in to keep things controlled. I pushed my way through the crowd and tried to distance myself quickly. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark. This wasn’t even an organized protest in front of a government building, just scared citizens trying to be heard.
The problem is, when people feel threatened, they do crazy things.
I showed up at Gellica’s office without confirming she was there at such a late hour. It wouldn’t have been that hard to find her home if I needed to. I’m a cop; finding people is one of the things I’m good at.
When I was shown in past her ornately carved office doors, she greeted me with a smile. It didn’t last long.
“Why did you give the guide hush money?” I demanded. I was breathing heavy, a middle-aged cop in a wrinkled brown suit, winded from the trip and seething with anger.
She blinked and capped her pen. “What guide?”
“The guide who came forward with Flanagan’s alibi. The one who’s been on the front page of the papers and on every news channel since the case fell apart. That guide.”
She was seated. I stood, hands digging into the back of the comfortable guest chair she’d occupied when Ajax and I had first met her.
“Who says I did?” She said it with a scowl, but her face told me all I needed to know. The light chestnut of her cheeks flushed darker, and her lips grew paler as she pressed them together. But I asked again, just the same.
“Did you or didn’t you?”
She tossed the pen down. It struck her desk with a clatter.
“Where is this coming from?”
“We made an interesting arrest today.”
“The Bell-Asandro murders. What does that woman have to do with me?”
The fire in my gut froze solid. Gellica could have heard about the shooting on the news, but no one had been identified publicly. If she knew Nina Bell had been arrested, there was no doubt that she and Paulus had a source inside the Bunker. The pressure in my head was building but I tried not to let my rage show.
“Did you bribe the guide?” I asked again.
She muttered to herself, “I can’t believe this.”
“That’s not a denial.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I formally deny it,” she said. “But if anyone did what you claim, it was because you needed it to happen.”
I looked away from her. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that logic. It was an old favorite of the kind of cop who planted evidence.
“That’s not how it works,” I said. “That’s not how I work.”
“Well, nothing was working, and something had to happen.”
I flashed back to the talk on her balcony. My grip tightening on the lush upholstery of the chair. “You warned me about Flanagan. You said you didn’t think it was him.”
She picked up her pen and slid it into a folder. I pushed the chair aside and leaned across the table, jabbing a finger in the air.
“You didn’t just have a feeling. You actually knew he was innocent.” I thought of Lowell’s smug face as he identified Flanagan, and how the envoy had described him as having a full head of hair, matching the mug shot, but not the cleanly plucked man we’d apprehended.
“‘Whatever it takes.’” I spit her words back at her and felt a surge of satisfaction when she winced. “Tell me, is there any part of this case you haven’t corrupted?”
“You were the best shot we had at seeing this mess cleaned up quickly. I didn’t want to see you fail.” She stood. “But as I said, I never bribed anyone.”
The Ursus Major flask was an unaccustomed weight in my suit coat, and it prodded me in the chest, a reminder of why I was working the case. I pulled it from my pocket.
“Your family owned oil rigs,” I said. “Did they ever work on them? Or just sit at home and collect checks?”
“Your retirement fund owns a stake in dozens of companies,” she said. “Have you worked at any of them?”
“The whole damn city’s built on the blood and sweat of the people who pull oil out from under the ice.” I set the flask on the table between us and pointed at the logo of my father’s rig emblazoned on its side. “I don’t care how corrupt the rest of you sons of bitches are, they deserve at least one honest cop out there.”
There was a tentative tapping at the door. Gellica called out, “Come in,” and a subordinate entered with a stack of papers under one arm. A young, wide-eyed Gillmyn doing his best to look intimidating, almost standing on tiptoes to make himself look bigger. Shouting matches seemed common enough to not burst in alarmed, but not so common that her staff took it completely in stride.
Holding out the papers, he said, “The proposal documents you requested.”
“Thank you.” Gellica took the stack and began flipping through it. “If there’s nothing else, Detective?”
I kept my mouth shut and left, resisting the impulse to shove her assistant into the wall as I passed.
Brooding about bureaucrats and diplomats, I stormed through 1 Government Plaza like I could bring the whole place down with my stomping.
When I got to the lobby I realized the flask was still sitting on Gellica’s desk. I cursed and turned back around.
I blew past the staffers and hangers-on, most of whom had seen me enough times that they had stopped outright staring at the appearance of someone who wasn’t on any Most Influential Titanshaders list.
Her assistant at least attempted to stop me, standing and asking, “Detective? She’s occupied. Hey!”
I ignored him, swung the heavy office door open, and almost collided with Gellica on her way out.
She jumped back and the flask fell from her hands, bouncing on the carpet with a dull thud. At least there was nothing in it to spill. Gellica glared at me.
“I left my—”
She nodded. “I was going to ask someone to run it out to you.”
We both bent to recover it, our heads almost colliding. I plucked the flask off the carpet and held it in both hands. We spoke over each other.
I said: “I t
hink we’re done,” while she said: “Is that all?” We shared an uncomfortable pause, then she looked away.
“Good night, Detective.”
I turned and left. I didn’t need her to show me the way out.
23
EXHAUSTION SUNK ITS CLAWS INTO me as 1 Government Plaza dwindled in my rearview mirror. I’d started the day being called onto the carpet by foreign dignitaries, and since then I’d gone toe to toe with an ambassador and a titan of industry, seen my partner shot, and I had nothing more to show for it than a dead, drug-addled kid who’d claimed he’d been experimented on by a mad scientist, and that he was afraid of a big Mollenkampi.
Evening shifted into the uniform darkness of night, and I snaked the car through the streets like a shark along a reef, half afraid that I’d die if I stopped moving. All around me were flagrant violations of any one of the myriad laws on the books, the vast majority of which are only enforced if a cop needed an excuse to bust someone. Solicitation. Open container. A half-dozen jaywalkers and at least two poorly concealed weapons would all have been legitimate arrests. But I ignored the small fish. I was no beat cop looking to make my monthly quota of citations. I was hunting a mad killer.
And to do that I needed a drink and a good night’s sleep.
I parked my car and walked into my neighborhood liquor store. The shelves were full of brown and clear liquors, all calling my name. I selected a particularly peaty whiskey and walked it to the counter. I nodded a hello to the clerk as I pulled out my wallet. He was a scrawny kid with an ugly burn scar on the side of his scalp, half hidden by long blond hair that he must have arranged carefully every day. I’d seen him in the store dozens of times over the years. I had no idea what his name was.
“That everything?” the kid said. He started ringing up the bottle without waiting for a response.
It occurred to me that I could ask something innocuous, get to know him, maybe make a friend. Maybe he needed a friend.
Maybe I did.
“Fifteen twenty-one.”
As I dug out my wallet the pager in my other pocket buzzed. I handed the kid a twenty and collected my change in silence.