Buried Deep Part 2

"She was moved," Scott-Olson said. "Corpses mummify here. Someone placed the skeleton there."

"And you have soil samples from the site?" Costard asked. She moved her fingers away from the skeleton. Poor thing. The woman hadn't been much taller than Costard in life. And she had children, which meant that once upon a time, she'd had a family, someone who cared about her.

Someone who missed her when she disappeared.

"I have soil samples, video of the site, stills, and air composition as well as odor tracking as we slowly brought her out. The crime scene unit has the blade of what we would call a backhoe-the Disty have their own name for the d.a.m.n thing, and it is slightly different-as well as some of their equipment. We could have had all of it. I doubt they'll ever touch it again."

Costard looked at her. Scott-Olson was staring at the skeleton, too. "You're going to have to explain the Disty death thing to me."

"Believe me," Scott-Olson said. "I will."

"First things first," Costard said. "We're going to have to test the soil and see if it colored her bones. We'll have to figure out her age and her identification. And we'll have to figure cause of death, unless I'm missing something obvious."

"She has a lot of scratches and cuts in the bones," Scott-Olson said. "But I'm not sure if they're postmortem. I'm not sure how she became a skeleton, whether the flesh was cut off her or not. I a.s.sume so, since the killer left enough connective tissue so that the bones are still attached to each other. I could have figured some of this out, but since you were coming, I thought I'd leave it to the expert."

Costard appreciated that. Bone work was her specialty. Medical examiners didn't specialize in anything except the various forms of human death.

"How much time do I have to complete the work?" Costard asked.

"The faster you get it done, the better," Scott-Olson said. "The Disty won't go near the death site. More than a thousand are temporarily homeless, and they're getting angrier as each day goes by."

"A thousand homeless?"

"They cram into these buildings like you wouldn't believe. I'm probably underestimating. And that really doesn't matter. What matters is that the Disty are going to a.s.sign blame for her death if we don't."

"Figuring out who killed her isn't my job," Costard said. "I can tell you how she died and how long she's been dead- roughly anyway-and help you identify her, but that's all I can do."

"I know," Scott-Olson said. "But we need those things before we find her killer."

Costard had never heard an M.E. sound so unrealistic before. "You might never find her killer. You do know that, right?"

"We have to find her killer," Scott-Olson said. "Or the Disty will do it for us."

"I thought you said they don't like death. They investigate it?"

"Not like we do. And their ideas of justice aren't the same as ours either."

Costard felt cold. "Are you saying they'll just pick someone at random?"

"No, although that might be better."

"What will they do, then?" Costard asked.

"They'll blame us."

"Humans?" Costard asked.

Scott-Olson shook her head. "You, me, anyone involved in the investigation."

"Legally, they can't do that," Costard said.

"Legally, they can do what they want," Scott-Olson said. "Mars is Disty territory. I thought you knew that."

"But you have your own law enforcement," Costard said, not sure she understood this correctly.

"It's a courtesy," Scott-Olson said.

"They'll kill you?" Costard asked.

"It's a risk," Scott-Olson said. "We've touched the body. We've been contaminated by it. We're useless to them."

Costard felt a surge of anger. Someone should have told her. "I think I'll just take the next shuttle to Earth. I am not volunteering for this."

"It's too late," Scott-Olson said. "You already have."

3.

Miles Flint stood in the back of the press conference room in Armstrong's Police Headquarters. He made sure he was close to the door, so that he could duck out quickly if he had to. A year after he quit the force, he had no longer felt a part of it. Now he felt like a complete outsider.

He had his arms crossed and his back pressed against the wall. Several other people stood next to him, many of them focused on their multimedia equipment. A few spoke softly, narrating the events for viewers who couldn't attend.

Ahead of him, a sea of blue Armstrong Police uniforms filled the room. They were present because this wasn't just a press conference, it was also a ceremony-a ceremony that had surprised Flint as much as it surprised its intended victim, Noelle DeRicci.

DeRicci sat at the edge of the stage, her legs crossed, her hands resting comfortably in her lap. She wore a skirt-and-blazer combination with chiffon accents, making her seem very stylish. Her dark hair, which once had touches of gray, now had streaks of black in its professional cut. She even wore some makeup, something the old DeRicci-the woman who had once been Flint's partner back when he was a detective -would have scorned.

Still, she was the same woman, brash, brilliant, and insecure. When she had mounted the stage, she had scanned for him, then smiled when she saw him.

He had smiled too. He liked her and he had come to support her in this, one of the more important press conferences of her career.

It hadn't been fair of him to think of her as a victim. DeRicci was no one's victim except her own. She was about to become the recipient of Armstrong's highest honor, the Silver Moon, given to public servants who acted with bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

DeRicci had deserved this for her work a few years ago, stopping a highly infectious virus that would have contaminated the dome and killed most of its inhabitants. She hadn't received the award then, partly because she had no political clout at the time, and partly because of Flint's involvement in that case-something the city had wanted to keep hidden.

But Flint had no involvement in this latest triumph of De-Ricci's. She had investigated, along with the help of an impressive team, last year's bombing of Armstrong's dome. In the course of her work, she had found structural cracks in the dome that would have caused it to disintegrate suddenly and without warning.

Once again, DeRicci had saved the Moon's largest city. And this time, she was getting recognized for it.

Arek Soseki, Armstrong's mayor, had been droning for nearly ten minutes now about the bombing, the costly aftermath, and DeRicci's actions. The group on the stage, most of whom knew all of this, tried to pay attention.

That group included a whole host of political dignitaries, including the Moon's governor-general. The only police officers included, besides DeRicci, were her immediate boss, Andrea Gumiela, and the chief of police.

"He can talk, can't he?" Ki Bowles leaned against the wall next to Flint. Bowles worked for InterDome Media. She had made her reputation as an investigative reporter, but in the past few months, she had spent most of her time behind a desk, framing other reporters' stories for the nets' constant live broadcasts. Flint had no idea if that was a demotion or not.

"Isn't talking his job?" Flint asked.

She smiled at him, her almond-shaped eyes twinkling. Her hair, which had been curly and multicolored when he met her more than a year ago, was now a strawberry blond, which made her dusky skin seem even darker than usual. Her lemon-scented perfume was light enough to seem tasteful, but strong enough to announce her presence.

"Talking is my my job," she said. "Governing is his." job," she said. "Governing is his."

"And I believe that as much as I believe you've gone back to your natural hair color."

"So says one of the few remaining natural blonds in the universe."

Flint felt color rise in his cheeks. He had always been self-conscious about his looks. His hair was blond and naturally curly, his eyes blue, and his skin so fair that his blood vessels were visible on the underside of his arms. His looks underscored the narrowness of his gene pool and displayed his family history for all to see.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said. "I thought press conferences got a.s.signed to cub reporters, not to big-time investigators."

She tugged on the silk scarf around her neck. Her hair had tamed, but her clothing hadn't. She wore vivid reds and golds, colors that accented her skin and hair. "Have you read the report?"

"No," Flint said.

"It's amazing how much information is missing."

Flint nodded toward the podium. "All of the speakers so far have called it comprehensive."

"It is," Bowles said, "except for one teeny-tiny detail."

Flint waited. Bowles wanted him to ask what that detail was, and he wasn't about to. Instead, he listened to the murmur of voices mixing with the scripted eloquence of Mayor Soseki.

"That detail is," Bowles said, letting a bit of annoyance color her voice, "the thing we all want to know. Who placed that bomb? The report says that detail is unknowable. If the bomber was a suicide, then the remains were lost in the blast."

"I thought the bomb was remote detonated," Flint said.

"They don't know. They don't know anything, and they're hiding it under words, vids, a.n.a.lysis, and thousands of footnoted details. This report is truly a multimedia event, burying the most important information beneath stuff that seems relevant."

"Like that's never been done before," Flint said.

"No one has successfully blown a hole in Armstrong's dome before," Bowles said. "Don't you think it's a little disingenuous to give a medal to the person who couldn't solve the crime?"

"That person is an old friend of mine," Flint said. "I'm here at her request."

Bowles shrugged a single shoulder, but the brightness in her eyes told Flint that she already knew Flint and DeRicci had once been partners. Bowles had probably stopped beside Flint for that very reason.

"I wondered why a Retrieval Artist would voluntarily come into Police Central," Bowles said.

"And now you know." Flint smiled at her. "Retrieval Artists have lives too."

Although that technically wasn't true. The most effective Retrieval Artists had no solid ties. That prevented blackmail, or worse-the kidnapping or loss of a loved one in the middle of a particularly sensitive case.

Flint had no family, unless an ex-wife he hadn't seen in years counted. He was an only child. His parents and grandparents were long dead, and his marriage ended after his daughter Emmeline died at the day care center where Flint had left her every afternoon.

"Lives and secrets and friends.h.i.+ps," Bowles said, as if she wanted to discover every single aspect of his. "Tell me, what kind of partner was Noelle DeRicci?"

She had the audacity to interview him. She knew better. He had told her over and over he had no interest in talking to the media.

Flint turned so that he looked at Bowles directly. "Ki," he said softly, "if I find you were recording this conversation, I will sue you and InterDome."

"I'm just asking about an old friend," Bowles said.

He moved away from her, crossing behind several of the standing visitors, and moving to the other side of the door.

Soseki had finished his speech and was turning toward the governor-general. Apparently, she was the one who would give out the award.

DeRicci's back was straight, and although she hadn't really moved since she spoke at the podium half an hour before, she looked tense. She hated public attention.

The governor-general walked to the podium. She was a tiny woman with a deceptive delicacy. As she hit the b.u.t.ton that adjusted the podium's size so that it was appropriate to her build, she smiled at the audience.

Flint suppressed a sigh. He hadn't meant to spend the entire afternoon here. DeRicci had asked him to come, promised him dinner and time to catch up, which they hadn't had much of these last few months. He was beginning to think they wouldn't have any of that time tonight either.

Bowles hadn't moved from her place on the other side of the door. When she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and shrugged.

Flint turned away. He certainly hoped she hadn't recorded him. Now he would have to have one computer monitor InterDome, and make certain he didn't appear on any of the media conglomerates' holdings.

The governor-general finished her little speech, then waved a hand at DeRicci, commanding her to rise.

DeRicci did, tugging at her skirt, showing her nerves. She was taller than the governor-general, which surprised even Flint. He used to tease DeRicci about her height-or lack of it.

The governor-general took a jeweled case from an a.s.sistant, opened the case, and showed everyone the medal inside. From his place in the back of the room, Flint could only see a flash of silver. Then she turned to DeRicci, took the medal out of the case, and handed the case back to the a.s.sistant.

DeRicci looked as if she were queasy. Flint wished he were closer, so that he could wink at her, or mouth words of encouragement.

But he couldn't. He had to wait, and watch.

The governor-general pinned the medal on DeRicci's lapel. The material bowed forward, and both women laughed at the awkwardness. DeRicci helped as the governor-general pinned the medal again.

Then the governor-general turned DeRicci toward the audience, and the entire room erupted into applause. DeRicci's face was flushed and her eyes seemed too bright.

And then, with surprising suddenness, the event was over. Soseki waved his hands and thanked the crowd for coming, then turned toward DeRicci. People stood in unison. Most of the crowd filed out of the room. The press stayed, of course, and so did Flint.

DeRicci started down the stairs to the side of the stage, but the governor-general caught her arm. Soseki approached them, followed by several other politicians. Andrea Gumiela and the police chief stood off to the side, looking confused.

Flint felt his shoulders tighten. This whole ceremony was part of a larger event, something the police hadn't been told about. He couldn't see DeRicci through the crowd of people surrounding her.

He wondered if he should just leave.

Instead, he worked his way toward the front, in case DeRicci needed an excuse to escape.

4.