Kop

by Hammond, Warren

“What did you do then?”

  “I told him I’d do what I could. At the time, I didn’t think the license had a chance of passing anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Everybody knew the company was a front for the Simba organization.”

  Carlos Simba. The Loja crime boss was reaching in every direction. Trying to eat into Bandur’s Koba monopoly and now trying to start a shipping company.

  I asked, “What does Simba want with a shipping company?”

  Vlotsky raised his hands and sniffled. “I don’t know, but only two members of the board were advocating for the company. Everybody else was going to reject it.”

  “Why would they advocate for a business that they knew was a front for Simba?”

  “They thought it would be good for Lagarto if we had our own shipping company. They insisted it would mean lower rates because Simba’s line would be able to compete with the offworld lines.”

  “Offworld lines?” I had assumed he was talking about a regular shipping company—running boats on the river.

  “Yes, offworld lines. Simba wants to start a shipping line that runs from the surface to the Orbital.”

  I was stunned silent.

  Maggie said, “How could he do that? He’d have to buy a ship.”

  “He already has. He bought a freighter that’s getting refitted at the spaceport as we speak.”

  I got my voice back. “Did the mayor chime in on this?”

  “No. He stayed out of it. With all his anticorruption talk, you’d think that he would be all over me, making sure this license got rejected. Instead he was strictly hands off. If it ever comes back to bite him, I’m sure he’ll use me as the fall guy. He’ll say I didn’t keep him properly informed.”

  Maggie brought us back to the money. “Is the DHC Corporation another one of Simba’s fronts?”

  “No. They’re an offworld company.”

  “What did they pay you for?”

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve then was immediately disgusted by the red stain running from elbow to cuff. “They wanted me to reject the license. DHC is the parent company that owns TransPort, the biggest offplanet shipper. They didn’t want any local competition.”

  “So you decided to take the offworld money and vote against Simba?”

  “Yes. My wife and I are getting a divorce anyway. We’ve been cheating on each other for years. I didn’t really care if she saw the vid or not, so I went with the money.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He”—pointing to Mdoba’s picture—“visited me the morning after Dmitri was murdered. He showed up at my door and told me Dmitri was dead, and I was next. I didn’t believe him at first. I thought he was just trying to intimidate me, but then we got the call from Chief of Detectives Banks. I didn’t even care that much about the money. Why didn’t he warn me he would do something to my son? If he had threatened to kill Dmitri, I would have done what he said. He didn’t have to kill him!” More pathetic sobbing.

  “When’s the vote?”

  “We already had it.” He managed between sobs. “We issued the license yesterday.”

  twenty-four

  WE found a free bench in the Old Town Square and sat to eat kebabs we’d picked up from a street vendor. I ate leaning far forward so any greasy spillover would fall safely to the ground instead of in my lap.

  There were still a fair number of people on the square. A little unusual for this early in the afternoon, but the dark clouds were taking some edge off the heat. Even so, it was intensely hot, but bearable when you sat still.

  The walks were blanket covered. Vendors offered jewelry, wood carvings, lizard jaws, rugs, paintings, spices, and anything else that was cheap to produce, displayed in neat rows, small items in the front, larger ones in the back. Tourists crowded the narrow trails between blankets, looking for that special bargain that they could brag to their friends about; “guess how little I paid for this.” Every so often, children approached us, trying to get us to come back to their space: “Good quality, good prices.” A quick dose of ignoring them and they moved on. Never make eye contact.

  Maggie finished off the last of her kebab. “What does a crime lord want with a shipping business?”

  “I don’t know.” I said.

  “It can’t be legit. I mean he bought a freighter. It would take years, maybe decades for him to turn a profit if he was on the up and up. He can’t have that much patience or he wouldn’t be a criminal in the first place.”

  “Yeah.”

  Maggie was incredulous. “Are guys like Simba and Bandur really that rich? They can just buy spaceships and bully the government? How can you work for somebody like that?”

  “I don’t work for Bandur. I just don’t work against him.”

  “Right,” she said sarcastically.

  “Hey! You wanted to know my history, and I told you.”

  She let out a sigh. “You’re right, Juno. Sorry.”

  She sounded genuine, so I let it drop.

  Maggie wondered aloud, “How much does a freighter cost?”

  “A bundle.” My brain raced. Where could he have gotten that kind of money? Loja was tiny compared to Koba and hardly made any tourist money. Even if he took 100 percent of the gambling, prostitution, and drug profits, I couldn’t believe he would have enough to buy a freighter. Not even the government could afford to buy one.

  Maggie called Abdul. His hologram stood straight, without his real-life stoop. Maggie set the coroner to tracking down the sale of that ship.

  I returned to the last few bites of my lunch.

  Maggie kept her eyes on her pad. When the data came in, she told the pad to sort through the docs and highlight the relevant portions. The regular-looking paper shifted from one document to another. I couldn’t keep up with her. I just watched the people on the square and waited for her synopsis.

  “The freighter cost over thirty billion pesos.”

  “Thirty billion?”

  “Yeah. Can you believe that? That translates to almost fifty million Earth dollars.”

  “How did he pay for it?”

  “He put up fifty-one percent of the money. It took loans from four separate offworld banks to front his share. The other forty-nine percent came from two minority investors, both offworlders. Fernando Mendietta, who is the vice president of Universal Mining, and Mai Nguyen, who you already know.”

  My stomach seized. I looked at my hand.

  Maggie continued. “She had to take out two loans to come up with her twenty percent. Mendietta paid cash for the rest.”

  Mai Nguyen. It had been twenty-five years since I’d tried to strangle her…I still wanted to.

  Maggie put her notes away. “It’s opium, isn’t it? Simba’ll use the shipping company to smuggle opium up to Nguyen, and she’ll distribute it to the orbital station and the mines.”

  I couldn’t answer; my thoughts were swimming. I got up without saying a word and tried to walk it off. Nguyen. Anger welled up from my gut, spilling into my head. My face felt flushed. I wanted to smash something.

  I held on until the tide of blood slowly receded from my head and my locomotive breathing chugged out of steam. Some deep breaths soothed me back toward level. I rubbed my face with my hands. My forehead was running sweat.

  Maggie looked concerned. “You okay?”

  I nodded.

  She hurried over to a street vendor, returning with a cold soda.

  I chugged down half the bottle.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

  Simba, Nguyen, and Universal Mining. Simba: known O dealer. Nguyen: known smuggler and dealer. Vice president of Universal Mining: ???

  It made no sense that the VP of a mining company would invest in an opium-smuggling scheme. The last thing he’d want to do is turn his employees into junkies—bad for productivity. He had to be going solo on this one, putting up his own money—screw the company.

  How big was the mines�
�� opium market that they needed a freighter to keep up with demand? It couldn’t be that big…but what else could it be but opium? Everything else on Lagarto was worthless….

  A thought popped. Clarity overwhelmed. My nerves fired in a surge of understanding. We had missing people at every turn: six POWs, Kapasi’s sister, Brenda Redfoot’s list of suspected Zorno victims, Josephs and Kim busy investigating MPs…

  Pieces snapped together—not all of them, but enough.

  I called Abdul immediately. “I want the name of a missing persons case in Tenttown that Josephs and Kim have been working.”

  “Sure, Juno. Hang on.”

  Maggie looked at me strangely.

  Abdul’s holo unfroze. “Got it.”

  “Give it to me.”

  We tracked down the Wolski family in an hour’s time. Their Tenttown home had a flap for a door. Maggie called inside.

  A woman came—short with ratty hair. “Yes?”

  “We are police officers, ma’am. I’m Detective Mozambe and this is Detective Orzo. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter. We understand she’s been missing.”

  “The police were already here. Don’t you talk to each other?”

  “I know, ma’am, but we are carrying out our own investigation which may be connected to your daughter’s disappearance. We’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  She waved us in. Two open sores stood out on her arm—looked like they needed treatment. We made ourselves comfortable on pillows. She hiked her dress up to her knees as she sat down, exposing more sores on her ankles.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you, ma’am.” Too hot without aircon.

  Bright blankets covered the tent walls, and the tent’s ceiling was concealed behind more blankets that were tied to the center post and slung out to the corners. A cookstove in one corner had a stack of dishes sitting next to it. Bedrolls were lined up along the wall. I counted six. No other furniture. The surroundings felt childhood-familiar.

  Mrs. Wolski scratched at her ankles. I caught a whiff of rot. There was no mistaking that smell.

  Mrs. Wolski said, “What you want to know?”

  Maggie said, “Please tell us what happened to your daughter.”

  “Shamal’s gone.” She fanned her face—the heat suddenly too strong for her. “My husband took her with him to the work tree and she—”

  Maggie interrupted. “Work tree?”

  “Sure. You want work, you go to the work tree. My husband, Dominick, he goes there every day. If he gets lucky, some rich people come needing a hand for the day. When they do, we eat good that day. How come you never heard of the work tree? You ain’t some rich girl now, are you?”

  “I don’t live on this side of town.” Nice cover.

  “Anyway, he took her down there with him. She needs to get out of the house, you know. He was waiting by the tree, and she got bored, so he let her wander around a bit. She always been good at taking care of herself. After a while, he starts to wondering where that girl is. He tried to find her, but he can’t find her nowhere. We ain’t seen her since.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Four.”

  “Did any of the others go to the work tree with your husband?”

  “No, he only took Shamal. She’s the oldest.”

  “Can you think of anybody who might have taken her?”

  “I think it was that man that came here. I didn’t trust him.”

  I asked, “What man?”

  “I told the other officers about him.”

  “I know. I’m sorry to make you go through it again. Could you please tell me about this man?”

  “He was going door to door, trying to find people to work the mines.”

  “Was he with Universal Mining?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. I suppose he could have been, but he didn’t look all fancy like an offworlder.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I tried to shoo him away, but Dominick invited him in. He told us how they had good jobs out in the mines. I asked him, ‘Why do you want a fourteen-year-old girl?’ He told me they needed all kinds of people; not everybody was going to be a miner. They needed cooks, maids, waitresses….He said they could find a good job for her. Something that she liked to do—all depended on what she was interested in.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him no. We ain’t interested. Sure, it all sounded good, but I had a funny feeling about him. I didn’t trust him straight off.”

  “Did he leave when you said no?”

  “He left. He went on next door, but not before he got my husband all fired up. Dominick kept telling me how good it would be for Shamal. He told me how happy she’d be, because she’d have all this food and money. I told him food and money don’t make up for losing a mother. That ain’t a fair trade for a child. When she’s older, she wants to go, I’ll kiss her good-bye, but she’s too young to be away from home.”

  “And you think this man could have taken her?”

  “Yes, I do. I think he made that whole story up about working in the mines. Like I said, he didn’t look like no offworlder. I saw it on the news…how men that like raping little girls and boys make up some excuse to get into your house and see your kids. It’s like they’re shopping. They remember the ones they like and come back for them. I think he came back for Shamal.”

  “Did you tell all this to the officers who talked to you a few days ago?”

  “Why do I have to say everything twice with you people? Yes, I told them, but they kept trying to tell me that she ran away. I know my daughter…she did not run away.”

  “Did you get the man’s name?”

  “No.” Her eyes misted over.

  “Can we talk to your husband?”

  “He went to the work tree first thing this morning. He’ll still be there if nobody hired him today. He’s broken up about Shamal. I’ve never seen him so upset. He even started drinking again. I have to chase him out of the house in the mornings. We got three other kids to feed, so he’s got to keep working.”

  I had Maggie jot down Abdul’s name for her. I told her he’d treat those sores. Maybe the rot hadn’t fully set in yet.

  There had to be fifty people under that tree—some leaning up against the trunk, others sitting on wide boughs, legs dangling, watching traffic roll by. My deadbeat father used to spend most of his days under this same tree, supposedly looking for work, but mostly just pissing time away. A few were already moving off, the setting sun a sign that there was no more work to be had today. We walked under the umbrella of green foliage just as raindrops began to patter on the leaves above. We stepped over sleeping bodies and approached a trio of chatting men.

  I put on a friendly smile. “Do any of you guys know Dominick Wolski?”

  The shortest of the three stepped forward, his sleeveless T showing off a scar tattoo of a naked woman in sunglasses. He was too poor to afford the real thing, so he’d had it burned into the skin with a makeshift branding iron. “You mean Nicky? Yeah, we know him.”

  “Is he here?”

  “What you want with him?”

  “Mrs. Orzo here needs him to lay some tile in one of her bathrooms.” I tried to make it look like I worked for her.

  “You don’t need Nicky. I can do tile. I’m the best tile man out here. Isn’t that right?” His buddies agreed. The rain was finding a way through the leaf canopy. Large drops fell on our heads and shoulders.

  “No. She wants Mr. Wolski. He did her mother’s bathroom, and she wants hers done the same way.” I threw in an eye roll to show how crazy rich people were.

  “He isn’t here.” He looked at Maggie. “You take me to your mother’s bathroom. I’ll look it over and do yours the same way. You won’t be able to tell the difference. I’ll give you a good price.”

  “No,” she said, turning on an I’m-better-than-you voice. “I want Mr. Wolski. Tell us where he is.”<
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  “He doesn’t work anymore. I’m your man.”

  “Tell me where to find him.”

  “You think I’m lying? I told you he doesn’t work anymore. He’s been hanging out at PT’s.” He pointed down the street to PT’s Lounge. “You wait and see, he’ll tell you he doesn’t work anymore.”

  She walked away without thanking him, playing up the rich-bitch persona. I slipped him a few pesos and followed her out into the now pounding rain.

  He yelled at our backs, “I’ll wait right here for you. When he tells you he doesn’t work anymore, you come back.”

  PT’s Lounge had the aircon running low, just enough to take the heat down a notch from smothering to uncomfortable. There were about a dozen tables scattered around, half occupied by men drinking and playing cards. We headed for the bar, a window covered in chicken wire with a slot at the bottom for passing out the hooch.

  We waited our turn, three men ahead of us. Shine looked like the house specialty. Each customer passed a tin cup and a couple coins through the slot. The woman behind the bar took the coins and scooped out a cupful of mash. Her face was scarred-up from a botched plastic surgery. There were hacks all over Koba that lasered up faces. Make you look like an offworlder—guaranteed. Maggie gave her a pitying look, probably feeling guilty that she’d been able to afford getting her own fake face properly done. The burden of being rich.

  When we got to the front, Maggie said, “We need to talk to Nicky Wolski.”

  The bartender pointed him out. I looked across the room and sized him up—my enforcer juices were flowing strong. He was a scrawny guy. Based on the dopey look on his face, he was drunk off his ass. He’d be easy for me to take, even at my advanced age. We just had to get him outside so his friends wouldn’t jump in. My muscles tingled with anticipation. My nonviolence kick was strictly a thing of the past.

  He was playing cards, showing off a big pile of money. The fuckhead was gambling with the money. Enforcer juices reached tidal wave proportion.

  I walked over and stuck my badge in his face. “We need to talk to you.”

  He clumsily gathered his money from the table and tried to stuff it in his pocket. Some coins fell to the floor, and he teetered down to get them. We walked him out the back door to an alley littered with garbage, but otherwise empty. All three of us hugged the wall to stay out of the worst of the rain.