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I slammed my body through Callaghan’s doors and out into the street. Nothing. No sign of Regan goddamned Bex anywhere in the dark streets. Damn it. He was quick, I’d give him that. It was quiet outside, later than I’d thought; we’d been talking for a while. I stepped off the pavement and into the road, looking for any sign of where he might’ve gone but there was nothing.
I received an odd look from a lone passer-by and suddenly realised my hands were still cuffed; the keys still firmly held in my palm and there’d been no time to release myself.
Goddammit.
I placed the key in my mouth and gripped the metal between tucked lips; I needed to be careful not to bite too hard and crack my teeth as I opened the lock. I brought my hands up to my face and liberated myself.
I wondered what to do next. Was it best to go looking for Regan now? Spend my evening scouring the streets and alleys for someone who didn’t want to get caught? I could head straight to the source; I knew where he was, or at least where he was undercover. The Church of the Third Encounter. But was he there right now? Could I trust that he’d been telling the truth about what he was doing?
Yes.
Yes, I could.
My gut told me that he hadn’t lied; he’d be where he’d told me he was.
I’d tried to call, message him but he’d still kept his SmartBoy blocked from incoming contacts.
Damn it.
Why waste effort searching for him when he was going to come to me? All I needed to do was set a trap, get myself ready for when he got back in touch again. Yes. Yes, that was it.
In the meantime, there were other things I could focus on.
Queenie’s case was one of those things.
I had several suspects on my radar, not least of which was Emmett Greene. It might just be a coincidence, a string of coincidences, but there seemed to be something linking everything together. There was the copycat killer who’d attacked Dionne Bex. Her son was undercover in a cult that worshipped Augustus Smith, the person the copycat mimicked. And the head of the church, suspicious as I was of him, just so happened to attend a gallery event that had flaunted the missing statue’s clone.
And then, there was me.
The Church of the Third Encounter kept a file on me. So did Dionne Bex. And I had connections to both the missing artwork through Queenie, and with Augustus Smith.
Still, it might be nothing.
Just a damned coincidence.
There were always too many goddamned coincidences.
I decided on my next steps. It was a little too late to chase up some of my leads, the names of the forgers Gary had given me or the attendees of Queenie’s gallery event. And none of them resided in Sector Eight.
There was one person I could see.
Graves.
Graves was a hooker who worked on the outskirts of this sector, near the edge of the dome where some of the less health and safety conscious factories resided. A rough area but worth the risk for this; her information was always spot on.
I checked the time.
It was a little early for her, but by the time I made it over to where she worked the streets, she’d be there; if I walked it would take around an hour. Damn it. I hated walking. I considered going back into Callaghan’s Pub for more drinks and then taking an autocar there, save my feet, but I was already feeling a little too sloshed from the wine. I needed to clear my head. Sober up a little. Perhaps I’d find somewhere serving coffee this late; I needed something to wash away the acrid aftertaste of the cheap alcohol, kick me into sobriety, and to make my teeth feel a little less... hirsute.
I deposited my, now unlatched, cuffs into my pocket and started walking. Callaghan’s wasn’t too far from the large fire door connecting Sector Eight to Sector Three; a door that was always permanently closed because of the privileged people of Sector Three. They didn’t want to be anywhere near a stinking cess pit of industry despite the connections to the university and its research projects. Not with all the pollutants. Sector Eight wasn’t exactly poor, like Sectors Six and Seven, but it was dirty, with an ever present thick and bitter aroma permeating the air, almost as if the air filtration system wasn’t able to handle the pollutants, or more likely, it was run on the cheap with little maintenance and priority given to the richer sectors. It wasn’t fair. It never was. Damned bastards were living the high life while we faced the consequences of the power problems and the rich-poor divide which grew and grew with each passing year. Ignorant, that’s what it was. Ignorant. They ignored us while they got fat and filled their pockets.
I reached the end of the street and turned the corner, sticking to the well-lit areas and avoiding the darker alleys and back streets; I didn’t need the hassle of dealing with the type of people who hung out there. Not right now. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle that type of person, I had many times before, but I was still tipsy and didn’t want to deal with them until I had to. Not until I got to Graves.
I managed to grab a strong coffee from a little cafe before they closed for the evening; it was a Sunday evening after all. It contained the dregs of the coffee grinder and an unclean portafilter, used up after a day of brewing. It made the dark liquid too bitter. Sugar was usually one of my best friends but, for this particular brew, it became my lover. I was a sugar whore. There was so much sugar, I could barely taste the actual coffee anymore.
I continued on my path to my informant. It was better to turn up unannounced; Graves could be skittish if she knew I was coming. She told me I scared away her clients. And, of course, Graves wasn’t her real name; it was just my nickname for her but only because of the one client who she pretty much killed. Not killed, killed; she hadn’t murdered him. More of an accident. The gentleman had been older, very old, and had passed away mid-coitus. Heart failure. It was quite the scandal at the time and the incident had even hit the newspapers, a flash in the pan. And Graves had been very embarrassed by the whole incident, hence the nickname. I could honestly no longer remember her original name. Not that it mattered. She was a great source of gossip and rumour and knowing her previous name didn’t change that.
I was only about twenty minutes away from my target by the time I drained the sickly drink. I was a little more sober and closer to the subtle undercurrent of drunkenness my body usually survived on. I threw the empty carton to the kerb. My belly churned as the coffee mixed with the wine in my guts. Not a great combination on an empty stomach, and I regretted not grabbing a bite to eat with my coffee.
Around me the lights dimmed as the power saving measures kicked in for the evening; it wasn’t cold yet, but I shivered in anticipation of the temperature dropping when the environmental system reduced its output significantly. Unsurprisingly, the richer sectors, such as one to five, were not subject to the same measures. They obviously needed more heat and light that everyone else; it was harder to count your mountains of credits in the dark and cold. Damned bastards.
I thought back to my meeting with Regan Bex and just how different he was to his mother; Dionne Bex was cold and measured whereas Regan seemed warm and impulsive. It was a stark contrast. The CEO of Tribeca Systems was the epitome of everything I hated about the more affluent sectors of Space Station Delta. She was arrogant and unfeeling. I was surprised someone like Regan had come from someone like her. I wondered if there were other parents or guardians involved? Maybe a nanny? It had to be someone that had inspired him, someone he’d built his personality from.
I was intrigued by Regan Bex. Which was exactly what he damned wanted. He needed to tempt me so I would join him on his case. And I was. Tempted. And not just by the case.
“Jack?”
Lost in thought, I’d reached the outskirts of Sector Eight. The fencing that protected the edge of the dome lay ahead, just about visible in the waning light. I’d left the shelter of the tall buildings and main roads and ended up in a dangerous part of the sector. It was just where I needed to be.
“Graves.” I nodded at her. She was dressed in her usually skimpy skirt and top, leaving little to the imagination and much to the frigid air. “Good to see you.” This part of Sector Eight was nothing to worry about if you knew the right people. And you knew what dangers to look out for.
“What do you want?” she said, hands on hips. Her hair was held tight in a bun, and it pulled on her skin like a cheap face lift. “There must be some trouble brewing.”
“Maybe I just wanted to drop in on an old friend?”
“Cut the bullshit, Jack.”
I flashed her a grin. “I honestly don’t know what you mean.”
“Jack.” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Why don’t me and you find a quiet spot out of sight; then we can talk about whatever we need to talk about, yes?”
“Just to talk though,” I said with a grin and a wink. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”
“As if I would!” She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along as she moved to a shelter underneath a fire escape. “It’s not like you’d pay me anyway!” It was dark and shadowed.
“Not for that, no. But information?” I grinned. “Always.”
“I’m glad you appreciate me for more than just my physical assets and prowess,” teased Graves. She ran a finger along my chest. “Now,” she gently pushed me back and her face turned serious, “let’s get down to business. I’ll expect my usual fee.”
I nodded. Graves never expected me to pay her directly; she always requested a transfer into an anonymous bank account. I’d done some digging to find out why and discovered that Graves had an estranged daughter of ten or eleven years old, and she was saving credits for her; our little arrangement had built up into a nice little nest egg for the child. She didn’t know I knew. Best to keep it that way.
I caught her up with Queenie’s case.
“’The Call of Narcissus,’” said the prostitute. “Lots of collectors have been interested that piece, more than usual of late. Generating a lot of buzz.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It might just be because it’s on the station,” she said. “High profile artwork always causes a bit of a stir online. One collector, in particular, a con artist, has been asking a lot of questions about that statue. Dipping in and out of the black web-markets looking for potential buyers, interested parties, and such like. It might be nothing out of the ordinary, but they’d been keeping a pretty low profile up until recently. Everyone knows them as ‘The Victor.’”
“What kind of name is that? It’s sounds so... arrogant.”
Graves shrugged. “They’re not from around these parts. Not originally. They’re from off station but been here almost a year. Apparently. I might be wrong.”
“What else do you know about them? Man? Woman? N.B....?”
“Who knows,” she said. “And The Victor is particularly secretive, even for a grifter.” She scratched her head through the tight hair. “A lot of con artists will keep several identities, but this particular con artist often undergoes face change procedures, and I don’t mean minor things; I mean the full shebang. A complete overhaul of the face.” She touched her fingers to her temples, cheeks and jaw and pulled back on her skin. “Very pricey.” Her voice sounded stretched, like her face. “They restructure your bones, skin, face shape. Everything.” She dropped her hands and sighed. “You look like a completely different person after it. Your hair and hair line are changed, ear shape, eye colour. And, honestly, it doesn’t look like any surgery or procedure has been done. Only a DNA test would reveal who you truly are. The perfect disguise.”
“That makes my life difficult,” I said. “Anyone in the market able to give a description of The Victor’s current appearance?”
“Nope.” The whore pulled out a cigarette from a pack she’d stashed in her bra. “All done through the net.” She offered one to me and I took it without thinking. “Told you, very secretive.”
I lit up and took a drag. “Damn it.”
“All I can tell you is that The Victor arrived on Space Station Delta about a year ago and underwent a face change; that’s what I heard on the grapevine.”
“Hmph.” I suddenly realised that I’d been trying to give up smoking. I stopped myself from taking another drag and enjoyed the smoke and fumes drifting near my nostrils.
There was little point pressing Graves any more about The Victor; she could be blunt, but she was usually succinct. My informant had given me something to work with though. The face change. I’d heard of the procedure, despite Graves’ enthusiastic impression, and it was rare to meet anyone that had actually underwent the expensive process. At least, it was rare in the social circles someone like me or Graves were involved in. It was something only for the rich. Damned exclusive. And it wasn’t just a face lift to make oneself appear younger, to pull out the wrinkles and lift the cheeks; it was a complete transformation. Even family wouldn’t recognise you, not even your voice. Nor face scanners. The perfect disguise, indeed. Damn it.
I took another drag of the cigarette without thinking. Goddamned death sticks.
I needed to arrange another meeting with Gary Emmerson, but this time not for information. I needed his services. A fake access ID. Something to get into the databases of a hospital because once I had access to the records of one, I had access to the network, all the records in all the hospitals. I could cross reference that with travellers to Space Station Delta and... and...
“Jack?” said Graves. “Are we done? You spaced out a bit there.”
“Sorry, I was thinking.”
She raised an eyebrow; I hadn’t answered her question.
There was another possible connection I hadn’t explored. “Do you know anything about a gun for hire? Name of Jane Doe?”
“Low level thug.”
“I know that,” I said. “Any connection to The Victor?”
“Possibly,” she said. “I’ll look into it. People in that line of work don’t usually come up when I’m conducting business. But I’ll put some feelers out. Missing person?”
“Dead.”
“You?”
“Indirectly. She fell off a roof.”
Graves laughed. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Jack! I’m surprised!”
“I didn’t push her! It was truly an accident, I can assure you!”
“Ha, for a moment there I respected you a little more!”
“Oh, come on, it did involve a rooftop chase!” I’d almost forgotten about the cigarette in my hand; it burned my fingertips and I cried out in pain. “Goddammit!” I shook my hand, my head shifting position, just slightly, just enough. Something grazed my ear, and a loud thip zipped past. I didn’t see what it was until Graves choked a gurgled scream.
There was a crossbow bolt impaled in her neck.