Odd Girl Out

  “I didn’t have a run-in with them,” I explained patiently. “They tried to serve me with a trumped-up warrant and my legal representative politely invited them to take a hike.”

  “So I gather,” Bhatami said. “They called in for a new warrant, which was subsequently issued.”

  “Which I was never served.”

  “Because both officers subsequently vanished.”

  “Which I know nothing about,” I said. “Allow me to point out I’ve been on New Tigris less than a day, hardly enough time to work up a good grudge against anyone, let alone a pair of cops just doing their duty. Furthermore, there must have been twenty people who observed Sergeant Aksam and Officer Lasari accost me in the restaurant. If any of them had a grudge, they would have seen me as a gift-wrapped patsy.”

  “Facts which also have not escaped my notice,” Bhatami agreed. “But the serious nature of the information requires that we make inquiries.”

  “I suppose,” I said, looking over his shoulder again as the door opened and a newcomer shambled into the bar. Caught up in his own thoughts, or else blurred by his blood alcohol level, he got a full three steps inside before he noticed the cops lining the walls around him.

  He jerked in shock and skittered nervously in a wide circle around the two nearest ones, keeping a wary eye on them as he backed hurriedly toward the bar. He looked toward me, his eyes narrowing as he peered at the evident object of the cops’ attention. As he did so, he lifted his closed fist, thumb extended upward, toward his face. He dabbed the tip of his thumb at the corner of his mouth, the hand wiggling slightly as he did so.

  Only then, as I gazed into his eyes, was I able to pierce the layer of grime and sweat and recognize McMicking’s face.

  McMicking’s face, and a wiggling fist with thumb extended upward. The sign-language symbol for ten.

  Ten cops? Ten minutes?

  Ten seconds?

  McMicking turned away and continued his shambling walk toward the bar. “But there’s no reason we can’t be comfortable, is there?” I asked, looking back at Bhatami. “Let’s sit down.”

  Before the two cops flanking me could react, I took a step backward to the Fillies’ table and sat down in the chair the Human arm wrestler had recently vacated. “Lieutenant?” I invited, gesturing Bhatami to the other empty chair as the two cops hurriedly moved back to my sides.

  Bhatami looked pointedly at the two Fillies still seated at the table. “I think we’d do better to have this convers—”

  From somewhere outside came the muffled thundercrack of an explosion.

  Automatically, every head in the room spun that direction, every eye probing the half-dozen frosted windows for signs of what had happened.

  And with their attention momentarily elsewhere, I pulled the damning contract pen from my jacket and dropped it, point down, into the open dilivin bottle.

  Quickly but casually I pulled my hand back again, glancing at the two Fillies at the table and the one still standing nearby. If any of them had spotted my gambit and yelled for the cops, there might still be time to retrieve the pen before the witch’s brew in the dilivin destroyed all traces of the murdered cops’ blood and my own fingerprints.

  But the Fillies weren’t yelling, or even looking accusingly at me. All three of them were staring straight ahead, their necks stiff, their eyes glazed over, their lower jaws trembling in the classic Filly indicator of extreme emotional agitation.

  And I suddenly realized what McMicking had done. The explosion that had so neatly distracted the bar’s attention had been the car with the two dead cops inside. Probably not coincidentally, the blast had also fried the hidden Modhran coral, creating a surge of pain and shock that had kicked back through the group mind connection into my three agitated Fillies.

  I looked at the bar, where McMicking was staring in the direction of the explosion with everyone else. His eyes flicked sideways to meet mine, one eyelid dropping in a sort of half wink.

  I inclined my head microscopically. Whether he’d deliberately intended it or not, his stunt had just pulled the other half of my bacon out of the fire. With the car probably now blazing away, any traces of DNA that the contract pen might have left in the cops’ chests were rapidly disintegrating into their component atoms.

  Bhatami recovered first. “Bomb squad and fire department,” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward one of the cops beside me. “You—stay with him,” he told the other, the jabbing finger shifting to me. Turning, he raced for the door.

  It was the signal for instant mass chaos, with everyone in the bar either shouting, gasping, or clawing their way toward the door to see what was happening out there. A minute later, the only ones left in the bar were me, my police escort, the Fillies, the bartender, Karim, and about a dozen men already slumped in their chairs or collapsed across the bar in dilivin-induced slumber.

  And, of course, McMicking.

  I looked at the Fillies. All three were looking back at me now, their eyes blank in a way that sent a shiver up my back. “I hope that didn’t hurt too much,” I said.

  It was probably the wrong thing to say. Slowly, deliberately, one of the Fillies reached into his tunic and pulled out his contract pen. Staring into my face, he turned it around in his hand, gripping it like a knife—

  “Is there a problem?” the cop standing behind me asked.

  The color of the Filly’s blaze paled a bit, his eyes coming back to normal focus. “Problem?” he asked. He looked at the pen in his hand as if wondering how it had gotten there, and tucked it away again. “No. There is no problem.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the cop said. “Maybe you and your friends should move to a different table.”

  The Filly looked at me. Then, without a word, he and his companion climbed off their chairs, and the three of them walked over to a table across the room. They settled themselves around it, one of them facing me, the second facing the door, the third watching Karim behind the bar.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly to the cop.

  “Save it,” he muttered back. “If I find out you killed Aksam and Lasari, I’ll take you apart myself.”

  I sighed. Clearly, I still had the knack of making friends wherever I went.

  Someday, I really should work on that.

  TEN

  Over the next half hour or so the bar’s patrons dribbled back in, talking in the subdued tones of people who’ve just seen something horrific. At the same time, though, I could sense the excitement and relief that something had happened to shake up their otherwise boring routines. This evening, I guessed, would be fodder for barroom conversations for months to come.

  Still, despite the excitement, the free dilivin continued to take its toll. Soon after returning to the bar, most of the patrons began wandering back out again or else joined the ones already snoring away. McMicking was one of the latter group, pillowing his head on his folded arms on the bar.

  By the time Bhatami returned, the place was down to the sleepers, the Fillies, me, and maybe four other conscious patrons.

  The lieutenant looked tired and angry and bitter. “I take it whatever happened out there wasn’t good news?” I suggested as he pulled out one of the chairs at my table and dropped into it.

  He tried to glare at me, but fatigue was starting to overwhelm the anger and all that made it out past his eyes was a sort of pensive annoyance. “We found Sergeant Aksam and Officer Lasari,” he said, glancing up at the cop still standing guard over me. “Or what was left of them.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I will point out, though, that I was right here when that blast went off.”

  “Which means nothing at all,” Bhatami pointed out grimly. “Actually, it means nothing in two different directions. If the investigators find the remains of a timed fuse, it won’t matter where you or anyone else was when the car was actually set on fire.”

  “True,” I conceded. “What’s the other direction that it won’t mean anything?”

  His eyes were ste
ady on me. “We’ll have to wait for the full postmortem to be sure,” he said. “But the preliminary exam indicates they may both have been killed before the fire started.”

  I pursed my lips. “Any idea how?”

  “Not yet,” Bhatami said. “But we’ll find out.” He cocked his head. “Meanwhile, what exactly are we going to do with you?”

  I shrugged. “Well, frankly—and I’d say this even if it wasn’t me—I don’t see that you have any legal grounds for detaining me.”

  He snorted. “Please. A good prosecutor can always find grounds to detain someone.” He raised his eyebrows. “Such as if you impeded our investigation by, say, refusing to give me the name and whereabouts of the legal representative you mentioned earlier.”

  With an effort, I managed not to look at McMicking. “His name’s Joseph Prescott,” I said. “I don’t actually know where he is right now.”

  “What’s his number?” Bhatami asked, pulling out his comm.

  I gave him McMicking’s number. There was no point in stalling or pulling a fake one out of the air—Bhatami could easily confiscate my comm and get the real number from my call record.

  “Thank you,” he said, punching it in.

  There was, of course, no telltale ring from the other end of the room. McMicking was way too professional to walk around with his comm on anything except silent mode. Bhatami listened half a minute, then keyed off and put away his comm. “No answer,” he said. “Your lawyer keeps odd hours.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” I said, as if that explained it.

  He pursed his lips, studying my face. “Let me see that Hardin Industries security card.”

  I pulled it out and handed it over. For a minute he just sat there, his eyes tracing across every word and copyproof squiggle on the thing. “I don’t know much about Hardin Industries,” he said at last, handing it back. “But a person doesn’t get to be a multitrillionaire without having good people on the payroll.”

  He looked me square in the eye. “Do you know what happened to Sergeant Aksam and Officer Lasari?”

  I hesitated. How much of this mess did I dare tell him?

  Not much, I reluctantly decided. “I have a theory,” I said. “But I don’t have anything solid to back it up.”

  He cracked about a tenth of a smile. “Don’t worry, there aren’t any defense attorneys present,” he said. “Let’s have a name.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Fillies had abandoned even the pretense of conversation. “Sorry,” I told Bhatami. “I can’t throw names around without proof.”

  “Even under threat of an obstruction charge?”

  “Even so,” I said.

  “Is he a friend, then?” Bhatami persisted.

  I snorted. “Hardly.”

  “An acquaintance? An enemy?”

  “He’s certainly not a friend,” I repeated.

  Bhatami’s lip twisted. “This is not what I would consider cooperation.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. “But right now, this is the best I can do.”

  He nodded and stood up. “I trust you won’t try to leave New Tigris until this matter is settled?”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I like it here.”

  He snorted gently at that one. “In that case, I’ll say good night.” He caught the eye of the cop still standing behind me and nodded toward the door. “One other thing,” he went on as the cop headed across the floor. “The two dead police officers in the burned-out car? Their sidearms were missing.”

  I remembered to demonstrate some surprise and shock. “Both of them?”

  He nodded. “And both men’s extra clips, too.”

  “I don’t suppose you had security trackers on the guns.”

  “We did,” he said. “They’ve been disabled.” He raised his eyebrows a little. “If you give me a name, I can offer you protective custody. You and any of your associates.”

  One of the Fillies at the table behind him had a hand in his tunic, his fingers resting somewhere in the vicinity of the tailored pocket where they typically kept their contract pens. Like I’d needed a reminder. “Sorry,” I told Bhatami. “Not until I can also hand you some proof.”

  “Then it appears we’re at an impasse,” Bhatami said. “Good luck, Mr. Donaldson.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I doubt I’m going to have very much of that unless you give me back my gun.”

  Bhatami shook his head. “Sorry. As I said earlier, your carry permit has been revoked.”

  “And as I said earlier, Mr. Veldrick has no authority to do that,” I reminded him.

  “You’re welcome to argue that in court tomorrow,” Bhatami assured me.

  “I may not make it to breakfast, let alone judicial office hours,” I said. “Besides, if I’m not mistaken, the burden of proof is on Mr. Veldrick to show he can issue such an order, not on me to prove that he can’t.”

  Bhatami eyed me a minute. “You really believe your life is in danger?”

  I nodded. “Mine, and the lives of several others. At least two of whom are New Tigran citizens.”

  Slowly, he pulled the Beretta from his belt. “We have severe punishments here for the misuse of firearms,” he warned as he set it down on the table in front of me.

  “I’ll try very hard to keep innocents out of the line of fire,” I promised.

  “Nice to know Hardin’s employees have a sense of civic responsibility.”

  “Hardin’s employees hate filling out paperwork,” I corrected.

  That one got me nearly half a smile. “Ex-cop?”

  “Ex-Westali,” I said. “Same thing, but with a more casual dress code.”

  He snorted. “Good night, Mr. Donaldson.” Turning, he strode to the door and left.

  I looked at the three Fillies as I picked up the gun. “Your turn,” I invited, nodding toward the door.

  “You have this one final chance, Human,” Comet Nose said. “Take the female and leave.”

  “The Abomination is mine to deal with,” I told him. “That was the agreement.”

  “Then you may not live out the night.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “On the other hand, if I die there are others who can take my place. What about you?”

  All three Fillies smiled, three copies of the same identical expression. “I am everywhere,” he said.

  “Not on New Tigris you aren’t,” I reminded him. “If I nail all your walkers, you’re out of it.”

  The smiles vanished. “The Abomination must be destroyed,” Comet Nose insisted.

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” I said. “Good night, Modhri. Feel free to never drop in again.”

  Slowly, the three Fillies stood up. With a final, lingering look at me they walked single file to the door and out into the night.

  I took a deep breath. “You okay?” I asked Karim.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice dark. “Did I just hear you challenge them to a firefight? In my bar?”

  “It did sound that way, didn’t it?” I admitted. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” he demanded. “Sorry? Compton, does this place look even remotely defensible?”

  He had a point. Except for the office, the bar was a single room, a wide-open floor plan filled with tables and chairs that weren’t nearly heavy enough to stop police-caliber thudwumpers. The only serious cover was the wooden bar itself, and that was all the way at the rear.

  There was only the single door, which theoretically was to our advantage. Unfortunately, there were also large frosted windows along that same wall, any one of which could be turned into a brand-new entrance with the application of a single thudwumper round. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lied.

  There was a sudden rattling of glassware from the other end of the bar as the bartender tried to juggle the shot glasses he was pretending to clean. “You all right?” I asked him.

  “Sure,” he said, the word coming out like the air from a popped balloon. “Sure.”
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  “Go home, Dawid,” Karim told him. He looked sideways at me. “Unless you think . . .?”

  “No, it’ll be all right,” I said. “Whatever they’re planning, they’ll wait until most of the potential witnesses have toddled off to bed.”

  “I suppose,” Karim said. “Go, Dawid. Go now.”

  The bartender didn’t need any encouragement. Dropping his apron on the bar, he headed for the door.

  I did, too, getting there before he did. “As long as you’re opening the door anyway, I want a look around,” I said, stepping behind him and gesturing him forward. “Go on.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me, probably wondering if standing directly in front of the Fillies’ prime target in dim light was something he really wanted to do. But hanging around a soon-to-be battlefield wasn’t much better. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door.

  We were met by silence. “Keep going,” I prompted, giving him a nudge.

  Hesitantly, he stepped out of the doorway into the full glow of the streetlights. If the Fillies were already set up, I knew, this would be the time for them to try to take me out.

  But there was nothing but more silence. The bartender, apparently also noticing the lack of gunfire, got his feet moving again, and within a few seconds he was out of my line of sight. I gave the area a quick scan, then closed the door again and locked it.

  “Well?” Karim asked.

  “They’re not shooting yet,” I told him. “Go get Bayta, will you?”

  “All right.” He took a couple of steps toward the office door, then frowned. “What about them?”

  “What about who?”

  He waved a hand over the slumbering customers. “Them.”

  “If you want to cart them all outside, be my guest,” I said. “But first go get Bayta.”

  He glowered, but headed into the office without further comment. I crossed to the bar beside McMicking and waited until I heard the creak of the opening trapdoor from the other room. “You want to be carted outside?” I murmured.

  “Not unless he wants to cart me at least a block away,” McMicking murmured back, lifting his head from his folded arms. “Lying on open ground in the middle of a firefight is considered unwise.”