Harry found a seat outside a quaint little cafe and reviewed the footage Dennis had sent to his slate over coffee and a donut. He found the timestamp he needed easily enough. It showed the slender back of Honey, wearing a revealing dress, entering the self defense shop with a tall, reed-thin man on her arm. The image cut to a cam mounted somewhere above the main counter. In it Honey stepped up to the counter while her boy toy stayed back, conveniently out of range. Harry grumbled. This was someone who knew how to avoid the public feed cams—and had probably dismantled a few in his day. Which meant he had a record. Easy to ID if Harry could run facial recognition, but he knew enough about the station’s camera placements to make that difficult.
Two steps forward, one step back.
Harry hoped to catch a glimpse of the guy as they left, but he ducked his head down like he was making sure his boots were still laced, not avoiding the store’s security cam.
Harry paused the image, then sent one copy of the footage to Maddox and one copy to his desk back at the precinct. Then he swiped over to another screen showing the rendition the slate had made from the description Dennis had given him. It was probably pretty close, but the trouble was a lot of guys on Valhalla looked almost exactly like this: tall, wiry, covered in tats. With the sallow, sunken-eyed countenance of the perpetually downtrodden. He sent that to Maddox too.
Harry heard shouting coming from somewhere up ahead, and he glanced up just in time to see the polished shopkeeper of some high-end boutique or another yelling at a kid who had just made a giant W on the gray plastic post with a can of black spray paint. The kid gave the guy the finger before running off, leaving the guy shaking his fist at the kid while staring at the still-dripping twenty-third letter of the alphabet.
Harry lifted his slate and called it in, then finished his donut. W? That was a new one, but he sensed there was a briefing about it in his immediate future. His slate bleeped at him. It was Maddox.
“While you’ve been up the spine drinking good coffee and chasing dead ends, I’ve been down here doing some actual police work.”
Harry stifled a laugh. “Is that so?”
“I think I fingered Honey’s boy toy.”
Harry snickered. “Please don’t ever say that out loud again.”
“You know what I mean. I think I know who that guy is, or who he’s with. Ever heard of an outfit called the Whisper Guild?”
A shudder fled up Harry’s spine, and he glanced back at the black, hastily spray-painted W that had now dried into solidity. “Maybe. But pretend I haven’t.”
“It’s one of these new labor movements. You know how these workers get. All disaffected and shit. Like they'd rather be toiling away in a lithium mine on some backwater planet, or working a rock hopper. Anyway, these guys are mad as hell and not taking it anymore, if you get my meaning. They’ve been throwing their weight around the various unions, trying to instigate work stoppages. Maybe even a little sabotage.”
“Ugh,” said Harry. “And Honey was in cahoots with these guys.”
“Precisely.” Maddox said it loud and drawn out, like a game show host on one of the feeds. Harry imagined him doing a little dance of triumph over his amazing detective skills.
Harry was suitably impressed, and he felt embarrassed about lecturing Maddox on how the station functioned. At this moment he seemed to have a good handle on things.
“So do you know who her guy is or not?”
“No. But I know where we can find out.”
“Our lead from before.”
“Ding ding. You win the prize.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “And what prize is that?”
“I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
“I see.”
“So you coming or not? Let’s go, partner. Time’s a wastin’.”
“All right. I’m coming. Meet you there.”
* * *
This time Maddox met Harry at the agreed-upon location, a Y-shaped bend where three corridors met. It was nearing the end of one shift and the start of another. Keeping the immortals in the lap of luxury was a non-stop job.
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They saw their guy straight away, presumably returning home, a black nylon tool belt slung over his right shoulder. He managed to look both tired and determined.
When he saw Harry he stopped, but it was too late to veer in another direction. Maddox had already flanked him, coming up behind him and grabbing his left arm, hauling him toward Harry.
“Grayson Steen I presume,” Harry said, flashing his badge. The three-headed dog logo gleamed in the LEDs that illuminated the corridor. “Detectives Gleason and Maddox at your service.”
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“Is there someplace we can talk?”
Feeling conspicuous, Steen nodded. “Follow me.”
He led them back to his place. He unlocked the door with his thumbprint and entered, Harry and Maddox right behind. He tossed his tool belt onto a cot.
“I’d offer you a beverage but I don’t drink with cops.”
Maddox laughed. “Good one.”
“Why is that?” Harry pressed. “What have you got against cops?”
Steen shrugged. “Nothing personally. But you guys are tools of capital to keep labor in check.”
“I see,” said Harry. “Well, I hope you can put your enmity for my career aside and answer a few questions.”
Steen glanced nervously at Maddox, as if expecting him to do something. “Shoot.”
“You were friends with Honey Gomez.”
“So? Honey was a friend to all workers. Her death is a great loss. She was one of us, and one of them too. She wanted to unite us, help us communicate better.”
“You mean you guys and the immortals,” said Maddox.
“Yeah. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
He stared into the middle distance, something approaching grief in his eyes.
“Do you know this guy?”
Harry tugged out his slate and showed the rendition of the guy from the security footage.
Steen scowled, making a show of looking at it without really committing. “I don’t know. Could be Rigel Bennett.”
Maddox yanked out his slate and began checking the station census for that name while Harry proceeded with the old fashioned approach.
“Who’s Rigel Bennett?”
“He’s an electrician,” Steen said. “He’s also big in their union.”
“Is he big in the Whisper Guild?”
Steen opened his mouth but froze, like a vid on pause. After a long moment he said, “I-I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”
“Are you in the Whisper Guild?”
He shook his head, mouth drawn tight like Harry had just tried to get him to eat a spoonful of rutabagas. “Not me, man. Those guys are crazy intense.”
“This him?”
Maddox showed Steen a picture on his slate. “Yeah.”
Steen turned to address Harry. “H-how do you cops know about the Whispers?”
“A couple hours ago I watched this kid paint a black W on station property,” Harry said.
Steen grew fidgety, nervous. He sat on his cot, his long legs putting his knees almost even with his eyeballs and making him look like a folded up tripod. “It’s starting then.”
Maddox moved to loom over him, arms akimbo. “What’s starting?”
Harry subtly touched his partner on the shoulder, hauling him back.
“The Whispers are making their big push. With Honey gone, It’ll be easy. She was gonna help ‘em, ya know? Help all of us.”
“With what?” asked Harry.
“Talkin’ to them.” He pointed an impossibly long finger born and bred in low g at the metal ceiling. “Only the Whispers think the time for talkin’ is over, ya know? They think it’s time for action.”
“What sort of action?” Maddox asked.
Steen gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. “You’d have to ask them.”
“Where were you the night Honey was killed?” Maddox asked.
“At the Kilowatt Club, with my brothers.”
“And witnesses can corroborate this?” asked Harry.
Steen sneered up at him. “Damn straight. Hell, check the cams if you don’t believe me. Plenty of them, even in the workers district. Even ones we can’t see. We know all about ‘em.”
Harry bristled a bit at the guy’s camera conspiracy theory, but thinking there were cameras someplace even when there wasn’t could only make his job easier. “We’ll do that,” added Maddox.
“In the meantime,” said Harry. “We’re pulling your passport. You are not to transport off the station until this case has been solved.”
“Like I can afford it.”
Harry made a show of flagging Grayson Steen as an official person of interest on his personnel file, which would automatically freeze his passport and make leaving the station extraordinarily difficult. Sure, he could sneak off on the next supply shuttle or passenger transport, but he’d have to create a whole new identity, which meant he’d need to spend money he didn’t have. Harry checked his financials. The guy was living pay script to pay script. Unless he had an offworld nest egg no one knew about, he was staying put for the duration even with his passport.
“OK,” Harry said, “I think we’re done here. Have a nice day.”
He patted his partner on the shoulder, urging him toward the door.
“Oh, I almost forgot. If you hear anything about what your Whisper Guild pals are planning, let me know.” He sent his contact information to Steen’s slate, which gave an answering beep from one of the many pockets of his work pants.
“Be seeing ya,” Maddox added as they left.
“You think he’s lying?” Maddox said when the door closed behind them.
“About knowing what this Whisper Guild has planned? Yes. Having an alibi for the night of Honey’s murder? No.”
Maddox looked disappointed. “Well, we still need to check out his alibi.”
“I know. And we will. The K Club will be easy to verify. Lots of people around who would remember a guy like that, and its cameras have cameras. But I don’t like him for this. I think our best bet is still with this Rigel Bennett character.”
“What about that other shit? About this outfit making a big push?”
“Well,” Harry said as they started walking back up the tunnel-like corridor toward the main junction. “If that’s true we’ve got more to worry about than a murderer running around this space station. It’s like Honey was a plug in a dam. With her gone, somebody’s gonna get their head bashed in.”