by Dan Moren
Kovalic walked over to the desk, then used the end of his telescoping mirror to jimmy the drawer open. Empty. The bureau was a little more rewarding: piles of shirts, trousers, socks, underwear—all clean, but not folded or neatly put away. In fact, they gave the distinct impression of having been rifled through. Frowning, Kovalic poked at the piles, swishing them around with the end of his mirror. If somebody had gone through them, then it looked like anything interesting had been removed.
Upon closer investigation, the same went for the rumpled bed. From the way it sat off kilter on its wooden platform, the mattress had clearly been pulled up, its underside examined. Kovalic turned back to the room at large, letting his eyes drift across it—no sign of a struggle. Between that and the lack of countermeasures he didn’t like his conclusions.
Someone had already turned over Wallace’s apartment. They’d clearly been looking for something, so Wallace hadn’t told them where to find it, whatever it was. The real question, to Kovalic’s mind, was whether or not they’d located it all the same. Kind of an existential query, unfortunately: the only way to know would be to find it himself. Which was going to be tricky, since he didn’t know what he was looking for.
Sighing, Kovalic started at one end of the apartment and did a full sweep. He checked the undersides of every drawer, the space behind the drawers, and behind and underneath the bureau itself. He checked every inch of the desk, the metal chair that sat next to it—including unscrewing the feet—and behind the room’s lone painting, a grotesque mass-produced landscape that looked like something out of an impressionist’s nightmare. He pulled up the bed again, producing a knife and slicing through the mattress to check the inside; he felt a little bad about that, but it was a cheap mattress, and he had already handed over forty marks.
None of the cupboards in the kitchen escaped his attention either, but they yielded only cooking ingredients like olive oil and vinegar, a variety of dried herbs and spices, and a half bulb of garlic.
The microwave oven was empty and the small refrigerator had a couple bottles of juice, a small container of milk that Kovalic uncapped to smell and subsequently wished he hadn’t, and a few containers of fruit and produce that were also well past their prime. The ice cube bin in the freezer had congealed into a single solid mass and the stack of frozen dinners had developed a thin layer of frost.
There were two trash bins—one in the kitchen, which a quick survey suggested held only some food refuse, and one tucked under the desk that provided the first interesting find: a discarded package for a small, off-the-shelf data chip. But there was no terminal or comm—or the remainders thereof—in evidence; so either Wallace had taken his device with him or whoever had turned over the place had taken it. In which case, they might have the data chip, too.
Leaning against the wall, Kovalic surveyed the room with a frown. Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes slide closed, then mentally flipped back through everything he’d seen and heard—in the apartment, about Wallace, about this mission.
The vaguely unsettled feeling in his stomach told him he’d missed something. No scientist had ever been able to pin down exactly why the gut had developed as some sort of intuitive radar, and really, Kovalic thought, wasn’t that the point? Some things defied rational, scientific explanation.
He opened his eyes. The place had a kitchen. That was unusual; most boarding houses of this type would probably make do with a hot plate or assume that people would eat out.
Wallace, though, had been a cook of some repute, at least according to Tapper. He’d have specifically picked a room with a kitchenette so he could cook meals himself; the ingredients in the cupboard bore that out.
His gaze fell upon the refrigerator, and he tensed. Pushing himself off the wall, he quickly crossed to the appliance and pulled open the freezer door. Instant dinners were probably better today than they were a hundred years ago, but they still didn’t compare to a home-cooked meal.
Pulling out the four frosted boxes, he put them down on the table and inspected each one. Two were frozen pizzas, the third a frozen Indian meal, and the last a traditional Chinese dish. All appeared to still be sealed—except one of the pizzas, where the flap wasn’t quite flush. He produced a pocket knife and flipped it open, then deftly sliced under the box flap, folding it back. Tape, not glue, was holding it in place.
Upending the box, a slab of pizza slid out and hit the table, but nothing else. Kovalic frowned, then held the box up to peer inside. At the far end, again affixed with a square of tape, was a tiny data chip. Grinning, he reached inside and pulled it out, turning it over in his hand. A little bit of frost had collected on the outside, which he brushed off, but these things were rated for storage well below freezing, so as long as he let it warm up a bit before plugging it in, any data on it should be intact.
Slipping the chip into his pocket, he replaced the pizza in the box and resealed it, then returned the frozen meals to a stack in the freezer, leaving the taped side to the rear. If whoever had tossed the place hadn’t found the chip the first time, they might be back. No use giving away too much.
He gave a last glance around the apartment just in case another ingenious hiding place presented itself, then exited the way he’d come in, carefully locking the door. It might be locking the barn door after the horses had bolted, but any extra time he could buy to prevent these people from knowing someone else was interested in Wallace was a bonus.
Turning back toward the stairs, he was just in time to see a man reach the top and look down the hallway at him. Average height, he wore a thigh-length ratty brown coat and a hat. His dark eyes locked on Kovalic, and he started, slowly but deliberately, in his direction.
Kovalic swore under his breath but kept a neutral expression on his face as he continued toward the stairway. There wasn’t a good alternative; any way out of here was going to mean going past this guy, whoever he was.
When they were about ten feet apart, the man slowed, and gave Kovalic a nod. “Excuse me, sir. Do you live here?”
“Nope,” said Kovalic, coming to a stop himself. “Just visiting.”
“Can I ask who?”
Kovalic raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”
The man reached into an inside pocket and Kovalic tried to ignore the automatic impulse to rush him; the longer he could keep his “‘average citizen” cover, the better. But instead of a gun the man produced a black wallet, which he flipped open to display a badge and ID card.
“Special Agent Messner, Caledonian Security Agency.”
Whatever Kovalic been expecting, that wasn’t it. CalSec was planetwide law enforcement—the feds. Less corrupt than local cops, to be sure, but one hundred percent more cooperation with the Illyricans.
He blinked as Messner returned the badge to his pocket and leaned casually against the wall, sizing up Kovalic.
“So, can you tell me who you were visiting?”
“A friend.”
The expression on Messner’s face was a decided flavor of skeptical. “Their name?”
“Rogers.”
Messner frowned; that clearly hadn’t been the answer he’d expected or wanted. Then again, that was probably going to be the first in a long line of disappointments for Agent Messner today. The cop’s hand drifted to his hip, hitching in his belt.
“The landlady said somebody matching your description asked after a resident—a Mr. Andrews?”
Kovalic smiled apologetically. “Afraid it wasn’t me. I guess I’ve just got one of those descriptions.”
Eyes narrowed, Messner was about to say something when a woman with a long black ponytail reached the top of the stairs.
“Messner?”
The agent glanced over his shoulder. “Down here, Liang. I got—”
Agent Messner’s day went from bad to worse as Kovalic swept into motion. He’d closed the distance between them while the cop was still looking back at, presumably, his partner; Messner saw the alarm on her face and started to turn, but he was
still unbalanced, leaning against the wall.
Using that to his advantage, Kovalic hooked his foot inside Messner’s legs and yanked them out from under him. The man slid down the wall, his head bouncing off the plaster. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to assault a law enforcement officer, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but Kovalic always felt a little bit guilty; after all, they were just doing their job.
But he was doing his.
With a shout, the woman came charging in, reaching for a sidearm holstered in the small of her back.
He couldn’t reach her fast enough to stop her from drawing her weapon, and once she had it out somebody was a lot more likely to get hurt. That somebody probably being him. Getting shot had definitely not been on his agenda when he’d woken up this morning.
Her arm had to swing wide to clear the weapon from its holster, increasing the amount of time before she could bring it to bear on him. Closing with her, Kovalic plowed his shoulder into her sternum, grabbing her weapon arm and flipping her onto her back where she landed with a thump and a groan. He bent her wrist back until she released the pistol then ejected the clip, racked the slide to dump the chambered round, and tossed the whole mix of weapon and ammunition down the hall.
The woman—Liang, Messner had called her—was looking up at him, coughing, her eyes slightly unfocused.
“Nothing personal,” he murmured. He backed down the hall toward the stairs and risked a glance into the entryway. The old woman was peering over her desk up the stairs; catching sight of him, fear struck her eyes and she pulled her head back.
Kovalic’s foot had just grazed the top stair when he saw the front door open. Of course they had brought backup, and the noise would have gotten their attention. Not particularly relishing the idea of bulling his way through another set of gun-wielding agents, Kovalic crossed the front door off his list of escape routes.
Looking up, he caught sight of a sign pointing its way toward the shared bathroom he’d noticed earlier. Without pausing to think, he made a run for it—even as Liang finally managed to yell for help.
Pushing his way into the restroom, he put his back against the door. The room had a few stalls for toilets and showers on one side and a line of sinks set below a long mirror on the other. One frosted glass window was cracked open to let out the steam. He yanked it open and peered out. He was only on the second floor, so it was the work of a moment to slip out the window, dangle from the ledge, and then drop the last ten feet to the pavement.
Affecting his best casual air, he walked out of the alley like he’d had every reason in the world to be there, and then turned to stroll past the front of the tenement.
A groundcar was parked directly in front of the building. It was empty, but Kovalic had seen plenty of unmarked cars in his day, and this one oozed ineffectual subtlety.
The door to the tenement was swinging closed as he passed, and Kovalic just caught a glimpse of someone running up the stairs. Without changing his pace or sparing a second look, he crossed the street and made for the nearest crowd.
On the upside, he hadn’t gotten shot. On the downside, CalSec was looking at Wallace, and now they knew someone else was interested too—and they’d seen his face. He patted his pocket to reassure himself that the data chip was still there. Wallace had obviously decided to hide it for a reason; hopefully whatever it contained had been worth the risk.
“So?” Tapper asked.
It was an hour later and Kovalic had regrouped with the sergeant in another of Raleigh City’s many squares, this one dominated by a tall, stone cathedral that looked like it might give some of Earth’s finest churches a run for their money.
“Hell of a thing,” said Kovalic, craning his neck up at the crown-shaped steeple overhead. Eight stone buttresses combined to support an even taller spire atop them.
“Mixture of Gothic and Renaissance architecture,” Tapper mused. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s modeled after the St. Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh, back on Earth.”
Kovalic raised an eyebrow.
“What?” said Tapper, shrugging. “Man’s gotta have a hobby.”
“Well, it seems to fit the neighborhood, anyway,” said Kovalic. He gestured to Tapper and the two of them started slowly circling the stone edifice. Whoever had commissioned the structure had thoughtfully laid in some gardens, though like the rest of Caledonia’s greenery they’d turned mostly brown. Kovalic ducked under a low-hanging skeletal branch. “What’d you find out?”
“I did a quick check of the hospitals and the morgues—or at least, pushed it as far as I could with a somewhat vague local reporter cover. Upshot was no stiffs that matched Wallace’s description. Ran back through the local crime logs, too; nothing there either. If Wallace is dead, the authorities don’t have his body yet.”
“I can’t say that makes me feel that much better,” said Kovalic grimly.
“Any luck at the apartment?”
Kovalic produced the data chip from his pocket and handed it over to Tapper. The sergeant turned it over in gnarled hands then returned it to Kovalic. “Anything on it?”
“Good question. I plugged it into my comm, but it’s been secured with fingerprint authentication. I thought maybe I’d ask Three to run it through some decryption filters.”
Tapper hesitated. “I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have with that. CID mandates the use of one-time pads for all its field communication. And if the key’s biometric, we’re not going to get it open without Wallace’s fingerprint. We could try to bypass it, though—any chance of lifting a print from his apartment?”
“Yeah, I think that ship has sailed,” Kovalic said, returning the chip to his pocket. “I had a little run-in with Caledonian Security, who are apparently sitting on Wallace’s apartment.”
Tapper’s eyebrows went up. “The feds? That’s weird. What the hell’s their angle?”
Kovalic shook his head. “I didn’t stop to ask. I assumed Eyes was using them to keep tabs on the place without tipping their own hand.”
“Which would be a great theory—if the Imperial Intelligence Service was the kind of outfit that liked delegating.”
“It’s not exactly their style,” Kovalic admitted.
Tapper chuckled. “No, they’re not exactly the helpful sort.” He ran his hand along the tops of some dry evergreen bushes. “A parallel investigation, maybe?”
“Maybe, but how’d they get onto Wallace in the first place?”
“Good question.”
“Yeah, I was really hoping you’d have an answer to go with it.”
Tapper snorted. “Sorry to disappoint, boss. So, now what?”
Hands in his pockets, Kovalic looked up at the steeple again, the late afternoon sun shining through the openings in the crown—the light of God descending upon it, he supposed the faithful might say. He smiled slightly, remembering his mother’s daily veneration of the saints’ icons sprinkled about their house.
“Well, those CalSec agents have got me curious, I must say. And I think I know just the man to talk to. Though,” he paused, looking again at the sinking sun, “it may have to wait until the morning.”
“And our friend?”
“Three’s got the eyeball again. Last contact from him said they were bound for the northern edge of the city, the Upham district. We’ll regroup with them at the safe house in a couple hours.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Tapper. There was a rumbling from his midsection and he patted it apologetically. “In the meantime, how about we get something to eat?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The transpo bus back to the city center was almost empty, which conveniently meshed with Eli’s unsociable mood. A little digging around the few remaining inhabitants of Block 17—most of whom had shied away from Eli as though he’d either had some sort of disease or was going door-to-door with religious pamphlets—had revealed that 17-North had been demolished a couple years ago as part of an attempt to reclaim the land for more productive uses, as
well as to reduce the crime and violence that seemed to hover around the area like a cloud of flies. The rest of the residential towers had been slated to follow, but the initiative had run out of both money and fervor.
Only a few families were left in the block, many of them squatters. None remembered a red-haired man of about Eli’s height and build or recognized the name Eamon Brody.
Dead end. He shouldn’t be this disappointed, given that it was only the first attempt he’d made but, as he’d realized while staring up at the vacant space where his home had been, he had no idea where to go next. Surely, somewhere, someone must know what had happened to Eamon and Meghann. He’d racked his brain for memories of old friends, distant family, even past girlfriends. But most of the Brodys’ extended family was dead or had moved off-world; their friends had been the people they’d known from the block. At school, they’d kept largely to themselves—though there had been that girl who had followed Eamon around like a puppy for some time. He searched vainly for the name, but couldn’t bring it to mind: Laurie? Ruthie? Blonde girl, very thin, very smart. Yeah, that and a five-mark chit will get you a bus ride.
Images continued flipping past his mind’s eye: snatches of faces he dimly remembered, places his brother had dragged him in their teenage years. He’d gone along, despite his uneasiness, because Eamon had been there—because, once upon a very long time ago, he’d trusted his brother implicitly.
That had lasted right up until Eli had begged off going to one of the “protests”—really, nothing more than a thinly-veiled riot held by the gang Eamon had fallen in with, the Tartans. He’d told Eamon he wanted to stay home with Meghann but, in truth, he’d been scared shitless—of getting hurt, of being arrested, of worse.
“Fine,” Eamon had sneered. “Go home and play.”
His ears had flushed red, as they always did when he was embarrassed, and he’d stalked off with the jeers of the older boys still ringing in the air. Two days later a police officer had appeared at the Brody’s door hauling a bruised and defiant Eamon along with him; Eli’s mother had burst into tears at his appearance but the cop had been reassuring if not exactly comforting. Eamon had been sent to his room, but Eli had taken the opportunity to lurk around the corner from the living room, overhearing every word.