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It was rare to see Suede and Johnson wander outside Sector Six or even Sector Seven, and I wondered why they were here. I was suspicious. And it may be nothing, since it was not completely unknown for the two mediocre cops to be in the more affluent, and clean, sectors of the space station, but it was definitely rare. I didn’t trust it. I was happy that they’d saved my bacon, but I certainly wasn’t the reason for them being in this sector.
It was something I’d need to follow up on.
I looked over at the pair of detectives as we made our way to Queenie’s gallery, Flare. They were quiet. They weren’t in this sector for anything normal; there was plenty of white-collar crime in Sector Three, but these two weren’t well connected enough or well-known enough to be given responsibility for anything like that. My gut told me there was more to it. Secrets. Things they weren’t telling me. Goddamned bastards. They should be able to trust me after everything that happened last year, at least a little. And that didn’t mean I had to trust them in return.
They’d only agreed to come to Flare, the scene of an apparent crime, because Queenie had bullied them into attending. It had nothing to do with me.
It took only a few minutes to reach the gallery; it shared a sector with the last known location of Mrs Lafferty’s damned bastard cat and my death-defying pursuit on the ledge. Flare, a small upmarket art gallery tucked near the Earthside entrance to Solaris University. It was a good location; it attracted not only hoity toity students, but professors who thought they knew better and were trying to show off how smart they were to their groomed subordinates. It was all so... pretentious. And it suited Queenie well. I didn’t. We certainly didn’t match as well as she matched her gallery; people would see us together and wonder why. I often wondered that myself. I mean, she was goddamned beautiful, if a little prim and proper, uptight. Queenie was driven and smart and I really don’t know what she saw in me. I would be a damned fool if I thought it was my looks. Maybe it was a vicarious sense of excitement she chased through me. I’d probably never know; she was never one to talk openly about her feelings, and I’d never asked.
The gallery looked like it always did. Small and unassuming. But still conceited somehow. Like it was trying to look shy, coy. Almost as if it were daring you to be the only one to know about it. Make you feel special somehow. You’d tell your friends that you knew this petite and exclusive gallery near the University. Urgh. Made me sick to my stomach.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s robbed the place,” said Suede. He was standing between me and Queenie; his face, bearing an air of suspicion, was lit well in the bright streetlights of Sector Three. “No sign of breaking and entering.” He faced me. “Inside job?”
“Seriously?” I said. “We’re still outside and you’re jumping to goddamned conclusions. You don’t know if it’s an inside job.”
“Don’t be stupid; it’s not.” Queenie strode forward, SmartBoy aimed toward the door, ready to unlock. “There’s only Spartacus and me, and he’s been away visiting his parents on Space Station Beta for the last week.” A pair of green lights flashed near the handle and the glass door slid open. “Plus, I’m the only person with lock admin access.” The lights inside flickered to life. “Spartacus is locked out of the system while he’s not here.”
I glanced at Suede. He started to open his mouth to say something but stopped himself.
“I haven’t got all night you know,” said Queenie. She was waiting at the entrance, arms crossed. “Are you coming to investigate, or what?”
Johnson opted to stay with the car. Suede told me that she needed to wait for an update from HQ, whatever that meant; both neglected to tell me anything more when pressed. I’d find out. Whatever it was, it seemed far more serious than Queenie’s theft.
I followed Queenie into her place of work; Suede was just behind me. The gallery was open plan and minimalist, with paintings and photographs spaced around the perimeter of the single room; several plinths stood lonely and avoiding each other, each with some monstrosity adorning it. I really didn’t understand art. None of it looked appealing, and it wasn’t as if splatters of paint or carved stone served any purpose. It was a waste of money. Waste of my goddamned time. Why did people squander away their hard-earned credits for useless tat? And the amount of credits some of this ‘art’ sold for was damned ridiculous.
Queenie stopped near one of the central plinths. Upon it stood a small marble statue, about thirty centimetres tall, of what could only be described as mostly human; it was an effigy of a naked and muscular man, flexing his muscles, one arm tensed in front of impossible abs and the other in an L shape pointing up to the ceiling. What made him less than human, and this was probably the second most disturbing thing about the statue, was the horrifying squid head sat upon his shoulders. I think he was smiling, somehow. Damned monster of a thing. The most disturbing thing about the statue, and almost certainly one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen in life so far, was the tentacles. Or rather the location of the tentacles that weren’t a part of its face. After all, the statue was naked, but not in the traditional sense.
Goddamned art.
“This is it,” said Queenie.
“What?”
“’The Call of Narcissus’ by Delartes.”
“And? I thought you brought us here to investigate stolen artwork?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Ma’am,” said Suede, stepping forward. He shot a sideways glance in my direction. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” She looked perturbed. She waved her hand at the deformed stone. “This isn’t what should be here!”
“Someone broke in and replaced the art with that thing?!” said the detective. “Why didn’t they just steal the artwork? Why bother replacing anything? And with that?”
“It’s a fake, a copy of ‘The Call of Narcissus,’” said Queenie.
“Oh,” said Suede.
“The original, is gone. Stolen.”
I reached forward to pick up the cursed statue, but my hand was swatted away.
“Just because it’s a fake, doesn’t mean it’s not expensive!” She moved between me and the artwork. “It’s almost a perfect copy. Almost. It’s an excellent reproduction. Of course,” she snorted a laugh, “only someone with an eye for this kind of thing would be able to tell the difference.”
“And what is the difference?” said Suede. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, yes it matters.” Queenie clasped her hands in front of her heart. “To see the original, to know that the magnificent Delartes... his very own hands shaped and carved such a masterpiece, a beautiful exploration of form and conscience... well, someone would pay a fortune to own it.” She took a step back and knelt by the statue. She peered at it. “The differences are small, but they are there. There’s subtle disparities in the colouration of the stone and, in one or two places,” she pointed at the groin, “the tentacles have ever so slightly less curvature in this copy. Machine made copies are hard to spot but this is definitely not the original artwork.”
“And how did such a small gallery come into possession of such an expensive object?” The detective opened his SmartBoy and tapped some notes in the blue screen that appeared in the air. “I mean no offense, but this isn’t exactly Sector One.”
“It’s on loan from one of my benefactors,” said Queenie. “Flare may be small, but it’s also exclusive; we only accept certain clientele into our membership. People pay a lot of credits just to come and look at the art we display here, never mind purchasing it. You’re lucky to even be in here yourself tonight.”
“We’re here,” I said, “because you asked us.” I sighed. “You can big this place up as much as you like; someone still stole that monstrosity, despite the exclusivity of your gallery.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Now, tell us, when did you notice that the statue had been switched?”
“A couple of hours before I came and found you,” she said. “I thought I was wrong... at first.” I could see her eyes starting to water. “I thought I was seeing things; it couldn’t be true... it couldn’t be fake. It... it...” I wrapped my arm around her and brought her in close. “I just can’t believe I lost something so expensive.” She sobbed against my chest.
“It’s okay, Queenie.” I stroked her back. “I’ll find it... with the help of Detectives Suede and Johnson, of course.”
“I know you will, Jack.” She spoke quietly and her voice trembled. “That’s why I came to you.”
Suede cleared his throat. “Do you know when it might have happened? When the... what was it called again?”
“’The Call of Narcissus.’”
“When was the original ‘The Call of Narcissus’ taken? Do you have any idea when it might have happened?”
Queenie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “It’s been in the Gallery for the last week, only the last few days on display. It’s not as if the art is checked every hour of every day; the gallery is only open Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.” She stepped back from me and moved a little closer to the statue. “Oh, and the last Sunday of every month. We were planned to open tomorrow evening for a fundraising event; it was also meant to show off the Delartes.”
“Opening hours?”
“Always 10am until 2pm.”
I found myself distracted by the art surrounding us. It was all pretentious nonsense. Canvases of colour and shapes that I didn’t understand.
“And do you think Spartacus swapped it?”
As small as Flare was, there was still plenty of empty space. It was relatively barren with white walls, floors and the recycled air of the station. I got the feeling that each of the artworks were either shy of each other’s company. Or they all hated each other.
“No, he... he couldn’t have. I inspected the statue not long after he left, just to make sure it was fit for display; it’s a task that’s quite time consuming and focused and I would’ve noticed something. There’s only been me here; I’ve been running the place alone since Spartacus went to Earth.”
People paid good goddamned credits for this shit.
“And what about visitors, Ms Decker,” said Suede. He typed in a few more words into his SmartBoy and looked up. “Who’s been here since you last cleaned the statue?”
Queenie glared over at me. “Aren’t you going to take some notes too?”
I tapped my head to indicate that I was taking everything in. I wasn’t. Goddammit. I didn’t really care about this damned artwork; it was nearly always an inside job. Not that I suspected Queenie. It was going to be insurance fraud. Had to be. The owner of the hideous figurine would be behind the theft; I was sure of it. I didn’t need all this fluff that Suede was dragging from my lover. My gut was telling me the truth.
She continued. “Some of our members have been here; some just to look, others to buy.”
“Can you send me a list?” said the cop.
Queenie nodded and looked at me.
“Yeah, copy me in too,” I said. I was more interested in something else, and that moronic cop hadn’t asked the most important question; who owned the missing statue?
“I’d also like to get someone from forensics down here to take a look,” said the detective. “See if we can find any sign of any break ins. Will you be open tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be open for the time being anyway. Not for normal business anyway; I can’t cancel the event tomorrow evening. Jack, you promised to come.”
I nodded.
“Do you think it’s wise,” said Suede, “ to be holding that event?”
“Unavoidable,” said Queenie. “We’re entertaining some rather prominent people. Politicians and the like. It’s going to be some fantastic exposure for my little gallery.”
“You need to cancel it,” said the cop, who still hadn’t asked about the statue’s owner.
“Certainly not,” she said. “It’s far too important.”
He sighed. “Fine, but I’m still going to arrange for someone from forensics to come round. Will you be here in the daytime?”
“Yes, I’ve got some paperwork to sort out.”
I looked over the Suede expectantly, waiting for him to ask her.
Nothing.
“Queenie,” I said, “there’s something you haven’t told us yet; who’s the mysterious benefactor who allowed you to display this...” I waved my hand towards the creature on the plinth. “art.”
“I can’t tell you,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Why not?”
“NDA.” She saw my expression. “It’s standard procedure for this sort of thing. Many artists and their patrons keep their identities secret. All I can tell you that before the statue come here it was at the Hyperion Gallery on Space Station Alpha, which is where it’s been for many years.”
“Goddammit.” I’d need to find out the old-fashioned way, either by looting Queenie’s files or speaking to one of my informants. NDAs were the bane of my damned life. I also had a contact at the courts who should be able to help too. “Nevermind,” I said. It wasn’t strictly legal but who really cared about the law? Especially when it came to getting answers. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Really?” said Queenie. “And I’m not telling you on the sly either.” She nodded at Suede. “Nor you. I simply cannot disclose information that sensitive. You understand? It’s not good for my reputation. And it can be expensive to break an NDA.”
“Understandable,” said the cop. He put away his SmartBoy and sighed. “I need to make a move, and I think I’ve got everything I need. For now. I’ll be back tomorrow. Johnson and I have got something else to deal with tonight.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I said. I placed my hand on Queenie’s shoulder as I walked past. She was shaken up despite what she projected; her muscles were tense and there was a slight tremble, as if she were about to burst into tears. I’d comfort her. Later. For now, I needed to grill the two cops for more information; I needed to know why they were in Sector Three. I needed to know what they were keeping from me. Emotions could wait.
I followed the large detective to the door, and we left together; Johnson was still outside, leaning against the autocar. She was busy talking to someone on her SmartBoy which she quickly excused herself from as we approached. The cop pocketed the device as if she’d been up to something suspicious, which was probably true; she didn’t want me to know who she was speaking to.
“What...” I started to speak but was interrupted.
Gunshots.