Bronze Gods (4 page)

Higgins set the cup and saucer aside to let the tea cool. “If you’d care to wait, there’s a simple test I can run to determine basic chemical composition.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Wistfully, she considered the comfort of her empty bed, but if ten minutes meant a head start on the investigation the following day, it made sense to keep Higgins company.

The scientist had a number of odd mannerisms as he went about his work, but some of them were endearing, such as the way he bounced on the balls of his feet. Sleepy, she made polite conversation, asking about his family as a matter of course, but he seemed to take it as a profound gesture. Higgins paused, one hand flattened on the counter, as some strong emotion stirred in him.

“I . . . That is, thank you. I didn’t realize you knew my mother was ill.”

Ritsuko hadn’t had a clue, but she said, “I hope she is improved?”

“I’ve taken her to the best physicians, and I do hope for a successful treatment soon.”

“You have all my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Five minutes more of this, and Higgins glanced up from his microscope with an excited air. “It is as I suspected from the aroma and texture. This is a cosmetic, greasepaint. It’s much thicker than you’d usually see, though. Perhaps something a theater or a performing troupe might use.”

She recalled the sewing kit, the intricate fashionable design sketches. “That’s a valuable clue, Mr. Higgins. It gives us an excellent place to begin on the morrow.”

“My pleasure.”

“Good evening,” she said, turning toward the door.

“Miss Ritsuko.” The words came in a rush, as if he couldn’t believe he was speaking them. “I had heard . . . that you are no longer personally . . . that is to say . . . you might be willing to consider walking out with a new gentleman.”

She tried to hide her astonishment. Certainly, she had filed the papers notifying the CID that Warren should no longer be considered her emergency contact, if the worst came to pass in the line of duty, but she never imagined that the gossip mill could churn so quickly. For Higgins to have heard already, people must be talking in all corners. To salve her pride, she pretended not to feel enormous chagrin over the notion of people discussing her private business.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Higgins went on, looking fairly desperate. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You have my deepest and most profound apologies. I—”

Bronze gods, does the man mean to grovel all night?
His green eyes glinted with profound remorse, touched by abject embarrassment. There was something sweet about his desire to maintain her good opinion, however. So she said, “I am often busy with work, but . . . I have Sundays free.”

Her hesitation was, unfortunately, perceptible. It reflected her doubt about his intentions. If he sought to capitalize on her alleged loneliness, then he wasn’t the man she’d thought him to be. And it would be very disappointing.

“At this juncture, you probably aren’t interested in another immediate entanglement,” Higgins said with more acuity than she would’ve given him credit for. “Nor can I afford such with my mother’s health weighing on me. But perhaps it wouldn’t be unwelcome for us to enjoy a more companionable friendship outside of work?”

He seemed to be warning her that he wasn’t looking for a marital alliance. And that was fine with her; the last thing she wanted was a husband, common law or otherwise. Ritsuko didn’t think she had to worry about Cyril Higgins breaking her heart. He was polite, friendly, and had excellent manners, plus a touching devotion to his mother. She could do worse for a casual companion.

“I understand. And I agree.”

Higgins nodded, relieved. “Perhaps we could share luncheon sometime then?”

“That would be most agreeable.”

Cyril Higgins seemed to like her, at least, which was more than could be said of Warren, toward the end. She suspected the only reason he had stayed so long was for fear of admitting to failure and showing he was as fallible as anyone else. He had cared for appearances to the exclusion of practically everything else. People probably whispered in these corridors that she was heartbroken, but in fact, she felt nothing but relief.

“Come visit me again,” he invited, smiling.

“I’ll certainly do that. Good evening, Mr. Higgins.”

Most inspectors would have taken the lift directly to the ground floor and gone home at once. But then, they weren’t female, working twice as hard for three-quarters of the same wage. So instead, Ritsuko went back to her desk and filled out a request form, asking for a complete listing of all licensed and operational theaters and performing troupes currently in the city. With a satisfied nod, she dropped the form into the delivery tube, which she then fed to the access slot that led to the pneumatic whoosh of interoffice mail. She had no doubt the document would be tremendous, but with any luck, it would be in her incoming bin by the time she returned to work the next afternoon.

Sometimes it paid to go the extra mile.

CHAPTER 3

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON,
M
IKANI ARRIVED AT
HQ
EARLY—JUST
in time to start the interviews with the rest of the family. He strolled past the queue of cousins and House hangers-on, entering the room with a quizzical smile. Ritsuko was already pouring tea for the girl’s aunt, who was pale and red-eyed. She looked a good deal like Cira Aevar’s mother, he thought, just a bit older and more worn.

“I’m sorry to put you through this at such a difficult time,” Ritsuko was saying. “But any insight you have could be crucial in locating Cira.”

He sat beside his partner, cracking his senses like a bottle of beer, just enough to let a rivulet of emotion trickle into his consciousness. Anna Aevar was distraught, worried about her niece. Mikani sat silently and gathered impressions while Ritsuko asked all the pertinent questions. At the end of the session, he shook his head subtly to indicate the woman wasn’t hiding anything. They went on in such fashion for an hour, until Cira’s cousin stepped in.

She was a sly-looking creature with fine brown hair and a narrow face complete with deep-set eyes. Though she said all the right things, she exuded a quiet satisfaction, as if Cira’s disappearance was no more than her just desserts. Mikani nudged Ritsuko’s foot with the tip of his cane to indicate there was something wrong.

His partner broke from the prepared questions, leaning forward to spear the young woman with a stern look. “Miss Aevar, why don’t you simply admit that you’re hiding something? Your prevarications cannot fool the CID.”

The girl’s face paled. “There’s nothing, I swear.”

But sweat beaded on her prominent brow, and Mikani’s sense that she had a secret intensified. So he broke protocol and joined the interrogation, thinking she might find him more intimidating. “You do realize that we are at liberty to detain you at our discretion.”

“My grandfather would never let that happen,” the girl cried.

“Let’s call him down here to ask,” Ritsuko suggested coldly. “When I tell him that we believe you’re concealing key evidence relating to your cousin’s disappearance, do you think he’ll be inclined to protect you?”

“Cira’s always had everything, and she didn’t appreciate
any
of it.”

Mikani exchanged a look with his partner, wondering if this girl had a hand in her cousin’s vanishing act. “Prove your innocence. Tell us what you know.”

“I don’t know everything,” the girl whined. “Only whispers. My mother said Cira was involved in something Grandfather wouldn’t approve of, and her mother was covering it up. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Ritsuko glanced at him for confirmation. At his thoughtful nod, she made a note, and said, “Thank you again, Miss Aevar. You may go.”

“We definitely need to interview Cira’s mother again,” Mikani noted when the girl stepped away. “If the cousin’s correct, and Mistress Aevar is hiding something, we need to find out what.”

“Let’s ask the commander to set it up before we start canvassing theaters.”

“Great job on the greasepaint lead,” he said, pushing to his feet.

Ritsuko smiled. “It helps when a lab specialist likes you.”

They spent the remainder of the evening canvassing, covering three theaters, where nobody had heard of Cira Aevar, though they had, of course, read about the poor girl in the newssheets. Past a certain hour, however, the CID went to a skeleton crew, and they had to spend the wee hours responding to other calls. Yet there was no question that this case would be top priority until they closed it.

The following day was Sunday; normally they took the day off, but with a case this pressing, they had to work straight through. Mikani waited for Ritsuko at the Royale, the next stop on their master list of places where Cira might’ve come into contact with greasepaint. Age left its mark on the walls of a place, and the theater was among the few structures that had survived the renovations of the previous century. Its dome design and marble columns bespoke classical origin, unaltered over the years.

He lit a slender cigarillo, summoning a thin shroud of sweet smoke to the lobby. As he dragged on the laced tobacco, he glanced about the hall and spotted his partner coming toward him. Nothing about her ever changed. Same charcoal wool tailored suit and split skirt, same polished case. Her hair shone like black silk, and her expression was pleasant, if not delighted. Some people got stuck with lazy partners or surly ones; occasionally other inspectors commiserated with him on being saddled with a woman, but he wouldn’t trade her for three men.

“This must be a record,” he observed, referring to his earlier arrival.

“I went to HQ first to pick up a few things. I intend to take samples from their makeup kits.”

“Speaking of . . . the Old Lady’s getting a cosmetic lift.” He gestured toward the cans of paint and scaffolds scattered against the velvet-covered walls. “Handymen, stagehands, and carpenters . . . someone just added a few dozen suspects to our list.” Despite it all, though, he felt almost cheerful.
If nothing else, it keeps things interesting.
“A convenient coincidence.”

There are no coincidences.
Someone had told him that once.

Ritsuko glanced from the plush rug, threadbare around the edges, to the faded gilt trim of the moldings. For a moment, she watched two men struggling with the tacks that secured the runner in place. Mikani studied her as she watched them, absently trying to work out if he had ever remained in contact with a female this long before. His partner called him an unrepentant rake, but it was more like he lacked a key piece, preventing him from forming lasting attachments in the customary sense. That lack led to growing anger, frustration, and eventual hatred or resignation from those he tried to share his life with. He was left, as often as not, with a faint befuddlement as to where it had all fallen apart and a growing list of farewell notes. A list from which he hoped, one day, to discern the shape and heft of whatever it was he could not see.

“The place needed it,” she said, snapping him from his reverie. “Wonder where the money’s coming from. Last I knew, this place was going under. They haven’t had a full house in over a year. Not since the accident.” She seemed to notice his astonishment, explaining, “Warren was on the board until Leonidas the younger took over. Warren doesn’t like him.”

“I didn’t realize you knew so much about the theater.”

She shrugged. “It was Warren’s passion, but I absorbed a few things.”

“What accident . . . ?”

“Leonidas’s parents were killed in a steam-carriage mishap, and he was dreadfully scarred. I’ve heard he has rooms in the Royale, rarely leaves the premises.”

“Dramatic.”

Ritsuko showed a gleam of amusement. “I also understand he dons a mask whenever he must deal with the public. How’s that for theater?”

“Impressive,” Mikani admitted.

Ritsuko gestured toward the auditorium. “Shall we?”

“We should.” He shook his head, dismissing the strange sense that he didn’t know his partner as well as he’d thought. Odd that he’d never contemplated what her interests might be, outside of work. Teasing her about Warren hadn’t fallen under the heading of real life, somehow. “We need to talk to the owner and whoever is putting on this show.”

As he tugged open the heavy doors and stepped into the hall, a familiar wrongness pulled at his senses, leaving him vaguely nauseous, but the back-row seats were empty. Echoing silence above spoke of no hidden audience in the box and season seats, either.
That makes sense, if it is a new rehearsal.
Behind him, Ritsuko commented on the renovations, to which he responded with a noncommittal grunt as he started down the aisle. Upon the stage and all around it, performers stretched and spun.

The black curtain was down in the rear, and the stage lights glowed, making it hard, if not impossible, for anyone up front to note their entrance.
Just as well.
The faint hum of corruption swelled as he neared the front of the theater. Excitement and stress drifted through him, overwhelming more subtle emanations.

The performers didn’t notice their arrival; their attention seemed focused on someone offstage. A mellifluous female voice gave detailed instructions as to how the dancers had gone wrong in their last attempt to master her choreography. Mikani listened for a few seconds, filtering impressions and doing his best to ignore the dancers’ ebb and flow of emotion, frustration, elation at the simple joy of performance.

Then he stepped forward, clearing his throat. He had credentials in hand, the badge glimmering in reflected light. “Good afternoon, madam. If I might be so bold?”

There was no need to check on Ritsuko. By the time the woman reached them, his partner had ID packet in hand as well. Mikani could always count on her. She’d fought hard to take her place in the force, despite quiet prejudice against female officers.

Now standing in the spotlight, the choreographer peered into the shadows before the stage. She wore a simple black leotard with a long black skirt wrapped around slim hips. Dark brown hair twisted atop her head in a simple chignon, revealing the elegant line of her neck. She had lovely green eyes and a porcelain complexion; it was beyond Mikani
not
to notice such things about a woman even if he had no interest in anything beyond physical assessment. Some women possessed an ageless quality where it became impossible to tell if they were thirty or fifty, and this woman owned it. At first glance, she seemed youthful, but something in her eyes made him rethink the judgment, which also hinted at strong Ferisher blood. He made a mental note to check her background.

He sensed something about this female. Or more accurately, he sensed too much about her: she overflowed with presence, palpable, sharp, and sweet.
Damned if I can put a name to it, though.
It might be nothing more than powerful fey lineage. Those from the most potent bloodlines could create a fascination glamour, but he had no sense of a conscious effort to try to befuddle him—not that it would work. A few particularly gifted felons had tried over the years, and he’d proven more or less immune to it, much to their chagrin.

The woman looked harassed for a moment, then she appeared to realize that she wasn’t being interrupted by one of her own. “Of course. That is . . .” The brunette called to the dancers, “That’s dinner. Come back in an hour.”

En masse, the performers relaxed. A few filed out, presumably to find an eatery close by, while others wandered backstage to claim whatever they’d brought from home. A few people found seats at the edge of the stage and others reclined in the seats, legs stretched out. Soon, the air not only smelled of sweat, sawdust, burning glass, and wet paint, but also of meat and cheese, fresh fruit and bread. Coffee and chocolate added to the mix until the odors all but overwhelmed Mikani. He tamped down his senses, the throbbing at the back of his skull strangely eased by the woman’s proximity.

Once the initial rush of movement passed, the choreographer faced them again. “I have an office of sorts, backstage. I sense this discussion would be best conducted in private.” With that, she led them up the stairs and across the stage through the wings.

•   •   •

I
T’S COMFORTING
,
R
ITSUKO
thought,
to have an established routine.

She and Mikani didn’t need to confer to know that she’d handle the verbal questioning while he scanned for inconsistencies and overall impressions. She followed the other woman into the back room, overflowing with battered shelving, boxes of costumes and props slated for repair, and a scarred desk. The choreographer perched on the edge of the desk, drowning in papers, which she edged aside with one hand. There was nowhere for them to sit, but it was probably better to keep it formal anyway.

“I suppose introductions are in order. I’m Aurelia Wright, the director and choreographer.” That confirmed what Ritsuko had already gleaned.

For once, her partner performed the courtesies himself, not letting his eyes glaze over just yet. “We apologize for interrupting your rehearsal. I am Inspector Mikani, and this is my partner, Ritsuko.”

She stepped forward, taking his cue. “We’re following a lead in an ongoing investigation and were wondering if you would be so kind as to answer a few questions?”

Miss Wright replied, “I don’t mind. According to the dancers, it was past time for them to have a break.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated, I assure you,” he said.

Ritsuko opened her notepad, eager to get started, as there was a host of cast and crew left to question. “When did you set up the show?”

“About a month ago,” Miss Wright answered.

She made a note. “And who are your backers?”

It was clear the choreographer was turning over the questions mentally. Her frown deepened. “The show has no backers, per se. It’s an independent enterprise sponsored by the Royale’s owner and myself.”

Ritsuko paused, her attention caught. From what Warren had told her, it was common for a group of financiers to be involved with such an endeavor. Whether that anomaly was significant, she couldn’t yet say. “That’s a substantial investment.”