CHAPTER TEN

A few days later, I stayed late at the office after Yury left work, watching his data unfold in real-time.

Yury Sokolov—Personal Account. The Core Pharmacy, $60. Beef Time Burgers, $15. The guy needed better eating habits. Bad eating habits were another thing I couldn’t stand in a man. Street meat, steroid meat, supersized meat—all of it was terrible. I ate complete meals, always in properly small portions: wholesome, holistic, rational food. I thought a lot about vitamins. Each meal should have a bit from each food group. Sometimes people laughed at me for my eating habits. “You hardly eat at all,” one of my colleagues had said. “You’re already so skinny.” Better to hardly eat at all than to eat like vermin.

Back to Yury’s data. Steven’s Beer and Spirits, $31. Cross City Supermarket, $37. Sixteenth Street Flowers, $34. Then a stretch of down-time with no purchases. He must be at home, giving his wife the flowers he’d just bought. An hour slid by.

And there it was, right on cue at 20:15. The Indigo Palace Casino, $15. When it came to addictive behaviours, predictive data analytics worked even better than usual. With that amount of casino credit, the poor bastard would be betting miniscule amounts at the slot machines—cents, really. That was all he had.

The moment I saw that purchase, I threw on my jacket, ready to head to Yury’s apartment. But before I left, I took a minute to review the predictive analytics I’d run earlier that day on Donaldson. AUGUST DONALDSON—ESTIMATED ARRIVAL AT THE INDIGO PALACE CASINO: 21:00. I’d have to carry out the first part of my plan within an hour, in order to get to the Palace by the time Donaldson arrived.

On the walk to Yury’s I glanced at my reflection in my phone screen, making sure I looked sharp and trustworthy, like I should. I was on my way to Yury’s place in the guise of a friend, an honest, trustworthy friend, so I needed to look the part. A gray herringbone suit and freshly shined oxfords did wonders for a man’s credibility. When snooping around the apartment of a new suspect, a detective better be well dressed.

“Sorry, no salesmen allowed in here,” the concierge said when I entered the lobby.

“Jesus, I’m here for a friend,” I said. “Suite 302. Yury Sokolov.”

I rapped on Yury’s door. A slim, professional woman appeared in the doorframe, dressed in a satin blazer with her hair pulled back into a knot. She had a narrow waist and long legs, a graceful curve where her neck met her shoulders, small hands and glasses with black rims. It was easy to see why Yury had fallen so hopelessly for her.

“Oh, hey Frank,” she said.

“Evening, Akshara,” I said, flashing her a smile. I wondered if she’d notice the teeth—I’d had them whitened with the latest technology before I went broke. The more charm I had tonight, the more likely I’d be able to get some answers.

She squinted at me. “Yury’s not here.”

I feigned surprise. “I thought he might be out, but he forgot to turn his phone on after work, so I figured I’d stop by.”

“He always forgets to turn it on.” She exhaled sharply. “He’s out at the pub with Liu. Watching the game.”

“Is he?” It was a damn shame when a husband lied to his wife. I leaned against the doorframe, careful not to wrinkle the herringbone. Had she noticed the new suit? “Think he’ll be back soon?”

“He should be back soon. You can come in if you like, wait for him here.” Akshara opened the door all the way, and light flooded the corridor.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Oh Christ, Frank, just come in.”

Smiling faintly, she led me to the couch, then flitted around the apartment and whisked away some loose clothes and empty glasses. The room smelled like flowers, and on the coffee table stood a vase filled with the blue lilies Yury had just bought her. Their apartment was small and intimate, every corner cluttered with Yury’s collection of digi-plants. Holographic leaves clustered overhead. On the wall, a digital frame flashed through a series of photographs: Yury and Akshara wearing touristy hats and smiling in front of a castle somewhere, Akshara playing video games with her nieces, Akshara and Yury in their wedding clothes, holding hands under a stone archway.

“You going out later?” she asked, scanning me up and down as she finished tidying up. “You look nice.”

“Maybe.” I knew the suit was working well. I gave her another smile. Looking as sharp as I did right now, I’d be able to learn something from her for sure.

She disappeared into the kitchen, and I quickly began my visual search. A faded couch with tiny rips in the fabric. Dents and scrapes on the legs. On the wall was a blank space framed by a square of scuff marks: the spot where their entertainment system used to be. Akshara’s phone lay on the table, an ancient model of the Akato with scratches on the screen.

This was not what I’d expected.

My eyes lingering on the old, ripped fabric of the couch, I remembered Akshara back when she married Yury: a sharp businesswoman who drank Mabelle’s every morning, carried an eight-hundred dollar bag, and wore heels and expensive suits, always tailored at the waist with a crisp white blouse underneath. She was six feet tall and walked with authority, turning plenty of heads on the sidewalks of the Core.

She came back into the living room carrying two drinks.

“You remembered my drink of choice?” I said. “And the two limes, even?”

“Would I ever forget?”

I glanced at the can of soda water in her hand and said, “What, you won’t have a drink with me?”

Only her eyes smiled as she sat down beside me, the couch shifting with her movement. “I have my reasons.”

“That’s not like you.”

She laughed.

“How’s data trading?” I asked.

“Good. It’s a bull market right now. Everyone’s making money.”

“Good money, huh? That doesn’t surprise me. You’re one of the best data traders at the firm. I always thought so.” That wasn’t a lie. “You must be making a killing.”

Akshara remained silent for a minute, swishing the bubbling liquid around in her can. She glanced at the scuff marks around the empty patch of wall. “I make money,” she said slowly. “But I never seem to have any.” She put her drink down with a sudden clank. “You’d know. You’ve seen Yury at the Indigo Palace, I’m sure.”

I hesitated. “Sure.” Something held me back from asking any more questions. The look on her face made me feel terrible. Damn Yury for fucking up his life like this. If I’d known he was so susceptible to addiction, I never would’ve brought his sorry ass to the Indigo Palace in the first place.

After a few minutes, I stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Akshara. I think I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.” I needed to hurry if I was going to carry out the second half of my plan tonight.

I hadn’t found what I’d been looking for in Yury’s apartment. A few days checking out Yury’s data had revealed nothing concrete—but if he had a hidden, well-laundered source of income I hadn’t been able to find, it might’ve shown in his apartment.

Within ten minutes, I’d swept through the streets of the Core, climbed the steps of the Indigo Palace, and stepped into familiar blue neon. A Friday night at the Indigo Palace. You had to fight your way through the crowds. Above the Gemini tables, the chandelier refracted the light coming from the ceiling. As I crossed the floor, I let my fingers trail over my favourite Gemini table, numbers shifting on its smooth surface. The euphoria of Sentrac money hung in the air like it always did, adrenaline blending with the buzz of giddy, intoxicated chatter, but tonight, the euphoria didn’t touch me. I stood apart from it, shut off from the currents of digital money. Unlike in the past, the crowds of the casino bothered me tonight. I regulated my breathing.

Near the back of the room at the electronic slot machines, a familiar figure sat with his back to me. Yury didn’t notice me when I walked up, the spinning reels of the slot machine reflected on his glasses. His finger hovered over the touchscreen.

I clapped him on the shoulder.

He jumped and spun around. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Oh, did you think I was your wife?” I said, taking a seat beside him. “I just went to your place to look for you. I heard you’re out watching sim sports with Liu.”

His eyes widened. “And what did you—did you tell her where I am?”

“How would I know you were here?” The lie came off smoothly. “I came here to gamble.”

He nodded, shoulders slumping with relief.

“Yury,” I said, “did I ever tell you you’re a fucking jackass?”

“What?”

“When are you gonna stop lying to your wife? Get your shit together.”

He looked away, and his posture sagged a bit, but his hand remained where it was, hovering puppet-like in front of the gambling screen. The lines on his face deepened every day, but here at the Indigo Palace they seemed softer, fading just for the night.

I checked the time on my phone. 21:12. The three-way ­convergence I’d planned—between me, Yury, and Donaldson—should happen any time now. A quarter of an hour passed. Then the glass doors of the Palace swung open. Freezing air rushed inside, and Donaldson appeared in the entry. The events began to unfold exactly as planned, the precision and perfection of my plan giving me a rush. Everything was working perfectly, as it should be. I cleared my head of all distractions, ready to watch Donaldson and Yury closely. Any subtle behaviours in their interaction could be a hint about whether Yury was in league with Donaldson.

The crowd melted to make way for Donaldson, dressed down tonight in a sports jacket and dark denim, his rectangular frame gliding slowly as he stopped to greet familiars and shake hands. His presence transformed the crowd. Currents of recognition darted through the casino like a static charge: the familiarity on a man’s face near the door, a glint of insider knowledge in the eyes of a woman at the Gemini tables, the handshake of a nearby suit, his white teeth shining, the incisors too long. Donaldson’s presence spread like a plague, sending out tendrils of corruption, power, dirty money. My whole body itched to stop that infection from spreading, to contain and control it, to cleanse the crowd. But an ugly thought crossed my mind: was I any better?

Donaldson continued his steady progress through the casino, headed in our direction.

“What are you staring at Frank?” Yury asked.

“Who do you think I’m staring at?” I said, studying Yury’s face to gauge his reaction.

He turned his head in Donaldson’s direction, but his eyes breezed right past him, seeing nothing. “Who?”

Donaldson was only a few feet away now. Refracting the neon, his sports jacket rippled with his movements, the fabric smooth and tailored. A smile split his face when he saw me, dents forming in the skin around his eyes. I wished he wouldn’t look at me like that, like he recognized me. Like I was one of them.

Donaldson’s familiar fleshy handshake. “Southwood,” he said, smiling.

I shook his hand. “Donaldson,” I said, watching Yury when I said the name.

Yury’s shock was well concealed, but detectable, just visible in the slight widening of his eyes. Shock wasn’t what I’d expected.

Donaldson’s teeth sparkled as he beamed at me. “New suit?”

“Might be.” I gestured in Yury’s direction. “You must know my colleague, Yury Sokolov? He’s a regular here.”

Donaldson’s eyes scrolled to Yury, squinting. “Don’t think we’ve met,” Donaldson said. He offered his hand. Yury shook it, his shoulder tense. It was the handshake of strangers.

“Never met him, huh?” I prodded. “He’s here almost as much as us. Now that’s dedication.”

Donaldson laughed, the fleshy dimples back again. “Well, Sokolov, if you’re a gambling man then you’re in my good books. I’ll see you again. You know I love my friends at Sentrac.”

When Donaldson leaned in close to clamp a hand on my shoulder, the smell struck me: a familiar chemical scent on his breath, hidden under the stench of aftershave. I looked closer at his face and noticed the yellowish hue of his skin. He wore a high, buttoned-up collar, like Anton’s, but my trained eyes spotted a hint of the purple blotches showing just above his collar. Donaldson’s neck looked just like Anton’s had night after night at Sally Lane’s. I remembered what Jenny had told me a few days ago. “That’s Ruz. It’s an elite Chem, famous in the underworld but almost impossible to get your hands on. Only a few people have access to it.”

In Donaldson’s pocket, there was a familiar bottle with an orange stripe: IRON ENERGY DRINK. The same one he’d been drinking outside the Core Club.

Donaldson vanished into the throng of bodies. Yury spoke quietly under his breath. “You’re fucking insane Frank, insane. What do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

“Nothing illegal, Yury,” I said, an edge of tension in my voice.

“You might get charged with conduct unbecoming if Stingsby knew. What are you doing fraternizing with your suspect like that? Since when do you know him?”

“I just see him here sometimes. And the guy’s infamous. What, you don’t know him yourself? How come you didn’t recognize him when he’s always here?”

“I only know his name and not his face, and when I’m here—right, when I’m here, Frank, I’m a professional who tries not to fucking chat with criminals, something you might want to try out yourself, right?”

“Yury, you know I can’t stand it when things aren’t done right. No loose ends here. I have to do this investigation right. How do you think I found out about Donaldson’s affair? Saw him here with her.”

“You better quit doing this kind of thing and be quick about it.”

“There can’t be any fucking loose ends, alright?”

I left the casino more confused than when I arrived. Unless Yury was a damn good actor, this Yury lead was taking me nowhere. I needed a new lead, and I knew where to find it. Someone in the underworld was converting their money secretly, selling Ruz to Donaldson and his cartel, disguised in those IRON bottles. The strategy they used to pay out this dealer might lead me to other people in the laundering network, more cogs in their machine. I needed to find out who that dealer was.

My feet moved a little more lightly on my walk home. Maybe Yury didn’t do this. That meant something. That meant a lot. And maybe, if Yury was being set up, I could help him—yes, I thought, my mind racing now that it had caught onto a thread, that was right, I could help him, and maybe that would mean I was still doing something good in this city, that I wasn’t just a dirty cop doing what dirty cops have done for generations, letting the filthy money and the darkness wash over them until they drowned in it. Maybe helping Yury could cancel out my deal with the fanatics.

Did the world work that way? Could I cancel out my bad actions with good ones, like two sides of a scale, two platforms hanging on fragile strings, shifting in a delicate balance?

If I help Yury, I cancel out the rest. The thought sounded good in my head, so I repeated it.

If I help Yury, I cancel out the rest.

If I help Yury, I cancel out the rest.

If I help Yury, I cancel out the rest.

Soon, I couldn’t stop thinking it. It sounded true the moment I thought it, but then it began to fade, becoming more and more uncertain until I thought it again.

I walked home that night with that phrase in my head, playing in endless circles.