Transposition

by Gregory Ashe

  Columbia drew herself up, her overdeveloped shoulders squaring, her too-big hands flat on her hips, her whole posture exclaiming offended innocence and righteous indignation. Flicking her waist-length curly hair, she opened her mouth.

  Somers spoke first, in his same amiable, professional voice. “Before you say anything, let me add a few more facts. Mr. Strong sent a text message asking Ms. Weaver to check in with him this morning. He said that he was planning on meeting with you last night and that he expected the meeting not to go well. At this point, I’m going to begin recording our conversation.” Somers pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped at the screen, and after naming the people in the room, said, “We’re proceeding with this conversation with the understanding that Miss Squire and Miss Argus are participating out of goodwill and a desire to help.”

  Something transformed Columbia’s face. Her mouth twisted into a snarl, and her big hands tightened until the knuckles purpled. “I hate cops,” she said, her husky voice so full of loathing that at first, the words barely sounded human. “So much swagger. So much conceit. And they’re the first ones to cover their asses. They’re like ordinary men, but a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Miss Squire, why didn’t you tell us about your meeting with Mr. Strong last night?”

  At this question, Adaline’s narrow frame quivered as though she’d been struck. Not Columbia, Hazard noticed. Adaline.

  “There was no meeting,” Columbia said.

  “Could you explain Mr. Strong’s text that he sent to Ms. Weaver?”

  “I don’t have to explain it. He was confused. He was lying. He was wrong.”

  “Why would Mr. Strong lie about a meeting with you?”

  Once again, Adaline’s body coiled as though the question were a lash.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you didn’t meet with Mr. Strong last night?”

  “For the last time, no.”

  “What was your relationship with Mr. Strong?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What was your relationship like?”

  “He was my boss.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Fuck you,” Columbia said, and her control over her voice slipped, with the two words dropping into a furious baritone.

  Somers leaned forward. His voice never left its professional cheer, and somehow, Hazard realized, it kept Columbia talking long after she would have stormed out on another interviewer. “How did you feel about Mr. Strong?”

  “I hated him. There, is that what you want? You’ve already decided I’m guilty. You’re already sure I killed him. And now you’re going to do what white, privileged, straight, cis cops always do: you’re going to pin it on the weakest one, on the queer, on the tranny. Isn’t that right?”

  “Why did you hate Mr. Strong?”

  Columbia exploded out of her seat. The movement was so fast and so violent that Hazard had his hand on the butt of his .38 before he realized that Columbia wasn’t attacking. She threw out her arms, and a whiff of sugary perfume reached Hazard’s nose. “Why did I hate him? Why did I hate that selfish, prejudiced, narrow-minded, greedy son of a bitch? Because he treated me like I wasn’t a person. How’s that for a starter? Because I’d walk down the hallway and he’d look the other way. Do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it’s like to spend your whole life feeling like you’re trapped in someone else’s skin?”

  Her voice quavered; again, it slipped lower as Columbia lost control. “It’s horrible,” she said, and it sounded as though she were speaking to herself. “That’s how it is, just plain old horrible. And then one day it was over. I wasn’t that miserable, skinny-skink Colin anymore. I was Columbia. I was me, the me I was always supposed to be. I’d wake up in the morning and for the first time in twenty years, I wanted to be awake. I wanted to be alive. I was . . . pretty.”

  Adaline peeled herself away from the leather. A long red crease from the cushion marked one side of her face, and her eyes and nose were puffy. She opened her mouth, but Columbia waved a hand to silence her and continued speaking. “You two,” she said, her voice regaining its husky alto, “you have no idea what it’s like to be different. All you know is power: white power, straight power, cis power. You don’t know what the powerless suffer. I’d put on my face. I’d curl my hair. I’d have on my nicest skirt and blouse—tailored, you know, so I looked . . . right. And I’d be walking down the hallway, and that mother-fucker would stare at the walls like they were moon cheese just so he wouldn’t have to look at me. That’s what Thomas Strong was like, and I’m glad he’s dead. No, Adaline, I’m not scared to say it. I didn’t do it, but I’m glad that hateful man is dead.” She finished, her flat chest heaving. Her eyes, full of tears, caught the sunlight and they had a flat, silver look, like tarnished dollar coins.

  “I’m very sorry,” Somers said. That was one of the things Somers could do, Hazard thought with a rush of confusing emotions. He could say something like that, just three words, and it meant a million things, and they all sounded right, they were all perfect.

  Columbia dabbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her shoulders slumped, and she eased back onto the sofa. The silver light drained from her eyes, and shadows swooped down on her face. She looked tired—and relieved.

  “Miss Squire,” Somers asked in a gentle voice, “I’m going to ask you again: where were you last night between 9pm and 6am?”

  “In bed.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  Adaline opened her mouth again, and Columbia shushed her. “No. No one can.”

  “That’s not true.” They were the first words Adaline had managed to say, and as soon as they left her mouth, she began trembling and crying again.

  “Hush, Ada,” Columbia said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t care anymore, Columbia. I’m not going to be afraid.” Adaline’s words, however, seemed stronger than her conviction. She fluttered on the edge of the sofa like an autumn leaf; Columbia’s hand on Adaline’s wrist looked like the only thing keeping Adaline from blowing away. “I—” Adaline paused. Her forehead turned brick-red again. “That is, Columbia and I.” She paused again. When she swallowed, the sound of her throat creaking filled the room. “I can testify that Columbia was in bed last night. All night.” When Adaline had finished, she stiffened a little, her eyes flashing from Hazard to Somers as though daring them to comment on what she had revealed.

  Columbia sighed and sagged deeper into the sofa, but she covered Adaline’s hand with hers. “You didn’t have to do that, dear heart.”

  “You said it yourself: they want to frame you for this. I’m not going to let them. And I’m not going to be ashamed of what I . . . what I love. Who I love.”

  Hazard watched the two women, trying to read their expressions and their sincerity. It wasn’t his strength, and he was glad that Somers had insisted on staying. Somers, for his part, looked as composed as ever. His perfect lips were pursed in thought.

  “Miss Squire,” he asked, “is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you both agree that you did not leave the bedroom all night.”

  Columbia nodded. Adaline, seeming to grow braver, said, “We didn’t even crack the door.” Then she flushed. “Although, that was mostly because I was worried what the others would think.”

  “How long have you been romantically involved?”

  “Not long,” Columbia said, giving Adaline a shy smile and twining their fingers together. “This is our six-week anniversary.”

  “Not if you count all the years I spent pining after Colin,” Adaline said, her cheeks blooming with color. “But I’m happy with six weeks.”

  “Colin was too self-absorbed to know what he was missing.” Columbia’s gaze, as she studied Adaline, seemed genuinely fond. “Thank God he’s gone.” She kissed Adaline—a brief, chaste kiss—on the lips.

  Adaline blushed, but she didn’t pull away.

  �
��Miss Argus,” Somers said, “what was your relationship with Mr. Strong?”

  “Difficult,” Adaline said. She patted her hair, which was still dripping with snowmelt. “He is a—well, he was a very different sort of person.”

  “Could you explain that?”

  “He liked closed doors, closed spaces, closed rooms. He wanted to be alone a lot. He wasn’t good with people.”

  “He thought he was good with people,” Columbia interrupted. “Ass-hat that he was.”

  “Yes, he did think he was good with people. Sometimes he’d try to be charming, but I think even he knew that it never really worked. Once he even asked me to dinner, and I stammered so much that I couldn’t tell him no.” A self-deprecating smile wrinkled Adaline’s features. “He finally just left while I was still stammering. He did send me flowers the next day to apologize.”

  “He didn’t seem like he was trying to be charming when he threw that food at you.”

  Adaline’s flush deepened. “I’m sorry you saw that.”

  “You shouldn’t feel embarrassed, Miss Argus. It’s not your fault.”

  “It is my fault, at least a little.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone in there,” Columbia said. “That’s where you went wrong. Thomas was always very clear that he wasn’t to be interrupted. Open the door, and you were likely to get something tossed right at your head—along with language that would make a sailor spin on his ass.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone in there,” Adaline agreed. “And I’m not embarrassed about the food. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I’m sorry you saw Thomas that way. As I said, he was a difficult person. He wanted to be shut away from the world, but he also wanted to be part of it. He wanted to be rich, but he didn’t want to be part of the capitalist machine. He did treat Columbia horribly, and there’s no excuse for that, but he was a complicated man.”

  “What happened?” Somers asked.

  “He started losing money,” Columbia said.

  “How?”

  “Like a one-legged man losing a race: bad at the beginning, and a hell of a lot worse at the end.”

  Somers shook his head, and Hazard suspected the blond man was hiding a smile. “No,” he said, “I meant, how did he start losing money?”

  “That is a very good question. If I knew the answer, Thomas would very likely still be alive.”

  “What does that mean?” Hazard asked. He immediately regretted speaking; his voice was too harsh, the question delivered too roughly, and both women leaned back as though they’d been struck. Somers’s expression didn’t change, but Hazard could feel his partner’s irritation.

  “It means,” Columbia said, choosing her words carefully, “that the most likely reason someone would want to kill Thomas is because he was losing a lot of money.”

  “In investments?” Somers asked.

  “Yes, at first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Strong, Matley, Gross was a valuable investment firm. We have proprietary software. I won’t go into specifics, but it identifies investment opportunities. It’s different from everything else out there.”

  “Who developed the software?”

  “Thomas at first, but Benny and Ran both had a part in it. Benny’s an old man in Silicon Valley-terms, and he’s good at what he does. Ran is one of those boy geniuses. Fresh out of—I forget.”

  “Stanford,” Adaline said.

  “Between the three of them, they got it working, but it belongs to Strong, Matley, Gross.”

  “How did Benny and Ran feel about that?”

  “They knew what they were doing when they signed up,” Columbia said. “And trust me, they were well compensated. Like all of us, they received hefty shares of Strong, Matley, Gross as part of their pay. When the firm sells, they’re going to be millionaires. We all will.” Adaline shifted on the sofa, and Columbia squeezed her hand. “Everyone except Adaline, that is.”

  “No,” Adaline said, shaking her head. “I just—I meant, you would have been millionaires before.”

  “Hold on,” Somers said. He stretched one lean, muscular leg and ran a hand through his mussed blond hair. “Go back. Adaline, you don’t have shares in the company?”

  Adaline’s ragged curtain of hair swayed as she shook her head again. “No. I took the job because Thomas offered me good pay and benefits. I didn’t know anything about stocks, or about Strong, Matley, Gross. I just knew that if I took the job, I wouldn’t have to work nights at Albertson’s to make rent every month.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “Ecstatic. My degree is in art history, Detective. Thomas offered me more money than I’d ever make in retail. I was a bit disappointed when I learned how the stock options worked, but at least I had a job.”

  “No,” Columbia said, shaking her head. “You deserved to be vested in the company. You should have told Thomas what you told me: that you put in just as many hours—”

  Adaline was shaking her head. “No, I was just—that was just talk.”

  “But you were right: Thomas should have included you. You’re just as valuable as everyone else. You hit the nail on the head when you told me that.”

  “I didn’t—” Adaline flushed scarlet. “It’s a moot point, Columbia. It’ll never happen now.”

  Somers considered this for a moment, still mussing his hair. Hazard resisted the urge to reach out and—

  —hold—

  —grab his hand. With a slight frown, Somers said, “What did you mean when you said, ‘before’?”

  “I meant that nobody’s going to be a millionaire. The negotiations dried up weeks ago.”

  Somers glanced at Columbia. With a shrug, she said, “It’s true. We haven’t disclosed that to the other people in the firm, but Thomas’s . . . erratic behavior discouraged potential buyers.”

  “Someone told me that the firm would still be purchased, but at a lower price.”

  Columbia snorted. “Leza told you that, and Leza’s too stupid to pour water through a screen. She has high hopes, but that’s about it. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who—”

  “Columbia,” Adaline said.

  “I’m sorry.” But Columbia’s self-satisfied tone made it clear she was far from sorry. “It doesn’t change the truth, though: Leza doesn’t know what she’s talking about. There aren’t any buyers, not anymore. Nobody’s going to be rich, I’m afraid.”

  “Mr. Strong’s death doesn’t change anything?” Somers asked.

  “It may, in time. What will be more important is if the firm goes back to its big gains. That will brings the buyers back. If there’s something wrong with our algorithms—” She stopped, and from the look on her face, Hazard judged that she thought she’d said too much. “As I said, it’ll take time.”

  “One last thing,” Somers said, glancing at Hazard appraisingly. “Could you walk us through yesterday?”

  Columbia and Adaline exchanged a long look. For a change, it was Adaline who spoke, pausing now and then in her account. “We came Tuesday night, got in pretty late, and everyone pretty much went straight to bed. Wednesday morning, there was a, I don’t know, a host for the company that runs this place. He made sure we all had breakfast, handed out all the character packets, and made sure we understood the rules.”

  “The rules?”

  Adaline’s cheeks colored slightly. “We all were supposed to play a role. Most of the rules involved not breaking character.”

  “The character packets were very descriptive,” Columbia drawled in her deep voice. “Not that I really needed mine.”

  “What do you mean?” Somers asked.

  “Well, everyone had a part,” Adaline explained, gesturing towards the door that led to the rest of the house. “I was supposed to be one of Colonel Fitzgibbon’s cousins. That meant I got to relax and have fun. Meryl was Colonel Fitzgibbon’s estranged daughter. Same for her. Benny was a wealthy friend.”

  “And what did
you mean, Ms. Squire, when you said you didn’t need the character packet?”

  Columbia grinned and said, “I was Lady Fitzgibbon. I’ve played the part before. Besides, I’m a natural.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  Columbia waved a hand. “Years ago, when I worked for another company. I enjoyed it so much, I recommended it to Thomas.”

  “And the others? What were their parts?”

  “Well, they were the servants.”

  “This game sounds like a lot of fun,” Hazard said. “Take us back a hundred years into servitude.”

  “It was supposed to be realistic,” Adaline said. “And it was supposed to give the mystery more depth.”

  “What were their roles?” Somers asked.

  “Ran was the stableboy, Leza was the maid, and Thomas was—well, he was supposed to be Colonel Fitzgibbon’s valet.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “He tried it on Wednesday morning. I really think he was giving it his best effort. But Thomas wasn’t very good at games, or at dealing with people, and he . . . he decided not to play in the afternoon.”

  “He got into a fight,” Columbia said. “A knock-down, drag-out, hair-pulling, hissy fit.”

  “With who?”

  “Whom,” Hazard muttered.

  “With who?” Somers insisted.

  “The host. The man who was playing Colonel Fitzgibbon.”

  “About what?”

  “Who knows with Thomas? It could have been anything.”

  “And let me guess,” Somers said. “Colonel Fitzgibbon was the murder victim.”

  “Oh, yes,” Adaline said. Covering a small smile, she added, “It’s a good thing, too, because Thomas might have killed him anyway.”

  A quiet thrill ran through Hazard. This might be the unnamed person who had entered the house that morning. He asked, “What happened to him? Colonel Fitzgibbon, I mean.”

  “Well, after the murder—”