Decoherence (15 page)

Ivy hesitated. “They had a weapon, but they used their fists? That seems angry to me.”

“Me too,” she agreed. “And angry ­people make mistakes.”

Ivy took an evidence bag from her pocket and held it out.

Miss MacKenzie chuckled. “It's not part of the murder, and it won't help the investigation.” She tossed the weapon up in her hand.

“You said it belonged to another crime.”

“It's a hunch.”

“Worth testing the ballistics.”

Miss MacKenzie shook her head. “Not really.” She waved a hand at Ivy's protest. “It's complicated, and the case this might belong to is out of my jurisdiction. If I bring it in, things will get complicated.”

“Out of your . . .” Ivy's eyes narrowed. “I thought you were private sector. You don't have jurisdiction.”

Her smile was sad and amused all at once. “Yes. That's a good thought. Run with it.” She tossed the gun in her hand again. “It's not too heavy, either. Do you want it?”

“I can't have a gun.”

“You can't legally purchase a projectile weapon or own a long list of guns. I promise, this one isn't made by any of those manufacturers, and I'm not selling it.” She opened the chamber. “It is missing a bullet, though. How are you at metalworking?”

“What?”

“You won't be able to find bullets for this gun anywhere in the Commonwealth.” Miss MacKenzie held it out to her. “If you learn to make your own bullets and always wear gloves when you load it and clean it, you should be fine.”

She stared at the strange weapon. “What do you mean you can't find ammunition for it in the Commonwealth? Where does it come from? Where do
you
come from?”

Miss MacKenzie didn't answer right away. As Ivy grew impatient, Sam held up a hand. “Hold on, I'm trying to think of an honest answer that won't significantly shorten your life.”

“Because you'll need to kill me if you tell me? That's a bit trite.”

“I don't kill ­people,” she said. “I drive them mad and arrest them. Or I arrest them and drive them mad. Sometimes the order gets switched up. Either way, they live. But there are ­people who will kill to protect certain secrets, or to own them. Since I'm not in the habit of endangering ­people without a reason, let's try this: You might need this, and I'm basing that off a hunch.”

She blinked. “A hunch?”

Miss MacKenzie winced. “ For now, until I can confirm a few details with an expert, yes, it's a hunch. This looks exactly like a gun that I saw on a prior case. The owner was . . . let's say private military. The kind of group everyone likes to pretend doesn't exist in the Commonwealth. They manufacture the guns and the bullets. You won't find it anywhere on any registry or sold by any company. Which makes it the perfect, untraceable weapon.”

Ivy shook her head. “No, the CBI wouldn't let that happen.”

“Even the CBI has cases they'd rather not solve,” Miss MacKenzie said. “Now, can we get out of here? This place is giving me the creeps.”

“I don't understand why you're scared of circles on the ground.”

“I hope you never understand,” Sam said. “I really do. And I hope my hunch is wrong.” But she knew it wasn't.

T
he detention center wasn't much different than it had been when the reforms kicked in after the Commonwealth united. It wasn't supposed to be a prison but a rehab center for individuals addicted to antisocial behavior; however, the million-­dollar landscaping only gussied up the surface. Inside there were cellblocks, neon-­green prison jumpsuits, and hard-­eyed men looking Sam over like she was a piece of meat. In training, she'd been told not to make eye contact, that it encouraged reckless behavior.

Today, she made eye contact, and the criminals were the ones who looked away in fear.

A woman was waiting inside a prison advocate room with a white plaque stuck on the door that read
FAMILY THERAPY ROOM
. Her escort opened the door and returned to his desk.

Sam nodded at the woman. “You're Dr. Mallory?”

“Yes, Mr. Troom's rehab facilitator for first-­stage therapy. I'm afraid we aren't having much luck breaking the denial cycle. It's holding him back.” Mallory had the look of a perky cheerleader: bright pink lipstick, eye shadow a few shades darker than her suntanned skin painted to elaborate the arch of her eyes, and hair curled and shellacked in defiance of the humidity outside.

Sam supposed she didn't look much different right now. “Have you considered that Dr. Troom might not be guilty?”

“Everyone is guilty of something,” Mallory said. “A person may not be here long, but if he isn't guilty of murder, there are other things he can confess to that will put him on the road to a healthy, happy, productive future.” Her smile never faded, and it didn't reach her eyes.

Sam smiled in kind. “What are you guilty of?”

Dr. Mallory's smile shattered, and, for a moment, Sam saw rage. It was quickly covered by a smirk worthy of any high school student. “Trying to rattle me, Agent?”

“Do I need to?” Sam asked.

Guards arrived at the lock, with Henry between them.

Mallory looked over her shoulder and back. “I will leave you alone for the private conference the CBI has requested, but I must remind you that you are required by law to give us any relevant information that would help us put Mr. Troom on the path of rehabilitation.”

“I am aware, and I will comply,” Sam said. Her smile sharpened. “First step: Call him by his title and respect his intelligence. He earned his degree.”

The therapist's lips puckered like she'd bitten a lemon, and her heels rapped against the cement floor with quick, angry steps as she exited.

Henry's guards let him in as Mallory left the room, locking the outer door behind her. His smile was genuine, then he laughed. “Your hair looks awful.”

“I know. It's for a case.”

Henry shook his head. “Nice job with Dr. Mallory. You have a talent for driving smart ­people crazy. Dr. Emir had that look on his face every time you talked to him.”

“Really? I didn't actually mean to antagonize him.” She took a seat in the plastic chair across the table from an identical one the prison had provided for Henry. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Solitary confinement and the accusation of being an antisocial element at risk for suicide, with a prescription medicine to fix my delusions.”

“Hmmm. Are you suicidal or delusional?” Sam asked.

“I know you're required to report this to the therapists, but I'll say it anyway. I'm feeling homicidal. Low-­key. I'm not an advocate for violence, but the pills make me violently ill, and they can't erase what happened last summer.”

Sam frowned. “They have your files from the N-­V Nova Labs case? That's not supposed to be available for civilians.”

“They don't have the whole thing. They called around and got ahold of my cousin, who told them I was into weird stuff although that's probably not the term he used. He's a crackle addict, legalized and nonaddictive LSD for the gezes who can't get their lives together. He lives in Alabama District 12 on disability and has a prescription for the pills. I saw him in September. Got drunk.”

“You talked?”

“Not about specifics. I didn't know any. But I told him what I'd heard. What'd they'd done. It was a near-­death experience!” He crossed his arms. “I didn't kill Lexie Muñoz if that's what you wanted to know.”

Sam shook her head. “I already know you didn't. But I need details. And your alibi.”

His eyes narrowed into a mulish look. “Agent Rose, is this really necessary? Can't you just, I don't know, do a DNA test or something? Rule me out as a suspect?”

“You took Lexie to the beach party. Multiple ­people saw you walk onto the beach with her and leave with her. You were the last one to see her alive, so start there.”

Henry squinched his eyes shut, then shook his head. “Son of a—­” He bit off the curse. “Are we friends?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Friends? Is this relevant?”

“You saved my life. Twice, by my count. You know what I've been through. It's not like I can talk to anyone else about this . . .” He gave her a pleading look.

“Henry, I don't know what you're asking.”

“Just . . . don't make fun of me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bradet invited me to the party. The station had a thing going on . . . have you met Bradet?”

Sam tried to hide the wince that came with those memories. “Yeah.”

“He's solar wind. Wild and fun, and all the girls want him.”

Which spoke to the poor taste of the girls going to these parties. Every time Sam had talked to Bradet, she'd felt the need to wash.

“I thought if I went to the party maybe some of his magic would rub off on me. Girls don't like geeks, you know? I start talking about work, and their eyes glaze over.”

“Try talking to smarter women,” Sam said.

Henry blushed and looked at the table. “Lexie was solar. I mean, hotter than the sun, solar. She's triplicate, the whole package. She was working on a math degree at the college, she's from a good family, she had a body that was just . . .” His hands curved in the air and dropped as he tried to describe her. “It wasn't love, but I thought we were having a good time. We went to the beach to get away from the noise and talk about her thesis paper, which sounded really promising for a master's student, and she said she was thirsty. So I went back up to the bar.”

Anger suffused his face, creasing it. He wasn't seeing Sam anymore, but that night. “I came back with sangrias, and she was with some guy. Tall, handsome, surfer tight with a military haircut and muscles.” Henry shook his head. “She was having fun.”

“It could have been small talk,” Sam said.

Henry looked her in the eye. “They weren't talking.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Bradet had already seen me. He'd winked at me when I walked out with Lexie. Gave me the high sign when I got the drinks. If I went back in, I was going to be humiliated. So I figured I'd walk down the beach a bit and loop around, get to the parking lot, and make a quiet escape. Bradet usually goes home with a girl, so it wouldn't matter. I could lie about it, and he'd leave me alone.”

Sam rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I feel like there's a piece missing here. I get the male ego, trust me—­married life teaches a woman these things. But why not tell the cops? Someone saw Lexie leave, and it wasn't with you, that's a mistake.”

Henry rolled his eyes to the side and bit his lip.

“What aren't you telling me?”

He put his hands over his face and rested his elbows on the table. “This could end my career. I haven't been at the think tank a month. It's paradise, you know? Like being the kid in a candy store.”

Sam shook her head. “Not that big a fan of candy.”

“Makeup shop?”

“No.”

“Gun store?”

“Me?” Sam gave him a disappointed look. “I like fresh produce, running shoes, and my truncheon.”

He sighed. “Fine, you have your healthy ways, and I have physics. And the think tank lets me do work without writing grants, without answering to committees, without teaching. I can request anything. I can try crazy things and fail because I don't need to show results to anyone for years. Do you know how wonderful that is? This is the golden apple of science.”

“Isn't the golden apple the one that started the Trojan War?”

He nodded. “Yeah. ­People would kill for the slot I got. I'm only there because I'm Emir's protégé, and his posthumously published papers were very well received. They're on particle wave physics and advanced communication between the planet and orbital satellites, but it has wonderful applications for the space industry.” He paused, and a little smile crept onto his face. “He wrote those papers years ago. Erased most of them, but I had copies since I had worked with him in grad school. I did some of the math, nothing major. After he died, the lab wanted to publish something, and it wasn't like we could let his current research get out. I thought it was a nice memorial.”

Sam tapped the table. “Back to the night Lexie died?”

He closed his eyes. “If anyone finds out the truth, I'll lose my place at the think tank.”

“If I don't find anything, you'll be here for murder for years. Eating the horrible pills and still not working at the think tank.”

“I went home with someone!” Henry shouted.

Sam shook her head in confusion. “So? Who could you possibly go home with . . .” Her imagination caught up with her tongue. “She is over eighteen, or he, right?”

Henry glared at her. “She's twenty-­three, five years younger than I. And she's a protestor.” He looked at the floor like he'd just confessed to some lewd form of bestiality.

“I don't get it,” Sam admitted.

“Her name's Krystal, with a kay. She protests government oversight and waste.”

Sam shook her head. “Still not seeing a problem.”

“She's on a government watch list for antinationalistic behavior.”

“Like Marrins?”

“No!” Henry sounded horrified. “As an undergrad, she was part of a modernist group pushing to reopen various habitats for human use.”

“Are those the anti-­ecoterrorist types?”

“Oh! No. She's not with them, she was petitioning to open up various preserves for recreational activity. Camping, kayaking, that sort of thing. She's really into outdoorsy things and . . .” He shut his eyes tight. “We had a thing, before I graduated. Not anything formal, but kind of an open relationship. N-­V Nova Labs told me I couldn't work there if I was associated with anyone who couldn't pass a background check. Krystal was chill with it. There were other guys, I spent too much time in the lab, it wasn't a big deal.”