Aztlan: The Courts of Heaven (10 page)

“There was someone else you should know about,” Malinche said—though she still didn’t look like she entirely trusted me. “Someone Coyotl went out with. She was young.
Very
young. She died. It shook him up.”

“Do you recall her name?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. Wait—Xoque maybe? No. But something like that. Tzique? Yes . . .
Tzique
.”

It was an unusual name. “You met her?”

“No. Coyotl went out with her before I worked for him. But as I say, what happened to her shook him up.”

“Did he say
how
she died?”

“No. Just that it was a tragedy.”

“Last name?” I asked hopefully.

Malinche shook her head. “I don’t think he mentioned one.”

“Tzique,” I said, making a mental note. “If I need to speak with you again, I—”

“You know where to find me.”

On my way back to the rail station, I got a call from Calli. She asked me how I was.

“Tired,” I said.

“Rest up,” she told me. “Tomorrow night, dinner is at my place.”

It sounded good. I said so. “Unless something comes up, of course. And I may not be able to stay long.”

“Who asked you to?”

The next morning, I drew eyes as I walked into the office. After all, I’d been stabbed the day before. Some guys would have taken the day off.

Then again, I was also the guy who had exposed the Knife Eyes. So maybe some of my colleagues were looking at me for a different reason, thinking how nice I’d look with
two
holes in my back.

The first thing I did was search the name Tzique in our Imperial files. I didn’t find a single instance of it—not even one. It occurred to me that it might have been a nickname. If so, we wouldn’t have any record of it.

Too bad, I thought.

Next, I scanned the Mirror for pet dealers. They wouldn’t be open so early in the day, but some of them—especially the ones who carried something as desirable as a ghost dog—would have been in the habit of placing advertisements.

As I made my list, Izel said, “Look at that.”

“What?” asked Quetzalli.

Izel pointed to his monitor with his tea cup, then glanced in my direction. “Betting on the games has gone up by half.”

“Really?” said Quetzalli.

Izel shrugged. “Look for yourself. People are in denial. They think if they bet harder, the Eagles will play harder.”

“They can play as hard as they want,” said Takun. “Without Coyotl, they’re helpless.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Quetzalli, looking anything but amused.

Izel chuckled. “Talk about denial.”

“Watch your tongue,” she said.

“You know,” said Takun, “I’ve got some beans put away. I think I’ll take them to a betting parlor after work.”

“And do what with them?” Quetzalli demanded.

“Hey,” said Takun, “you’ve seen the odds they’re giving. This is an opportunity if ever there was one.”

“To bet against the
Eagles
?” Quetzalli asked. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Well,” said Izel, “the way they’re losing—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Quetzalli insisted. “They’re still the Eagles. They’re still
Aztlan
.”

Takun chuckled. “Suit yourself. I’ll call you from my place in District Fourteen to tell you about the view.”

“Turd,” muttered Quetzalli, returning her attention to her monitor. “No one ever got rich betting against the Eagles.”

Not true, strictly speaking. But it was something Aztlan fans liked to say. After all, we
had
won more championships than any two other teams combined.

Quetzalli glanced my way. “Work harder, Maxtla. I can’t tolerate much more of this crap.”

I said I would do that.

But it had been days since Coyotl disappeared. The chances of his playing for Aztlan again were fading like Tonatiuh over the Western Ocean.

Most pet stores in Aztlan smelled like dirty baby diapers. Not this one. More like a bath house, humid and well-perfumed. By that characteristic alone, I knew it catered mostly to nobles.

Also, most pet stores simply offered water salamanders, guinea pigs, parrots, turkeys, mice, and a few different kinds of fish. A handful of them carried dogs as well.

This one had
three
breeds of dog in its polished metal cages—the Hairless, the Chihuahua, and—all the way in the back of the shop, occupying a place of prominence—the ghost dog.

There were four cages full of them. They were big and white, with long snouts and short hair.

I walked over and stuck a knuckle through the mesh. The dogs climbed over each other to get a lick in.

The guy behind the counter was short and small-boned, with one of those fake smiles you see sometimes in shop people. I disliked him before he even opened his mouth.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in a voice too deep for someone of his frame. He glanced at my wrist. “Investigator?”

“I’m looking for someone who bought a ghost dog from you about eleven moons ago.” I gave him the date. “It would be a noblewoman.”

His smile faltered ever so slightly. “I wish I could help you, but we like to keep our transactions here a private matter—between us and our customers. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m an Investigator,” I said.

“So I see.”

“I’d like to see your records regarding that date. The rest of them you can keep private.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s not possible.”

“You understand that there are laws against impeding an Investigation? Laws that carry substantial penalties?”

“I’ll be protected,” he said. There wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice.

“By whom?” I asked.

“By the person you’re looking for.”

I smiled back at him. “Listen, I’ll just come back with a writ of compliance. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to cooperate. Why not do it now . . .” I looked around the shop. “. . . before the health inspectors come back to find a violation they somehow overlooked?”

I had no pull with the health inspectors, but I didn’t think he would know that. Either way, he didn’t budge.

“Do whatever you feel is necessary,” he told me.

There wasn’t much else I could say except: “I’ll be in touch.”

As I headed for the door, the shopkeeper said, “Know the gods’ favor, Investigator.”

Contrary to his wishes, I didn’t
feel
favored.

M
y next stop was at She Of The Jade Skirt.

It was inarguably the nicest hotel in town, with a gray marble lobby and lavender jade accents, and a carefully controlled cascade of water coating the wall opposite the service counter. One didn’t have to be an Investigator to figure out the clientele was wealthy. One look around was enough.

The woman behind the counter was probably wondering what I was doing there, since I wasn’t blinding her with the reflected brilliance of my jewelry—until I held up my hand so she could see the jewelry I
was
wearing. In other words, my Investigator’s bracelet.

“I’d like to see the manager,” I told her.

She nodded. “Of course.”

A few minutes later, I found myself sitting at a shiny black table in the hotel’s administration office. It was a nice piece, its legs inlaid with strips of turquoise and gold. Of course, the tables in the guest rooms were probably even nicer.

The manager, who sat across from me behind a Mirror monitor, had high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, and the skin of someone had who’d had the pox as a child. He offered me something to drink. I declined.

“How, then, may I help you?” he asked.

“I need to check your records,” I said.

“If I may inquire, for what purpose?”

“I can’t say. It’s an Investigation.”

The manager looked like he wanted to protest. After all, his salary depended on the number of beans the hotel took in, which in turn depended on his keeping his rooms occupied, and discretion was a plus in that regard.

But really, what could he say? Like every other residence in the city, short-term or long-term, the hotel was run by the Empire. And an Investigator had asked him for his cooperation.

“Very well,” he said. Then he called up a screen on his monitor, turned the monitor in my direction, and pushed it across the smooth surface of the table.

“Just select a time frame. The last week, the last moon, the last cycle . . . whatever you require.”

I selected the last cycle. Then I scanned for Coyotl’s name. I didn’t expect it to turn up, not even once. After all, he would have wanted his personal business to remain personal—even if he
hadn’t
been carrying on an affair with a noblewoman.

As it turned out, I was wrong. His name
did
show up. Nearly a hundred times, in fact.

Of course, there was no way to tell whom he had entertained on those dates.

I homed in on one of them and checked the room’s buzzer record. No one who stayed in this hotel bothered to carry a pouch buzzer, so whatever calls Coyotl had made would be noted.

There were three. I jotted down the codes.

I left the hotel, found a quiet street corner, and called each one in turn. The first code turned out to be Oxhoco’s. The second belonged to an executive at a sports manufacturing company, who was worried sick about Coyotl because he’d invested a hill of beans in balls bearing Coyotl’s likeness.

The third code was the most interesting. When I called it, a recording informed me that I had reached a high-priority line. In other words, it belonged to a noble. But I couldn’t determine
which
noble because that information was withheld from the public.

And the fact that I was an Investigator wasn’t going to help.

Funny—I felt like I was making progress, like I was on the right track. I had a witness to Coyotl’s abduction. I had found Malinche. And with a little luck I would find Coyotl’s noble girlfriend.

But really, I was no closer to finding Coyotl himself.

As I thought that, my radio buzzed. I removed it from my pouch and said, “Colhua.”

“Investigator?”

It was a woman but I didn’t recognize the voice. “Who’s this?”

“The person you’ve been looking for. I understand you want to speak with me about Coyotl.”

It was
her
—the noblewoman. I didn’t bother asking how she had gotten my number. She was a noble, after all.

“That’s correct,” I said.

“There’s a place in District Fourteen called The Sleeping Jaguar. Are you familiar with it?”

“No, but I’ll find it.”

“I’m sure you will. I’ll be there at noon tomorrow, sitting at a table in the back. Be discreet.”

“As discreet as is humanly possible,” I assured her.

“See you then,” she said, and ended the connection.

I smiled and thanked the gods.
Finally
.

Back at the office, I told Necalli about my date with the noblewoman. He was impressed.

“Never dated a chocolate drinker myself,” he said. “The gods smile on you.”

“To tell you the truth,” I said, “I’m not looking forward to it.” But then, few commoners had dealt with a noble and come away happy.

En route to my desk, I heard Izel telling one of his stories. “You hear about this guy in Spain?” he asked Quetzalli, peering at his monitor. “Name’s de Borbon. Says he’s descended from Spanish royalty.”

“What’s he after?” Quetzalli asked.