CHAPTER 011

A SCREAM REVERBERATED

I headed back to my quarters clutching a sack of unseasoned lamb for CAT courtesy of Chef Vatel. When I tried to stop by the kitchen to thank him in the flesh, our server made it clear that he was too busy to accept guests during dinner service. When asked, he skirted the issue of Vatel’s availability but said he’d make sure to pass along my message. I didn’t blame the chef for making himself scarce. Between the immense pressure of accepting such responsibility on short notice, and the inevitable complaints from the impossible to please, I’d think twice before showing my face around the Lunar Express too.

With Tamsworth’s theories still echoing in my skull, I decided to take the scenic route to my room. It would give me extra time to think while his words were still fresh. If CAT complained, I could explain the delay away as time spent on reconnaissance. Showing up with a hefty portion of warm meat in tow would no doubt aid my credibility.

Vance Wilder felt disrespected by Frankie Denaro. It was so simple, so obvious, and yet I had no idea how it tied in to any of the other elements of my investigation. Frankie had treated Harvey as a peer and a friendly business rival, with each representing the pinnacle of their respective field. I remembered when they made a joint public media appearance to address their investors during the unsolicited prototype scandal, allaying any fears that either company was out to get the other. The lawsuit that would follow, they agreed, was purely a matter of protocol and procedure designed to protect their legal interests. In no way was it indicative of any ill will. After all, they had both been victims in the situation. Their enmity was reserved for the rogue engineer who had attempted to forward the illicit prototype. Once they figured out who it was, they promised to pursue the offender with the full force of the law.

Vance had assumed this alliance would convey along with the CEO title, but he was sorely mistaken. Frankie did not feel that Vance deserved his position, that he had put in none of the effort required to be taken seriously. Like Harvey, Frankie had earned every inch of his kingdom through hard work and sacrifice. To pretend like Vance was half the man Harvey had been would be doing a disservice to everyone involved. It would call Frankie’s judgment into question, diminish Harvey’s accomplishments, and legitimize Vance to the point where he would never need to truly prove himself. He wasn’t necessarily against the idea of collaborating with the younger Wilder, but he needed a compelling reason to do so.

That left the question of who provided Vance’s tickets for the Lunar Express. If he’d managed to finagle them himself as part of a revenge scheme against Denaro, hiring me to investigate their origin was a risky gambit. My presence would cement the notion that he was clueless as to the source but was still comfortable taking the trip, but also opened the door for me to expose his charade. Relying on his ability to outsmart me was a bold decision I hoped to make him regret, if it proved to be true.

On the other hand, Denaro himself might have provided the tickets in order to entice Wilder into a position where he could embarrass him, thus establishing their pecking order once and for all. Confining his target to a Luna-bound spacecraft with limited options for deviating from its course provided an excellent opportunity, and the exclusive guest list ensured the act would play out in front of an audience chosen for maximum impact. The damage to Wilder’s reputation would be incalculable.

If this was all a setup from Denaro, it begged a series of new questions. Turning me into a double agent was a shrewd move, but it would also shine the spotlight directly on Denaro once I noticed anything was amiss. Did he expect me to continue giving him updates if I suspected he was involved? Also, how did the other acts of industrial sabotage figure in? Beyond the death of Emilia Benoit and the break-ins at Stellar Engines and James Madison Defense Systems, Tamsworth had mentioned lesser-known incidents at smaller companies like Millichrome and Tauscher-Leto. Denaro was a straight shooter through and through. He might consult with unsavory individuals on matters immaterial to his day job, but there had never been so much as an accusation of impropriety when it came to official business.

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It was getting late. The corridors were relatively empty, with the other passengers split between the various bar and lounge facilities and the confines of their own rooms. CAT could use a jog around the empty common areas and I still needed to touch base with Wilder.

At the far end of the hall someone in a shimmering dress stepped out of their room. I recognized its steel-blue coloring, having registered its similarity to my cobalt Ratifier. It was the almond-eyed court reporter. She was the one person I hadn’t asked Tamsworth about. Not that I would have known how to. Only having a vague physical description to go on would have made identification difficult, even for someone as knowledgeable as Tamsworth.

I broke out into a light jog, the doggy bag jostling in my grip.

“Excuse me, miss, a moment of your time.”

She froze, a deer in headlights. Her escape route in the other direction was cut off by a bellhop struggling to wheel an overburdened luggage cart into the room next to hers. I thought for a second she would try to barrel right past me. Would I stick a foot out and try to trip her? Toss her the leftovers as a diversion? I cursed Matteo for idiotically sending my guns to the baggage compartment, but it wasn’t like I was going to shoot her. Maybe just threaten it? Still probably not.

Fortunately no further action on my part was required. Resigned to her fate, my target waited by her door for me.

“Is there something I can help you with?” There was a French lilt to the softly-spoken question, the inverse to Chef Vatel’s flat enunciation of what I assumed to be her mother tongue.

“I saw you in the courtroom last week, in New York. The Pallana trial. Max Miller.”

Her eyes remained cast at the floor. “Michelle Benoit. For my job, yes.”

“I just thought it was interesting to also run into you here, however many thousands of miles away. That’s quite the coincidence.”

“It’s nothing of the sort. I’m here to work, same as you.” She met my gaze. We both waited for the other to blink first.

That was an interesting reaction. I pressed the issue.

“Who said anything about work?” My mind flitted back to the strategy of pretending to chat her up but it seemed even worse this time around. I let the question stand on its own, adding no further innuendo.

“That’s why you were in the courtroom testifying, to help out Vance Wilder. I can only assume he dragged you along here too. Or is it the Denaros this time? I know all about you and Gabriella. I saw you talking to Matty. I don’t know how you can stand dealing with those lowlifes.”

Her stoic expression was now one of burning defiance. I decided the best way to blunt her contempt was with casual indifference.

“An occupational hazard, I suppose. I’m a private investigator; I follow the money. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m a journalist. I follow the leads. Like you should.”

Well, that backfired immediately.

“I’d be more than happy to. Got any for me?”

“I don’t share my information with a toady for murderers. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Michelle slid past me. Her sparkling pendant necklace swung freely as she marched away.

It could have gone worse, though my standards were admittedly low. To me, establishing direct contact with a subject without physical violence breaking out was a mild victory at worst.

I took out my comex to see what I could pull up on Michelle Benoit. The name sounded hazily familiar. Perhaps I’d come across it in a byline during my research for this trip. Outside the course of my paid duties I tended to avoid the news altogether. It was all so depressing.

As I suspected, there was a plethora of hits tied to her name. To have any hope of a productive search, I would have to narrow the parameters to focus on how she fit in with Stellar Engines and Madison Defense, or more specifically Vance Wilder and Frankie Denaro. The disdain in her voice suggested a vendetta extending far beyond professional matters. That kind of acrimony was reserved for the deeply personal.

I pocketed the comex. There was too much to sift through at the moment. I could catch up from the comfort of my quarters once I’d finished up with Wilder. CAT would be glad for the company, if not just for the treat that was rapidly cooling in the bag.

A scream reverberated down the hallway from around a distant corner.

I hauled ass toward it, my dress shoes dragging in the thick pile carpet. I grabbed at the wall to stabilize myself as I rounded the bend. Michelle stood at the open doorway to a guest suite, shaking but apparently uninjured. Her hands were clamped over her gaping mouth in disbelief. I slowed my pace to a brisk walk, not wishing to alarm her any further.

“Mon Dieu,” she muttered. “He’s dead!”