FIFTEEN

 

 

SAVITA ROMEY FELT overworked, maybe because she was overworked. She had twice as much to do now, because Soseki’s aides dithered more than she would have had she arrived an hour earlier.

She had done what she could outside: she had protected the body. But even that had taken some effort. The street cops who arrived when the aides made the call had done some of that, but not in the way an experienced homicide detective would have. They made the perimeter too wide, and didn’t ask who had walked close to the body.

The other problem with coming in late was that there were too many people milling around aimlessly. Someone had ordered the remaining people to stay on scene, so some of the patrons of the restaurant still sat at their tables, the remains of their meals scattered before them. Waiters, recognizable only because they wore uniforms, sat at empty tables. Chefs remained in the kitchen, and the owner hovered near the reception desk.

The back room still had people who had come for Soseki’s speech. Some of those people were important—rich business owners, a few politicians, a couple of bigwigs from off-Moon. Soseki’s aides wanted her to deal with them first.

She had to figure out a way to deal with the aides. They were irritating her, and getting in the way of the investigation. But they had been in charge of the scene from the moment Soseki died, and she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with them, without alienating them, without getting the information they didn’t even know they had.

For all she knew, one of them had killed Soseki.

The interior of the restaurant smelled of garlic and baking bread. Her stomach growled as she worked. She needed a command center, she needed a place to put the witnesses, she needed staff to interview those witnesses, and she needed the crime scene techs to get here before the entire scene got contaminated.

The coroner’s van showed up first.

Romey left the restaurant, stepped around the crime scene lasers she had placed around Soseki’s body, and watched as the back of the van opened. She worried that Brodeur The Incompetent had overruled her and had come instead of Jacobs.

But Romey shouldn’t have worried. Brodeur hated extra work, and important cases were always extra work.

Jacobs stepped out of the back, her kit in hand.

Jacobs was tiny, muscular, and no-nonsense. She had bright yellow hair, which couldn’t have been natural. If it was natural, then her parents deserved to be chastised for naming her Marigold, because her hair was precisely that color.

Jacobs had an angular face, intelligent eyes, and a calm manner. Her husky voice seemed genderless over audio links. She nodded at Romey, then set to work, without having to be told what to do.

Romey let out a small sigh. At least one thing had gone right this morning.

One of the street cops approached her from her left. He was careful to avoid the crime scene lasers as well.

“Detective,” he said, “there’s someone here from the Security Chief’s office?”

His tone made it clear that he didn’t believe the outsider was from the security chief’s office, which made her realize the young cop hadn’t even asked for identification.

“Thanks,” she said as she headed toward the man the cop indicated. “And next time, officer, make sure you check credentials before you get me.”

The cop started, then flushed, making her wonder just how new he was. That thought flitted across her brain and left it as she walked down the sidewalk, past two businesses that she had ordered closed. Their employees and patrons waited inside for interviews, the very thought of which overwhelmed her.

She was so far behind, and she had just started.

The man the cop had indicated stood near a dark government-issue car. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, clearly uncomfortable in a suit. It tapered along his muscular body. His features were so chiseled, he looked like a model rather than a security agent. Only the muscles in his shoulders and arms gave him away. No model would let himself get so enhanced that he couldn’t squeeze properly into a suit.

“Credentials,” she said as she approached.

He held up a hand. A badge appeared on his palm. That wasn’t enough for her. She extended her hand, and touched his.

Banyon Kilzahn, Security Office of the United Domes of the Moon. Fifteen years’ experience in dome government security, three years with the United Domes. In other words, he had worked security for the various governments on the Moon before the United Domes had become the dominant entity, certainly before the Security Office for the United Domes of the Moon had been created.

He watched her as the identification ran. Her palm warmed as the credentials and his DNA got approved through Armstrong Police Department’s database.

“You’re an observer only,” she said. “You’re here on my sufferance. You make any mistakes, interfere in any way with my investigation, and I’ll have you out of here so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

He smiled. The smile was warm and made him even more handsome. “It’s nice to meet you too,” he said.

She glared at him. “You may mock me all you want, Director, but this is no laughing matter. When the news about the mayor gets out, this entire city is going to be in an uproar, especially considering this is Anniversary Day.”

His smile faded. “I wasn’t mocking you, Detective. I’ve just never met anyone who didn’t go through the niceties before.”

“I don’t have time for the niceties,” she said, “and neither do you. You have a choice. You can stand where I tell you to, or you can get briefings from one of my assistant detectives. Which do you prefer?”

“I’ll stick with you, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“I didn’t say stick with me,” she snapped. “I said you can stand where I tell you to.”

He nodded, his smile so far gone that it almost seemed like his face didn’t bend that way. “My mistake, Detective.”

“Don’t make another one,” she said. “And come with me.”

She turned her back on him without seeing if he was going to follow that order. She was being unduly harsh with him, but she wanted him to know who was in charge. And she wanted to keep a close eye on him. Observers like Kilzahn often reported the wrong things back to their superiors, making investigations worse.

She stepped around the crime scene lasers and went back into the restaurant. Then she checked to see if he was following her.

He was, as if he was guarding her.

“You will stand right here,” she said, placing him next to the reception desk. “You will not speak to anyone without my authorization. Nor will you report to your boss without clearing that report through me. Is that clear?’

“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said. “But I don’t work for you.”

“I run the crime scene. That means I control the information which leaves this crime scene. If you want to be in my crime scene, you will do as I tell you. Or I will send you back to the Security Office and ask Chief DeRicci to send me a liaison who knows his place. Do you understand me?”

A hint of a smile returned to his face. “Yes,” he said.

“What am I doing that’s amusing you so?” she asked.

He shrugged one of those massive shoulders. “I have never met such a fierce detective before.”

“You haven’t seen fierce yet,” she said. “You interfere with my crime scene in any way—and that means releasing the wrong information to your boss at the wrong time—and you will see fierce.”

He nodded once, crossed his arms, and started to lean against the desk.

“You touch anything without authorization, you’re interfering with my crime scene,” she said. “The techs haven’t been here yet.”

Then she reached into her pocket and removed a small disk that held a protective suit, the kind she usually gave to civilians.

“Here,” she said. “Put this on.”

He took the disk and attached it to one of the buttons on his suit. The protective gear covered him, making him look like a flash of unfiltered sunlight hit him. Then the image vanished.

“That suit does not mean you can touch anything without my permission. It’s just that I don’t trust you. I hope we’re clear,” she said.

“Perfectly,” he said. “May I at least tell my office I’m here and that you have the investigation underway?”

“You may tell them that you’re here,” she said. “That’s all.”

Then she left him, feeling her irritation rise. He was just a symbol of all that could go wrong on this case. An hour-long delay, an untrained observer, a dead mayor on the wrong day of the year—not that there was a right day. Romey wondered how she ended up being the lucky one this morning.

She also wondered where Nyquist was.

She should have told Kilzahn to go home and make Nyquist liaison. Although that would have been a waste of a lot of investigative talent.

She wondered where the hell he was.

She wondered where the hell the crime scene techs were.

She wondered where the hell the murder weapon was.

She wondered a lot of things, and she doubted she’d get the answers she wanted.