Vigilantes (24 page)

Goudkins was frowning. “How do you know she still has it?”

“We don’t,” DeRicci said. “We’re on the thinnest of threads here. But every time she gets contacted about the DNA by the person who helped her steal it, she tells that person not to contact her again.”

“She doesn’t deny that she has any?” Goudkins asked.

DeRicci shook her head. “She’s also not defensive about being contacted. Now, that might be because she’s one of those completely unflappable people who has worked so long in the underbelly of the Alliance that she really doesn’t care what other people think. But the folks I’ve been talking to think that she has it, and isn’t surprised when she’s asked about it, and she’s playing every angle she can think of.”

“What do you think?” Goudkins asked softly.

DeRicci liked the question. It was the kind of question a good investigator asked to get a sense of the person she was talking to.

DeRicci could have avoided it, and let Goudkins make her own conclusion. But she didn’t.

“I think we’ve hit a pattern,” DeRicci said. “Every time we get a lead, it takes us to someone in the Alliance, and we either shut down or assume that this person couldn’t be involved.”

Goudkins folded her hands together. She tilted her head slightly in a sympathetic listening posture.

Also good.

“I think right now, we have to rule out Andre as a source of the DNA. She might have sold it decades ago. She might have disposed of it that night. Or she might be using it herself. But,” DeRicci said, “we need to know.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment.

“All right,” Goudkins said. Not
I agree
, not
that makes sense
, but
all right
, as if there were nothing more to add.

She started to stand.

“Wait,” DeRicci said. “We have one other lead for you to check out.”

She hadn’t meant to use the word “we,” but it was out there now. She guessed there was a “we.” Her, Nyquist, Flint, maybe even (although she didn’t like it) Deshin.

Goudkins sat back down, and looked expectant, so DeRicci launched into it.

“We’ve been investigating the clones,” DeRicci said, deliberately not being specific about the Peyti clones or Uzvaan. “And one of the things that we’ve discovered is that they were raised to believe failure caused death.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Goudkins said.

“They were raised in groups, and if someone failed, that person was killed.” DeRicci didn’t add that the clone was killed by the other clones.

“Harsh,” Goudkins said.

“Yes,” DeRicci said. “Here’s the thing: the Peyti clones became lawyers, many of them defense attorneys, which meant that a goodly number of them went through the Impossibles.”

Goudkins frowned. “I thought the point of the Impossibles was to teach that many cases were unwinnable.”

“Something like that,” DeRicci said. She had never given the Impossibles a lot of thought. “Since these Peyti clones couldn’t handle failure, we decided to find out how they managed to survive the Impossibles. One clone mentioned that he had a mentor—”

“You spoke to a Peyti clone?” Goudkins asked. “I thought we were enjoined against it.”

“We are,” DeRicci said, “and I didn’t. I got this information from someone else.”

Goudkins had a slightly incredulous smile on her face. “You have a source.”

“You could say that,” DeRicci said, not willing to give up any more information on Uzvaan. “We don’t know how many Peyti clones this mentor handled or protected at the Impossibles. All we have is a name, and the fact that she was there several decades ago.”

“Another woman,” Goudkins said.

DeRicci nodded. She hadn’t thought of that and wondered if it was significant. She would let Goudkins figure that out.

“Her name is—or was—Mavis Zorn. She’s human. I’d like you to track her down, maybe even talk to her if you can, and figure out what she does or doesn’t know. But be discrete.”

“I got that part,” Goudkins said. “She might have been a pawn, you know.”

“Yes, I do,” DeRicci said. “If I understood the Impossibles, I could say for certain. But I don’t know, and I have no idea how all this works.”

“I’ll investigate both of these,” Goudkins said. “But which do you think is the one I should focus on first?”

“Andre,” DeRicci said. “If we can find the source of that DNA, we might be able to trace everything.”

“All right,” Goudkins said. “How often do you want me to report to you?”

“Every few days if you don’t have anything,” DeRicci said. “And immediately if you do.”

“Got it.”

Goudkins stood. Then she bowed her head, just a little.

“Thank you,” she said. “I value your trust.”

I hope it wasn’t misplaced
, DeRicci thought but didn’t say. She stood too.

“Let’s hope one of these investigations pays off,” she said—and wished she knew exactly what that meant.

THIRTY

AS A YOUNG detective, Nyquist had learned to walk the grid of a crime scene. Ironically, the old timers who trained him told him to use bots and crime scene cleaners to find whatever had been left behind—from tiny trace evidence of all types to almost invisible DNA.

Bots were useful. They got all kinds of evidence human beings could not see. But humans often noted things at a crime scene that no bot would ever catch. And a dedicated detective with a trained eye saw even more.

It wouldn’t have taken much to sneak up on Zhu. If people were tailing him, they could have walked softly and jumped him. Nyquist’s standard-issue shoes made almost no sound on the sidewalk.

He walked back and forth, stopping to pick up several small things and placing them in evidence bags that he always carried. He used to think he was obsessive about evidence bags, but this habit had often turned out to be a very useful one, and it was useful now.

He found what looked like a decorative button, a small swatch of silk—maybe from Zhu’s suit—and a plastic toothpick. He found some spatter that he made sure he recorded. He found a splash of liquid along the sidewalk heading toward the door (the bulk of the liquid had gone toward the street).

At the edge of his grid, as he turned the corner to start back toward the building’s door, he found a light brown heel of a shoe, curved just a little with only a little lift.

He used the bag itself to pick that one up. The heel of the shoe looked awfully similar to heels on his shoes.

He found half a dozen other small items that seemed less promising.

He stood over that body shape in the light film of Moon dust, noted the other footprints around it, wondered if anyone had recorded this during the crisis. This was the kind of detail that Brodeur often overlooked.

Nyquist made sure he didn’t.

Then he peered at the drying liquid trail that flowed toward the street. A stir stick was in the middle of it all, but it seemed to be the only non-expected item in that little river of liquid.

He recorded all of it, then removed the stir stick, careful to keep the blood/coffee mix on it.

He placed the bags in his pockets, then glanced down the street. Technically, he should place everything in his car, but he didn’t want to leave the area—not yet, anyway.

“Stealing from a crime scene?” That voice belonged to the woman again.

He turned, only because it was instinct to turn in the direct of a voice, fully expecting to be talking to the speakers again.

Instead, a slight woman stood behind him. She had light brown skin, a small nose, and lovely, dark eyes. She wore a dress covered with a long jacket, which would have looked stunning if it weren’t for the grime on her knees and the front of her shoes. She’d been crouching or kneeling, perhaps in the light coating of Moon dust that he was currently standing in.

She had her hands on her hips, and her mouth was turned downward, negating some of the impact of those dramatic eyes.

“First,” he said in his most patient voice, “a police officer assigned to a crime scene can’t steal from it, although he can violate procedure, which I am not. Second, this is not an official crime scene.”

“Yes, it is,” she said quickly.

“There are no crime scene lasers, and there weren’t when I arrived. I have footage to prove that.”

She lifted her chin slightly. She knew he was telling the truth about that.

He decided to go for a long shot. “Did you remove the lasers that the coroner set up?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“Who did?” he asked.

Her gaze flicked toward the guard.
She
hadn’t removed the lasers, but the guard had.

When he saw her react to a technicality, Nyquist knew he was talking to a lawyer, probably someone from S
3
.

“I’m Bartholomew Nyquist,” he said.

“I know,” she said flatly.

“The customary response is to introduce yourself in turn,” he said.

She took a deep breath, then released it slowly, as if he irritated her.

He probably did.

“Melcia Seng,” she said. “I work at S
3
.”

“I figured,” he said. “You’re the one who called in the ambulance.”

“Among other things,” she said.

“And you let your new employee here take down our crime scene? That was strange.”

Her lips thinned. She did not respond, which was probably a good thing. It might protect some of the integrity of what Nyquist found.

“Ethan Brodeur is working with me,” Nyquist said, figuring she knew the coroner’s name from all Brodeur had said. “He told me that you have more footage of what happened today. I’d like a copy.”

“So you can destroy it?” she asked.

It was Nyquist’s turn to sigh. “You need to pay attention to detail,” he said. “I asked for
a copy
. You get to keep the originals.”

At least for now. But he wasn’t going to add that. He didn’t want to alienate her any more than necessary.

“We have more,” she said. “A lot more.”

He nodded. “Good. I’d like it all. I will be taking the security video from this building as well. I have a warrant for that. If you want copies of that, I suggest you contact someone right now to copy it for you.”

“No need,” she said. “We’ve been copying and archiving all day.”

Excellent. She told him more than he had asked for, without him posing the question directly.

In other words, they had footage of everything that happened from the moment Zhu showed up on the security footage, carrying his coffee. Nyquist could think of that as a problem—which, considering it was S
3
, he would have thought a few months ago—or he could look at it as a way of protecting his investigation.

Brodeur had told him to get a shadow. He had one, at least on the important information.

It was S
3
itself.

She was studying him. “How do I know that you’ll investigate this case? How do I know you won’t just make it disappear?”

“You don’t,” Nyquist said. “You have no reason to trust the police right now. I saw the same footage you did. It’s clear that whoever killed Torkild Zhu was either a group of police officers or someone who had access to regulation police equipment. Normally, I would be investigating theft of regulation equipment. But I don’t think this case is normal.”

“Why not?” she asked, sounding intrigued even though it was clear she didn’t want to.

“Because Zhu had, in a few short days, become the public face of S
3
. And you folks are interfering not just with a police investigation, but with solving the biggest crimes to ever occur on the Moon.”

“That’s your opinion,” Seng said.

“That’s not just my opinion,” he said. “I think everyone in law enforcement here and off-Moon believes it.”

She squared her shoulders. “What does that matter?”

“Emotions are high here right now. We’ve lost a lot of friends. We’ve been under a lot of strain. We’ve been betrayed by people we trust.”

“Such excuses,” she said.

Anger flashed through him. He did his best to keep it under control. He hoped he didn’t show just how deeply she had gotten to him.

“I’m not making excuses,” he said as calmly as he could. “I’m stating facts. The fact is that S
3
has provoked an already volatile community. Which is why the chief of detectives put me in charge of this investigation.”

“So you can sweep it under the rug?” Seng asked.

“Because I’m the only person she knows who won’t,” Nyquist said.

Seng studied him for a moment, as if she could see through him and know whether or not he was speaking the truth.