Titanshade

by Dan Stout

  “Carter, what are you doing?”

  It was Captain Bryyh, gracing my desk with a visit as she stormed through the Bullpen.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Maybe bruised up a little.”

  “You’ll be more than that when I’m done with you.” She loomed over me, fire in her eyes. Somewhere beneath my bandages, I started to bleed again.

  “What part of ‘don’t be a pain in my ass’ did you not comprehend?” One hand rested on her hip, the other clenched into a fist that shook slightly as she spoke.

  I flipped my map of suspects facedown.

  “You will stop doing whatever afterhours bullshit you’re getting up to. And”—she brought a finger up to my face—“you will stop calling city officials.”

  My suspicions flared. “How do you know who I’ve called?”

  “Because I’m your boss, and when you piss people off, they call me to complain. And that’s the kind of pain in my ass you’re supposed to be avoiding.”

  With some of her anger vented, she took a step back and looked me over.

  “What incompetent hack bandaged you up? It looks like someone tried to glue you back together with dollar-store tape and cotton gauze.” She clucked her tongue, managing to sound both disappointed and amazed. “Did you do that yourself?”

  When I didn’t answer, Bryyh rolled her eyes.

  “Go to the hospital,” she said.

  “I’ll get over there before too long.”

  “I’m not joking. You will go to a doctor. You will go right now.” She pointed to the door. “I do not want to see you in here again today.”

  “Cap, I think—” I looked around the Bullpen. Detectives scurried all around us, ears listening, mouths ready to whisper what they heard back to some unseen puppet master. Kravitz stood at his chalkboard, and I couldn’t tell if he was watching me while he wrote a list of new leads on the relevant persons list. Somewhere Angus and Bengles were slinking around, as well as a dozen other cops I’d irritated over the years. I wanted to tell her about the lab and the dogs, the danger that was simmering in the city. But I couldn’t do it.

  As much as Bryyh had helped me over the years, as much as her friendship with my mom had protected me, I couldn’t count on her; right then I couldn’t count on anyone.

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I turn up some info on a doctor.”

  “Damn right you will. You’ve already wasted enough of my time. There are riots in the streets, politicians at my throat, I’m twenty minutes late for my next meeting, and the sun isn’t up yet.” She stalked away from me.

  I was tempted to point out that it was winter, and the sun didn’t rise until one p.m., but I managed to keep that observation to myself. I’d have to give the phones a rest for a while, unless I wanted Bryyh to strangle me with the cord. Instead I dug into my pocket and pulled out the photo ID I’d taken off the guard at the lab. Like I’d told the captain, I intended to turn up some information on a doctor.

  But first I needed a pick-me-up. I pushed away from my desk and grabbed my empty coffee mug.

  * * *

  I dragged myself into the kitchenette on the third floor of the Bunker, where I knew I could find a fridge, a sink, and some of the only palatable coffee in the building. When I walked through the doorway, I also found DO Guyer.

  The divination officer was pouring herself a cup of coffee, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt, a revolver holstered to her hip. She glanced over her shoulder and offered me a greeting.

  “You look like a normal cop,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Administrative day. Happens to the best of us.” She set the coffeepot down and riffled through the drawers until she found a bag of sugar. When she got a good look at me she froze. “You look like you got worked over by the imps themselves.”

  I shrugged it off. “Occupational hazard.”

  “Funny.” She peered over my shoulder. “I just walked through a room full of cops who didn’t have black eyes. I wonder what their secret is.”

  I held up my empty mug. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She filled me up. “I heard about the Bell-Asandro family case.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Sugar?”

  I shook my head. She poured an unhealthy amount of the white stuff into her coffee. “I heard you wrapped it up.”

  “That was mostly Ajax.” The coffee was bitter and hot, but the scalding felt good and I desperately needed the caffeine.

  “Either way, that was well done.”

  I clasped my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my aching joints. I knew that I should be happy to get the compliment from a DO, but I lacked the energy to even pretend to care.

  “They were going to call me in on that one,” she said.

  “Were they?”

  “Yes.” Guyer’s spoon clinked against the sides of her mug as she stirred in her sweetener. “With all the publicity, they wanted to wrap it up fast.”

  I thought of Haberdine’s echo begging to be set free, of Guyer’s insistence that she’d hold him until she saw fit to let him go.

  “But you didn’t do that.”

  She sipped her coffee and winced. She reached for the sugar again. I slid it away, and threw a half-spoonful into my own drink.

  “You made an arrest. It’s no longer an issue.”

  “If it’s no longer an issue, then why are you telling me about it?”

  She took the sugar back.

  “Because we’re colleagues. Because I’m stuck in a miniature kitchen while I wait to talk to Bryyh. And because you showed up while I was making coffee.”

  She mixed in another two spoonfuls of sugar and sipped again. This time she seemed satisfied. I looked at the out-of-date safety posters that hung on the far wall. Something clicked in my head and I turned back to her.

  “Do you know Ambassador Paulus?” I held a hand up at shoulder height. “About this tall. Rich. Powerful. Tattoos that move around on their own.”

  She lounged against the countertop. “I know her. Not well.”

  “Sorcerous connections? You guys belong to the same country club?”

  “We don’t bond over coffee, if that’s what you’re implying.” She raised her mug to me in mock salute. “But I’ve met her. I know of her work.”

  I’d been standing for a while, and I noticed my legs had a definite wobble to them. While I waited for the coffee to kick in, I sat down at the linoleum-topped table.

  “So how much do people like you know each other’s business?” I said.

  “Paulus and me?”

  “Sorcerers in general.”

  “Surely you know magicians other than me.”

  “Not as many as you’d think. Detective salaries don’t let us run in the same social circles.”

  “They can’t keep up with your lavish lifestyle?”

  I gave her a smile and regretted it. Smiling made the bandages crinkle and wounds tear open. “So Paulus’s tattoos . . .”

  She sipped her coffee. “Are runes, yes.”

  “Like the ones on your cloak.”

  She gave a thumbs-up. “Also a ‘yes.’”

  “But you don’t all get together and compare notes.”

  “No we don’t. I make a good living—”

  “Glad one of us does.”

  “—but I’m not in the same tax bracket as your friend the ambassador. She’s got her own money.”

  “From her position?”

  “From her holdings.”

  The term “holdings” only had one meaning in Titanshade.

  “Oil,” I said.

  “Yes. Old money. Her family still lives up in the Hills. Those tattoos are done with ink that’s been blended with manna. I don’t even want to think about how expensive
that was.”

  “There’s manna in your cloak?”

  “Sure.” She chuckled. “But the amount of manna to coat some thread is minimal. That’s nothing compared to what Paulus has sunk into her flesh. More powerful, more expensive. And no matter where she goes it’s right there with her.” She wagged her head and groaned. “Do you have any idea how long I’m going to be paying off the student loans that covered that cloak?”

  I redirected the conversation before we ended up comparing financial woes.

  “So if Paulus has all this oil money, why on the Path is she the one running negotiations? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “I would assume she had to put her holdings into a blind trust so she doesn’t know where she’s invested. Most politicians do that. Some financial manager is running it for her until she retires.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s probably a load off her mind, not having to deal with it directly.”

  “One more question,” I said. “As long as you’re here.”

  “I’ve nothing but time.”

  “Just something I always wondered . . . What does manna taste like?”

  She laughed. “Not like anything you’ve had before. You ever drink a really strong whiskey?”

  I winced, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it that way.” Clearly word had gotten around about my recent experience with poison. She hurried on. “Anyway, that’s not the flavor, but there’s a bite to it like whiskey. It pinches your tongue.” She squinted, considering. “That, combined with cotton candy. Again, not the flavor, more the feeling that it melts away before you can fully taste it.”

  “Like hospital food,” I said.

  She laughed, but I hadn’t been joking. My last experience with hospital food was at the CCC, when both Jenny and I had been limited to a pasty, flavorless custard before the transplant surgery.

  “Could you”—my words stumbled—“I don’t know, add it to food?”

  “I suppose. It’s an oil,” she said. “You could fry your potatoes in it, if you had enough spare cash to cover the federal budget . . . and you didn’t mind the unexpected consequences. Manna is powerful and unpredictable.” She waggled a finger in the air, warming to the topic. “Without proper training, you’re as likely to become a living shadow as you are to achieve anything useful. There’re stories of pre-Shortage sorcerers who—”

  Hemingway stuck her head in the kitchenette and looked at Guyer.

  “Captain Bryyh’s looking for you, DO.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Guyer raised her cup of coffee in a mini-toast in my direction. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  She walked out but Hemingway stayed, waiting until we were alone to speak in a low voice.

  “You might want to check out the interrogation rooms,” she said.

  Still processing what Guyer had told me, it took a few seconds for me to respond.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Remember those white-collar johns from Government Plaza?”

  “Lowell and Cordray?”

  “They’re back.”

  “Both of them?”

  She nodded.

  One or the other might be trying to cut a deal to keep any prosecution to a minimum. But scumbags never turned evidence in pairs.

  My mug clattered as I dropped it in the sink. “When?” I asked.

  “This morning. They said they had more information. Called Angus and came in first thing. Them and their lawyers. Angus and Kravitz kept them isolated. I just found out in a briefing from—” she broke off, uncomfortable.

  So she’d been moved over to Angus’s task force. So much for Team Carter.

  I was surprised to feel a pang of betrayal. I hadn’t even wanted a partner, and here I was missing a team. And, of course, it happened when I had too many things to handle on my own. Digging in my pocket, I pulled out Knuckles’s ID card.

  “I’m sorry to ask you this, but can you pull a sheet on this guy? Ajax is on his way to the hospital, and I’ve got no one else.”

  Hemingway gnashed her gum. But she said, “Hand it over,” and took the ID from me.

  I thanked her, then was out the door.

  30

  THE BUNKER WAS A BIG place, with far too many nooks and crannies where the envoys could be hidden away for me to search through them all. I could have tried to find Angus, but he’d never tell me where they were.

  Instead I moved through the Bullpen, looking for the one person who would both know the envoys’ location and could be coerced into giving it up. I spotted his beard from across the room. He was walking toward the elevators, dressed in a loose tie and shirtsleeves, stains spreading across his underarms. He looked almost as bad as me.

  “Kravitz!”

  He turned and saw me, then kept walking. I broke into a jog, gritting my teeth as my bones grated with the sudden motion. Kravitz gave me a cursory glance as I intercepted him.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What’s Angus doing with the envoys?”

  “What envoys?”

  I wasn’t going to be stonewalled. I grabbed his arm and turned him sideways. He looked at my hand, then at me. He towered over me, shaking his head like he was dealing with a misbehaving dog.

  “He recorded statements,” said Kravitz. “Gathered evidence. Police work. You should try it some time.”

  “No one comes in like that a second time. They’re trying to play us.”

  Kravitz winced, as if I’d slapped him.

  “Let it go, Carter.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant the envoys or his arm. Not that I cared—I held on to both.

  “Where are they? What rooms are they in?”

  “They’re done. They made their statements and turned in their materials—”

  “Materials?”

  Kravitz jerked free and walked away, frowning like he’d said too much. I kept up with him as he reached the elevators.

  “What did they give up?”

  He ignored me, and entered the elevator as it opened with a ding.

  “What did they give up, Kravitz?”

  He turned, red-rimmed eyes boring into mine. “Sealed information,” he said. “You’ll get access when Bryyh clears you.”

  The elevator began to shut. Kravitz glanced over my shoulder, as if he were scanning the Bullpen for watchful eyes. “You want my advice?” His eyes flicked back to me and he licked his lips. He looked as if he were staring down the barrel of a gun. “Tend to your own, Carter. Fast.”

  The cab doors closed, and I was left wondering what Kravitz had meant. Had that look on his face been guilt? Pity? Disgust? I didn’t know what to think or who to trust, and I didn’t have time to sort it out.

  I jogged back through the Bullpen. I saw Bryyh behind the glass door of a meeting room. She and Guyer were pouring over a stack of photos with detectives Bierce and Abrams. As soon as I opened the door, Bryyh glared at me.

  “Not now, Carter.”

  I hadn’t even opened my mouth to argue before her index finger went up.

  “Not. Now.”

  A few weeks earlier I’d have barged in and laid it all out for the captain and asked for help. But at that moment I didn’t know who I could trust and who I had to hold out against. I let the door swing shut and drifted away. There had to be another way to find out what was going on.

  Gellica.

  I stopped at the nearest desk and scooped up the phone. The junior detective working there looked up and gave me an irate, “Hey!” He was a beefy guy named Greendale who I didn’t know well.

  “It’ll just be a minute,” I said.

  “Nah, you’re done now,” he said, and reached out a pencil to disconnect my call.

  I snatched his pencil and stabbed the eraser end into the back of his han
d. His hand hit the table with a slap, and I held it there. The rubber tip dug into the soft spot between two knuckles while I asked the operator to connect me to 1 Government Plaza. Greendale mumbled obscenities at me but kept his voice down, I suppose in an attempt to save face. He didn’t want to be seen getting manhandled by the department eccentric. I let up on the pencil and made a tsk-tsk gesture at him. He turned his back to me and pretended to shuffle paperwork.

  “I need to speak with Envoy Gellica,” I said. “This is Detective Carter of the TPD, and it’s urgent.”

  If I could talk to Gellica, maybe I could find out why she’d sold me out. Why Lowell and Cordray were pulling this stunt.

  They told me she wasn’t in. They told me she wasn’t expected in that day, and weren’t sure when she would be available. They offered to put me in contact with their chief legal counsel if I needed further assistance with the investigation. They all but told me I’d have better luck going home and teaching my cat to sit and stay.

  I could smell the backstabbing coming from a mile away.

  Hemingway entered the Bullpen with Myris at her side. I hung up and walked over to them.

  “You gotta hear this,” said Myris, talking in a hushed voice.

  “She already told me,” I said. “The envoys were here.”

  “Not just that, they changed their whole story.”

  “What?”

  Hemingway glanced around, then walked over to the board listing relevant names. Myris and I followed, and the three of us looked at it while we talked, making it appear that we were slightly more on focus.

  “They dumped entire black books of scandal,” said Hemingway. “The names of politicians, and the candies they prefer. The ones who’ve paid off blackmailers. If what they’re spilling checks out, the Squib killing is going to be tied into the candies for sure.”

  “It will,” said Myris, and I knew she was right. They wouldn’t have come in if they didn’t have corroboration.