Aztlan: The Courts of Heaven (14 page)

“So beautiful that you couldn’t stand it when she died. So you started hating Coyotl. Enough to kill him, maybe.”

He looked at me. “
Kill
him? What are you talking about?”

“Coyotl’s dead. We found him in an alley in District Four.”

Ichtaca’s eyes widened. “Dead . . . ? And you think
I
had something to do with it?”

“You hated him, didn’t you?”

“So what? You think he was the first player I ever hated? Or the first player who ever hated
me
?”

“He drove your daughter to suicide.”

Ichtaca shook his head. “He didn’t do anything wrong. Or if it
was
wrong, it was no worse than what I’d done to Tzique’s mother.”

“You stuck around.”

“Maybe he would have too, if it had come to that. I don’t know.”

“Don’t take any trips,” I told Ichtaca. “You’re officially a suspect in Coyotl’s murder.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Don’t worry. You’ve seen the scores lately—I’m not going anywhere.”

Necalli called me as I left the Arena. “They’re about to run the story,” he said.

“When?” I asked.

“Half an hour. Maybe less.”

Lands of the Dead
. I looked up and down the streets that radiated from the Arena. They looked so normal, so peaceful. But they wouldn’t stay that way for long.

“Pictures?” I asked.

“Not yet. We talked them into holding that stuff back for a while.”

“Reasonable of them.”

It was bad enough that people would hear Coyotl was dead. It would have been worse if they’d seen him lying on a slab.

“They didn’t make that big a deal of it, really. They live here too, you know.”

“Who’s going to say the words?”

“They told me, but I forget. One of the older guys. They said he’s had experience giving out bad news, though I can’t recall news as bad as this in a long time.”

A Mirror executive once told me that commentators are supposed to be as anonymous as possible—liked and trusted, yes, but ultimately nameless. Otherwise, they run the risk of overshadowing the news they convey.

In this case, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

“Are you going to need me?” I asked.

“You mean for crowd control? I doubt it. I want you free to figure out who killed him.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Solve the case,” he said. “That’ll be thanks enough.” Then he broke the link.

I didn’t live far from the Arena but I wasn’t sure I’d have time to get home before the announcement. So instead I went into the lobby of the hotel across the street and sat down at the bar.

This isn’t going to be pretty, I told myself. Still, I was drawn to it the way iron is drawn to a lodestone. In other words, I couldn’t help it.

When the bar keeper came over and asked me what I wanted, I ordered a cane water. He smiled a tight smile and said, “We’ve got fresh
octli
. Just cut the limes myself.” After all, cane water was a lot less profitable than
octli
.

“Cane water,” I repeated. Then I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my bracelet.

“Coming right up,” he said with a markedly more compliant attitude. After all, he didn’t want to offend an Investigator.

A moment later, he delivered the drink. I paid him for it. Then I turned my attention to the Mirror screen.

The show in progress was about the Emperor’s approval of a new rail system in Malinalco. I didn’t need to see the pictures of the existing system to know how badly a new one was needed. I had experienced the problem firsthand when I was a ball court player, spending several hours one night in a carriage that had gotten stuck between stations. And I was pretty sure the situation hadn’t improved any.

I knew it was only a matter of time before the commentator appeared on the screen, his grave expression replacing the images of Malinalco’s dilapidated rails. Still, it came as a shock to me when I saw him.

Like all commentators, the guy was handsome and well-groomed. He had a pleasant manner and a deep, soothing voice. Unfortunately, neither his manner nor his voice was going to make much of a difference to the citizens of Aztlan—not when they heard that their hero had turned up dead.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said, “but we have sad news to report. If you’re a fan of the Eagles, you’ll want to sit down. As you know, Chicahua Coyotl, the most famous ball court player in the Empire, has been absent from his team’s games for days. What you didn’t know was that Coyotl was the subject of a massive, missing-person search conducted by Aztlan police. Early this morning, that search ended in tragedy as Coyotl was found dead in District Four, the victim of multiple stab wounds.”

I imagined every man, woman, and child in Aztlan gasping at once. Coyotl had been like a god to them, and they had just learned that their god was dead.

“Police have yet to identify Coyotl’s assailant or assailants, or to determine a motive for the crime. However, they say that they have placed their most adept Investigator on the case.”

I guess that’s me, I thought.

“We will keep you up to date on details as we receive them,” said the commentator. “In the meantime, we and all Mexica mourn a great champion of the ball court.”

The commentator continued to speak, laying out Coyotl’s illustrious career, but his image yielded to footage of Coyotl’s play. It began with his first game, in Zempoala, in which he notched three goals and knocked the other team’s center out cold. Then it showed him in the Arena a few games later, weaving through Oxtlipa’s defense en route to
five
tallies—a single-game mark no one else in the league would ever match—though Coyotl himself did so on three subsequent occasions, one time against Yautepec in the final.

It was stirring material—which was why I cringed as I watched it. Sure, the Mirror had an obligation to tell its viewers where Coyotl stood in the pantheon of ball court heroes. But the more it glorified the dead man, the more it fed the raw, ragged pain in the hearts of his fans.

And before long, that pain would explode in white-hot fury.

T
he first thing I did when I left the hotel lobby was call Aunt Xoco.

It was true that she lived a fair distance from the Arena. Still, there could be riots anywhere.

At first there was no answer. Come on, I thought.

Finally, I heard my aunt’s voice: “Maxtla?”

“Aunt Xoco,” I said. “Thank the gods.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Coyotl’s been found dead. You need to stay off the streets.”

“Why?” she asked.

“There are going to be some angry people around. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I can take care of myself, Maxtla.”

“Not this time,” I said, as firmly as I could.

She sighed. “All right. But what about you?”

“I’m an Investigator, Aunt Xoco.”

“An Investigator who never comes for dinner. I thought you were going to call about coming over?”

“After things settle down. I promise.”

“If I had a bean for every time I heard that story . . ."

I said goodbye—rather abruptly, I’m afraid. Then I buzzed Calli to tell her the same thing I had told Aunt Xoco.

“Lands of the Dead,” she said. “Coyotl?”

“It’s a good time to stay off the streets.”

“I—I can’t,” she said. “I have—”

“Business to conduct,” I said, finishing the statement for her. “If I were you, I’d reschedule.”

She didn’t say she would do that. In fact, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t. But at least I had tried.

“Thanks,” was what she finally said instead.

“You’re welcome,” I told her.

By the time I finished making my calls—a matter of just a few minutes—the turmoil on the streets had already begun. People of all kinds were running in twos and threes in the direction of the Arena, demanding to know what had happened to Coyotl.

As if someone was waiting there to fill them in on the details. A maintenance worker, maybe, because I was sure everyone else had left as soon as they heard the news.

Trying to ignore the stiffness in my back, I made my way to the rail platform—which was in the opposite direction—as quickly as I could. I got up there just in time to grab a carriage departing for the vicinity of the Interrogation Center. Before its doors closed, I looked back toward the Arena.

I thought I was prepared for what I’d see. I wasn’t.

Eagles fans were already starting to choke the streets around the Arena, converging on the crown-shaped building in numbers I found hard to believe. There had to be thousands of them, their faces twisted with anger and frustration.

It was a frightening scene even though I was watching it from the relative safety of the carriage. And it seemed to me it would get worse before it got better.

Back at the Interrogation Center, some of my fellow Investigators had invaded Necalli’s office and were clustered around his Mirror screen. I didn’t join them. I activated the screen at my desk instead.

Apparently, a journalist was risking his life to talk with the mob. He was stocky but well-groomed, even in the midst of the jostling mob. Talk about dedication.

“Who did it?” one of the fans demanded hoarsely of the camera, his face ruddy with anger. “Who killed him?”

A second guy shoved himself in front of the first. “Show me who it was! I’ll break his neck with my own two hands!”

That brought forth a roar of approval from the crowd. The camera shook for a moment, then steadied again.

“Why won’t they tell us who did it?” a woman moaned as she loomed forward, her eyes swollen with grief. “All we want is justice!”

I ground my teeth in frustration.
Easier asked than done
.

“We need an arrest, Colhua,” said Necalli, peering over my shoulder.

“You have somebody in mind?” I asked, my eyes stuck on the screen.

“I’m not the Investigator on the case,” he reminded me.

At that moment, there was a flurry of activity and the journalist was swallowed by the mob. It happened right before our eyes. The guy made a sound—a little squeal of surprise as he realized he was going under—and then he was gone, trampled.

The camera stayed on him just long enough to show us there was no hope for him. Then it jumped and swung around, and the picture went to black.

It took us a few seconds to absorb the horror of what had happened. Then Necalli said, “No pressure, though.”

Like the other Eagles executives, Ichtaca left his office when he heard about Coyotl. I found him at his apartment in District Fourteen, a cup of
octli
in his hand.

“Come on in,” he said.

I did that.

“That was something,” he said of the fans’ riot, “wasn’t it?”

“You’re under arrest,” I informed him, “for the murder of Chicahua Coyotl.”

He made a face. “You really think I killed him?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. All that matters is what the
judge
thinks when he takes a look at your case tomorrow morning.”

He laughed. “This is insane. I came back to coaching because of Coyotl. Why would I want to get rid of him?”

“Because of what happened to your daughter.”

His eyes went hard. “Coyotl didn’t kill her. And I didn’t kill
him
.”

“That’s your story,” I said. “I’ll be presenting the judge with a different one.”

Ichtaca’s eyes got small. “I get it. This is your way of getting back at me for what happened to you. For what happened to your
knee
.”