Ezra frowned. “Other one what?” he said.
“The other man,” Jabjoth said. “The white one.”
“Jesus the Carpenter,” Montoya said. “Not this shit again, Jabjoth.”
“The hell’s he talkin about?” Ezra said.
“Some fairy tale. He’s been bothering me and the other guys on the beat about it for weeks now. It’s pure nothing, Ez. C’mon, let’s go back out on the sidewalk and have a smoke until the body bag unit gets here to collect their pretty package.”
“I’m telling you it is truth!” Jabjoth said. His caterpillar of a black mustache was all but quivering with the energy in him. “I have seen! I have seen the white man!”
Ezra sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What’s the deal with this other man you saw?”
“Not a man,” Jabjoth said. “Something more than a man. Back in my home, there is a legend. This is in Ashigul, blessed by the sea. There we tell of a creature, not quite a god but more than a man, that sometimes visits the dead. Wal Ah’rukar, he is called- the weeping man. He comes to grieve over those who have died alone and badly. He cries for them, when no one else will.”
“Wally ah…” Ezra said.
“Wal Ah’rukar,” Jabjoth said.
“The weeping man.”
“Yes. I am seeing him more than once here. There are many people for him to cry over, here in this place.”
“And you saw him today,” Ezra said. “Out there in the car of the deceased.”
Jabjoth nodded. “Yes. I am telling you what I see. The woman, she is still sitting there in her car. Almost I thought about calling the Guards myself, to get her towed away. Then I got busy. Ten, fifteen minutes later I look back up again, and still she is there…but now she is not alone. She is slumped back in the driver’s seat. I can tell from the way her head lolls back on her shoulders that she is dead. And there is Wal Ah’rukar, there is the weeping man, and his face is in his hands. His shoulders are shaking with his crying. He does not look up and see me, for which I give thanks- for they say that if Wal Ah’rukar looks on you then you will soon die. But no, he is busy in the car. I can see him. First, he take it something from the dashboard and make it go. Then, he puts his hands, so white and so thin, onto the body of the pretty woman. Then a customer is yelling at me, we are sold out of the cases of the Wilhelmina Light. When I have the chance to look back again, Wal Ah’rukar is gone.”
“What does he look like?”
“Aw, Ezra,” Montoya said. Ezra waved a hand at him, a curt gesture that meant hush up.
“Wal Ah’rukar is white,” Jabjoth said. “He is dressed in a white shirt, and his skin is the same color as the linen. I did not see him come or go, but I am sure his pants must also be white as well. His hair is white. I did not see his eyes, but it is said that they are white as well.”
Ezra whistled. “That is one white Vondellian. Should be pretty easy to track down.”
Jabjoth shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “You will not be seeing Wal Ah’rukar, my friend Guard- not unless he wants you to. Then it is woe unto you, neh?”
“Yeah,” Ezra said. “I hear ya.”
Jabjoth nodded, his dark face somber.
-
“Look, Ezra,” Montoya said. They were leaning against the front of the conshop now, smoking and watching while a pair of techs from the Forensic Investigations office loaded Missus Jensen into the back of their wagon. Beyond them, a tow truck blocked up most of the street, the driver waiting impatiently to get to the car. The little luxury model would be impounded and then ripped apart by a team from Forensics; when they were done the bottle green Hazua-Moshito would be nothing but a dull skeleton. “You know that was all bullshit, right? I mean, I understand you had a case in which a man claimed he didn’t even commit any murders at all ‘cause he was really hunting pixies-”
“Dwarves,” Ezra said. He remembered the insane light in Loveless’s eyes- the light and the smug assurance that the mad, especially the really smart ones, always have about them…as if they are privy to the realities of the world that regular folk, sheep one and all, can’t see. “Elves.”
Montoya waved this away. “Whatever. But you do get what I’m sayin?”
Ezra turned his head to look at the Strider. “What, you tryin to tell me that I shouldn’t go looking for an Ashiguli demigod in the course of my investigation? Gee, thanks, Don. You just saved me a hell of a lot of footwork.”
Montoya laughed, shaking his head.
“Still,” Ezra said (but in his head he heard that weird phrase, the one Bonna the receptionist had used- still and all), taking a drag from his Chesterfield and blowing the smoke out into the street to join the steam rising from the puddles there. “There’s something weird about this thing. I mean, why did she just sit there? Why didn’t she take off? And who’s this other guy who showed up after the deal went down?”
“There was no other guy,” Montoya said. “Jabjoth is talking out his ass. Tells stories ‘cause he loves the attention. You should hear him tell the one about how he took on two guys who tried to rob him. Put them both in the hospital; before he is coming to this country he was special forces in Ashigul, you know.”
Ezra chuckled. “Okay. But that whale of a tail makes him look good. What’s he get out of this?”
“This is what he gets out of it,” Montoya said. “We’re still standin here, talking about him. And if the legend gets big enough, maybe some of them holistic yoga crystal power white chicks start coming around to shop here, trying to read the energy fields or whatever.”
“Were there drugs in the car?”
It took Montoya a second to answer. “No,” he finally said. “But Ez, that don’t mean shit either. The dealer could’ve handed her a couple dewdrops- dissolves in the mouth. Or a handful of pills. A tab of darchangel. Just because there’s no needle and burnt tin foil on the seat of the car doesn’t mean that someone else came and, what- cleaned up after her? Gave her last rites? What?”
Ezra sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Guess we’ll see what the toxscreen shows.”
Seven
Hawethorne Heights was posh. A gated cul-de-sac of identical micromansions with fake stone foundations and round windows and detached garages, the development was cut right out of the side of the hill just below uptown Hatis. The houses here commanded a view of what was once sprawling fields and rolling plains and now just a black quiltwork of shopping centers like cancer clusters all the way to Gileon on both sides of the river in the north; on a clear day one could have seen the slow waters of the mighty river, if the city wasn’t perched over its banks for miles in either direction. Beyond Gileon was the misty suggestion of the mountains. The wind was constant here, whipping Ezra’s tie back over his shoulder and making it impossible to light a cigarette as he walked from the guest parking lot to the main gate of a community that housed sports stars, hedge fund hotshots, and tech giants- it was rumored that the Toymaker himself kept a house here, used primarily for visiting investors. Ezra himself wasn’t impressed with the development; except for a few superficial details every dwelling was exactly the same, with all the personality of a row of conshops that got thrown up in a month. Hawethorne Heights could be in any city. Londell’s, trapped in the shadows of the tram system and filled with the surf-like sounds of the highway, had more character.
A bored security guard who might have been in shape once sat on a collapsible camp chair outside the small office just outside the front gate; a man of faith. He sat soaking up the sunshine of the afternoon, sleeves rolled up over his biceps and his collar unbuttoned, legs crossed at the ankles sticking out into the driveway. The flabby man was winter pale and would probably remain that way until he burned badly in the late weeks of summer. The only detail of note about the security guard was the holstered revolver on his belt; Hawethorne Heights housed some real VIPs, and they didn’t mess around with tasers and bear mace.
“Help you, sir?” the security guard asked.
He didn’t bother to haul himself out of his lawn chair but only looked at Ezra, squinting in the bright sunshine like a mole suddenly ousted from the cool dark of his hole. “This gate is for the use of the residents only, and their invited guests. If you have an appointment with one of the residents, you should head over to-”
“Got my invitation right here,” Ezra said, pulling the leather case from his jacket and showing his silver star. “I need to speak with a Mister Leon Jensen. Right away.”
Now the security guard rose from his seat in the sunshine. Getting out of the lawn chair was a four point maneuver and left him out of breath. “What’s this concerning, High Guard…”
“Beckitt,” Ezra said. “And what this is concerning doesn’t concern you. Open up the gates and let me by, chum. I’ve had a bellyful of today already, and I don’t need shit from a glorified megashop guard.”
The security guard looked like he had something to say, but he took another look at the High Guard standing in front of him, the black suit and the bright blue eyes in the grim face, the grips of the big automatics revealed as the wind blew his jacket around, and thought better of it. Maybe he was tough once, this pale tub of guts stuffed into a button-up blue dress shirt and black cargo pants with the legs tucked into tall combat-style boots, but that had been quite a while ago. On most days his job consisted of nothing more than nodding at the residents of the development when they flashed their cards and the gate opened so they could drive in, and terrorizing anyone else who tried to get in without the proper clearance. He went into the small building attached to the main gate and pushed a button. The gates buzzed harshly and swung open. Ezra walked through the widening gap in the middle as soon as it would allow him.
“I can escort you, sir,” the security guard said. He had a face like a mole, to go with his pale flesh and tiny squinting eyes. He indicated a small solar-powered golf cart just on the other side of the gate. Ezra wanted to laugh at the contraption: painted white and black, it was supposed to look like a Guard’s prowler; there was a gold star painted on the hood, with the company name “Elite Escort and Guard” spelled out in a military style stencil across the center- the damn thing even had a rack of lights, red and white, on top of it.
“I’ll find my way,” Ezra said. “You wanna help, you can just buzz Mister Jensen on the intercom and let him know I’m coming. Tell him to stand out in front of his door, so I know which one of these identical overpriced dollhouses is his.”
Inside the gates of Hawethorne, white sidewalks ran along the black asphalt of the tiny lanes set up in a tic-tac-toe grid along the main thoroughfare. Every two story house, done in the same style, had the same tiny square of green lawn- golf course grass, Ezra always called it. Sprinklers hissed and chuffed in the afternoon silence, casting rainbow arcs through the glimmering air. Out here, with nothing but the view north of the world below and sonic bafflers to filter out the city noise of uptown Hatis above, it felt as if this housing development carved into the side of the hill was the entire world: no dirty alleyways full of desperate lace-cunnie girls willing to do anything for a handful of creds; no starving kids; no muggers who had to resort to thievery and beatings because they couldn’t find any work and didn’t qualify for any of the social programs designed as a “safety net” for the underprivileged; everything shiny and clean, blue sky above and pastel green lawn (synthetic or the real deal, no way to tell) below. The boulevards curving away from the main street until they eventually circled around and joined it again were smooth and black, as if the tar was fresh today and not a single wheel had sullied it with the grime of the highways out in the rest of the world.
Walking along the main way, Ezra pulled out his palmscreen and checked the Jensen’s address again: 217 Primrose Lane. “How just so cute,” he muttered to himself. “And would it have killed them to put trees along the way when they planned this shit?” The sun beat down on him, and there wasn’t a scrap of shade to be found. He squinted against the light and stared at the street signs, green and gold with extravagant curlicue calligraphy letters etched in them, as he passed them by: Gardenia Lane; Holly Way; Kinrowan Boulevard; Evergreen Terrace; Sunflower Street. The houses stood at the end of their circular driveways, blank and silent; some red, some mint, some blue, some a more somber brown or grey- all from the same cookie cutter. He tried to imagine himself living here and couldn’t do it. He was sure he’d get kicked out by the neighborhood association for his grass being too long, or the wrong type, or for smoking on his porch. Something.
217 Primrose Lane, when he found it, was a pale blue trimmed in white with a white stone foundation; a beach house sort of motif, days away from the sea. The perfectly sealed and smooth driveway didn’t have a car in it, and the open garage was empty as well; not just missing a car but completely empty- he didn’t see a tool, a rack, or even an oil stain on the unblemished concrete floor of the interior. The house looked deserted, a model home used to try and hook potential investors in the development; it had all the charm of a furniture store’s display living room, the one with the tables and lamps arranged just so around the huge sectional leather couch. In fact, Ezra was sure that the inside of this house would be just like that- arrangements of furniture that looked as if no one had ever plopped their ass down on it after a long day, spotless hardwood floors that gleamed under track lighting, shelves without a speck of dust…or anything more personal than the fan of magazines at the dentist’s office. These people, the people who lived in Hawethorne Heights, hardly lived here at all; they were busy with big deals in big cities across the world, jetting here and there, wheeling and dealing- their housekeepers spent more time in these houses than they did.
Ezra walked up to the front door of the big house in a heavy silence and pressed the buzzer. Somewhere deep in the shadows of the house a doorbell chimed. The big wooden front door only had frosted window panels narrow as arrow slits in a castle keep, and he couldn’t see anything inside the front hall but impressions of a glossy wood floor and white walls. After a few seconds passed, he leaned on the doorbell again: bing bang bong. No one was coming. No one was shouting “Yeah, I hear ya, just hold on a sec!” The house only stood over him, a bulk without any impression of warmth or hospitality, no personality- a hotel suite sold as a home.
Someone dies and the first place to look is the spouse, Ezra thought as he stood there with the afternoon sun burning the back of his neck. He wished suddenly for a hat, but he’d just never been a hat guy; they never looked right. The spouse here isn’t home. Could be he’s out golfing with the business partners he calls friends; could be he’s somewhere in the air twenty thousand feet above d’Haventh, on his way to a meeting in Rosemount or Evredon or Agarib; or maybe, just maybe, he’s somewhere down in Londell’s, cleaning himself up after a morning of evidence tampering at the scene of his wife’s death.
“Wal Ah’rukar,” Ezra said as he stood there on the miniature porch at the Jensen’s front door. “The weeping man. Right.” He browsed his palmscreen as he stood there, eventually finding a photo of Leon Jensen, businessman and socialite supreme. Leon was younger than he’d expected, a man maybe in his early forties. He was certainly one white Vondellian: pale skin, fine features, blonde hair parted on the side but worn a little long. His eyes were a very light blue, almost silver. Ezra looked at the photo and saw Jabjoth’s white man, his weeping man. Ezra thought Leon had probably been more the cursing man than the weeping man, having found his wife, who probably had a little bit of a drug problem brought on by the inarguable realities of growing older in a world that only paid attention to the young, dead in her luxury car in an area that even the denizens of Dream Street looked down on. Maybe the husband hadn’t killed her. In fact, Ezra found it more likely that the man had been following his lovely redhead wife (and his meal ticket- Ezra was willing to bet dollars to donuts that the Jensen’s money came from Beverly, probably through a lucrative first marriage when she walked in beauty like the night without the aid of bleeding edge
cosmetics and surgeries) around, suspicious over her erratic behavior, and just found her there. So, he did what he could do. He took the drugs out of the car, he cleaned her up if she was bleeding or had vomited on herself, and then he got the hell out of there.
“Lot of supposition,” Ezra said as he stood there. “And even if that’s not the case, he’s still got some questions to answer.”
Ezra rang the bell a third time, waited a few beats, and nodded- nobody home. He fished around in his jacket pocket and found a Calling Card. Holding the credstik-thin device out in front of himself and angling himself out of the direct sun so he wouldn’t be squinting, he slid his thumb over the recording trigger. “Mister Jensen, this is High Guard First Class Ezra Beckitt,” he said. “I’d like to speak with you, concerning your wife Beverly. Please contact me at the number listed on this screen at your earliest convenience, or call the Justice Building main switchboard if you find me unavailable. Thank you.” He ended the recording and stuck the Calling Card to the front of the door; the door looked like wood but was, of course, metal- and probably as strong as the door of a bank vault. Then he turned away, lit a Chesterfield, and started the long walk back to the main gate. It was all he could do, for today.
Eight
Ezra was fairly certain he was the only person in Hatis City who still had a landline phone. He didn’t see why he should give it up when reception through the middling part of the city was so piss poor that he couldn’t rely on his cell phone anyway. Plus…well, his mother had still been alive when he moved in here and had this phone installed. She had called him on this phone, her voice in his ear- a little faint with the distance between them and the hum of thousands of other phone calls but still there, dammit. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, getting rid of the phone would be like throwing her memory out as well.
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