The Dark Side (17 page)

“It's from a printout message delivered by an anonymous courier to the offices of the
Tablet
,” Justus says. “We're gonna need Forensics to examine the original for fingerprints, DNA, ink signatures.”

“I'll get it from the
Tablet
,” Carvalho offers.

“I've already done so,” Justus says, to everyone's surprise. “Along with DNA samples from all those at the newspaper who've touched it. And I've got a positive ID on the courier who dropped it off at the desk. But for now it's safe to assume that the senders themselves were professional enough not to leave any obvious traces. I'll get to the contents of the first message in a moment, but what's more important right now is the
second
message, which the
Tablet
—being the responsible news organ it is—has so far refrained from publishing.”

“
Second
message?” asks Chin, scratching his ear.

“It's no secret—it was mentioned in the article.”

“Well, what's it say, sir?”

“It identifies the explosive used as a mixture of ammonium nitrate and propane. It lists the quantities required very accurately. So either the senders have some sort of direct involvement in the bombing or they've been availed of inside information.”

Pfeffer grunts. “Not saying there's been a leak in the PPD?”

“Just covering all bases,” says Justus. “Anyway, I'm no counterterrorism expert, but I'd have to say it more likely indicates that
the senders are genuinely involved. So that leaves the substance of the first message itself, and what we can read into it.”

He glances up at the screen.

“First of all,” he says, “there's the name of the group itself—The People's Hammer—a name I gather has never been heard in Purgatory?”

Everyone shrugs or shakes their heads.

“Well, it's a throwback, that's for sure—very Bolshevik. So we're not talking religious extremism here; we're talking political ideology.”

“Assuming the group is for real,” offers Dash Chin.

“Of course. But it needs to be checked out anyway. Because if the bombing was a political act, then the perpetrators aren't dumb. They're well-read and they know how to cover their tracks. So we need to narrow the field, as quickly as possible, to those who might classify as revolutionaries under those terms.”

“It's still a big field,” says Chin.

“Of course it is. But not so big that we can't find a snake in the grass if we need to. Second, we've got a specific reference here—”

But at this stage Chief Buchanan maneuvers his gas-giant gut through the doorway and draws up an oversized chair. “Don't mind me,” he says to Justus, waving a hand. “I just wanna sit in on this—see how it's swingin'.”

Justus does mind but bites his tongue. “Second,” he says, “we've got a specific reference to Otto Decker. That marks him as the bomb's target, not Ben Chee or Blythe L'Huillier or anyone else.”

“Well, of course he was the target, sir,” says Pfeffer. “We don't need any terrorist statement to tell us that.”

“With respect, Detective,” returns Justus, “we can't sign off on that just yet. I've had others suggest differently, and I'm not discounting anything.”

“Who?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who said differently?”

“That's irrelevant,” says Justus. “But if Decker really was the target, and he was as popular as you all seem to think, then we need to know why someone wanted him dead.”

“Because he was a close friend of Fletcher Brass,” says Jacinta Carvalho.

“Yes, but is that all there is to it? There's a mad power scramble going on now that Brass is leaving for Mars, is there not? Partly between Brass and his daughter?”

Justus expects some sort of response—even a challenge—but the room is oddly quiet. Which, he guesses, passes for some sort of approval.

“Anyway, the final two lines of the statement could be significant. ‘No More Brass' is nicely generic, because it could refer to either Fletcher or QT Brass—or both. Meaning we could have someone who's just opposed to the Brass dynasty in general. But that's unusual around here, isn't it? It seems you're either in one camp or the other.”

Again, approving silence.

“And then there's the last line,” he says. “ ‘Viva Redemption.' Which, unless I'm mistaken, is a reference to QT Brass's proposed name change for this city, from Sin to Redemption. So does that mean the terrorist group is aligning itself with QT Brass? Or is it just a coincidence?”

Silence. Chief Buchanan unwraps a Moonball® and tosses it in his mouth.

“Anyone?” asks Justus, looking around.

“With
respect
, Lieutenant,” says Pfeffer—and Justus isn't sure if he's mocking him—“I think you might be reading too much into that message.”

“How so?”

“Well, QT Brass has got plenty of reasons to bump off Otto Decker—I ain't disputing that. But that this is a terrorist attack? Class warfare? I mean, come on.”

“Why couldn't it be a terrorist attack?”

“Because we'd
know
if it was.”

“You'd
know
,” Justus says, and wonders why he's surprised. “Well, knowing and feeling aren't good enough, I'm afraid. If there are significant tensions brewing in this city then no law enforcement agency, not even the PPD, can be aware of everything. Not at all times. And especially not in a place which prides itself on being surveillance free. So what's to
stop
a new terrorist group rising up right now?”

A sustained, starchy silence fills the room. It's left to Chief Buchanan, licking sugar dust from his fingers, to speak up. “Mind if I throw in my two cents, Lieutenant?”

“I don't mind.”

“Well, it's like this, see.” The Chief shifts his body and the whole chair scrapes around. “These boys have got good reason to be a little cynical about terrorists and their so-called statements—know why? Because we've had this sorta shit before. You probably didn't hear about this on Earth—or maybe you did, because it got blown out of all proportion, is what we hear—but we once had a little cult livin' here in Purgatory. Called themselves the Leafists or some bullshit. Nature freaks, sap drinkers, dolphin kissers, you know the sort. Anyway, they were up to their neck in so much stink back home—lawsuits, libel charges, ecoterrorism, all that—that they were lookin' for a way out. Permanently. So Fletcher Brass hears about it and decides to offer them sanctuary in Purgatory. Offers them a whole compound out on the crater floor—somethin' they can turn into a self-sufficient farm, so they never
have to eat anything genetically modified ever again, never have to breathe another exhaust fume, never even have to
look
at anyone in a suit and tie. It's a friendly gesture to the leaf eaters and it's a big middle finger to all those on the Blue Ball”—Buchanan uses the disparaging term by which lunatics sometimes refer to Earth—“who say it's unhealthy to live on the Moon. So all goes well for a few years—the leaf smokers just live out there all alone, chewin' grass or whatever they do, until one day someone gets a little alarmed that no one's heard from them for a while. So he heads out there and guess what? They're all dead. Asphyxiated. A gas leak or something. Or that's what it looks like, anyway. And that's embarrassing enough, right? That's real egg on the face of Fletcher Brass. But then we get a terrorist message, which makes it look even worse. Some local group callin' themselves The Blue Pencil claim it's their work. Say they're dedicated to ‘editing out' radical and disruptive influences or some shit, and they'd deliberately poisoned the air supply.”

“Nitrogen tetroxide and monomethylhydrazine,” chips in Carvalho. “Everyone's worst nightmare in an enclosed environment.”

“That's right,” says Buchanan. “Monomethyl whatever. So anyway, all across the PPD the bells are ringing, because no one has ever heard of The Blue Pencil. And Fletcher Brass wants answers immediately—he's breathing down our necks, he's really giving it to us. And we turned this whole town upside down—we busted down walls, we tossed people through windows, we even killed a few. And in the end what did we find? In three months? Nada. Not a fuckin' thing. And you know why? Because it turns out this Blue Pencil group was just a front. The real culprit was some aerospace mogul on Earth—some bitter old turd with a grudge—who wanted to damage Fletcher Brass, his old rival, any way he could. So he hired assassins to come to Farside, infiltrate
criminal elements in Sin, and take out the whole Leafist cult in one stroke. Easy enough, if you know what you're doin'.”

The story seems highly improbable to Justus. He even sees Kalganov in the squad room shaking his head mockingly. He says, “Has all this been verified?”

“ 'Course it's been verified. You really never heard about this on Earth?”

“If I did, it was a different story.”

“Well, it was the
wrong
story,” Buchanan says. “It was
propaganda
. Ask anyone here. That's the way it was. On my grandmother's fuckin' grave.” He tosses another Moonball® in his mouth and starts munching even as he talks. “Anyway, that's why you can forgive us all for bein' a little leery about bullshit terrorist statements. Especially ones that get sent straight to the press.”

Justus nods ambivalently. And clears his throat. “Well, what's your theory, then?”

“What's
my
theory?” Buchanan wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Well, this isn't a place for
my
theories—I don't wanna put words in your mouth. But I do know one thing. There's gonna be more murders here, of course there are. So we'll all be better off not followin' false trails and heading up dead ends.”

“What makes you think there'll be more murders?”

“Ain't it obvious? Everythin' in the terrorist statement suggests that.”

“But you've just said the terrorist statement is very likely bogus.”

“Yeah”—Buchanan is looking frustrated—“but that doesn't mean the
threat
is bogus. Y'understand the difference? Or not?”

Justus doesn't answer.

“Look, Lieutenant, I'm just tryin' to help. You're good at what you do, sure, but that doesn't mean you can do everythin' by
yourself. And all I'm doin' is nudging you along to a place you'd get to anyway. In quicker time, that's all.”

Justus shrugs. “I've heard that before.”

That catches Buchanan off guard. “Oh yeah?” he says, then sniffs again and hesitates, as if debating whether he should proceed. “Well, that's another thing,” he says. “You spoke to QT Brass yesterday. You never told us you were gonna do that.”

“I'm sorry—was I supposed to?”

“No, you can do whatever the hell you goddamn like. But if you were intendin' to speak to Little Miss QT I thought you woulda told us first.”

“Why? Is it illegal around here?”

“No, it's not illegal.” Buchanan starts munching again, angrily. “But you should think about these sorta things. Speak to the wrong people in Sin and you're likely to get some wacky ideas in your head, that's all.”

“Funny you say that,” Justus says, risking a jab of his own. “Yesterday I went to speak to Fletcher Brass. And everyone here
did
know that in advance. And yet no one bothered to tell me that I wouldn't be speaking to the
real
Fletcher Brass—that I'd be speaking to some paid actor.”

For a moment Buchanan seems stunned, as if he can't believe Justus has broken an unspoken taboo. The other cops in the room seem to be relishing the tension. Even a few in the squad room outside are looking in. But finally Buchanan manages to restrain himself. “
Well
,” he says, “that's just the way it is in Purgatory.”

“It might be the way it is. But for me it's unacceptable.”

“It's perfectly acceptable.”

“Not to me it isn't.”

“
I
speak to the proxy Brass.”

“Well,
I
don't. Not when it's a murder investigation. And not when the man himself might be in danger.”

“Well, I hope you don't think you're gonna meet the
real
Fletcher Brass.”

“Why won't I?”

“Because you
won't
.”

“I'm confident I will.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what a fine fuckin' . . .” For a moment the terrestrial Buchanan—the one who brutalized prostitutes, conspired with drug dealers, and accepted kickbacks or whatever—seems to be reinhabiting his body. But then he shifts his great bulk, as if to shake off the intruder, and just says, “Well . . . I guess we'll see about that.”

“I guess we will.”

The two men stare at each other for a moment. The only sound in the room comes from the retro wall clock—
tick . . . TOCK . . . tick . . . TOCK
—and then suddenly there's a knock at the glass. The door swings open and a junior officer pokes his head in.

“Chief—interrupt for a second?”

Buchanan is still staring at Justus. “Yeah?”

“Brass's valet—the tinnie—is here.”

Buchanan turns and so does Justus. And through the windows they see Leonardo Grey standing primly at the other end of the squad room, his hands folded in front of him.

“What's he want?” Buchanan snaps.

“Says he's come for Lieutenant Justus. Says he's been ordered to take him to Fletcher Brass. The
real
Fletcher Brass.”

Sheer disbelief for ten seconds.

Then:

“
Well
,” says Chief Lance Buchanan.