Buried Deep Part 20

Flint didn't respond to that. He clasped his hands behind his back so that he wouldn't touch anything. "Where's Ms. Costard?"

"Strange thing," Nyquist said. "Disty vengeance killing in a Disappearance Services office, if you can believe that."

Flint didn't move. He knew his expression hadn't changed because he had practiced keeping a straight face long ago. But the surprise had nearly knocked him over. He had to concentrate on the conversation. If he let himself feel anything, he would reveal too much to Nyquist.

"When?" Flint asked.

Nyquist shrugged. His shrugs were elegant. The one he'd used earlier had been larger than this one; this one was a slight movement that said timing was less important than the event.

"A day or so ago."

"Has departmental policy changed?" Flint asked. "I thought vengeance killings are open and shut."

"Usually," Nyquist said. "We have to confirm the Disty's involvement with the target and all that. You have anything to add on that?"

Flint wasn't sure how much he wanted to say. Technically, Costard wasn't a client any longer, but Flint didn't like to give away any information. Yet here he was, in her hotel, trying to locate her.

"Shouldn't be hard," Flint said, taking a gamble, "considering she'd just come in from Mars."

"So you do know her," Nyquist said.

"We met briefly."

"Did she hire you?" Nyquist asked.

"For what?"

Nyquist blinked. Maybe no one had ever questioned one of his questions before-and in the same tone, too.

"I don't know," Nyquist said. "To do whatever it is you people do."

For the first time, his banter seemed a little forced. Flint had thrown him off his rhythm.

"Retrieval Artists find Disappeareds," he said. "We're not Trackers. We don't always bring the Disappeared to face justice-if I can use that term for what pa.s.ses for the law in some places."

Nyquist stopped pacing and looked at him sideways. "That's right. You people don't believe in the law."

"If that were the case," Flint said, "I'd never have joined the police force."

"But you left."

Flint nodded.

"Richer than when you arrived."

So Nyquist had done more than a cursory background check. That was interesting. Had he been surprised by Flint's appearance, or had he already marked Flint on his witness list?

"Actually, no," Flint said. "I made the money after I left the force."

Hours after, but after nonetheless.

"Always heard rumors about that," Nyquist said, contradicting his original banter about not even hearing of Flint. That didn't surprise Flint either. "Always heard you'd done something illegal. Decided the money was better than following the law."

"People always say things like that about Retrieval Artists," Flint said. "We're not very well liked."

Nyquist smiled sideways again. "Ever wonder why?"

"Nope. I understand it completely." Flint looked at the waterfall. The loop varied. Sometimes the water splashed and the droplets shone in the light. Sometimes the splashes were smaller and didn't reflect anything.

"This is really an interesting case," Nyquist said. "I have a woman who is considered a felon by the Disty, yet they let her come to the Moon on business. She dies in a Disappearance Service office, and the only person she has contact with, besides the hotel staff, is a Retrieval Artist."

Flint said nothing.

"I mean, she should know that the service isn't going to tell her if they disappeared a friend of hers, right?" Nyquist looked at the waterfall as if it could answer his question.

When Flint still said nothing, Nyquist turned. The technique was effective but familiar. Flint knew how this game was played. If Nyquist wanted to unsettle Flint, he was going about it wrong.

"If I understand how these things work," Nyquist said, "she wouldn't have gone to the Disappearance Service to ask questions on her own unless you turned her job down. But if you turned her down, what are you doing here?"

Flint could suggest reasons. They might have been friends in a previous life, coworkers, or maybe she was the Disappeared herself. But he said nothing. He wanted to hear Nyquist's theories.

"Then we have the Disty vengeance killing in the front office of the Disappearance Service. The Disty like to send messages. If I miss my guess, that message would be that people who try to disappear-or disappear and get caught-deserve this fate. Isn't that what you would think?"

"I haven't seen the crime scene," Flint said.

"Dismantled," Nyquist said. "The techs have been through it, the body's going through processing, we're investigating whether or not there's next of kin. Do you know if there is?"

Such a humane question, and one that most people would answer. But Flint resumed his policy of silence.

Nyquist raised his eyebrows and smiled again, only this time the smile was real. "You know, I noted in your files that you used to be Noelle DeRicci's partner."

"She's a good woman," Flint said.

"She is." Nyquist glanced at the bag, sitting forlornly on its stand, as if to say that Costard had been a good woman too. "Yet I noticed that on one of Noelle's recent cases, you refused to work with her too. You were even a suspect in that case."

Cleared suspect. Flint knew that much. And he knew better than to be defensive.

"You'd think you'd work with your ex-partner."

"You'd think," Flint said.

"And yet. . ." Nyquist shook his head. "Were you always this uncooperative, or is that part of your new job too?"

Time to take some control of the interview. "You wanted me up here," Flint said. "You've told me that Aisha Costard is dead, something that I'm very sorry to hear. But I'm not going to dance anymore. I met her, I talked with her, I was coming to see her, and that's all you need to know."

Nyquist's playful smile faded. "I'll decide what I need to know. Why were you coming to see her?"

"I had a question for her," Flint said.

"And it was?"

"Personal," Flint said. "And, unfortunately, now it's unanswerable."

"Maybe we can help."

"The police don't help Retrieval Artists," Flint said. "Try that technique on someone a little more naive."

"You should be more polite," Nyquist said. "You might be a suspect, you know."

"In a Disty vengeance killing? I don't think so," Flint said. "Unless it's not a vengeance killing." "I didn't say that." Nyquist turned away.

"Yet you're investigating."

"You know the routine. Confirm before closing the case."

"Are you that unimportant in the department?" Flint asked. "Seems to me that a seasoned investigator wouldn't get perfunctory cases."

Nyquist's spine stiffened ever so slightly. Finally, Flint scored against him.

"There're a few questions about the case," Nyquist said.

"The Disappearance Service?" Flint asked.

"The sloppiness."

Flint couldn't tell if Nyquist inadvertently let that information out or if he intended it.

"The Disty aren't sloppy," Flint said. "It's a ritual."

"You see, that's my theory," Nyquist said. "But Andrea Gumiela-you remember her, right? The head of the detectives?-she seems to believe that some Disty here on the Moon don't get the same training as their Martian cousins. So she thinks they might have just been careless."

"I've never seen it," Flint said, deciding he could say that much.

"Me either. Which makes me wonder why someone would fake a vengeance killing. Got a theory?"

Flint sighed. He had a theory, but it required him to get involved. Still, he wasn't sure how much of Costard's recent history was public record. He didn't want to reveal too much, but he did want Nyquist, who seemed savvy enough, out of his way.

"If I were you," Flint said, "I'd see what Costard did to make the Disty angry in the first place. Maybe you'll find your answer there."

Nyquist peered at him. "You think so?"

It was Flint's turn to shrug. He made it a casual little shrug, as eloquent as Nyquist's were.

"I have no idea," Flint said. "Glad it's not my case."

He turned around and stopped by the lights that still flashed in front of the door.

"You know," Nyquist said to his back, "you don't seem overly concerned that she's dead."

"I'm sorry that she's dead," Flint said. "She was a nice woman."

"But?" Nyquist was still fis.h.i.+ng.

Flint was going to end it.

"But I only met her a few days ago and only for a short time. It's sad, I'm sorry, but I didn't know her well enough to grieve."

Nyquist didn't answer for a moment. Flint didn't turn around, nor did he ask for the warning light to go out.

"You're right," Nyquist finally said. "It is sad. I'm beginning to think no one knew her well enough to grieve."

Then the warning lights in front of Flint blinked off. He stepped through the doorway and into the hall.

"I may have more questions," Nyquist said to Flint's back.

"I doubt I'll have more answers," Flint said as he walked away.

31.

The situation in Sahara Dome was getting worse.

Scott-Olson had returned to her lab. She saw no point in staying in the conference, watching the disaster unfold. She could see it a variety of ways-on a wall screen, through her links, or on one of the screens mounted on her main desk.

She kept the wall screen on-she had to stay informed; information had suddenly become a lifeline to her-but she shut down the news portion of her links. Having the information come through the links made it too personal. She didn't want to think about the disaster that was befalling the city in which she had spent most of her life.

The lab wasn't making her much calmer. Six of the mummified bodies were in her cooler. The skeleton of Lagrima Jrgen had its own table, the orange bones glowing in the lab's bright light.

Soon this place would fill with more bodies-some human from attempting to stop the fleeing Disty, and a whole lot of Disty. She doubted the local Death Squad even existed anymore, so she was gearing up her team to handle the Disty bodies as they got brought in.

She had already made up a bed for herself in the small side office, and told her a.s.sistants to do the same. Even if it were possible to get home-and at the moment, it wasn't; no one could safely step outside in Sahara Dome-she wouldn't leave. Not with so many corpses on the way.

Every time she looked at the wall screen, she saw a ma.s.sacre. In some ways, it was as hideous as the one she'd found buried in the Disty section. Disty climbed over each other to get out of the Dome. They shoved each other aside, trampled each other, and some-abandoning the principles of Disty life-punched each other.

The train station was the worst. No new trains had entered the Dome, and no more were coming.

Someone had ordered train travel to Sahara Dome to end.

The trains that originated here had gone, probably with Disty engineers at the helm. Even engines that had been in storage sheds for maintenance were put into service, probably causing disasters farther along the tracks.

But no one had told the Disty that more trains wouldn't arrive. The Disty crowded the edge of the tracks, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving and arguing. More filled the station, and even more filled the streets outside the station, all of them trying to get out of the Dome.

They wouldn't, and Scott-Olson wasn't sure what would happen when they realized that. Would they pry open the Dome exits and flee? She'd already seen trains leaving with Disty clinging to the outside.