She stopped on the way to the kitchen and shook her head. "Binder's legendary loyalty doesn't apply to the 2 window dressing. After all I put up with—you know, D someone even started a rumor I was a lesbian."
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"Are you?"
Weir's knuckles whitened on her glass. Nohar thought she might throw it at him. The smell Nohar was sensing was powerful now, but it was more akin to fear and confusion than anger. The episode was brief. She quickly composed herself. "I'd really rather not talk about that right now."
Nohar wondered what he'd stepped in with that question. Pinks tended to lay social minefields around themselves. Nohar wished he had a map. "Sorry."
She managed a forced smile. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have snapped at you. IVe never been very good around people ..." She sighed.
Nohar tried to get the conversation back on track. "I'm supposed to be here about Johnson. Not you. What do you know about Johnson? What kind of enemies did he have?"
Nohar watched covertly as she walked to the kitchen and went from cabinet to cabinet. "I suppose his only enemies would have been Binder's enemies. He had been with Binder since the state legislature. Straight from college. Loyal to a fault. A big fault considering Binder's attitude toward homosexuals. I never understood it, but I wasn't paid to understand. Young and Johnson were already an organizational fixture when I came on the scene."
"Were they—"
She came back with the drinks. "I really shouldn't talk about it. It's Phil's business. But he shouldn't have snubbed the funeral. After fifteen years,
Derry deserved more than Phil worrying about someone figuring out the obvious."
"Could you tell me about what Johnson was doing the week he died?"
"I didn't see him the week he died. I think Young mentioned him seeing some bigwig contributor.''
"When was the last time you did see him alive?"
"A fund-raiser the previous Saturday. On the end of
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his arm as usual. He left early, around nine-thirty." She lowered her eyes. "You know what the last thing he said to me was?"
"What?"
"He apologized for consistently ruining all the dates 'an attractive girl' should have had." She lifted her glass. "To the relationships I should have had." She drained it.
The way she was shaking her head made Nohar change the subject. "Can you tell me why Johnson would have three million dollars of campaign funds in his house when he was killed?"
Weir looked back up, her mouth open, and her eyes a little wider. "Oh, Christ, in cash?"
"According to the police report's interpretation of the finance records, yes." Weir got up from her chair and started pacing. "Now I'm glad they let me go. There's no legitimate reason for having that kind of money in a lump sum—"
"Why would he?"
"Could be anything. Avoiding disclosure, a secret slush fund, illegal contributions, embezzlement—"
"Could this have to do with Binder pressuring the police to stop the investigation?"
"I heard that, too. Sure. That's as good a reason to pressure his old cronies in the council and the police department as any."
Nohar stood up and, after a short debate within himself, held out his hand. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Weir."
Her hand clasped his. It was tiny, naked, and warm, but it gave a strong squeeze. "My pleasure. I needed to talk to someone. And please don't call me Miz Weir."
"Stephanie?"
"I prefer Stephie." Nohar caught a look of what could have been uncertainty cross her face. "Will I see you again?"
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Nohar had no idea. "I'm sure we'll need to go over some things later.''
She led him to the door and he ducked out into the darkening night. Before the door was completely shut, Nohar turned around. "Can I ask you something?"
"Why stop now?"
"Why are you so relaxed around me?"
She laughed, an innocent little sound. "Should I be nervous?"
"I'm a moreau—"
"Well, Mr. Rajasthan, maybe I'll do better next time." She shut the door before Nohar could answer. After a slight hesitation, he pressed the call button.
"Yes?" said the speaker.
"Call me Nohar."
Nohar sat in the Jerboa and watched the night darken around him. He was parked in front of Daryl Johnson's house, a low-slung ranch, and wondering exactly why he'd acted the way he did with Weir—with Stephie. He really couldn't isolate anything he'd done or said that could be called unprofessional, but he felt like he'd bumbled through the whole interview. Especially the lesbian
comment—"I don't want to talk about that right now." Nohar wondered why. She was willing to talk about anything but, even seemed reluctant to let him leave.
The night had faded to monochrome when Nohar climbed out of the convertible.
He decided the problem had been Maria. Thinking about that was beginning to affect his work.
Nohar watched a reflection of the full moon ripple in the polymer sheathing that now covered the picture window. The scene was too stark for Shaker Heights. The moon had turned the world black and white, and even the night air tried to convey a chill, more psychic than actual. From somewhere the breeze carried the taint of a sewer.
The police tags were gone. The investigation had
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stopped, here at least. Nohar approached the building, trying to resolve in his mind the contradictions the police report had raised.
He stood in front of the picture window and looked across the street. Five houses stood in line with the window and Daryl Johnson's head. Similar ranch houses, all in well-manicured plots, all well lit. The specs for the sniper's weapon said it weighed 15 kilos unloaded, and it was over two meters long.
None of the possible sniper positions offered a bit of cover that would have satisfied Nohar.
CHAPTER 7
It didn't rain on Friday.
Philip Young still refused to answer his comm, so Nohar donned his suit and went to see the finance chairman in person. Philip Young's address was in the midst of the strip of suburbia between Moreytown and Shaker. It was close enough to home that Nohar decided to walk. By the time he was halfway there, his itching fur made him regret the decision. When he had reached Young's neighborhood, Nohar had his jacket flung over his shoulder, his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, and his tie hung in a loose circle around his neck. Young's neighborhood was a netherworld of ancient duplexes and brick four-story apartments. The lawns were overgrown. The trees bore the scars of traffic accidents and leaned at odd angles. Less intimidating than Shaker Heights—Moreytown, only with humans. He still received the occasional stare, but he wasn't far enough off the beaten path for the pinks to see him as unusual. Only a few crossed the street to avoid him.
Nohar felt less of the nervousness that made his interview with Stephie Weir such an embarrassment. Nohar was well on his way to convincing himself he might just be able to get Young to give him some insight on that three million dollars. His major worry was exactly how to approach Young about homosexuality. Pinks could be tender on that subject.
Nohar stopped and faced Young's house with the noontime sun burning the back of his neck. Young
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should be home. The staff had the week off because of Johnson's death.
Gnats were clouding around his head, making his whiskers twitch.
He wondered why the finance chairman—who presumably guided those large sums under the table—lived here. This was a bad neighborhood, and the house wasn't any better off than its neighbors. The second floor windows were sealed behind white plastic sheathing. The siding was gray and pockmarked with dents and scratches. The porch was warped and succumbing to dry rot. It was as much a hellhole as No-har's apartment.
And the place smelted to high hea
ven. He snorted and rubbed the skin of his broad nose. It was a sour, tinny odor he couldn't place. It irritated his sinuses and prodded him with a nagging familiarity. Why did Young live here? Young was an accountant. Perhaps there was a convoluted tax reason behind it. Nohar walked up to the porch with some trepidation. It didn't look like it could hold him. He walked cautiously, the boards groaning under his weight,
and nearly fell through a rotten section when his tail was caught in the crumbling joinery overhanging the front steps. Nohar had to back up and thrash his tail a few times to loosen it. It came free, less a tuft of fur the size of a large marble.
After that, he walked to the door holding his tail so high his lower back ached.
The door possessed a single key lock, and one call button with no sign of an intercom. Both had been painted over a dozen times. Nohar pressed the button until he heard the paint crack, but nothing happened. He knocked loudly, but no one seemed to be around to answer. He had the feeling Young's directory listing was a sham, and Young lived about as much at his "home" as Nohar worked at his "office." He carefully walked across the porch to peer into what he
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assumed was a living room window. The furnishings consisted of a mattress and a card table.
So much for the straightforward approach.
Nohar undid his tie and wrapped it around his right hand. He cocked back and was about to smash in the window, when he identified the smell.
The tinny smell had been getting worse ever since he had first noticed it. Nohar had assumed it was because he was approaching the source, which was true. However, he had been on the porch a few minutes and the smell kept increasing. What had been a minor annoyance on the sidewalk was now making his eyes water.
The smell was strong enough now for him to identify it. He remembered where he had smelled it before. It had been a long time since he'd watched the demolition of the abandoned gas stations at the corner of Mayfield and Coventry, since he had watched them dig up the rusted storage tanks, since he had smelled gasoline.
Instinct made him back away from the window and try to identify where the smell was coming from. His tie slipped from his claws and fell to the porch. The smell was strongest to the left of the porch. It came from behind the house, up the weed-shot driveway.
The garage-Carefully, he descended the steps and rounded the porch. He walked up the driveway toward the two-car garage and the smell permeated everything. His eyes watered. His sinuses hurt. The smell was making him dizzy.
The doors on the garage were closed, but he could hear activity within—splashing, a metal can banging, someone breathing heavily. He slowed his approach and was within five meters of the garage when the noise stopped. Nohar wished he was carrying a gun.
The door shot up and chunked into place. Fumes
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washed over Nohar and nearly made him pass out. Philip Young faced him, framed by the garage door. Nohar knew, from the statistics he had read, Young was only in his mid-thirties. The articles had portrayed him as a Wunderkind who had engineered the financing of Binder's first congressional upset.
The man that was looking at Nohar wasn't a young genius. He was an emaciated wild man. Young was stripped to the waist, and drenched with sweat and gasoline. Behind him were stacks of wet cardboard boxes, file folders, papers, suitcases. Some still dripped amber fluid. Young's red-shot eyes darted to Nohar and his right hand shook a black snub-nosed thirty-eight at the raoreau. "You're not going to do me like you did Derry." Nohar hoped his voice sounded calm. "You don't want to fire that gun."
The gun shook as Young's head darted left and right. "You're with them, aren't you? You're all with them.*' Young was freaked, and he was going to blow himself, the garage, and Nohar all over the East Side. "Calm down. I'm trying to find out who killed Derry." ' 'Liar!'' Nohar's mouth dried up when he heard the hammer cock. "You're all with them. I watched one of you kill him."
Young was off his nut, but at least Nohar realized what he must be talking about. "A moreau could have killed Derry and I never would have heard about it. Why don't you put down the gun and we can talk."
Young looked back at the boxes he'd been dousing. "You understand, I can't let anyone find out." Nohar was lost again. "Sure, I understand." "Derry didn't know he was helping them—what they were. When he found out, he was going to stop. You realize that."
Young was still looking into the garage, Nohar took the opportunity to lake a few steps toward him. "Of course, no one could hold that against him."
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just it! They'll blame Derry. People would say he was working for them—'''' Young rambled, paying little attention to Nohar. Nohar worked his way a little closer. He could see into the garage better now. His eyes watered and it was hard to read, but he could see some of the boxes of paper were filled with printouts. They looked like payroll records. One suitcase was filled with ramcards.
Young suddenly became aware of him again. "Stop right there."
Young's finger tightened and Nohar froze. "Why did 'they' kill Derry?"
The gun was pointed straight at Nohar as Young spoke. "He found out about them. He went over the finance records and figured it out,"
"You're the finance chairman. Why didn't you figure it out first?"
Mistake. Young started shaking and yelling something inarticulate. Nohar turned and dived at the ground.
Young fired.
Young screamed.
Nohar was looking away from the garage when the gun went off. He heard the crack of the revolver, immediately followed by a whoosh that made his eardrums pop. The bullet felt like a hammer blow in his left shoulder. The explosion followed, a burning hand that slammed him into the ground. The acrid smoke made his nose burn. The odor of his own burning fur made him gag.
Young was still screaming.
The explosion gave way to the crackling fire and the rustle of raining debris. Nohar rolled on to his back to put out his burning fur. When he did so, he wrenched his shoulder, sending a dagger of pain straight through his neck.
He blacked out.
# * *
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The absolute worst smell Nohar could imagine was the smell of hospital disinfectant. As soon as he had gained a slight awareness of his surroundings, that chemical odor awakened him the rest of the way. Before he had even opened his eyes, he could feel his
stomach tightening. "Someone, open a window!" It came out in barely a whisper.
Someone was there and Nohar could hear the window whoosh open. The stale city air let him breathe again. Nohar opened his eyes.
It was what he'd been afraid of. He was in a hospital. It was in the cheap adjustable bed, the awful disinfectant smell, the thin sheets, and the linoleum tile. It was in the odor of blood and shit the chemicals tried to hide. It was in the plastic curtains that pretended to give some privacy to the naked moreys lined up, in their beds, like cattle in a slaughterhouse. Nohar hated hospitals.
Nohar turned his head and saw, standing next to the window, Detective Irwin Harsk. The pink was as stone-faced as ever. "Am I under arrest?"
Harsk looked annoyed. "You are a paranoid bastard. Young blew up, you're
allegedly an innocent by-stander. Believe it or not, we found two witnesses that agree on two things in ten. Give me some credit for brains."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm here because you're giving me problems downtown. I'm supposed to be some morey expert. They expect me to exercise some control over you. I don't like jurisdictional problems. I don't like the DBA staking out half of my territory. I don't like the Fed. And I don't like outsiders pressuring me to bottle something up. I don't like Binder. I don't like Binder's friends—"
Nohar struggled to get into a sitting position and his shoulder didn't see
m to object. "What?" "A bunch of people who think they're cops are trying to dick me around. They want me to keep you away from Binder's people, or bad things will happen. Like what, I don't know. I'm already as low as you get in this town." Harsk slammed his fist into the side of the window frame.
"Hell, Shaker's screwing around the Johnson killing for Binder. They deserve you."
Harsk looked like he needed to strangle someone. For once, Nohar was speechless.
"Look," Harsk said, "I'm not going to do their shit-work for them. But you're on your own lookout. I just want to avoid the bullshit and do what someone once laughingly described as my job." Harsk walked to die door and paused.
"One more thing. The DBA has a serious red flag on your ass."
With that, Harsk left.
Nohar watched Harsk weave his way between the moreys, and didn't know what to think. He'd always pictured Harsk as constantly dreaming up new ways to screw him over. Maybe Harsk was right, he was paranoid.
He felt his shoulder. The wound didn't seem to be major. The dressing extended to the back of his neck, which felt tender when Nohar pressed it. He pulled back the sheet. There were five or six dressings on his tail. That, and a transparent support bandage on his slightly swollen right knee, was the only visible dam-
Considering how close he was to Young when the not blew himself up, he'd gotten off light.
"Damn it." Nohar suddenly remembered Cat. He didn't know how long he'd been out, and Cat only had half a day's food in his bowl when Nohar left.
He looked up and down the ward. No doctors, no nurses, not even a janitor. Harsk had been the only pink down here and he had already left. Nohar knew when, or if, hospital administration finally got to him, re would be a few hours of forms to fill out. Just to p the bureaucracy happy.
Ib hell with that.
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He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gently started putting pressure on his right leg. It wasn't a bad sprain. It held his weight. He stood up slowly and felt slightly dizzy. He was alarmed until he realized it was still from that damn disinfectant smell. Breathing through his mouth helped.
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