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Augustus Smith.
The Emerald Killer.
A man with a fetish for victims with green eyes, a fetish for painting green circles on the heads of those he murdered. The only thing that connected the dead to each other were their eyes. Even the method of murder varied, but he was ruthless and violent with every victim. Deadly. Smith was smart, hard to catch.
Never been caught.
Way back when, back on Earth, back when I was cop, I could’ve been the one to catch him. But it wasn’t meant to be. For selfish reasons, and to save my own skin from an investigation into my less than legal affairs, I’d chased the killer into a facility owned by the notorious Tribeca Corp. I hadn’t even come close to catching Smith. Instead, I’d fallen into a time vortex, a transdimensional conduit, and ended up here, in this parallel world; the Jack Gemini of this universe had suffered a similar fate.
No-one had ever found the Emerald Killer. He’d... disappeared. There were rumours that he was dead. Some thought he’d given up his life of crime and gone into politics. And there were even those who thought he’d returned to his home planet. An alien. As if.
I jumped into the autocar that pulled up outside my building and waved to some cultists that had gathered outside. Damned nutjobs. For a second, I wondered if they had anything to do with Augustus Smith; maybe he was the alien they all worshipped. Nah. That was crazy.
I made myself comfortable and adjusted my shirt. I’d cleaned up well. And that pizza had helped, but not totally; I still felt rough. At least there’d be drinks at the gallery. Hair of the dog that bit me and suchlike. Queenie had already gone on ahead and she’d given me explicit instructions to quietly arrive later. Slip in, unnoticed. She was still mad at me, but, right now, her event was more important to her than our little spat. She didn’t want me making a scene. It was going to take a lot to make it up to her.
Still, there were other things to focus on right now.
I’d picked up a news report while I was putting myself together. Someone was killing people with green eyes, even painting the green circle. They’d been at it for several months, but the police had kept it quiet for fear of panicking people. Or, in my opinion, they didn’t want anything to hinder their goddamned investigation, all while letting people die in the meantime.
The vehicle dipped into the amber glow of the underway and joined a slow-moving queue of traffic.
The police had been silent about how they knew it was a copycat and not the original Smith.
The traffic briefly moved a little quicker before returning to its sluggish crawl. Goddammit. It might have been faster if I’d walked instead. Then again, walking would be more painful; my damned leg was playing up again thanks to the exertion on the rooftop and the lack of sleep. And the alcohol, damn it. I’d tanked a couple of painkillers before leaving my apartment and they were yet to kick in.
Whoever this killer was, they’d murdered at least one, maybe two, people each month. The news report revealed that the most recent victim, they didn’t say who, was someone of importance in the business world, and that they’d survived. No name was given, of the person or their company, but I knew exactly who they were referring to; I was one of the few privy to that information. Dionne Bex. She was in coma. No mention of that on the news either.
There was much more going on than anyone was letting on.
A couple of horns beeped, likely from the fancy cars used by the rich, the extra vehicles they kept in order to be able to drive themselves. Hah. As if it was some kind of privilege to have to drive yourself.
I sighed and wished for a cigarette. Last night’s smokes had to be the final ones; I’d already quit, and I had to chalk my slew of heavy smoking while getting hammered as just a slip up and never smoke again. There’d be drinks at this thing tonight...
It was stupid of me to assume that I needed to find out more about what was going on with the copycat killer, and it had rattled me, made me think of the nonsense with Subject B, but I had been dragged into this mess by the back door. Regan Bex. He was a link to this case of the copycat; his mother had been a target.
The traffic was beginning to sparsen and my pace towards Queenie’s event increased.
I didn’t need to investigate the copycat killer, but it was something I was going to keep an eye on. But not research; it wasn’t as if I was getting paid to probe into Augustus Smith or his imitator.
I made a decision to focus on one thing at a time; there was the gallery event tonight, then the meeting with Regan Bex tomorrow, and after that I could focus on following the leads of that hideous Delartes statue. I very much doubted I would get anywhere with the missing statue tonight, even given that the damned copy would be on display for all the hob nobs to eye-fuck.
It might be a good idea to keep tabs on tonight’s attendees. I’d need to get a guest list from Queenie; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, given that it would be help with her case. Even if she was still angry at me.
The autocar’s speed picked up as the traffic cleared and it soon rose up from the underway and into the streets of Sector Three.
Flare loomed. Queenie had already arranged for the broken windows to be repaired; quick work, considering it was only yesterday that bullets had shattered them. One of the benefits of being in Sector Three, undoubtedly.
My stomach grumbled as the autocar approached and I regretted not eating more than cold pizza. It wasn’t much to tide me over, especially since I hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. I prayed for canapés.
I climbed out of the vehicle and dismissed the autocar; I was here. And it was time to put on the mask of civility. It seemed reasonably busy inside as I approached the doors; I could see bodies through the big glass windows, around forty, maybe fifty people crammed into the small gallery. It was almost a completely different place to the one I’d seen last night; it was lit up, decorated and it seemed somewhat pretty despite the hideous artwork within. Flare was no longer a hidden gem; it glistened gregariously. The well-dressed crowd enhanced the expensive ambience too. Designer clothes with made-up, taut faces. The event had already been going on for around an hour and was in full swing, but you would know that by the expressions worn by those inside. ‘Full swing’ would be their word for what was happening; I wouldn’t say it. The upper-class nobs glided around the room with sticks up their arses, or they stood, debating human rights with sticks up their arses. All while probably abusing human rights in the ‘doesn’t matter to me’ kinda way that all those from a certain background did. They were puppets, the lot of them. Damned puppets. Puppeteered by the sticks up their arses.
I grabbed the door handled and slipped inside.
This was going to be damned boring, and I really didn’t know why Queenie insisted on me being there. Well, actually I did know. ‘It was what was expected.’ She needed some pretence to seduce these fops into spending their immoral earnings on artwork; relationships, according to marketing surveys, tended to lead to more sales. Or so Queenie told me.
I ducked and weaved between the hob nobs, noting that, despite me wearing my very best suit and tie, their clothes were leagues ahead of mine when it came to both cost and fashion. I stuck to the edges of the room, hoping not to draw attention to myself. Discreet. I caught sight of Queenie, stood near the fake Delartes; she was talking to a short but handsome man in a white suit. The conversation looked almost flirtatious... but I wasn’t jealous. I kinda wished I was talking to him too.
A waiter strolled passed me, holding a tray of what I truly craved.
I grabbed a handful of aperitifs, nothing more than bites individually, and filled my pockets. I needed to feed the hangover. I glanced nervously around, just in case I’d been spotted by this posh lot; I didn’t want them to assume that I was some random bum who’d wandered in off the streets and stolen their food. The waiter, at least, didn’t seem concerned by the finger sandwich theft.
I threw some odd pastry monstrosity into my mouth and chewed. It tasted fishy, but I was happy for some semblance of food. They damned things could be made of plastic, and no-one would notice, and I wouldn’t care anyway; they went some way to filling a hole. I had a theory that canapés weren’t meant to be enjoyed; you weren’t supposed to want more. It was just trendy to have them at events, trendy to hold while you talked nonsense to your fellow nobs. Aperitifs, antipasto, finger food, dip. It was all a waste of time. Unless, of course, you had the post drinking munchies.
All I needed now was some booze to wash away the bitter aftertaste.
Haughty laughter speckled the room and I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as I could while I gathered my thoughts. I needed to make use of this time. Investigate the goddamned people at the event. Question them. See if any had reason to steal artwork without letting on that the original Delartes was missing; not only would Queenie kill me if I let that slip, but it might also spook the culprit. Tonight was going to be a lot to get through and I wasn’t at my best. Self-inflicted weariness and aching injuries.
I grabbed a glass of expensive champagne from a waitress as she passed. I flashed her a cheeky wink and she blushed.
There were a lot of suspects. And I wouldn’t get much of a chance to make notes, not without being caught. Presumably, they knew my profession, à la Queenie, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem; if the toffs suspected anything, I could just make a joke about me investigating them.
I looked over to the statue.
At some point, I should probably speak to Queenie, just to show my face. She needed to know I was here and, knowing what she was like, she needed to be seen with me.
I swallowed another snack from my pocket. It was creamy and not in the nice way. Yuck. Goddamned fake food.
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the conversation around me, listen in beneath the mellow orchestral music playing. I couldn’t catch specific sentences, but it was clear there was one hot topic floating around Flare tonight, one that could play to my advantage.
It would certainly help Queenie draw attention away from ‘The Call of Narcissus.’
One subject permeated the room.
Augustus Smith. That was the name on everyone’s lips.
I had personal experience that I could relate.
“Jack?” said Queenie.
I opened my eyes. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
Her expression told me this was going to be another thing she was mad about, especially considering that at her side stood the man in the white suit. Thankfully, he hadn’t seen her glare.
“Jack,” she said, “I’d like to introduce to Emmett Greene. Mr Greene, this is my partner, Jack Gemini.”
“Pleasure,” said her short acquaintance. A sly grin graced his lips and he held out his hand. “I didn’t mean to disturb your nap, Mr Gemini.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Greene; I was thinking about a case.” I took hold of his hand and shook it; his grip was tight and unforgiving. “And call me, Jack.”
“Oh?”
“Jack’s a private eye,” said Queenie. “He’s always working on some case or another; he works hard. Too hard, sometimes.”
“I don’t doubt,” said Greene. He looked like he had several years on me, but he was well-presented, groomed, quaffed; he looked older than he was. “Working on anything particularly interesting... Jack? A murder case?”
“I leave the juicer things to the professionals,” I said, shooting Queenie a glance. “And I don’t think murder is an appropriate subject for an event as sophisticated as this.”
“Nonsense! You probably heard the news today, Jack. There’s a copycat killer about and it’s all anyone can talk about.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled. He was certainly enigmatic. “I’m sure you have some insight, given your profession.”
“I don’t know too much about it,” I said. I felt a shiver run up my spine and suddenly I didn’t want to talk too much about myself. There was something about his smile, something off. “Like you, I only found out about it today.” I regretted my earlier attraction to the man.
“Oh come come, Jack, tell me your thoughts.”
Queenie raised her eyebrows at me. “Jack has some experience with the Emerald Killer, don’t you, Jack?”
I nodded meekly.
“Augustus Smith?” said Greene. “The guy they’re saying this killer is mimicking?”
I nodded again.
“Jack,” said my lover, “you should tell him about what happened to you. I’m sure Mr Greene would love to hear about how you chased Smith into a time vortex!”
“Yes!” Glee filled the short man’s face; he seemed a little too excited. “Yes, I simply adore time and space phenomena! And I’m intrigued about how this all links into the Emerald Killer. You certainly are a man of many surprises, aren’t you, Jack?” He was standing remarkably close to me. Grinning. I felt like prey caught in a predator’s trap. “I’m sure you’ve got quite the tale to tell!”
“It might be a little long to tell the whole story now,” I said. Why had Queenie mentioned the time vortex? I put on my sweetest and most polite voice. “I don’t want to waste your whole night listening to me.”
“Then how about this?” he said. “You give me the short version now and I’ll have my office contact your office to arrange a dinner date so you can tell me the longer story. I would certainly love to find out everything about you, Jack. You seem... fascinating.”
It sounded almost like a threat, but I continued, tangling myself more and more into the spider’s web. “It was almost a decade ago now, back when I was a cop.”
“Ah,” said the man, “so you have the benefit of double insight into this copycat thing. Both as a cop and as a private eye.” He gestured his hand at me to continue before turning to Queenie. “My dear, I don’t suppose you’d get us both another drink? I can see Jack’s almost finished with his.”
“Certainly.” She gritted her teeth and glared at me. “I’d be happy to.” I got the impression I was stealing her thunder despite the fact that she’d introduced us and brought up my past.
I downed the remnants of my champagne and passed the empty glass to Queenie. I briefly considered dipping into my pockets to nibble on a snack but thought better against it.
“It all started in an industrial district,” I said. “On Earth.”
“That must’ve been well before the great migration.”
“Quite a few nations had already left; it wasn’t the best place to live.” I sighed. “Anyway, I had a call from HQ about Smith being spotted nearby.”
“And this led to a rip-roaring police chase through the streets?”
I faked a laugh. “It’s not like it is in the movies,” I said. Queenie had returned and I thanked her as she handed me a glass of alcohol. “It’s a little more boring than that.”
“Don’t be so modest,” said Greene. “You don’t need to underplay any of the details on my account. I want to hear all of it, even the gorier details.”
“You’re going to be disappointed,” I chided. “I was the only cop within range, and I’ll be honest with you, I wasn’t the best at my job.” I forced another laugh. “There’s a reason I’m not with the police anymore, Mr Greene.”
“Ha ha, I’m sure you were a fine officer.”
I ignored the comment and continued; I needed to finish with this story quickly. “The short version is that I followed Smith into a research facility. I didn’t catch him. I just got myself trapped in a time vortex for about five years.”
“I imagine the world had changed quite a bit when you came out.”
“Yes, yes it had,” I said. “But I adapted. I became a private investigator, which I prefer to the police force.”
“And, of course, they never caught Smith, did they?”
I shook my head. “Some people think he’s dead.” I laughed. “Or an alien who’s gone home.”
Greene’s face stayed serious; he didn’t seem to find it funny. “You never know,” he said. “Stranger things have happened.” He lowered his voice, almost as if he were letting me in on some kind of conspiracy. “I’m something of an expert on Augustus Smith.”
Before I could find out anymore, we were interrupted by another of Queenie’s guests; my partner and Greene were pulled away from me and towards a discussion about one of the paintings near the back of the gallery. Something about whether Emmett Greene had met the artist or not.
I snuck another snack from my pocket and surveyed the room. I suspected the rest of the night would involve ‘mingling.’
Damn it.
I finished my drink and went in search of another.
The night would be long and dreary, but it couldn’t be helped; sometimes the world of private investigation involved doing things you didn’t enjoy.
But at least the champagne was good.
At the end of the night, my networking had only revealed two or three dubious leads which were likely to go nowhere. Most of the upper-class patrons of Queenie’s event were far too self-involved and entitled to even consider theft; it was below them, something the dirty lower classes were involved with. Damned hypocrites. I wondered just how many of them hid their wealth off station so they could avoid paying taxes on the bulk of their earnings. The dubious leads I’d encountered were Delartes fans, who, worryingly, seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with the depraved artist; they were also on the ‘lower end’ of the richest here and it was clear they were unlikely to ever be able to afford their own Delartes. Not many people could.
One interesting thing did come up throughout the course of the evening, and I didn’t know it’s importance, but it was certainly interesting.
My gut told me it was very important, but my gut had been wrong before.
Emmett Greene, the short and suave man in the white suit, was a religious leader. And this explained his interest in Augustus Smith, given one of the crazier theories about his identity. Goddammit. Emmett Greene was head of the Church of the Third Encounter, the same alien worshipping church that those grey robed cultists belonged to.