It’s absurd that she sounds surprised. Half the men in this building would like to bed her.
He nodded once, pretending to feel sanguine about the situation, and started toward the lift. “He seems quite . . . upright? Respectable.”
She grinned, following him into the cage. “He’s good to his mother. The gossips say that’s the way to judge how a man will treat his wife.”
Mikani snorted. “Gossips are idiots. Let’s chase down that lead of yours; we’ve a killer to catch.”
His partner filled him in during the forty-five-minute drive; it wasn’t the physical distance, but the city streets grew more dangerous and unpredictable by the day. Traffic snarls of blocked hansoms and irate wagon drivers clogged the lanes. A few times, Mikani considered seeing how well the cruiser was made and simply pushing his way through. But it was unlikely he could pull that off without injuring a few civilians, and despite Ritsuko’s teasing, he wasn’t actually a maniac.
“You never take me anywhere nice,” Mikani observed, as they climbed out.
Harland Stokes, the moneylender to whom Toombs owed a substantial debt, kept offices in a nondescript building nestled between a storage facility and a shuttered shop. Mikani glanced up and down the narrow corridor of neglected businesses and semilegal operations wedged between the Rivermouth piers and the market districts closer to the center of the city. Scurrying porters and minor House nobles, conspicuous in their attempts to go unnoticed, crossed paths as they slipped among moneylenders, pawnshops, and less identifiable shop fronts and unmarked doors.
“Technically,” Ritsuko said, “you brought me.”
“You found the address. It’s all you. Admit it, you’re drawn to disreputable things.” He grinned and made sure the security locks on the cruiser were set before heading for Stokes’s door.
“It’s true. Every Sunday, I drag Mr. Higgins to a different gin joint.”
Mikani laughed. “I suspect Mr. Higgins would have a stroke if you tried.” He rapped on the door with the handle of his walking stick, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer. “Harland Stokes? Need a minute of your time.”
A squat fellow with shoulders like a brick wall answered; his coat was incongruously well tailored, and his waistcoat shone with gold thread. Yet he has a face like a broken clock. “Do you have an appointment?”
Mikani rolled a shrug and ambled into the room. “Inspectors Mikani and Ritsuko, CID. Consider this . . . a civic duty. We have a few questions. Mr. Stokes gives us good answers, and we all go away happy and with the satisfaction of a day well spent.”
“Mr. Stokes may not be inclined to perform any civic services today. Wait here.” His accent was thick as curds and whey; while they waited, Mikani tried to place it.
Apparently, Ritsuko was thinking the same thing. “Where’s he from?”
“Winter. Northeast, I’d wager. But he has an odd accent, one I haven’t heard much.”
A few minutes later, the henchman returned. “Boss will give you five minutes. If those questions are brief, that should do it. If they’re not, I’ll chuck you in the street myself.”
Hells. I know that accent. Don’t see many Craggers this far south. Crag coasters kept to themselves, rarely venturing to the northernmost settlements of the Isles to trade. Mikani had met a few before leaving home but had never seen one in Dorstaad before.
“You’re the soul of politeness, you are.” Mikani gave the thug a grin and motioned for Ritsuko to lead the way to Stokes’s office.
She preceded him; and for the second time in recent memory, his gaze dropped to the curve of her arse. Focus, Mikani. With a guilty pang, he followed her in.
The office was positively opulent, belying the seedy exterior. An expensive carpet woven of pure silk threads created a blue-and-green geometric pattern beneath their feet. The furnishings gleamed from recent polish, and the man sitting behind the ornate desk looked like a banker. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. Past the man’s silver hair and spectacles, Mikani caught a glimpse of an absolutely sharkish mind.
“You have five minutes. Make it quick.” Stokes wasted no time on a greeting.
“Very well. You lent Gregory Toombs a significant amount of money recently. Funds which he then used to commit capital crimes. Since men like you always keep tabs on their clients, I’ll bet you have some idea of where to find Mr. Toombs.”
“That’s concise.” Stokes smiled, then produced a humidor. “Would you like a cigar? This won’t take one minute, let alone five.”
Mikani inclined his head politely and took the offered cigar, sliding it into his pocket. “Most kind.”
“Sir,” Ritsuko prompted.
The moneylender clipped the end, then made a production of lighting his cigar. “Toombs doesn’t owe me a copper. He paid his debt two weeks ago, all in old coins.”
Well. That’s unexpected.
“He paid in full, just like that? I take it you didn’t extend him another loan.”
“Certainly not. I shouldn’t have done so in the first place. Actors aren’t good bets for return on investment. No collateral, no job security. I must confess, I’m curious as to where he managed to get the money myself.”
“So are we. You said he paid in old coins? Do you have one on you?” Some of the older coins still bore the mark of their issuing House or trading-concern pact; if nothing else, it might point them to Toombs’s mystery backer.
Stokes narrowed his eyes. “On me? No. But I can procure one if you’ll turn around.”
Mikani looked over at Ritsuko and shrugged before turning away from the moneylender. Thumps and clangs sounded behind, probably from a hidden safe. His partner was visibly chewing on some theory; she had that thinking expression.
But before he could ask, Stokes said, “Here you are. You can keep it. And your time’s up, I believe.”
• • •
OUTSIDE, RITSUKO STUDIED the coin in the daylight. Stokes had been right about its being old; the silver was dull, the engraving worn. Hard to make out what it’s supposed to be. The metal looked more like pewter, but if the moneylender had accepted these coins to clear the debt, they must be valuable. But as she traced the faint pattern, her pulse quickened in excitement.
“Mikani, come feel this!”
“That’s . . . quite the offer, partner.” He smirked and stepped closer.
Ignoring that, she grabbed his hand and pressed his fingers to the etching. She wondered if he would recognize the pattern. The antlers were what caught her attention, so she waited until he reached the top of the coin. He traced the shape again, his brow furrowed.
“Well?” she demanded.
“That’s . . . oh. A stag’s head.” He frowned, hesitating. “The button?”
She bounced, then climbed into the cruiser, as the atmosphere in the narrow street wasn’t such that she was inclined to linger. Inside, she didn’t lean back, as the cuts still stung. Before work, it had taken the better part of an hour for the doctor to check each one to make sure no slivers of metal lingered beneath her skin to get infected.
“Exactly. So if the button belonged to Toombs, how did he end up with old coins that match the emblem on it?”
He slid into the driver’s seat. “How did he get any coins, would be my question. If Stokes didn’t lend him the money, there’s someone else backing him. And I find it hard to believe that they’d be unaware of what he’s doing with the money.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel for a few seconds. “Or . . . he found a hidden treasure.”
Ritsuko scowled as he started the vehicle. “It makes no sense that someone would pay him for this. I mean, who benefits from Miss Aevar’s death? Or Miss Bihár’s.”
“Anarchists? I don’t know. Cira’s death got at least one of the Houses riled up, then Electra’s murder nearly sparked a riot.”
“Do you think the girls were targeted because of who they were? Wedges, if you will, to be used against social order?”
Mikani spoke carefully,
seeming to weigh his words even as he dodged through traffic and makeshift blockades. “The Aevars aren’t so powerful that they’re unassailable. Cira had a single bodyguard, who stayed at a distance, instead of a cadre of armed guards like other Houses. Which made her an easier target than, say, a Magnus girl. And there were those who knew of Electra’s family ties to the Summer Clan. Both girls were isolated from their usual support and protection.”
“I was just thinking about that in Stokes’s office. You couldn’t discern any details about the third victim, but maybe she’s . . . important but somewhat invisible, like the first two.” Did that make sense? “A girl whose death would really rock the city in some fashion, concluding the trifecta of unthinkable chaos.”
Mikani nodded. “They have the Houses scared and the Summer Clan up in arms. What would push the city over the edge? Some councilor’s daughter, niece, mistress?”
“I don’t know,” Ritsuko said, frustrated. “But we’ve confirmed there’s a magical connection. Mikani, you met some of the rabble-rousers. Do you think they’re capable of this? Do they have the resources?”
His jaw clenched as he seemed to mull the question. “They may have the means, as far as manpower and tricks, yes. But from what I saw? I don’t think they could scrounge up the coin. If they’re helping Toombs, they both have a benefactor.”
“Or they stole the money.” Sometimes, the simplest answers also made the most sense.
“So where would you go to steal a few hundred ancient coins?”
She thought for a few seconds, then offered, “From one of the Houses? Should we check the incident reports to see if anyone’s reported a missing collection?”
Mikani grinned. “A good idea. And if we can find the right records, they should tell us what House they might have belonged to. We were looking for buttons, not coins or House crests.”
“To the archives first?” She slid a look at him through her lashes.
To her surprise, he was looking at her as much as the road, his gaze hooded. But his tone was light. “See? I do take you nice places.”
“You were the one complaining about that, not me.”
“I’m a sensitive soul.”
She laughed. “Just drive, Mikani.”
He actually listened. In short order, they reached the archives. The afternoon light glistened off the white stone, lending it a dazzling aspect. As usual, he ignored all posted parking regulations and left the cruiser as close as possible without actually driving up the steps. Mikani grumbled as he came along behind her, but once they were inside, he applied himself to the work with a tenacity that impressed her. Two hours later, she tapped the page, beckoning him over.
“Look,” she whispered.
He came over and bent across her shoulder, presumably for a better view. Did he always smell like cloves? “So it’s definitely Old Ferisher. Looks like . . . from one of the defunct Houses?”
“We have a name now, at least. We should head to the Academy to see if we can link them to a surviving House.” She pushed to her feet.
“And that’ll point us to the source of the coins. Good call.”
They gathered their coats and left, pausing to button up against the evening chill. Outside, workers emerged from nearby buildings, carrying their briefcases, hats clutched to keep them from the wind. The steps were mostly empty, so Ritsuko hurried toward the cruiser. In her haste, she didn’t see the nick in the step, and she stumbled, dropping her bag. With a muttered curse, she knelt to pick it up—and a bullet slammed into the ground a few feet in front of her.
She didn’t panic, though she heard Mikani swearing. The crowd on the walk below reacted at first as if it were fireworks, but then someone shouted, “Gun!” and they scattered like billiard balls. Women ran, their skirts billowing to reveal ankles and the lace on their petticoats, too frightened to fret about dignity.
“More than one,” a businessman called.
“Cover,” she got out, scrambling on hands and knees toward a column to the right. “Can you tell where . . . ?”
“Somewhere to the left, near the underground entrance, I think. Hard to tell with the screaming.” Mikani ran for the cruiser, dodging the shots that chipped the pavement just inches in front of his feet. Then he crouched against the back end of the vehicle, pistol in hand. “I—” He ducked as another couple of shots ricocheted off the cruiser and column. “Two shooters at least.”
She drew her weapon and peered around the stone pillar. The people on the street made it difficult to find her targets, but they didn’t prevent the gunmen from firing. A woman in a House servant’s uniform went down, fleeing toward the archive, a red stain blossoming on her back. Another round slammed into the column, too close for comfort. Ritsuko couldn’t even tell where to fire back.
“Ideas, partner? They don’t seem to care how many they take with them.”
Mikani called back, “Constables will be out in force, along with any House Guards soon. But not soon enough.”
“I’m pushing toward the underground station.”
“I’ll cover you.” He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. “On three. Three.” He rose to fire over the cruiser, the bullets striking the ground in a cascade of sparks.
Speaking her intention was easier than doing it, but she mustered her courage and rolled. It hurt tumbling down toward the cruiser, probably opening the cuts on her back. Once she made it down there, amid a smattering of fire, she caught her breath and grinned at Mikani, who seemed torn between appreciation and concern.
“Ready to do it again?” she asked.
Ritsuko waited for his signal, then, keeping low, she ran toward a bench and curled up behind it while Mikani saturated the area with rapid fire. Twenty feet closer. From this vantage, she saw three men, but their crouched position in the underground stairwell made it impossible for her to tell anything about them. And it would take a miracle to hit any of them from this angle. I need to get closer. A cacophony of whistles rang out in the distance, the signal that multiple constabulary cruisers were approaching.
At least the immediate area’s clear. If we can keep them pinned—
But the gunmen apparently knew what was coming as well; they ducked down the stairs leading to the underground. Ritsuko pushed upright and went after them at a full sprint, and she heard Mikani coming at her back, but by the time they got to the bottom, the three were aboard a departing train.
She screamed, both hands clenched in pure frustration. For good measure, she kicked a rubbish bin three times. Four. Five. It didn’t help. Might as well lose my temper properly. She hurled her attaché case at the station wall. Watched it bounce. “Not. Again.”
Mikani cupped her shoulder. “Easy. We might catch them at the next station if we bully through some roadblocks.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
Before she could answer, a constable ran up, flushed and panting. “Inspectors . . . sirs! Gregory Toombs. At the Port Authority, they’ve got him!”
CHAPTER 22
THE PORT AUTHORITY TOWERED FIVE STORIES HIGH, PLUS AS many belowground. A truncated pyramid, glittering beacons transformed the building into a collage of lights. Beyond the high wall that stretched several blocks to either side, the top decks and bridges of docked ships swayed with the tide. As with so many other buildings in the city, the port was crowded and understaffed twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.
Mikani nodded, conscious of a rush of anticipation. “I’m looking forward to this.”
“I promised to keep you from killing Toombs,” Ritsuko reminded him.
He cut her a look.
People trying to leave the beleaguered city for the Winter Isle stood, sat, or camped throughout the complex. In places, Mikani had to push through the throng to reach the stairwell, and it was endless flights down from there. Finally, the two arrived at the security office. The guard on duty wasn’t a constable; he worked for the port, but they had saturated Dorstaad with sketches of Gregory Toombs.
&
nbsp; It’s about time we caught a break.
The officer was young, early twenties, but he seemed sharp enough. “Inspectors. Welcome to the port. The prisoner is this way.”
No small talk. Good man. Mikani followed, relieved. He guessed Toombs had gotten worried as the net tightened from all quarters. With such a high reward posted and the Summer Clan blocking the roads, he must’ve felt the sea offered his only hope of escape. Finally, we’ll get some answers. Ritsuko walked alongside him, still clearly aggravated by their failure at the tube station.
Never saw her lose her temper before. That was . . . interesting.
The PA officer slipped his key through the lock, then accepted their credentials as sufficient proof of their right to assume custody of the prisoner. “Have a pleasant evening, Inspectors.”
As the guard disappeared around the corner, Mikani stepped into the cell. The man perched on the edge of the cot scrambled toward the wall. Toombs looked like hell. His dark eyes were ringed with bruises, sunken in a skeletal face, and his mouth seemed too large for the rest of his features. At some point he’d shaved his head and grown a beard; putty clung to his sharp nose, probably the remnants of an attempted disguise.
“Mr. Toombs.” Mikani pinned him with a cold look. “Let me warn you that we’ve had a frustrating week. So if you lie to me, I’ll break something. Every time you lie, every time you clam up, I break something else.”
The actor flinched.
“I’m sure Mr. Toombs knows that his only hope of avoiding House Aevar and the Summer Clan’s full reprisal rests in complete cooperation.”
“True. A recommendation from us might land him on the penal farms instead.” Like hell. This man would pay for what he’d done; and Mikani wouldn’t rest until Toombs danced on the end of a rope or worse. It was too bad Ritsuko had offered a carrot instead because he wanted to use the stick.
Toombs exhaled, turning his face up as if for guidance. But Mikani suspected it was more that he didn’t want to meet their gazes while he told his story. He was a shell of a man, but apparently he was still capable of shame.
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