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Graves’ information was more or less confirmed, although I’d had little doubt. She was... she had been reliable. And the fact that she was likely proved correct didn’t make her death any more meaningful; she was dead and that was that. I’d mourn her with a drink. I’d toast to her daughter’s health. And I supposed the only way I could repay my debt to her would be to solve this damned case. And make sure her child was in safe hands.
The Victor, it seemed, was behind the attempts on my life.
At least, that was the most likely assumption; Graves had told me that The Victor had been generating a lot of interest online, asking questions around the renowned and hideous artwork.
Suede had been lax on the details; before the hitman had asked for a lawyer, he’d been vague during his interrogation. He’d only confirmed that he’d been hired online by... someone. No description of who. No locations. No name. He’d mentioned a black web-market forum about The Call of Narcissus and then shut up. But at least that small confession gave me something to work with. Suede had tried to get a little more from the man, but his counsel had silenced him as soon as they’d entered the interrogation room. I was certain, that in the coming days, and the coming interviews, The Victor would be revealed as the culprit.
Still, there was room for error; assumptions had a way of biting back.
Queenie’s case hadn’t really excited me at first but now, it was certainly getting interesting. Two attempts on my life, one almost as soon as I’d taken it on.
I needed to take a look at the gallery. Alone. And without Queenie. Not only would it give me a chance to snoop unwatched, but it would give me a chance to at least eliminate her from my enquiries. I hoped.
Plus, she was still goddamned pissed at me, and it was best to keep out of her way.
I hadn’t heard anything from her since she’d left me at the hospital. No calls. No messages. No replies.
She’d come around. Eventually.
My other leads, I’d spent some of the afternoon researching them, had dried up. The forgers that Emmerson had told me about, Khan and Angeles, were indeed in jail as he’d suspected, and the guests from Queenie’s event were pretty spotless. Damn it. I needed to try something different.
It was late, after dark, and as I approached the back entrance to Flare I tried to be as inconspicuous as I could, ignore the aches and pains all over my body that had piled up the last few days. Not that there was anybody around to see or hear me. And I was almost certain the gallery had been closed today. It was quiet. Especially considering the proximity to the University. Then again, the campus was full of constipated, entitled, stiff robots; they wouldn’t know how to party if you exchanged their blood for the latest psychoactive and streamed heavy dance tracks directly into their brains.
Damned students. They were even crap in bed. Inexperienced, handsy and toothy. And I was never in the mood to be a teacher.
The back door to the gallery was tucked within a surprisingly clean and tidy alleyway. It was nothing like I was used to. It was nothing like the main streets I was used to in Sector Six, nevermind the alleys and side streets. It made me wonder why someone like Queenie was even with me. It certainly wasn’t for the credits. Must be for the danger. Ha. Ha ha. Taking pictures of disgruntled philanderers and finding lost cats were always perilous. Ha. I pulled out my SmartBoy and swiped it against the lock; she didn’t know I’d ‘borrowed’ her SmartBoy and given myself access months ago. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her; I needed the access, just in case.
The lock trilled and the red light flickered.
A low-pitched beep spat refusal at me.
Locked.
Maybe she knew about me giving myself access.
I tried again and the same deep toot returned.
Damn it.
I raised my SmartBoy to try a third time, but the door swung open instead.
“Is that you, Jack?” A spindly, lanky man in a bright red spandex vest and matching atrocious hot pants stood in the doorway. Red hair too. At least, he did for now; the man had a habit of changing his hair colour to match his outfit. “What’re you doing here?” I’d only met him once or twice, drunk, but he was instantly recognisable. Despite the changeable hair, his face was what I would politely describe as ‘unique.’
“Hi, Spartacus,” I said. “I thought you were on Space Station Beta?”
“I came back early, given what’s happened.”
“She told you, then?”
He nodded and looked me up and down as the light from the open door illuminated me. “What in hell happened to you? You look a right mess.”
“Everyone says that to me lately. Long story.” I didn’t feel like explaining the black eye or busted nose, nevermind my other wounds and bruises. “Listen, I... er...”
“She isn’t here,” he said.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Oh... you mean Queenie.”
“That’s why you’re here, yeah?” He placed his hands on his hips, which he didn’t really have; his body was a stick. “You came to find Queenie.”
“Er... no.”
“Oh?”
“If she was here, then I’d see her,” I said, “but I’d kinda hoped to get a look around without her. She can be distracting, you know?”
“Not really,” he said. His expression was that of a dog chewing toffee as I watched the cogs turn in his head. His face softened as he came to a decision. “I suppose it won’t do any harm to let you in.” He smiled, stood back and waved me in. “She did say she’d hired you to help.” The smile didn’t make him any prettier, but I shouldn’t judge; there was someone out there for everyone.
“Thank you, Spartacus.” If he’d noticed my break-in attempt, he didn’t mention it. “Do you know much about it?” I didn’t want to bring up Queenie again. Not yet. I was sure word of my visit would reach my partner’s ears at some point, but I needed to focus on the case right now.
“Only that the most expensive piece of art this gallery has ever housed is missing,” said the skinny man. He led me through the backroom, it was filled with boxes and wrapped up paintings, and into the front. I tried to check out his backside but there was nothing to checkout; it was just flat. “I never thought something like this would ever happen.” He turned to face me. “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
I shrugged. “You weren’t here when it happened... but I’m not going to discount you from my investigation until I’m certain.”
“Oh.” He adjusted his vest, which had begun to ride up. “You know I kinda hope you don’t find the thing; the insurance payment would be huge and I’m sure I’ll be able to get some sort of hazard pay or whatever.”
“I will find the damned thing, don’t you worry.”
“You don’t think... Queenie...”
“No, but, you know, I need to keep an open mind.”
“Oh wow.” He flicked a thumb backward and pointed to the naked statue, I hadn’t realised the monstrosity was right there, with its hideous mess of tentacles. “You want to take another look at the Delartes? I mean, you can’t touch it, but I can show you it, if you need to look at it in more detail or something.”
“I’ve seen enough of the... er... artwork,” I said. I was trying not to look down; for some reason, I’d only just noticed the sandal and sock combo Spartacus was rocking. Ergh. “I’d just like to take a look around. If I may?”
“I’ll show you around Flare.” Spartacus’s hands returned to his hips and frowned. “There’s too many expensive assets that simply cannot be touched.”
“I won’t touch anything, I promise, at least, not without asking first.” I tried to smile but I think it may have just come across as flirtatious which was not the intention. I couldn’t help myself; I winked.
“I’m not into guys sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to...” I could feel my cheeks turning as red as his hair, a first for me; I didn’t often get embarrassed. “I... er...”
“Quite alright,” he said. He sighed. “How about a compromise? Since you are dating the boss after all. You go looking around on your own and I’ll just keep an eye on you from afar? But you’ve got to promise not to touch any of the art.”
“Deal.” Goddamnit; there was no way I’d be able to look around properly with eyes staring at my every move. “And I promise.”
I was right about my productivity under watchful eyes, although Spartacus did provide some disgustingly sweet black coffee. Just the way I liked it. I spent the first thirty minutes wandering, aching as I walked, and perusing the ghastly artwork on the plinths and walls. I’d seen it all during Queenie’s fundraiser, but never really taken it in. I didn’t understand it and I wasn’t going to make any effort to either. Why should I? Spartacus seemed oddly at home amongst the ghastly work, and by at home, I meant he could be put on display in the gallery, and no-one would be none the wiser. And that wasn’t a compliment.
I knew I wouldn’t find anything in the main area, not since the party a couple of days ago. Too many people at the crime scene. I considered for a moment that it may have been better to take a good look around a little sooner, but hindsight was always a bitch. Anyway, it was the office I needed to check out. And I couldn’t make that apparent to the voyeuristic gentleman that followed my every step; the coffee he’d provided was not enough to garner my trust and, for all I knew, he might still be the perpetrator.
As part of my tour, Spartacus directed me the office next, which was tucked to the side of the storeroom, and he perched in the doorway as I looked around. It was neat and tidy, organised, with a SmartBoy terminal on the desk and very little else. Minimalist. Grey. Plain. Two rigid metal chairs, they were even uncomfortable to look at, straddled the desk. The room didn’t look like it had ever been used.
I circled the desk and sat in one of the chairs, if you could call them chairs. It hurt my backside and not in a nice way. Thankfully, sitting down did go some way to easing the strain in my shoulder and tightness in my torso; I hadn’t given myself any time to properly recover from the fight with the hitman, but I needed to press on.
I had a goddamned case to solve.
Everything in this room was so dull; it was no fun at all. I looked around at the walls; there wasn’t even artwork in here. I supposed that there was no point hiding art in an office when you could sell it on the shopfloor. There were no papers, no trashcan. I didn’t know anyone except myself that really used paper anymore and I only used it to make notes about current cases. Paper, being a very real tangible thing, unlike the digitised cloud of a SmartBoy, focused the mind. I’d have none of that here. There wasn’t even anything to focus on. Except for the hard, flat surface below my bum; it penetrated my soul and made it a little difficult to concentrate. How in damned hell did Queenie get any work done?
My feelings about this room must’ve been readily apparent on my face because as I glanced at Spartacus he shrugged and rolled his eyes. He was the only colour in the gloomy room; bright red standing out against the grey walls and my equally drab suit and, almost, white shirt. Spartacus’s vivid vest and hotpants held no clues; I could see exactly what they held, and it wasn’t anything relevant to the case. I just wish he’d opted to wear underwear.
The SmartBoy terminal was the only way I was going to find anything useful. Why did this office need to be so goddamned tidy? Messy offices brimmed with clues! Or I liked to think they did.
I retrieved my SmartBoy from my jacket and slotted it into the device on the desk.
“Hey...” started Spartacus. He stepped forward, with hand raised.
“You want me to solve this case? Keep you in a job?”
His arm dropped to his side and stood back. His open mouth snapped shut.
I nodded my thanks as blue lit up the room from the screen in front of me. A touch of colour. A touch of colour that wasn’t moose knuckle red. I touched the screen to access the files on the terminal and a new screen popped into the air. It contained a plethora of files and folders, and as I tapped on each one by one, I was met with password protection. I thought as much. But there was some hope, a place which was often forgotten, and many a time I’d found myself knee deep in garbage, waste and shit. This would be no different. Only this would be digital.
I clicked into the trash, where abandoned files, pictures and documents went to die a slow and torturous death, lost and forgotten. It was a purgatory for information, rarely emptied, rarely checked upon and rarely password protected.
One person’s trash was another’s treasure... or something to that effect.
I think I spent around thirty minutes, although it felt ten times as long, trudging through everything I could find while under the watchful eyes of my clothing-challenged host. He stared at me the whole time. It was disconcerting and off-putting, and made it difficult to concentrate on what I was doing. If he hadn’t been here, I’d likely have got more done.
I found goddamned nothing.
“Do you know much about Queenie?” I asked Spartacus as I stood up and pocketed my SmartBoy. I’d need to come back. Alone.
He shrugged. “She’s very professional; there’s not much time for gossip.”
“But there is some?” I moved toward him, and the doorway.
“Just what comes up during idle chit chat,” he said. He folded his arms. “Are you done here?”
I nodded.
“Thank god!” He groaned. “I’m dying for a cigarette!”
“You can walk me out,” I said. It really was difficult to get anything done with someone breathing down my neck the whole time; I felt like a goddamned kettle. Still, Spartacus could still have his uses; I might be able to bum a cigarette from him before I made my way home.
I followed him through the storeroom and out the back door. I got what I wanted and lit up beside him.
“Queenie told me you quit,” he said.
“I... er...”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything; I know what it’s like. I know what she can be like.”
“Yeah,” I took a long puff on the cigarette, “she’s been your boss for a while, yes?”
“About six months, I think.”
“Oh yeah, you started around the time of that embezzlement case; the one Queenie hired me for. It’s how we met.”
He nodded. “She talked about you a lot at the time,” he said. “Less so now.”
“Understandable.” The initial fizz of our relationship had died a long time ago.
“She’s a nice enough boss, and I probably shouldn’t say this, but I do most of the work, the ordering and whatnot.” He blew out a plume of smoke into the darkness. I’d forgotten how late it was. “I like the responsibility and maybe one day I’ll take charge of Flare on my own. Then again, it was Queenie who acquired the Delartes, the most expensive piece of art to grace Space Station Delta’s decks. I don’t know how she managed it. Guess that’s why she’s the boss.”
“It suits her personality,” I said dryly.
We shared a moment of silence while we engaged in our addictions.
“So,” said Spartacus, “you know where she is? I need to get hold of her, and she only told me she was taking a few days off. Because of your... er... disagreement.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
He shook his head.
“She’s staying with her sister.”
He sighed. “I hate to tell you this, Jack, but she doesn’t have a sister.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Listen, I’m not accusing her of anything here, maybe she just wanted some time alone, but I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that she’s an only child.”
“Maybe I don’t know as much about her as I thought I did.” I stubbed out my cigarette and flicked the filter into the gloom, much to my host’s dissatisfaction; I thanked him for his help and slunk away into the night.
It was a pity he’d been there tonight, and I should’ve made a point of finding out his schedule so I could avoid him when I went back. Goddammit. It was a pain in the ass.
Still, the trip to Flare hadn’t been fruitless; I’d found out Queenie was lying about where she was.
I found a wall to lean against, just for a moment, and retrieved my SmartBoy. I thought for a moment about whether to message her, call her, do something. But I didn’t.
A message interrupted my thoughts.
It was Regan.
He wanted to meet again.