CHAPTER 019

BEHIND THE BAR

I pivoted to slip the grasp and found myself face to face with a stout yet powerfully built security officer in a riot helmet. The nameplate pinned to his barrel chest identified him as Lieutenant Bailey. A charged stun baton hummed ominously from his equipment belt. Two smaller officers, similarly equipped, peeked out from behind his broad frame.

“I was sent to tell you that Mr. Wilder is currently unavailable.”

“Of course he is. What, did he pay you off, too? What kind of piece of shit needs to buy protection from his own security team?”

The success of my performative incredulity rested entirely on how much of my approach they had seen. Stomping through the halls while jabbing the resend and redial buttons on my comex probably did not inspire confidence in my abilities as a protector. I could always chalk it up to concern over Wilder’s unresponsiveness. That was technically true, which in my line of work, was frequently the most useful kind of true.

The guards, clearly not prepared for my hostility, exchanged confused glances. After a moment, Bailey spoke up.

“I wasn’t aware anyone on board was on Mr. Wilder’s payroll, but if he’s hiring, let us know where to sign.” When I didn’t respond to the attempt to lighten the mood, the lieutenant quickly added, “That’s a joke, of course. Mr. Denaro pays us well and keeps us plenty busy.”

“Then who sent you?”

“Captain Fox. He got a report of a heated conversation in the dining lounge and suspected you might be stopping by Mr. Wilder’s suite to, shall we say, get the last word in?” Bailey raised his eyebrows suggestively. The telltale scar tissue marbling his knuckles indicated he’d been involved in some persuasive interrogations of his own. “Now normally we aren’t much for meddling in a guest’s private affairs, but after what happened with Mr. Russo, we can’t be too careful.”

Now I was caught between a rock and a hard place. To openly acknowledge Matteo Russo’s death would go against my agreement with Fox to keep it a secret. I had no idea what cover story had been concocted to explain his absence or how far it had been disseminated through the crew. For all I knew the guards could be testing me on the captain’s behalf. Then again, as Matteo had been acting as the chief of security for the Lunar Express, it would stand to reason that the guards would have been informed before most. At least two of them had direct knowledge of the event already. Rather than tip my hand, I played it close to my vest.

“What exactly happened to Mr. Russo?”

“Oh, I think you’d know a sight better than us rank and file.”

I didn’t see him wink, but I didn’t need to. I could hear it in his words. We supposedly shared a secret understanding, only I had no clue as to its extent. It could be as simple as the mutual understanding that Russo’s murder was privileged information, or another subtle implication that I was the one responsible for the killing. They were getting their orders directly from Fox, who’d spoken the first option aloud and hinted heavily at the second. To complicate matters, I’d still been unable to pinpoint who he thought I was working for. It occurred to me that I was also unable to verify his true loyalties. If he’d been willing to cover for me executing Matteo on behalf of Wilder, and now had sent his forces to protect me from doing the same to Wilder, his long-time relationship with Frankie Denaro might need a second look.

Or I could just be overthinking things again. I’d need to draw more context out of them to be sure. “Would I?”

Bailey scratched his head. “I mean…you’re the detective, aren’t you?”

Either this conversation wasn’t loaded with the subtext I thought it was or I’d lost my ability to read between the lines. In any event, this cloak-and-dagger approach wasn’t getting me anywhere. If being cryptic didn’t work, I’d try the opposite.

“Yeah, that’s me. The bigshot detective. And I have a couple questions I need to ask Vance Wilder as a matter of urgent ship security. So either open the door and save your boss the construction bill or get out of my way.”

Without giving them a chance to respond I turned back to the door, going so far as to dig one dress shoe into the carpet to give me enough traction for a running start. I stalled. Now that some of the adrenaline had burned off, I hoped like hell the guards bought my ruse enough to unlock the door. I was going to look like a real asshole if they didn’t. There was no way I was getting through the gorgeously refurbished woodwork. It might have been old, but it was built to last.

“I’d be happy to unlock it for you, but it’s not going to do you a damn bit of good.”

A bolt of terror streaked through me.

“He’s dead already, isn’t he?”

The bewildered guards again exchanged glances. This time, their confusion was laced with a healthy dose of suspicion. “No. Why would you say that?”

I could not get a clear read on the security guards any more than I could Dillon Fox. Maybe it was something about the uniforms.

“I’m a bit on edge, that’s all.”

“That’s understandable, with everything that’s been going on.”

It was like they were doing it on purpose at this point.

Finally, the lieutenant got to the point. “Last we saw him, Vance Wilder was alive and well. Er, alive at least.”

“Was he injured?” If the killer had gotten to him on my watch, I was fucked. I’d almost preferred he’d have finished the job. At least that way I wouldn’t have to hear about it from Wilder.

“Nothing too bad. I imagine the hangover’ll be the worst of it.”

“Come again?”

“Too much drink’s the only explanation for what he did to the fountain outside the rec room.” Judging from the guards’ shared looks of disgust, I did not want to ask. “Fox has him sleeping it off in the brig.”

“That’s perfect. Take me. I can question him there.”

“Not so fast. Turns out it took a little bit more firepower than we have at our disposal to get him back out of the fountain. Ooh, which reminds me.” With the flick of a switch, Bailey powered off his baton. “Anyhow, doc shot him up with enough tranquilizers to put him down for the count. I can take you to see him, but you won’t be able to do much more than look.”

Not that I had any reason to doubt their story, but upon further inspection I noticed the dark wet patches mottling the guards’ uniforms. Wilder had been in a rare state when I’d seen him at dinner. After causing that spectacle, it was a miracle that only the fountain had suffered.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see him.”

Bailey stepped aside. The guards behind him split apart with military precision to make room for me.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Right this way.”

As promised, Vance Wilder was passed out cold on the bed behind the large one-way viewing panel. Apart from its fishbowl window and the guard posted at the door, which I assumed was locked from the outside, it was impossible to differentiate the brig from any other room on the ship. If anything, it was slightly bigger than mine.

Fox was busy meeting with the overnight flight crew ahead of their shift change. That left Bailey to give me his assurances that Wilder would be well taken care of. Ignoring any auditory winks, I forced myself to accept his pledge at face value. I’d already wasted enough time trying to divine the hidden meanings behind what had so far turned out to be straightforward statements from both him and the captain.

With my lead suspect in custody, and Michelle focused on scouring the manifest for potential accomplices, I finally had the opportunity for a bit of downtime. Sleep was unsurprisingly not an option. I was still buzzing from the abortive encounter at Wilder’s suite. I poked my head into my room to check on CAT and G. Both snored sweetly from a pile on the chaise lounge, no doubt exhausted from the day’s excitement. Their log-sawing was accompanied by a hushed three-pulse tone emitted at long, lazy intervals from G’s device, its screen dimmed and antennas folded inward. I eased the door shut and made my way to the Northstar Lounge.

A nu jazz combo noodled away from a knee-high stage in one corner of the room. Whether by coincidence or design, the percussion of the kitchen’s last rush provided the backbeat for their improvisations. Unlike the main dining room, with its garish lighting and overeager wait staff, the lounge was dim and intimate. The main dining room was where passengers went to be seen and be served; the lounge was where they came to get away from it all. I hadn’t stepped foot in the Northstar since my initial interview with Chef Vatel. Not coming back had been a mistake. With the house lights off, it was a very different place.

Remembering my agreement with Michelle, I tapped out a short message to Tamsworth and then took the next to last seat at the far end of the bar. The exquisitely mustachioed bartender took immediate notice and asked for my order. I scanned the shelves, looking for anything familiar. With this sort of clientele in mind, it was unlikely they’d have any of my favorites. I spotted a label I recognized and couldn’t resist.

“Three fingers of Black Spot, neat. And could you put it on Vance Wilder’s tab?”

“Of course, sir. Leave it open?”

“The bottle or the tab? You know what, make it both.”

The bartender nodded and got to work.

“You’ve got the right idea,” my neighbor at the corner seat chimed in. “Only way to improve upon a fine spirit such as that is to pay for it with someone else’s dime.”

He quaffed the last third of his pint in one go then pushed the empty glass to the business side of the bar.

“Another, chef?” the bartender called without looking.

“Oui, s’il vous plaît.”

“And another Black Spot,” I was surprised to hear myself say. Although I felt like I was fairly generous when it came to taking care of the staff—which Sully would hopefully vouch for—this was a new level for me. But I was in a mood to celebrate, and the backup chef more than deserved it. Besides, it wasn’t like I was the one paying for it anyway.

The mustache deposited our drinks with a flourish before heeding the call of another patron.

“Merci.”

“No, thank you. For taking this gig on such short notice, you knocked it right out of the park.”

“It’s all about having a plan and sticking to it.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” I raised my glass. “To a job well done.”

“Santé. Something you and I might be the only two aboard to know anything about.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”

Vatel chuckled down a mouthful of whiskey. “Sorry. That was just a toast to health. I was speaking of jobs well done. Look around you, detective. How many of these people do you think know anything about enjoying the fruits of their labor?”

I leaned back in my seat to survey the room. I saw plenty of designer clothes, the latest cyberware, and costume-scale jewelry made real. There was also softness, not only of the hands and midsections but of countenances, of world views. They’d never known what it was to be hungry, figuratively or literally.

“Enjoying, yes. Fruits, yes. But labor?”

I felt my eyes going green with envy. I beat back the urge.

“Surely some of these people had to work for their wealth. Right?”

“Oh, I’m sure. Sitting through board meetings, figuring out where to invest their inheritances. It must be backbreaking. As far I’m concerned, the only workers in this room are you, me, and Jerome.” He pointed to the bartender. “And the band, of course.”

“Of course. But what about the back of house?” I gestured toward the open window to the kitchen. “Surely you count your brigade.”

“Ah, but they’re not in this room. As long as they stay back there, they’re forgotten in their own little world.”

Forgotten was the perfect word for it. Like the way that everyone in the dining room had returned to their meals the second Vance Wilder finished with his outburst. Out of sight, out of mind barely seemed to cover it for these people. They could ignore you in plain sight.

The band picked back up and their stage lights kicked in. One flashed off of something shiny in a group that had formed near the lounge entrance. Tamsworth’s head. He’d finally shown up to meet me.

“I think I see the only person here that’s had any complaint about your cooking,” I said, eager to turn the topic to anything other than arguments for class warfare. Whether it was the strength of the Black Spot or the lack of sleep, they were making too much sense.

“Who’s that?”

I tried to point Tamsworth out but he kept getting absorbed into the churning crowd.

“He’s a friend. Oh, there he is.”

Tamsworth emerged from the pack. I tried to catch his attention but he was too busy fussing with his scarf to notice.

“Mind if he joins us for a drink?” I asked, remembering my manners at the last moment.

Vatel was already standing up, straightening his chef’s jacket. “Sorry, I really must be going.”

If rumors of his reclusive nature were true, he must have thought I was luring him into a trap. How thoughtless of me. “I was kidding about the food thing. He just has problems with garlic.”

“And I’m a French chef. We could never coexist.” Vatel slammed the last of his whiskey, finished his beer, and left both glasses where they were. “No, I just need to finish cleaning up and start prepping for tomorrow. The work never ends, as I’m sure you know. But thank you for the drink.”

He disappeared through a curtained doorway behind the bar, leaving the lingering aromas of cigarettes and mirepoix in his wake.

“Didn’t save me a seat?” Tamsworth, his scarf readjusted, didn’t wait for a response. He climbed onto the stool and nudged the empties away from him like they might bite. “I’ll live. Who’s your friend that left the mess?”

I didn’t want to invade the chef’s privacy any more than I already had. “Part of the kitchen staff.”

“Oh. I thought I recognized him but couldn’t place his face. If I’d have known it was a cook, I’d have given him a piece of my mind. You know, I don’t see why they bother asking for allergen information if they aren’t going to use it. I couldn’t touch anything on the table tonight except for dessert. Which was divine, don’t get me wrong, but hardly enough to fill me up. Guess I’ll have to make up for it here.”

While Tamsworth ranted, the bartender approached and patiently waited to take his order. He and I traded raised eyebrows of commiseration.

“Oh! I didn’t notice you sneaking up on me. I’ll have…” Tamsworth flipped a single-page cocktail menu over and back several times. “Actually, you know what? Surprise me.”

The curled ends of Jerome’s mustache twitched, I assumed in compensation for suppressing a powerful eyeroll. He snuck me a sideways glance, as if to ask if this drink should be added to my tab as well. Hoping Tamsworth wouldn’t notice, I responded with a tight shake of my head.

“Another for you, sir?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Jerome nodded courteously and turned to the well-stocked back bar, scouring it for ingredients.

“So nothing for dinner for you then?” When inviting a witness or an informant to meet over drinks, I felt it was only fair to delay business until their libation was in hand.

Tamsworth groaned. “I nibbled on the crust of the tart and even that was risky. It just smelled so good.”

I sucked in my breath. Residual flavors of browned garlic and caramelized onions still dominated my palate. A fresh sip of the excellent whiskey did nothing to dislodge them.

Jerome returned with our drinks: a fresh Black Spot for me, and a coupe glass of murky green liquid for Tamsworth. It bubbled cheerily in spite of its swampwater shade. A fresh rose petal floated on top.

“A Death in the Afternoon,” Jerome offered before he could be asked. “Chilled champagne and absinthe with a splash of simple syrup.”

“How delightful!” Tamsworth exclaimed before having a taste.

“And not a hint of garlic to be found,” I added. “Now that we’re all settled, I have a couple questions for you.”

“Nothing too terribly personal, I hope.” Tamsworth batted his lashes.

“Strictly professional, I assure you.”

“Darn. So much for playing hard to get. Go on then.”

It was strange how quickly I’d become accustomed to Tamsworth’s theatrics. If wielded with less self-awareness, they would have been oppressive. His sardonic commitment to the joke made them oddly endearing, if slightly exhausting.

“What can you tell me about a former Madison Defense engineer named Ted Burke?”

Tamsworth choked on his drink. “Please tell me you don’t think that psychopath is involved in this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Outside of Vance Wilder, he’s the most dangerous person I’ve ever worked with.”