Paloma

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Miles Flint,” Van Alen said with just a hint of disgust, “meet Judge Garton Antrium and Justinian Wagner.”

  Flint recognized them now. He’d only seen them on news vids, never in person, and Judge Antrium only because he was a noted philanthropist throughout Armstrong. He didn’t look like a philanthropist now. He looked like a man at the end of a very long day, who needed to go home, change his clothes, and relax.

  He remained half a step back from Wagner, as if communicating his reluctance to be here—whether that was because the ship might be contaminated or because he didn’t like Wagner, Flint couldn’t tell.

  Wagner was watching Flint closely, almost as if he could see inside him. Flint turned to him slowly, as if he were the least important person in the area. That movement didn’t escape Wagner; something flashed in his eyes before they narrowed.

  “You realize you’re breaking the law, Flint,” he said.

  Flint started to answer, but Van Alen put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Flint is the legal owner of this vessel. He’s following the law, which, it seems, his predecessor and the port did not do.”

  “You have no claim on this vessel,” Wagner said, still talking to Flint.

  “I am his lawyer,” Van Alen said. “You will address me.”

  Wagner didn’t move. Only the judge watched her.

  “Flint,” Wagner started.

  “Justinian,” the judge said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “Give the woman her due.”

  Van Alen nodded slightly at the judge, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. Flint kept his gaze on all of them, not entirely understanding the game.

  Wagner shot the judge a furious glance. The judge lowered his own gaze, and Flint felt a surge of disappointment.

  Was Judge Antrium in Wagner’s pocket? If so, had the judge become a philanthropist to keep some kind of balance between the bad deeds he did for Wagner, and the good deeds he did on his own time?

  “I prefer to talk with Mr. Flint, who seems to believe he has rights to my mother’s estate.”

  Van Alen’s grip had tightened on Flint’s arm, warning him to remain quiet. It was harder than he thought it would be.

  “He does have rights,” she said. “We have a statement of her intent, completed less than three weeks ago, as well as a copy of her will. Miles Flint is Paloma’s heir.”

  “Paloma.” Wagner spit out the word. “But the Lost Seas is registered to Lucianna Stuart, my mother.”

  “Who had her name legally changed to Paloma,” Van Alen said calmly. “She was thorough enough to have the court add a cautionary statement to the document. The statement says, in part, that anything still in the name of Lucianna Stuart should be considered Paloma’s under the law. It’s in the court records. I can give you the reference number if you like.”

  Wagner flushed, but his enhancements scrubbed the color from his skin quickly. Interesting that he didn’t get an enhancement that would have automatically blocked the color. Maybe he saw a use for blushing, one that would help him in his trial work.

  Wagner still hadn’t looked at Van Alen. He said to Flint, “You have no legal standing. She’s my mother. My brother and I are her nearest relatives. We will sue you, citing coercion, so that you could get her estate. You have to understand—”

  “Coercion? Mr. Flint has been off-Moon for most of the past few months,” Van Alen said. He’d told her that in her office, as they struggled for ways to find short-term answers to any question Wagner might bring up. “How could he coerce from light-years away?”

  “Before,” Wagner said. “He wants her estate, and he made sure he’d get it.”

  “Why would I want her estate?” Flint asked. Van Alen’s nails bit into his arm, trying to stop him from speaking. “I already have more money than I know what to do with. She sold me her business and its records. What else is there?’

  The judge frowned, as if he hadn’t realized that Flint had money of his own.

  “Whatever’s on this ship,” Wagner said.

  “I didn’t even know this ship existed until this afternoon,” Flint said. “I—”

  “He learned of it,” Van Alen said, talking over him, “went to see if the registration indeed belonged to the Lucianna Stuart who became Paloma, and in the course of doing his job as heir, learned that the ship is quarantined and not in the proper part of the port. He called me. I’ve been worried about liability, so I advised him to have HazMat take care of this immediately.”

  Not exactly a lie. She was good.

  “Do you honestly plan to stop something that might prevent a hazard to the entire city?” she asked Wagner. “Do you know something about this quarantine that you’re not telling us?”

  The judge looked at Wagner, and Flint thought he saw a glimmer of independent thought in the judge’s face.

  Wagner hesitated for just a moment, but it was long enough to see that the question had thrown him. No wonder Van Alen won cases against him. She thought differently than he did.

  “I’m sure the cause of the quarantine is in the records,” Wagner said smoothly, as if he hadn’t hesitated at all.

  “No,” Van Alen said. “And it’s not just one quarantine. There are several, some from outside this region.”

  “It seems to me this investigation should continue.” The judge’s voice was stentorian. It echoed in the shut-off terminal. “If this man is trying to steal from you, Justinian, he’s certainly going about it in an unusual way.”

  “Judge, he has no rights to my mother’s estate,” Wagner started.

  “That remains to be seen,” the judge said. “Ms. Van Alen, do you have the documentation that shows Mr. Flint as the sole heir?’

  “I have it,” she said, although there was no way at this point she could know with any certainty that Flint was the sole heir.

  “Can you access it for us now?”

  “No, your honor. It’s in a secured file. I can, however, show you a segment of the holographic message in which Paloma states her intentions to Mr. Flint.”

  Flint’s mouth went dry. Paloma hadn’t wanted anyone else to see that message. He’d already stepped over the line she’d set by having Van Alen see it.

  “It’s not necessary,” the judge said. “At the moment, Mr. Flint is operating under the assumption that he is the legal heir. He’s not pilfering the estate. He’s taking care of a hazard. I suggest, Justinian, that the next time you take me from my well-deserved dinner, you have greater cause than this.”

  So Judge Antrium wasn’t in Wagner’s pocket. Antrium was just the only available judge at the moment, and Wagner had enough clout to get him to come to the port to make a ruling.

  “But Flint will have everything from inside the Lost Seas,” Wagner said, dropping any attempt at finesse.

  The judge looked at the protective walls, then lifted his head toward the blinking orange security lights. Then he sighed.

  “In the unlikely event that Mr. Flint will remove something from that ship,” the judge said, “then bring your complaint—along with your dispute of the will—to the court. But I see nothing here that leads me to believe Mr. Flint or his attorney are stealing from your mother’s estate. Indeed, they’re taking better care of it—and by extension, the entire city of Armstrong—than your mother ever did.”

  The judge nodded at Flint, then as he looked at Van Alen, he touched a hand to his white hair as if he planned to doff a cap in her direction. Then he pivoted, and headed back up the dock.

  Wagner looked after him, waiting until the judge went through the door into the tunnel. “All right, Flint. What do you want?”

  Flint blinked at him, feigning surprise. He had a hunch Wagner would try to negotiate, just not this soon. “What do you mean?”

  Van Alen let this conversation happen. Apparently, she’d been waiting for it, as well.

  “Money, a new job working with WSX, maybe? Some political capital? A say in the way things work around here?” Wagner’s face had lost a
ll of its enhanced charm. Flint was probably seeing the real man for the first time. “What’ll it take to get my mother’s estate from you?”

  “Are you acknowledging that it’s his?” Van Alen asked, before Flint could say anything.

  Flint suppressed a grin. He hadn’t even thought of that. If he had to lay money, he would wager she had also recorded the conversation. He’d been relying on Port backups, an old police habit. But considering the firepower that Wagner had walked in here with, there was a chance that the Port had shut off all of its cameras around this area.

  Wagner turned toward her for the first time. “I’m not acknowledging anything.”

  “Then why would you offer to give my client something for something you claim he does not possess?”

  “I want him to leave us alone.”

  “By bribing him?”

  Flint felt like he had vanished. Neither person seemed to remember he was there.

  “By paying him to go away,” Wagner said. “He can stay out of my family’s business.”

  Van Alen was about to say something, but Flint put his hand on her arm for a change.

  “Did she abandon you?” Flint asked, trusting that Van Alen was recording this.

  “What?” Wagner whispered the word, but it echoed with shock.

  “Paloma. You were older than your brother. You remember her and your dad together. Did you always feel abandoned? Is that why the fact that she didn’t remember you in her will is so very hard to take?”

  The flush returned, followed by its sudden erasure. Wagner’s face looked pale and artificial, his eyes bereft.

  “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Flint said.

  “You have no right to make comments like that. None.” Wagner was shaking.

  “You accused him of stealing your inheritance,” Van Alen said blandly. “I think that gives him the right to ask you a personal question or two.”

  Wagner took a deep breath, then steadied himself. He seemed, for a moment, like a man torn between how he felt and how he should behave. Finally, his legal training took over.

  “You’re right,” he said in a calm voice. “I’m reacting like her son, not like a lawyer. Maybe I should hire someone.”

  He clearly meant that as a joke, but it fell flat.

  “It’s just—she was my mother. You said it, Flint. You don’t need the money. You don’t need that apartment or her yacht. Why are you hanging on to this so hard? It means nothing to you.”

  Flint felt a surge of compassion for the man. It might have been an act, but Wagner seemed truly sincere, truly confused as to why Flint would want any part of Paloma’s life.

  “I respected her.” Flint wasn’t going to admit he loved her. Wagner would take that as an admission to a romantic relationship, and Flint hadn’t had that with her. “She asked me to take care of her things. She said she didn’t want them to go to anyone connected with WSX. I’m sorry.”

  Wagner stiffened. “You’re making that up.”

  “On the contrary,” Van Alen said, “we have your mother making that statement in more than place. Her words are recorded and written down. I’m afraid any challenge to this will won’t work. Mr. Flint is her legal heir.”

  “How come I haven’t seen these recordings?” Wagner asked.

  “Because we just came across them,” Van Alen said, before Flint could answer. “I’ll make certain you get copies of the pertinent information by tomorrow morning.”

  Flint didn’t want him to have the security recording of the holographic message, but he wasn’t going to say that in front of Wagner. He’d discuss that with Van Alen after they finished here.

  He also wondered, yet again, where she got the written part of this. Had she seen some documentation she hadn’t yet told him about?

  “Recordings can be faked,” Wagner said.

  “They can,” Van Alen said. “We didn’t alter these.”

  “I’d need the original for proof,” Wagner said.

  “You know it doesn’t work that way, Justinian.” Van Alen used her personal voice, not her lawyer voice, for that. “If you want an expert to examine the original, we’ll do so in police laboratories with observers, so nothing else gets altered.”

  “So that it goes his way?” Wagner gestured at Flint. “Don’t forget I know about his ties with the police department. They let him onto a closed crime scene today. He didn’t even have to turn in his tech suit when he left. This man gets special treatment from them. Going through the Armstrong Police will simply guarantee that they’ll confirm everything he wants them to confirm.”

  “Then we won’t go to the Armstrong Police,” Van Alen said. “A neutral police department of some random judge’s choosing. Not someone like Judge Antrium.”

  Implying that he was in Wagner’s pocket after all.

  “The judges here respect me,” Wagner said.

  “Not all of them,” Van Alen said.

  “I won’t participate in a setup,” Wagner said. “She was my mother.”

  “Which, oddly,” Flint said, deciding he no longer felt any compassion for Wagner at all, “she never mentioned to me in all the years that I knew her. How often did you see her?”

  “Often enough,” Wagner said.

  “How come she let your father raise you?” Flint asked.

  “That’s none of your business,” Wagner said.

  “It seems everything becomes everyone’s business, if you chose to fight this.” Van Alen smiled. “Won’t it be fascinating to have the Wagner dirty linen aired in front of all of Armstrong? Imagine how many people will tune in to all the gossip shows. Imagine what it’ll be like, having the press chase you constantly, asking why your mother changed her name as well as her profession. Won’t that be fun?”

  “It’s worse for him,” Wagner said, nodding at Flint. “His profession is based on secrecy.”

  “Yes,” Van Alen said before Flint could answer. “But he already told you that he doesn’t need money. He can quit any time. Can you?”

  Wagner looked back and forth at both of them, as if he was assessing them. When he was done, his face had flushed and kept the color. Flint’s guess had been right; Wagner manipulated his visible emotional responses to let people think he felt one way when he really felt another.

  “You don’t want to fight me,” he said to Flint.

  “Good,” Flint said as calmly as he could. “We’re agreed. The estate won’t be challenged.”

  Wagner’s flush deepened. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “You don’t need the money, either,” Flint said. “So what is it that’s driving you here? And don’t pretend that it’s some kind of ancient childhood vendetta because your mother abandoned you. You both could have settled that at any point. Neither of you was interested in the other.”

  “You don’t know that,” Wagner said.

  “I know that you’re afraid of something,” Flint said. “Is it something she owns? Or something she did, something you’re afraid I’ll tell the wrong person? Or is it more complicated than that?”

  “Her estate should remain in the family,” Wagner snapped.

  “You know,” Flint said, not caring how much he angered this man. “If you had been just a bit nicer, we might have worked this out. I could have given you whatever it was that you wanted, and you could have left me alone.”

  Wagner glanced at Van Alen, then back at Flint. “You wouldn’t have hired an attorney if you were going to be that cooperative.”

  “That’s where your logic fails,” Flint said. “I grew up here. I know the name Wagner. The moment I heard it, I hired an attorney, knowing that legally, I was outclassed. I didn’t realize I was sending you any kind of signal.”

  He must have been doing all right, because Van Alen didn’t interrupt.

  “You’ll work with me?” Wagner asked.

  “Why should I now?” Flint asked. “You’ve threatened me, all but accuse
d me of murdering your mother, after you accused me of having an affair with her and manipulating her, which, if you knew Paloma at all, you would have known was just about impossible, and you’ve tried to bribe me. Why should I do anything for you?”

  Wagner sorted through the various answers, obviously discarding some. Finally, he said, “Because you have no need for her things, just like you said.”

  “She asked me to protect them,” Flint said. “From you.”

  Wagner’s color faded. He shook his head. “You don’t want to get into a fight with me.”

  “You said that before,” Flint said. “I agreed. Yet you’re the one who won’t walk away.”

  “She’s my mother,” Wagner said.

  “She obviously put less stock in that relationship than you do.”

  “You’re doing this to harass me,” Wagner said. “Just get to what you really want.”

  “I really want to do what your mother asked me to do,” Flint said. “I want to honor her memory. Maybe, after you see the documentation, you’ll do the same.”

  Wagner shook his head. “If what you say is true, my mother stuck you in the middle of something that’s too big for you. You don’t belong here.”

  “I didn’t,” Flint said quietly. “But I’m here now. And this is exactly where I’m going to stay.”

  Twenty-five

  Space Traffic control had a security vid of Miles Flint entering the Dove shortly after he left the crime scene. Nyquist cursed himself as he stood outside the space yacht. He had brought a crime team with him, not that it mattered; this scene had been compromised after Paloma’s death by someone he’d more or less trusted.

  The question was: did he arrest Miles Flint for tampering with an auxiliary crime scene, or did he wait to see where else Flint would lead him?

  He hadn’t decided yet. He wasn’t even sure where Flint was. He sent a street unit to Flint’s office and to his apartment, just to find out that information. He wasn’t going to contact Flint on his links—not yet.

  Nyquist was glad DeRicci hadn’t come along. She felt she couldn’t justify it, considering the fact that the Lost Seas was under quarantine and couldn’t be viewed. She decided to let him handle the Dove alone.