Titan Song Dan Stout (top 20 books to read txt) 📖

a second call before the roadie noticed me. “Where’d you get the snack?”

He glanced at the Black Gold candy bar, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “This? Sheena had a bunch.”

“Where is she? I’m dying for something and I’m not gonna get a chance to eat anytime soon.”

He blinked, mind clearly debating whether it was considered a social failure to direct a cop toward a friend, even for a snack. “There’s a cafeteria—”

“That’s for staff only, and the vending machine’s out of order.” I layered on the lies before ending with a plea. “C’mon. Be a pal, huh?”

He pointed toward a tent face I’d missed before, nestled against the side of the outbuilding.

“Thanks,” I said, and waved toward my companions. We had a new destination.

6

WE APPROACHED THE ZIP-UP WALL, the conversation inside clearly evident from our position as we approached.

Unsure where to knock, I tapped the metal door zipper and announced ourselves. “Titanshade PD. We need a word with you.”

Silence, then a deep voice demanding, “About what?”

It was a foolish question, considering that a murder investigation was in full swing. I answered with a single word.

“Bobby.”

There was whispered conversation, then quick, light steps across the plywood flooring as someone approached the door and drew open the zipper. A young Gillmyn’s face appeared, below a head fin that quivered with nervous energy. “Yes?”

Jax took over. “We’re looking into Bobby’s death.” He’d latched on to the success I’d had using the victim’s first name. A reminder to any potential witnesses that the victim was a real person, and the real focus of the conversation, not the resultant investigation or whatever short-term concerns they might have had. “Can we come in and talk?”

We’d already been given permission to search the property, but it’s always a good idea to get permission to walk into a new area where someone feels defensive. Playing the psychology of every potential suspect or witness is a key part of uncovering the truth.

“I don’t know . . .” The man glanced back into the room, lean corded muscles dancing along his neck and shoulder beneath his tight shirt.

“We can talk right here,” I said, “but that means anyone walking by will overhear it.”

It may have been enough to convince them, but Harris chimed in. “I’m sure you want to help us find out what happened to your friend.”

I suppressed a wince. I didn’t like dropping in the term “friend” quite yet. It carried implications that could be easily misconstrued.

The man frowned and his shoulders inched back, as if he were moving from uncertainty to anger, but he stepped away from the door. His shirt was tucked into pants that were tight at the waist and flared dramatically at the legs. The tailoring meant that the fabric echoed and amplified his movements as he stalked back into the room. He moved with a dancer’s grace.

The other occupant was farther in the room. She was also a Gillmyn, and also had a head fin. They looked to have been hired at least in part because of their physical similarities. All the better for symmetrical dance routines.

The pair of Gillmyn eyed us, curious and cautious, the way people tend to look at cops when they think that if they say the wrong thing they’ll end the conversation in handcuffs. Sometimes that’s for a good reason. Often times it’s not—we’re not out to bust people for standing around and talking, we’re interested in the dangerous sources of violence and confusion that can take a person’s sanity and crumple it like yesterday’s newspaper. Whether these two had something to share with us or not still stood to be seen.

I walked to the far side of the tented room, poking at the billowing fabric with the edge of my notepad. Harris and Jax took up seats closer to the dancers, all the better to peer into their eyes and track their stray glances. It was clear that I’d be playing the heavy from across the room.

“So,” Jax began, “you’ve heard what happened to Bobby?”

The woman nodded. “Everyone has by now.”

“What’s your name, and when exactly did you hear?”

“Sheena Kathreese,” she said. “I don’t know when. Do you?” She looked at her companion, who shook his head with vigor, as if that would make him seem more cooperative. It was too late for that. He’d reacted poorly when we introduced ourselves, and he leaned in and angled his body protectively when Jax asked for the woman’s name. Everything about the guy screamed that he was hiding something, and damn nervous about it.

“And what was your name, sir?”

“Michael.” He gave no last name. That may have been because he used a single name, a Mollenkampi tradition that had spread to many other Families in the AFS, or because he was being coy. My money was on the latter.

“Michael what?”

“Kathreese,” he said. His voice ascended at the end of each sentence, turning every statement into a question.

“He’s my brother,” Sheena said, her arms pulled tight to her body. As if she were cold or scared.

“Okay.” I made a show of writing down their names, pressing home that this was official business. “So, Sheena and Michael, you’re not sure when you found out, but can you tell me what you heard?”

Michael said, “We heard he was dead, but, you know, not in some kind of natural way? More like something had happened to him?”

Harris leaned forward, face serious. “We just came from the room where Bobby passed.” He and Jax kept using the victim’s name. If the witnesses cared for the decedent, then that would make them more inclined to help us solve the case. If they were guilty, it would burn their conscience or raise their anger. Anything to help personalize the crime was a benefit.

Michael tossed his head, fin rising and falling, and his shoulders twitched as he spoke. For a dancer who crossed the room with a catlike grace, he had a certain jerkiness about him as he sat on the couch. That could