Flint didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about the damage that the bomb would cause.
Van Alen jogged toward her car. Flint had to hurry to keep up with her. Maybe he should have spoken to her earlier instead of trying to pull her wherever they needed to go. A simple sentence had done a lot to revive her.
Although so had the relative quiet of the VIP lot. The cars were, for the most part, expensive and new. A few of them beeped to life as Flint and Van Alen hurried by—a little electronic query, wondering if the emergency required them to start up as their owners got near.
But once the cars figured out that their owners weren’t the people rushing by, they retreated to quiet again. This electronic beeping was a fail-safe, something the truly expensive cars had in case the nets had shut down and no one’s links worked.
Flint wasn’t sure he wanted a car that would run off with anyone who could convince it that the end was near. He was glad his model was ancient and crusty, and he wished it was in the lot, instead of parked outside Van Alen’s office.
She found her car easily. It didn’t beep at her, which relieved Flint. As she headed to the driver’s side, he tried one last time.
“Let me drive. I’m certified for emergency vehicles.”
“I’m sure we won’t need anything like that,” Van Alen said.
Flint extended a hand toward the sky. In the distance, black dots covered the area between the buildings and the port. Dots that could only be aircars and emergency vehicles.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She smiled. “I have my own tricks.”
His door unlocked and opened. The car welcomed him with a little greeting message, something he had shut off in his own vehicle. As he slipped in, the car closed the door, put the protective belts on him, and asked if he wanted his belongings stored.
“No,” he said, preferring not to send it messages along his links. Then he blocked the car’s access to his personal network. He’d have to purge when he got back to his office, make sure that he hadn’t acquired any bugs that Van Alen’s law firm thought necessary for clients.
She got into the driver’s side and was going through a similar protocol. As she let herself get strapped in, she said, “We are in a port emergency. I’ll be needed at court. Let’s stop first at the office.”
The car immediately flung into gear. The automated system took over the steering, and along the sides, warning lights showed, just as if the car were an emergency vehicle.
As they soared out of the lot, Flint asked, “How did you get permission for this?”
“I don’t need permission,” Van Alen said. “I’m an officer of the court.”
“Like every other lawyer,” Flint said.
“And they’re all entitled to this.”
“How come they haven’t done it?”
Van Alen shot him an evil grin. “Maybe for the same reason they don’t know about the quarantine rules. They don’t research the arcane aspects of the law.”
He leaned back, still wishing he was doing hands-on driving. The car was using emergency-services lanes, dodging vehicles coming at them, trying to deal with the port emergency.
But he knew protocol well enough to know this took the car off most surveillance equipment. No one watched the emergency vehicles. Just the regular vehicles, the ones with normal registration.
Now he understood why Van Alen wanted to be in the driver’s seat. Most designated vehicles—vehicles which weren’t designed as emergency vehicles but had altered equipment—only responded to one particular driver in an emergency.
That driver wouldn’t have been him.
“Where are we going?” Flint asked.
“My office.” Van Alen had recovered most of her poise. “Even if they think to look for you there, you’re protected. My staff can’t even let them know you’re there, since you’re one of our clients.”
“I can’t stay there forever,” Flint said.
“They can’t consider you a suspect forever,” Van Alen said.
They could. Right now, everything at the port was fluid. No one knew anything, and no one would for many hours, maybe days.
Then, if there was no obvious suspect, they’d pick a convenient one, something to keep the press busy while the detectives went to work.
They’d have a theory of the crime, and if they solved it, good; and if they didn’t, the general public would be satisfied because the theory let them believe the crime was solved.
It had happened with the dome bombing. Most people thought that crime solved, even though it never was.
“You don’t believe me,” Van Alen said.
“I know that part of the system better than you,” Flint said.
She glanced at him. She had a smudge of dirt along one side of her face. “How come you can still go in and out at Space Traffic?”
So she had noticed. He wasn’t sure how much she’d been registering.
“Once a cop, always a cop,” Flint said.
“Is that why you’re a suspect?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m a suspect because it’s logical. Even if I had done it—and I haven’t—there will always be cops who believe I couldn’t’ve done it, just because we used to share a uniform.”
“So you took advantage of that.”
“If I have to be on the run, even for the short term,” Flint said, “I’m taking advantage of everything.”
She grinned. “I’m beginning to like you.”
Flint grinned back at her, hoping that the trust he was starting to feel for her wasn’t misplaced.
“I’m beginning to like you too,” he said.
Thirty-three
Someone gave Nyquist shoes out of a locker. The shoes were one size too small. They pinched and poked, but they’d do.
He had been told to wait for the investigating officer, but he was waiting for no one. He had a hunch that no one else was searching for Flint—not yet, anyway. When the port got past the explosion itself, then it would turn to finding the bomber.
The new suit had a scratchy warmth that he had finally worked out of the old suit. He tugged on the sleeves, wishing he had time to shower. But he didn’t. He would have to leave this place, feeling itchy and covered with that slimy stuff that the decon units had used on him.
He wanted to find Zengotita, but he knew he didn’t have time. As soon as her links were operational, she’d find a message from him, wishing her well and asking her what she needed for her team.
He managed to get out of the decontamination area and down the hall before his port escort noticed he was missing.
He continued along the corridor, keeping to one side so that he didn’t run into the flood of emergency personnel going the other way. It astonished him how many people were being used in this investigation. Granted, one person was dead, and several were injured.
But it seemed to him that these scores of emergency personnel would be better suited doing something else, anything, other than cluttering up the hallways. If they wanted to find out whether other ships had similar explosives, they would use handhelds and ‘bots. If they wanted to talk to every person in the area, they were better off holding them and waiting for the police to arrive.
He’d been in circumstances with mass witnesses before, and he knew the emergency teams would only screw up the preliminary interviews. Better for the police to screw them up. Then they could only blame themselves.
He swayed a little as he walked. It wasn’t just from the inner-ear thing—he assumed the medical patching he’d gotten in decon had taken care of that—but also from the crisis itself. It had happened long enough ago that the adrenaline had worn off. He was left with that heavy exhaustion that only came from a combination of shock, fear, and joy at survival.
It took him fifteen minutes longer than he wanted it too, but he finally got to the main part of the port. He’d had to use his police identification, embedded in the working chip on his hand, to get t
hrough a number of the blocked areas, but he had managed.
Just as he had managed to send half a dozen messages through his links to various agencies within the port, reminding them to search for Flint. He’d gotten nothing back from most of them, a curt “we know” from another, and an odd acknowledgement from SpaceTtraffic.
He hasn’t left the Moon, one of the people in charge had sent. We’ve been monitoring ships to make certain.
Nyquist was surprised that anyone had left the Moon, and said so. The Space Traffic officer reminded Nyquist that there were other, smaller ports in the smaller cities, and Flint could have taken off from them.
But it seemed like an odd statement nonetheless. Even if Flint had left the port immediately after he had visited the Dove, and the vids indicated that he hadn’t, he would have had to take a bullet train to the nearest dome, hire a ship, and get permits to leave. That would have taken hours at best, and the permits would have shown up on everyone’s links.
So Nyquist made his decision in a corridor not far from the main doors. He went to Space Traffic Control first.
It looked less chaotic than he expected. No one scurried through its reception area. The cops in the back seemed calm, and everyone in the nearby corridor moved at a leisurely pace.
The man behind the desk had been there when Nyquist arrived. He was older, with a bald head and beady eyes.
“Heard you were right near the explosion,” the man—Murray, his name was; it took Nyquist a moment to remember—said quietly. “You should probably be seeing some medical personnel.”
“I need new clothes,” Nyquist said, tugging on his sleeves again. “But I’ll take care of that when everything settles down.”
“Ain’t got much to tell you,” Murray said, looking down. The overhead lights reflected off his pate.
“No sightings of Flint?” Nyquist asked.
“Heard they got a new investigator on this.” Murray tapped a few buttons in front of him. Nyquist leaned over the desk so that he could see what Murray was working on.
“They have a dedicated investigator working on the bomb,” Nyquist said. “But I’m still in charge of the Paloma murder.”
“Since the two are obviously related,” Murray said, still not looking up. “It would seem to me that the new guy would be more objective.”
Something in his tone made Nyquist realize that Murray was the man who had sent the messages from Space Traffic.
“You think I won’t be objective.” Nyquist figured low-key was the best way to handle Murray.
Murray finally looked up. He had bags under his eyes. His entire face was drawn with exhaustion. Nyquist wondered how long Murray had worked that day.
“I wouldn’t be objective if I’d just gotten bombed,” Murray said.
“You think I’m pursuing Flint as some kind of vendetta?” Nyquist asked.
“I think you have him in your head, and you figure you’ll go after him, no matter what the evidence.”
“There’s evidence that he didn’t do it?”
Murray folded his hands over his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “He’s a good man. He’s saved I don’t know how many lives. He’s ethical. He wouldn’t kill innocent people, especially not cops.”
“You know this how?” Nyquist asked. “Because you’ve met him?”
“I know him,” Murray said.
“Then you know he’s a Retrieval Artist.” Nyquist couldn’t quite see the screens, carefully placed under the desk’s lip. He had a hunch he couldn’t patch into them, either. There’d be too many safety features and fail-safes, all to prevent others from getting inside, as well. “Retrieval Artists aren’t ethical.”
“He wouldn’t do something like that.” Murray leaned back. He was watching Nyquist, as if he knew what Nyquist was thinking.
“Look,” Nyquist said. “You’re the one who showed me the vid. He was the last person in the Dove before it blew.”
“That’s not evidence,” Murray said.
“It’s more than you have,” Nyquist said.
“It’s the same, actually,” Murray said. “I trust his character. I’ve known him for years. You’ve known him—what?—an hour, and you think because he went into a ship and it later blew up that he set the charges. Why would he do that? Why would anyone ethical do that?”
“I don’t see any evidence that he’s ethical,” Nyquist said, although he did have evidence. Flint had worked with him on a case not too long ago in such a way that Flint hadn’t violated any confidentiality rules of his profession, and Nyquist didn’t violate any of his, and yet they both got results they wouldn’t have gotten if Flint hadn’t been involved.
“What you got is just circumstance,” Murray said. “He came in, he went out, it didn’t blow. He wasn’t close enough when the thing went off to remote detonate, no matter how sophisticated his equipment. Maybe somebody set that door to explode on the second opening. Maybe someone else set it to explode at that exact time on that exact day. Maybe someone made a mistake and pressed the wrong wires together, causing the explosion. We don’t know until the techs get done with their examination.”
Nyquist opened his mouth to argue more, when he realized what Murray had said, buried in that entire argument. Flint had been in the port when the explosion happened. Nyquist hadn’t been sure of that.
“Where’s Flint now?” Nyquist asked, leaning forward.
Murray tilted back even farther, looking like he might tumble into the mural that graced the wall behind him. “How should I know?”
“Because you knew where he was when the bomb went off.”
Murray’s cheeks grew pink. He brought his chair forward with a thump. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said he wasn’t close enough for remote detonation, which means you know where he was.” Nyquist came around the desk and yanked on that door. It was locked. “Is he back there?”
“He’s not there,” Murray sounded sullen, but he didn’t force Nyquist to leave the private area.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Murray said.
“Then where was he when the bomb went off?”
Murray sighed.
Nyquist turned, hand still on the doorknob. “I can get the information from damn near anyone who works here. Hell, I can pull it off the computers myself if you give me enough time. So just tell me.”
Murray pursed his lips.
Nyquist leaned toward the row of screens, not sure where the computer access was. But he’d press surfaces until he got the information he needed.
Murray grabbed his hand. “He was with his lawyer.”
“Where?” Nyquist asked.
“Terminal 35.”
“And what was he doing there?” Nyquist asked, even though he had a hunch he knew.
“Supervising data removal from a ship called the Lost Seas.”
“I thought it was under quarantine,” Nyquist said. “I thought no one can go in.”
“HazMat crews were working it until the explosion,” Murray said.
“Still, Flint couldn’t go in, could he? He couldn’t have access until the HazMat team was done.”
“Maybe you should look at port regulations, Detective,” Murray said.
“Maybe you should tell me,” Nyquist said.
Murray shrugged. “It’s hearsay.”
Nyquist sighed. He could be arguing with Murray all night. He’d look at the regulations when he got a chance. Or maybe he’d ask DeRicci. She probably had someone who could research that stuff in a heartbeat.
“If Flint was near the Lost Seas when the explosion occurred, where did he go next?” Nyquist asked.
Murray raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t keep track.”
“No, but your system did. You want to program it to follow his movements, or should I?” Nyquist poised a hand over those screens again.
Murray batted his fingers away. “Flint was a Space Traffic cop.”
“So?” Nyquist asked.
“He stayed out of camera range?” Nyquist asked.
“Mostly,” Murray said.
“So you did track him,” Nyquist said.
“I couldn’t,” Murray said.
Nyquist let out a large breath, making his exasperation known. “Is he in the port?”
Murray grinned. “Now you should’ve asked that in the first place.”
“I’ve been trying to.” Then Nyquist realized that Murray had distracted him again. “Is he?”
“In the port?”
“Yes,” Nyquist said.
“Not anymore,” Murray said.
“When did he leave?” Nyquist asked.
Murray touched a screen to the far left. An image of Flint hurrying out the main doors, clutching the hand of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Murray peered at the timestamp.
“Looks like you just missed him,” Murray said.
“How much is ‘just’?” Nyquist asked.
“Maybe five minutes,” Murray said.
“Give me surveillance from outside the port, and order any vehicles leaving this area to be stopped.” Nyquist pushed away from the back and headed toward the door. “Now.”
Murray nodded. He pressed a few screens, then sent everything to Nyquist’s links. Nyquist saw the message scroll by as Murray sent his instructions to every cop in the vicinity, along with that image of Flint and the woman.
Nyquist headed toward the main door. From behind him, Murray said, “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“For stalling long enough to make sure your friend got off port property? No,” Nyquist said.
“Give him a break and start looking for the real bomber,” Murray said. “I’d start with Wagner’s minions. He was here tonight too, you know.”
Nyquist hadn’t known. Seemed like Wagner had been everywhere since Paloma died.
Nyquist slammed his hands against the door and headed out of Space Traffic without saying more to Murray. He’d send someone—someone with ties to the new investigation—here to get all the surveillance vids from the last eight hours. Maybe even from the last two days.
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