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

The next problem was that the rig was private property, existing outside of the city’s jurisdiction. I had no reason to make an appearance and no authority if I did. Unless someone called and asked for it. I had one more stop to make.

“Hey, Trevor,” I said, standing in the doorway of the NICI training center. “I was wondering if you could do me a quick favor?”

I’d spent several painful days in that windowless room of flickering monitors, while Trevor tried to teach me the basics of the National Index of Criminal Investigations. I’d never achieved even borderline competence, but Trevor and I had come to an uneasy truce—he stopped trying to teach me, and in exchange I didn’t remind him that there were, in fact, people who didn’t relish the coming digital revolution.

“Depends what it is.” Trevor leaned back in his seat. He had a protein shake on his desk, and his left hand compulsively worked a grip strength squeezer. The Gillmyn’s obsession with personal fitness even extended to his hand muscles.

“Well, I wanted to see if any complaints had been filed with the TPD about activity at the Dinah McIntire concert.”

“Wouldn’t you already know?” The grip strengthener’s spring added a rhythmic mechanical squeak to our conversation.

I’d been working on the assumption that there’d been no complaints called in to the TPD, simply because I hadn’t heard anything about it. But the Bullpen would only get involved with someone getting stabbed in the crowd, or intentionally run over in the parking lot. There were a lot more reasons to complain to the cops that stopped short of homicide.

“I want to see what all the different departments have gotten,” I said.

His eyes lit up. “Now that,” he said, “definitely calls for NICI. I’m glad you came to me, little man!”

I hadn’t been called ‘little man’ since—well, since the last time I’d seen Trevor.

He stood, white muscle shirt showing underneath his open collar. “Not to worry. T-Bone’s got you covered!”

“That is great,” I said. “Really great.”

We went through a listing of calls, cross-referencing the ones made to the various departments and searching for key words McIntire, Shelter in the Bend, and music festival. It wasn’t perfect, but it did what I needed. Before long, I had a litany of complaints from callers who’d been offended by everything from public exposure to drug use to littering. There was even one call reporting too many people in one spot, and that it was sure to bring the ice plain crashing down around them. I wondered if the caller had thought of the massive city to the south, Titanshade’s teeming millions and countless tons of building materials. Then I wondered if they’d been justified when the city collapsed in on itself with the sinkhole. I tried not to think about it after that.

Eventually I had everything I needed, and thanked Trevor.

“You got it, little dude!”

As grateful as I was, I kind of hated him right then. But I kept my mouth shut and took the printouts of the various complaints. I contacted Dispatch to notate the fact that I’d be going out on runs for them, and headed north on a complete fishing expedition. It probably wasn’t the kind of thing I’d get fired for. But it sure as Hells wouldn’t make it less likely, either.

I rode out in the snow-runner, the heat going full blast and the radio turned off. I had hours to think about what I’d do when I got there. I still ended up arriving without anything even remotely approaching a plan.

The ice road was far more worn down than the last time I’d made the trip, with private vehicles and chartered buses creating ruts that now jostled and jolted me. When I arrived at the Shelter in the Bend rig site, I found that the whole place looked more battered than I remembered. Sections of snow and ice were discolored, and trash and debris whipped around in lazy circles, trapped by the wind or frozen to the ice plains surface. Icicles hung from temporary shelters, and snowdrifts settled in the curves of the tent, pulling the fabric dangerously taut. I wondered how long it would be before the icy desert surrounding Titanshade reclaimed the festival site for its own.

I idled the snow-runner at the gate as the security guard leaned out from the small shelter toward my window, his breath lining his beard with ice crystals even in that brief exposure.

“Tickets or pass, please.”

I badged him and pointed at the rig. “Need to get in and do a sweep of the area.”

“Were you . . . I haven’t heard about this. Were you called in?”

“I go where I’m sent, pal.”

“I don’t know. Wait here. I need to radio about this.”

He looked for the radio and I halted him with a quick, “Hey! You can call anyone you want, but there have been multiple requests for police involvement from Titanshade citizens. I don’t want to be out here, and the quicker I get in, the quicker I go home. So you call whoever you want, but I’m not waiting around for you to do it.”

“It’s my job.”

“It’s your temporary job. You don’t look like you rolled up here with McIntire’s crew. So you’ll be here when they’re gone. Unless you want to deal with an ongoing headache of impeding a criminal investigation, I suggest you let me pass.”

“Imp’s blades,” the guy hissed through gritted teeth. “Fine, go on in. Someone’ll meet you at the gate and escort you inside.”

I pulled past him, heading for the parking lot around the side, where I hoped to be out of sight of anyone waiting on me at the front gates. The grounds were packed, and it took me some time to find a parking spot. I scanned the tent lines and the few outbuildings that existed outside the billowing fabric of the tents, searching for telltale signs of a closed-circuit camera