Bhatami recovered first. "Bomb squad and fire department," he snapped, jabbing a finger toward one of the cops beside me. "You—stay with him," he told the other, the jabbing finger shifting to me. Turning, he raced for the door.
It was the signal for instant mass chaos, with everyone in the bar either shouting, gasping, or clawing their way toward the door to see what was happening out there. A minute later, the only ones left in the bar were me, my police escort, the Fillies, the bartender, Karim, and about a dozen men already slumped in their chairs or collapsed across the bar in dilivin-induced slumber.
And, of course, McMicking.
I looked at the Fillies. All three were looking back at me now, their eyes blank in a way that sent a shiver up my back. "I hope that didn't hurt too much," I said.
It was probably the wrong thing to say. Slowly, deliberately, one of the Fillies reached into his tunic and pulled out his contract pen. Staring into my face, he turned it around in his hand, gripping it like a knife—
"Is there a problem?" the cop standing behind me asked.
The color of the Filly's blaze paled a bit, his eyes coming back to normal focus. "Problem?" he asked. He looked at the pen in his hand as if wondering how it had gotten there, and tucked it away again. "No. There is no problem."
"Glad to hear it," the cop said. "Maybe you and your friends should move to a different table."
The Filly looked at me. Then, without a word, he and his companion climbed off their chairs, and the three of them walked over to a table across the room. They settled themselves around it, one of them facing me, the second facing the door, the third watching Karim behind the bar.
"Thank you," I said quietly to the cop.
"Save it," he muttered back. "If I find out you killed Aksam and Lasari, I'll take you apart myself."
I sighed. Clearly, I still had the knack of making friends wherever I went.
Someday, I really should work on that.
TEN :
Over the next half hour or so the bar's patrons dribbled back in, talking in the subdued tones of people who've just seen something horrific. At the same time, though, I could sense the excitement and relief that something had happened to shake up their otherwise boring routines. This evening, I guessed, would be fodder for barroom conversations for months to come.
Still, despite the excitement, the free dilivin continued to take its toll. Soon after returning to the bar, most of the patrons began wandering back out again or else joined the ones already snoring away. McMicking was one of the latter group, pillowing his head on his folded arms on the bar.
By the time Bhatami returned, the place was down to the sleepers, the Fillies, me, and maybe four other conscious patrons.
The lieutenant looked tired and angry and bitter. "I take it whatever happened out there wasn't good news?" I suggested as he pulled out one of the chairs at my table and dropped into it.
He tried to glare at me, but fatigue was starting to overwhelm the anger and all that made it out past his eyes was a sort of pensive annoyance. "We found Sergeant Aksam and Officer Lasari," he said, glancing up at the cop still standing guard over me. "Or what was left of them."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I will point out, though, that I was right here when that blast went off."
"Which means nothing at all," Bhatami pointed out grimly. "Actually, it means nothing in two different directions. If the investigators find the remains of a timed fuse, it won't matter where you or anyone else was when the car was actually set on fire."
"True," I conceded. "What's the other direction that it won't mean anything?"
His eyes were steady on me. "We'll have to wait for the full postmortem to be sure," he said. "But the preliminary exam indicates they may both have been killed before the fire started."
I pursed my lips. "Any idea how?"
"Not yet," Bhatami said. "But we'll find out." He cocked his head. "Meanwhile, what exactly are we going to do with your
I shrugged. "Well, frankly—and I'd say this even if it wasn't me—I don't see that you have any legal grounds for detaining me."
He snorted. "Please. A good prosecutor can always find grounds to detain someone." He raised his eyebrows. "Such as if you impeded our investigation by, say, refusing to give me the name and whereabouts of the legal representative you mentioned earlier."
With an effort, I managed not to look at McMicking. "His name's Joseph Prescott," I said. "I don't actually know where he is right now."
"What's his number?" Bhatami asked, pulling out his comm.
I gave him McMicking's number. There was no point in stalling or pulling a fake one out of the air—Bhatami could easily confiscate my comm and get the real number from my call record.
"Thank you," he said, punching it in.
There was, of course, no telltale ring from the other end of the room. McMicking was way too professional to walk around with his comm on anything except silent mode. Bhatami listened half a minute, then keyed off and put away his comm. "No answer," he said. "Your lawyer keeps odd hours."
"He's a lawyer," I said, as if that explained it.
He pursed his lips, studying my face. "Let me see that Hardin Industries security card."
I pulled it out and handed it over. For a minute he just sat there, his eyes tracing across every word and copyproof squiggle on the thing. "I don't know much about Hardin Industries," he said at last, handing it back. "But a person doesn't get to be a multitrillionaire without having good people on the payroll."
He looked me square in the eye. "Do you know what happened to Sergeant Aksam and Officer Lasari?"
I hesitated. How much of this mess did I dare tell him?
Not much, I reluctantly decided. "I have a theory," I said. "But I don't have anything solid to back it up."
He cracked about a tenth of a smile. "Don't worry, there aren't any defense attorneys present," he said. "Let's have a name."
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Fillies had abandoned even the pretense of conversation. "Sorry," I told Bhatami. "I can't throw names around without proof."
"Even under threat of an obstruction charge?"
"Even so," I said.
"Is he a friend, then?" Bhatami persisted.
I snorted. "Hardly."
"An acquaintance? An enemy?"
"He's certainly not a friend," I repeated.
Bhatami's lip twisted. "This is not what I would consider cooperation."
"I know, and I'm sorry," I said. "But right now, this is the best I can do."
He nodded and stood up. "I trust you won't try to leave New Tigris until this matter is settled?"
"Don't worry," I assured him. "I like it here."
He snorted gently at that one. "In that case, I'll say good night." He caught the eye of the cop still standing behind me and nodded toward the door. "One other thing," he went on as the cop headed across the floor. "The two dead police officers in the burned-out car? Their sidearms were missing."
I remembered to demonstrate some surprise and shock. "Both of them?"
He nodded. "And both men's extra clips, too."
"I don't suppose you had security trackers on the guns."
"We did," he said. "They've been disabled." He raised his eyebrows a little. "If you give me a name, I can offer you protective custody. You and any of your associates."
One of the Fillies at the table behind him had a hand in his tunic, his fingers resting somewhere in the vicinity of the tailored pocket where they typically kept their contract pens. Like I'd needed a reminder. "Sorry," I told Bhatami. "Not until I can also hand you some proof."
"Then it appears we're at an impasse," Bhatami said. "Good luck, Mr. Donaldson."
"Thank you," I said. "But I doubt I'm going to have very much of that unless you give me back my gun."
Bhatami shook his head. "Sorry. As I said earlier, your carry permit has been revoked."
"And as I said earlier, Mr. Veldrick has no authority to do that," I reminded him.