| |
I decided to kill several birds with one stone.
Queenie had been lucky; due to the lateness, Johnson had been kind enough to take her home long before the cops had trapped me in that dank interview room for hours and hours with only Suede for company. She’d be pissed at me for not coming straight home but it couldn’t be helped. Well, it could but, as tired as my body felt after a night without sleep, I was also buzzing with thoughts; I needed to get these cases underway.
There was the fake statue and subsequent shooter, Jane Doe.
And then, there was Regan Bex.
Two cases, two birds. Mrs Lafferty’s cat could wait; it wasn’t as if that damned creature was going to stay caught anyway.
I hadn’t even known that the CEO of Tribeca Systems had a son, and it felt like something I should’ve known, given the status of my relationship with her, a relationship which was somewhere between outright nemesis and annoyance. It was something to add to the list of things I didn’t know, such as Johnson and Suede’s first names.
I’d left the police station with a brief biography and pictures of Regan Bex; he was younger than me, a good-looking guy in his late twenties. He hadn’t done much with his life, career wise. Some news outlets had called him a champagne socialist because, even though he campaigned for the rights of the people, he did very little to stand up to his mother and still enjoyed the high life by living on the credits of extreme capitalism. He fought for goddamned justice using the goddamned money stripped from the backs of the people he fought for.
Sector Eight was an appropriate cause for Regan Bex; it was a heavily industrialised sector where some of the poorest people on the station were exploited and overworked. He’d been seen there before, arrested, but not charged, becoming involved in rallies and protests. He was a troublemaker. At least, that was the official line. He was well known by the constabulary in the poorer sectors of the station, including my own, and that was why Suede had sought my help. He didn’t think Regan Bex would respond well to a police officer asking him to come in, even if it was for his own protection. He wasn’t a suspect in the attempted murder of his mother. And because he was pretty much estranged from her, and because of the secrecy surrounding the attack, he’d have no clue about what happened. I would have to be the one to break it to him. It wouldn’t be the first time I would have to tell someone something harrowing about a loved one, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was rare that I would have to tell someone that a family member had almost died; usually I revealed extra-marital affairs and the like, and they were often unpleasant. It was often anger or grief, or a mix of the two. Always emotionally charged.
I didn’t have any idea how Regan Bex was going to respond. And I needed to find him first. Fast.
I craved alcohol, despite the early morning.
Another stone for the bird.
I sent a message to one of my contacts to arrange a meeting, along with directions to the same bar I was headed to. He wasn’t much of a social butterfly, but it only took a small bit of back and forth, and some bonus credits, to convince him to meet me in a public place.
The contact, Gary Emmerson, was weird, but useful. He’d been beneficial to many of my cases over the past year, even though I’d only used his services two or three times. He was a forger and hacker, specialising in fake I.D.s and SmartBoy chipping. And given his line of work, he had some tendrils in the criminal underworld; hard working private investigators weren’t the only people using his services and he could be a good source of information from time to time.
He’d agreed to meet me in about an hour.
Thankfully, the bar was close to home, and I could easily get one or two whiskeys in my belly before Gary arrived.
More of the alien worshipping, grey-robed cult members harassed me on my way; I was handed a leaflet and told to believe. And asked for credits. No chance. Crazy bastards. Part of me had wanted to argue with them, maybe get into a fight, but I was far too tired. They’d been around, here and there, and rarely seen, for a good few years, but recently, probably within the last six months or so, they’d picked up their activity and were on their way to becoming a major organisation on Space Station Delta. There wasn’t a day where I didn’t see one of them and I was sick of them stalking around the place begging and pleading for alms, or for people to join them.
Today was no different.
And, of course, my contact for the day was a true believer too. Gary Emmerson would always try and talk about them, or, as they liked to be called, the Church of the Third Encounter, whenever I met him, and I often had to steer the conversation to a different topic. I didn’t have the time to listen to his drivel. Not if I wanted to drink myself into oblivion. Or work on any of my cases.
That damned alien cult was a feud for another time and space.
I needed a drink.
The bar was, god knows what the name was, one of my more frequented dives, and thankfully open at this time in the morning; it was near another bar that I knew all too well. Hell. Sam’s bar. It was still boarded up from the explosion last year, closed and neglected since Sam’s death. The place was near home, and I passed by it often. Too often. It always brought back memories of both Sam and Jill. Both had betrayed me, one worse than the other, and both had died because of Subject B, the other me. They hadn’t deserved it, hadn’t deserved the way I’d treated them. Hell reminded me not to hurt Queenie the way I’d hurt the two true loves of my life.
I ordered a couple of drinks, one for now, one for later, and chose a booth near the back; it would be better to keep hidden from prying eyes and away from the view of my former haunt across the street. And it would also be easier to talk to Gary Emmerson if he were kept away from any attention he might get. He was not a fan of attention.
I allowed myself a cigarette, since I was drinking, and I’d bummed one from a patron who’d been sat at the bar.
I took a hefty sip of the amber liquid and lit up my smoke with the matches I always carried.
My brain was flooded with dizziness and light-headedness. It was a good feeling, losing control for a few seconds as I revelled in the high of the cigarette. Or maybe it was the lack of oxygen from the deep inhalation? I didn’t care. I was going to enjoy this brief respite from the power of my will.
Goddammit.
The moment was lost almost as soon as it’d begun; the fleeting mind-spin gave way to the slight comfort from the smoky cloud at the back of my throat. I didn’t know why I’d smoked this in the first place; the booze should be enough to comfort me.
I took another drag of the cigarette, more out of habitual memory, rather than out of need, and sipped more whiskey to wash down the rancid taste of the white sticks I should’ve given up. I wasn’t used the flavour anymore. Not yet.
Queenie was going to kill me.
Twice dead for not going home straight away.
I sighed to myself and drained the cigarette. It hadn’t lasted. I stubbed it out on the table and flicked the butt to the floor.
Queenie would also kill me if she smelled smoke on my clothing. Three deaths. Oh well.
I already knew that this wouldn’t be the last cigarette today, not if I was drinking; my brain often grouped all my little vices together in a friendly bundle, a suicide cult determined to end me. I made a quick return visit to the bar and bought a pack of cigarettes from the cute ditzy girl behind the counter, before returning to my seat.
At least I hadn’t cheated on Queenie; I’d only broken a promise.
Broken promises inevitably led to cheating if I wasn’t careful. It was a pessimistic and defeatist attitude, but it was exactly what I’d done to Jill and Sam. Cheated and used them up, treated them like shit.
And now, they were both dead because of me.
They hadn’t even been my Jill and Sam. I was the fake, a man from another world who’d loved them both and the hurt was the same regardless of whether I was real to them or not.
I couldn’t let that happen with Queenie. She was special. Not in the same way that Jill had been. Or Sam. But I wasn’t going to hurt her.
I lit another cigarette and took a deep puff.
I’d tell her the truth about where I’d been. Or some of the truth. She only needed to know I was working on her fake statue case and not any details. She knew that sometimes it involved greasing the wheels with some drinks.
I downed my whiskey and made a start on the other glass; I should’ve just asked for the bottle but that would make a third trip to the bar in less than ten minutes. I needed to wait. Or I’d appear to be the alcoholic I actually was. I took a drag of the cigarette. The taste was disgusting but it still did what it needed to do, fed the addiction, calmed my nerves. I was tired and buzzed and the smoking levelled me out. Or, at least it seemed to; the whiskey was probably doing most of the heavy lifting. The smoking was just a goddamned habit and Queenie was going to kill me when she smelled the smoke on my clothes.
I’d lie and tell her there were smokers in the bar.
She’d believe that.
She had to.
I’d smoke as much as I wanted now and tell her it wasn’t my smoke.
Yes.
Goddammit.
I continued to smoke and drink, and by the time Gary Emmerson had arrived, I’d finished half a pack of cigarettes and was finishing off a third glass of whiskey from the bottle I’d bought at the bar.
It had only been a damned hour.
The scruffy, frazzle-haired man shuffled through the bar and jumped into the seat opposite me; his eyes darted everywhere, back and forth, up and down, as if the grime and grit on the ceilings and walls were enemies of the state spying on him, and only him. The short man was on edge. As usual.
“Jack.” His voice was meek, and he glared disapprovingly at the almost empty glass that I nursed.
“Gary,” I said. I topped up my drink and offered him some; he declined, just as I knew he would. “I need some information.”
The man nodded.
“Have you heard of ‘The Call of Narcissus’ by Delartes?” I lit up another cigarette and took a deep puff.
“It’s a classic.” A smile crept up at the corners of his mouth; I could tell that the understated man was impressed that even I knew the name of such a renowned piece of art. If you could call it art. “No-one has quite matched the detail, not even Delartes himself; the curves, the tentacles, the shapes... perfect.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
He shook his head. “Likely the government. Sculptures of that calibre are usually hidden behind NDAs and shell companies. I can find out, but it’ll take a little time.”
“Please,” I said. “In all honestly, I didn’t think you’d be the type to be interested in art?”
“Why?”
“You just seem... er... a little... you just seem a little too invested in that church?”
“The Church of the Third Encounter is important. Trust me,” said Gary. “Don’t underestimate it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know too much about them,” I lied. I knew enough about it to not ask any of its followers about it and I may have made a mistake by telling Gary Emmerson about my lack of knowledge.
“Really?” he said. “I could...”
“Another time, maybe,” I said. I didn’t have patience for his enthusiasm. “But for now, I’m working on a case, and I really need your help with it.” I placed my cigarette to one side, in an ashtray, clasped my hands together and pleaded. “I need your expertise.”
“Oh...” His face dropped. “Another time, yeah?”
I nodded and smiled. “Of course.” Never, I thought to myself. I retrieved my cigarette and continued to enjoy it, although there was little left of the tobacco. “How do you know ‘The Call of Narcissus?’”
“I used to dabble in the art forgery business, when I first started out,” he said. “During my research, I gained an appreciation of Delartes, but I was never skilled enough to mimic his body of work accurately.”
“What about ‘The Call of Narcissus?’” I stubbed out the dregs of my smoke and lit another. “Did you ever give that a go?”
“No.” He looked around as if he were telling me a secret. “Too difficult. At least, for me.”
I took a puff of the white stick in my fingers. “You know it’s here on the station?”
“I’d heard,” he said with a little grin. “I was going to go see it...”
“Well, I say it’s here, but it seems to have been swapped for a copy.”
Gary’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“The real thing could be anywhere right now,” I said. I sipped on my whiskey. “And I’ve been told, by someone with an eye for that kind of thing, that the copy is almost perfect.”
“And you think I have something to do with it?”
I shook my head, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility entirely.
“You think I might have an idea who does.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or you might know someone in the market for stolen art... or heard rumours?”
He leaned back in his seat and cupped his chin his hand. “There’s not many forgers that could fake a Delartes.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Even a machine would struggle not to leave some indications that it was a fake.”
“The... er... real artwork made it to Space Station Delta, made it to the gallery. It was checked thoroughly. I’m guessing the culprit is still on the station; that damned statue would be difficult to smuggle down the space elevator or on a cargo ship.”
“But not impossible,” said Gary. “Smugglers can earn a fortune without getting caught.”
“Very true.” I blew out a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “But something like ‘The Call of Narcissus’ is bound to draw some attention, even if that attention is not from the authorities.”
“Of course, it’s entirely possible that the statue is still on the station, but the perpetrator isn’t.”
“Or that there’s more than one person involved. I know there’s a lot of assumptions, but I at least need a starting point. There’s a good chance the person behind the fake is still here and I need to know who could successfully pull off a copy of the Delartes.”
“There’s only two people that would have the skill level.”
I raised my eyebrows in anticipation of the response; my notepad was already on the table, flipped open to a blank page.
He held up a finger. “Nancy Kahn, also known as the Specialist.” A second finger joined the first. “And Mika Angeles. But they both might be in prison.”
“Any connections to a hired gun, name of Jane Doe?” I asked as I finished scribbling the last name he’d given. I looked up.
The small man shrugged.
“Any guesses?”
“It really depends on who commissioned the copy; forgers don’t do anything for free anymore.”
“Anymore?”
“A lot of us started this line of work out of pleasure but unfortunately, it transformed from a hobby to a necessity.”
I took a drag of my cigarette; it was getting close to burning out. “Do you not enjoy your work?”
“Do you?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“One day, you will, Jack.”
“We’re not far off being the same age, thank you very much! Are you really that jaded?”
“Not jaded, no,” he said. “Just a little bit enlightened. By the Church.”
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, things change. Maybe I won’t be a private eye in the future.” I lifted my glass and realised it was empty. “I might become a millionaire, you never know.” I took a chug straight from the bottle. “I mean, last year I hit rock bottom. Again. And look at me now; I’m in a loving relationship with a beautiful woman. Things are good.”
“Are they? You don’t sound convinced.”
“What makes you say that?”
Gary leaned forward and spoke in almost a whisper. “I hear things, Jack. Things about you. Rumours. Truths, maybe. But I know who you are.”
“Oh, really? And who exactly am I, eh?”
His eyes met mine; he stared, and I found it very disconcerting. “Rumour is you’re from a parallel world.” He shifted backwards into his seat and folded his arms. “You don’t belong here.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
He laughed, first time I’d ever heard him; it was a syncopated staccato, almost alien, and I almost expected him to start clapping his hands together to beg for fish. “I’m just telling you what I hear.” A disconcerting grin filled his face. “Is it true?”
I took another drag of my cigarette and changed the subject, ignoring the question. “There’s something else I need your help with.”
His lips pursed and eyebrows raised. He shook his head and sighed. “What?”
“How much do you know about Tribeca Systems? Or it’s CEO?”
“I know enough,” he said. “Dionne Bex, right?”
I nodded. “Did you know she has a son?”
“You’ve been hired to find Regan Bex then? I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“He came to me about a month ago and paid for SmartBoy chipping. Fake ID. I didn’t know who he was at first but soon found out when I was constructing his ID profile.”
“What was the ID for?”
“Nothing special,” said Gary. “Just a fake name.”
“Which was...?” I stubbed out the dregs of the cigarette.
“You know better than to ask me that.” He let out another creepy laugh. “I’m sure if he wants to be found, you’ll find him.”
“But...”
“You’re not exactly the most open person.” He leant forward, elbows on the table. “I mean, are you from a parallel world or not?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” I goddamned wouldn’t. I took another swig of whiskey from the bottle; I was drinking too much, but that wasn’t exactly something new. “If you find out anything new, about the Delartes or about Regan Bex, let me know.”
“You know where to find me.” The short man stood, his height changing very little from sitting to vertical. “Usual price.”
I nodded in response and watched him shuffle away and out the door. He was awkward and shy, but it seemed he was beginning to finally open up, at least to me. I’d never heard him laugh, nevermind challenge me on being from a parallel world; he’d always been too passive to even push back on anything I said to him. It was certainly a change. I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but I hoped for the former; maybe he’d actually start doing something more productive with those technical skills of his. Something legal.
I topped up my glass and lit up another cigarette.
It wouldn’t do any harm to have one or two more drinks before I needed to head home.
Queenie would understand.
It was around noon by the time I stumbled out of, was thrown out of the bar.
My head spun and I hadn’t eaten all day and my stomach was churning; I’d only drunk whiskey and smoked.
I found myself stumbling toward Hell, Sam’s old bar; it was boarded up now, forgotten but it still appealed to me. I just wanted to sit outside it. Just for a while. Just until my stomach settled, and my head stopped spinning.
The steps to Hell were literally paved, no they were carved, with good intentions and I staggered, almost fell, down them. I threw up on a slab which said something about a diabetic dog.
Damn it.
I spat, clearing my mouth of the vomit, foul tasting and acrid. I needed a cigarette to burn away my tastebuds.
I lit up.
Maybe I should’ve tried to find another way home, my real home. Maybe I should’ve found a way back to the parallel world I’d come from. Jill and Sam were there, should be there. At least, I hoped they were.
I didn’t belong here.
I wasn’t the real Jack Gemini.
I was an imposter, playing at being the real thing, and I didn’t deserve the life I’d stolen.
I fell on my ass, almost in fresh puke.
It hurt, damn it.
I flicked the half-smoked cigarette away and put my head in my hands. Everything spun.
I was getting emotional from the booze, and I needed to eat something. I needed sleep. I’d pushed myself too hard over the last twenty-four hours and needed time to recover. I’d almost died. Twice. And it hadn’t been the first time that I’d greeted death more than once in a night. Wouldn’t be the last either.
I’d chased a cat along a ledge and chased a killer across a rooftop. And I hadn’t eaten a thing since yesterday morning. I was running on damned fumes.
A trill little beep vibrated from my pocket.
A message. I pulled out my SmartBoy and opened the screen to see a message from Regan Bex.