Bronze Gods (12 page)

“This way,” she said to Miss Day.

She headed for the foyer, where it was bright and clean. No doors for privacy, but the remaining cast and crew were with Miss Wright anyway. Ritsuko imagined that the air backstage would be thick and choked with smoke, making it impossible to breathe, let alone question someone. There were red padded benches where they could sit, so she led the way to a small grouping to the right of the ticket office, where she invited the dancer to take a seat, then she asked Mikani with a silent raised brow who would take the lead here.

Her partner nodded once and moved aside, likely to get a better feel for Miss Day’s reaction.
Business as usual, then. I ask the questions, and he weighs the emotional context.
She took a seat beside the girl, whose expression wavered between excitement at the attention and nerves over being singled out. Everyone had been questioned once; no other dancers had received a second interview.

So she’s probably wondering what this means.

“We received a note, advising us to ask about your relationship with Mr. Leonidas. So why don’t you tell me how well you know him?”

The girl’s eyes went wide, the color draining entirely from her cheeks before she blushed hot. Licking her lips nervously, she glanced away. “I—I know Mr. Leonidas from the theater, of course; he’s never been anything but generous and kind to me.” Mikani caught his partner’s eye and shook his head slightly with a bemused smirk. “He appreciates my talent, see, and he knows that I’ll be his star.”

“Please don’t waste my time, Miss Day. Do you think I’m untrained in spotting deception?” If the girl didn’t crack, Ritsuko’s next salvo would be an offer to take her down to HQ for an extended interrogation.

Miss Day drew up to her full height and tried to rise. “I
think
you better not take that tone with me!” Mikani stepped up; Ritsuko placed a hand on the girl’s wrist. And Leonidas’s voice rang out.

“Inspectors! Let her—please, let her be.” He stepped forward, and Elaine stumbled toward him. He wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders as she pressed her face to his chest. “Miss Day . . . Elaine . . . and I are . . . Our relationship . . .” He stopped, seemingly torn between his evident concern for the girl and his need for secrecy. “Miss Day is . . . my companion.” Elaine actually started at that, gazing up at him with an unreadable expression. “We’ve spent a great deal of time together of late, but I prefer not to make things difficult for her with the rest of the cast. Or anyone else.”

“Does that include your nights?” Ritsuko asked, trying to be delicate.

Miss Day answered at once, probably seeing she had Leonidas’s approval to divulge that much. Whatever else could be said of her, she was apparently loyal. “Yes.”

Mikani angled his head, the way he looked when he was sensing . . . something. “You weren’t there when we visited a few nights past. Where were you?”

“Fetching supper.”

Ritsuko asked in their silent way,
Is that what you’re getting, too?

Mikani rubbed the bridge of his nose and inclined his head slightly when he caught Ritsuko’s glance. So they were telling the truth. She could also tell by his expression that he was reaching the limit on what he could safely read, though he’d never call a halt on his own. Yet in a few moments more, he would be bleeding.

“Just one more question, then,” she said, glancing between Leonidas and the dancer. “Miss Day, what’s the longest you’ve ever been away in the evenings?”

She was nearly sure it wasn’t Leonidas, but it was a necessary question. The dancer looked thoughtful, and since she didn’t reply at once, Ritsuko believed she was truly searching her memory.

“Four hours, perhaps. I went to a party.”

“And when was this?” Mikani asked.

“Two months ago.”

Too long for their timetable.
It’s definitely not Leonidas.
Therefore, it was time to pursue other avenues, other connections. Fortunately, they had leads. Dread clotted in her throat when she imagined how the commander would react to the news that they were still chasing down endless angles instead of narrowing the search to one likely suspect.

It’s a good thing I did a little filing. I may be back there soon enough.

CHAPTER 11

M
IKANI HAD BEEN RETRACING
C
IRA
A
EVAR’S STEPS FOR THE
last two days, leaving Ritsuko to run the Toombs angle. He knew she believed he was just trying to avoid going down into the labyrinthine corridors of the Records department, buried deep under the Courts of Law and CID Headquarters. She wasn’t altogether wrong about that, but his reasons weren’t entirely selfish.

He’d tracked Cira to the Gilded Avenue underground station; the stationmaster remembered her as a regular. She was hard to miss, carrying bright bundles of costumes to and from the theater. Several panhandlers confirmed that she passed them several times a week, dropping a coin here and there and making time to listen to them play or applaud their acts.

The one thing that no one could recall was which train she’d ridden.

He should have found it sooner.

Cira Aevar always bought a ticket to the end of the line down in Summer’s Gate. There were three teams of inspectors and constables checking the records and questioning possible witnesses along the four stations between the Royale and Summer’s Gate. They assumed she could have gotten on and off anywhere between the two points to hide her activities from her family. But Cira was sheltered, and she’d been living out her fantasy through an act of rebellion from the traditional life her status demanded. So she’d wanted her colleagues to accept her as one of them, and that meant taking the underground. It was a clever trick, designed to stave off any questions about her background.

Only she’d never actually ridden. When Mikani had asked the lone street musician playing along the north access to the underground, he remembered her heading
out
of the station. She’d crossed to the opposite platform and slipped out on the far side of Crown Avenue, a wide and busy urban highway that traditionally divided the Houses’ demesnes from the rest of the city.

And that’d be why no one remembers what train she rode.

He’d recalled the other teams and set them to work through the cobbled streets bordering the Houses’ citadels, staying close to Crown Avenue. Today, the streets and plazas closer to the park were crawling with House retainers; if she’d gone that way, someone would’ve spotted her. As House Aevar’s holdings dominated the west side, he headed east.

For half an hour, Mikani walked without direction. He wandered into the Lee; the narrow strip of apartments, boardinghouses, bars, and cafés gave House scions a place to play at being grown-up and free while remaining within their parents’ sphere. Students at the Academy, some distance to the east, mingled with others in full social revolt . . . and the occasional House noble reliving glory days.

Then he spotted the discreet boardinghouse on the corner, a half mile north of the Royale.
Cira needed a place to slip into her other life, and she wouldn’t do it in a station lavatory.
As he drew closer, he detected the faintest echo of her, nearly gone now. In another day, it would’ve been lost, drowned by time and too many other bodies.

Mikani crossed the street in a rush. A black-and-gold hansom nearly clipped his foot, and he knocked over a courier streaking down the street on his cycle. Leaving the kid swearing at him, Mikani stumbled to the steps leading up to the blue wooden door. He reached for his gloves instinctively—then hesitated. The trail was cold as death, and the everyday pollution would make Cira that much harder to track. Right now, he only had that faint echo.

Besides, there was an easier way. He knocked on the door, reaching for the sepia photo he kept with him at all times as a reminder. “CID, madam. Do you know this girl?”

The woman studied the picture, then nodded. “Very nice tenant. Quiet.”

Mikani made a noncommittal sound and followed the landlady, Miss Frasizka, whose name was written on her postbox, up the narrow stairs. The smell of cabbage and lilacs permeated the faded wallpaper. Whispers of the other tenants, as they peeked through peepholes or narrowly cracked doors, nudged the edge of his hearing. She probably meant to take him to her flat for the interview, but that wasn’t what he was after.

“She pays on time, every month,” Miss Frasizka was saying. “She’s a good girl, that one. Never makes trouble.”

“I regret to inform you, madam, that’s no longer the case. Miss Aevar is now at the center of a murder investigation, and I need to search her room.” He doubted he’d find anything, but he had to be sure. The commander would have his arse if he and Ritsuko didn’t come up with something soon.

“Oh. Oh no. That poor girl.” The woman reeled against the wall, her face the color of chalk.

Mikani wished Ritsuko was here, as she was better at dealing with these situations. Unfortunately, he had to handle this one. “Your assistance could mean the difference between a killer getting away with murder and justice for Miss Aevar.”

“Aevar,” she repeated.

He could tell she recognized the name and was pondering just how much trouble could drop on her head if she didn’t offer full cooperation. “I want to help you, but first, if you could show me your ID?”

A wise precaution. He flashed his credentials, and she nodded.

“Good, good.” The landlady unlocked the narrow door leading to the attic stairs and waved him up. Mikani turned sideways against the wall to pass the woman, who was half his height but his match for brawn. “You go up and take a look. I hope you find something helpful.”

Mikani glanced around as he reached the top of the stairs. Cira had rented the entire attic. Swathes of fabric crisscrossed the sloped ceiling; dressmaker dummies crowded the far wall in various states of undress. Tights, hose, and shirts covered the scant furniture. A seamstress’s table and an articulated wood-and-brass mannequin dominated the center of the room. He crossed the space, slipped on his gloves, and headed for the armoire in the corner.

Within, he found the fine silks and wool of a House scion, with the Aevar crest emblazoned on a traveling cloak and short coat. More rummaging unearthed a handbag, high-heeled ankle boots, and a scarf. This was the everyday garb of the daughter of a noble House. Mikani frowned.
The everyday garb . . . those boots are
not
made for walking. But she didn’t ride the train back home every night.

He headed back down then and dug in his coat for his cigarillos. As he stepped onto the street, he lit up and drew deeply. The messenger he had knocked over was waiting for him, a tight ball of anger and righteous indignation.

“You blind, mate? Knockin’ over honest folks, all—” Mikani held up two silver coins, and the courier shut up.

“Inspector Mikani, CID. I apologize for disrupting your route, citizen.” He inclined his head to the kid, who was surprised into an awkward tip of his riding hat and goggles in return. “In return, I’d like to engage your services to carry a note to CID Headquarters, down in the Courts of Law.”

Mikani dug out his scarcely used notepad and scrawled a quick note for Gunwood to send a laboratory team to the boardinghouse. He passed note and coins to the boy, who dashed off with a reckless abandon that Mikani appreciated. With a rueful shake of the head, he turned back to his search for any sign of where Miss Aevar might’ve begun her double life.

Hansoms and buses dotted the avenue, bicycles, tricycles, and steam cars adding to the flow of traffic as the city awakened. Businessmen in dark suits and expensive silk vests, sporting good derby hats, hurried to work, while bondsmen scuffed their feet, reluctant in their tasks. They, too, wore hats, but they were made of cheap materials and had simple flat brims, separating them from the free men.

Not here. Too busy.

Mikani rubbed the rough scruff on his cheek and peered into the nearest alley. Narrow but uncluttered, it provided access to the street behind the boardinghouse and a small, neglected park. It was also dark enough to offer the illusion of secrecy to a young girl who didn’t want to be spotted. He headed into the alley, letting his fingertips brush the walls. Emotion flooded him.

Countless minutes later, Mikani rocked on the balls of his feet, finding himself squatting at the mouth of the alley with blood dripping from his upper lip. His eyes burned, bruised from the friction of his fists as he tried to rub away the pain. Taking a shuddering breath, he straightened.

His rumpled suit rubbed at the nape of his neck and sat wrong on aching shoulders. With a slow roll of his head and a loud pop of stretching tendons, he wiped his face. He’d felt Cira; she’d been up and down the alley often enough to leave traces of her presence in sunlight and the giddy excitement of going against her family’s wishes. She’d been happy here, the slight melancholy of her return home overshadowed by the joy of her journeys toward the Royale.

But more than that, he’d caught a whisper of the same faint presence as in her room. Someone had been following her, someone who could sneak into a fortified House undetected. Perhaps it had been a member of the household, tracking Cira across the city.
Maybe her grandfather was not as clueless as we thought.
If Aevar had stuck a tracker on the girl, they might have more information than they were sharing. If not . . .

If not, we have a hell of an infiltrator, a traitor, or a ghost.
Mikani sniffed, wiping at his bloody nose and squinting against the growing light. When he heard the distinctive low rumble and whistles of a CID cruiser approaching, he grimaced and patted his coat in search of his darkened glasses. Heading back to the boardinghouse, he slipped them on and lit a fresh cigarillo. His head was pounding, his vision was blurry, and his mood was foul. He couldn’t wait to talk to Aevar again.

•   •   •

S
UNDAY WAS SUPPOSED
to be Ritsuko’s free day. No thoughts of the job.

Under normal circumstances, she took the day off happily. With a case like this one, however, she couldn’t afford more than a few free hours. So after she met Mr. Higgins for lunch in the park, she went straight back to work. She’d managed to get all the files on the actor, Gregory Toombs. On paper, he was a solid suspect. Though he hadn’t been on the list she received at the Academy, he had an engineering background. He’d taken some courses; had worked for two years in a clockwork firm that specialized in the gimbaled telescopes used on sailing ships. Then he abruptly switched his focus to theater, so that gave him a plausible skill set for building the murder machine. So far she didn’t have a motive, but she hadn’t located the man, either. Since his last production closed down, nobody had seen Toombs.

The CID had sent notices to all train stations and the docks, containing a description of the actor and a warning to deny him passage out of the city as a possible suspect in an open investigation. All mirror stations and post-service offices throughout Dorstaad and the nearest settlements received the same notification. Some associate of Mikani’s had agreed to do the same for the less official ships within the Free Trader guilds. As a result of those combined efforts, Toombs was, in theory, trapped inside the city. And without access to most official services or forms of employment, his choice of hiding spots was slim: the tenements, the docks, or with friends or family.

While Ritsuko had no idea who Toombs called a boon companion, she did have an address for his parents, provided they hadn’t vanished.
That would just be too strange.
She pulled her coat on, collected her things, and headed out. It was a chilly day, with the earlier sun clouding over to hint at rain; it was always damp when the weather cooled, sad after long days of endless light. Today, however, it fit her mood. Ritsuko didn’t murmur her usual apology as she navigated the crowd. She didn’t want to interrupt these people and give them cause to worry about their son.

But that’s my job.

Toombs’s parents lived in a small building off a small street near the Bayside Market. The area had once been prosperous, before the Houses had abandoned the eastern wards to move closer to the park or into outlying, self-contained fortresses. With their leaving, their money had stopped trickling in, and entire neighborhoods lost their shine. Ritsuko checked the faded bronze plaque against her notes and headed up the stairs.

The smell of various casseroles drifted from several apartments along the long passage. Hints of sweet spices and stew mingled as early suppers were prepared, the sounds of children playing in the building’s courtyard loud in the quiet Sunday afternoon. She rapped on the door, waited as someone shuffled to the door.

A woman in her early sixties opened it, her eyes dark but encircled with deeper shadows. Her short white hair looked as if she hadn’t combed it today, disheveled by careless fingers. Her look turned suspicious when she took in the badge Ritsuko held. She started to slam the door, but Ritsuko stopped it with a firm palm.

“I need a few moments of your time.”

Mrs. Toombs sighed. “This is about Gregory, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m looking for your son. He might be able to aid in an ongoing investigation.” Mrs. Toombs looked dubious as she tried halfheartedly to push the door shut again. “It’s important. Do you know where I can find him?”