KOP Killer (15 page)

I rang the bell next to the gate. A voice came through the speaker. “Yes?”

“I’m here to talk to Samusaka.”

“Mister or Missus?”

“Whoever’s in.” I waved my stolen YOP badge for the cam.

The gate buzzed, and I pushed my way through. Floodlights lined the pristine walkway, colored tile with unbelievably bright white lines of grout running in between. Must be somebody’s job to scrub away the mold every day.

The grounds were large, walkways snaking off in various directions, leading to guesthouses or garden houses or bathhouses or whatever other kind of houses rich people invent for themselves. Straight ahead was the main house, a brandy-era mansion of austere stone and iron. Deluski said Samusaka was an oil man. The resurgence of the internal combustion engine had done wonders for the family bank account.

A housekeeper in a blue dress with a white apron met me at the door. “You’ll have to wait in the study. Mrs. Samusaka is entertaining guests. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

I followed the housekeeper down a long, broad hall with a gold chandelier overhead and marble slabs underfoot. Below the staircase, a door opened of its own accord, and she ushered me through.

Left alone, I wandered the small room, my shoes sinking into luxurious carpet. One wall was taken up with bookshelves stacked with leather-bound volumes, another with photos of oil pumps working the scorched dunes to our south.

A globe turned slowly on a desk. Lagarto’s bottom three-quarters were dominated by the color of toasted bread, mountains and valleys all the same dead-leaf brown. Oceans broke it up with sprawling, rippling splotches of aquamarine. The globe’s top was textured with a lush green that swayed as if in a breeze.

I reached a finger for the jungle, expecting to poke right through the hologram’s surface, but the globe was real, the ruffling jungles soft like felt. I traced the Koba River’s snaking path and my finger came away wet. Fucking magic, what offworld tech could do.

A woman appeared in the doorway. Black hair hung straight down to her shoulders. Stern eyes sat in deep sockets. A necklace draped from her neck, a diamond pendant hanging from a gold chain, her dress cut just low enough to give it proper room to sparkle.

“Mrs. Samusaka?”

“Yes. I’m Crystal Samusaka.”

“I’m Detective Mozambe with KOP. I was hoping we could talk.”

“I’m very busy right now.”

I smiled and gestured at the chair. “Which makes me appreciate the time all the more.”

She sat and crossed her legs, her knees poking out from under the hem of her dress.

I sat on a small sofa. “I’d like to talk about Franz.”

“He died in August.”

“Tell me what happened.” Starting vague is best when you don’t know what you’re looking for.

She squinted at me, the resulting crow’s-feet the first sign she was old enough to have an adult son. She took in my shades, the empty right sleeve, the bar-fight bruise on my forehead. “Who are you? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“I used to be.”

“What do you have to do with my son?”

“I’m looking into his death.”

“Why?”

“I think he was murdered.”

Her squint narrowed to the point where I couldn’t see her eyes. “This isn’t funny. It’s time I get back to my guests.” Despite her words, she didn’t move.

“Do you believe the official story that he ODed?”

She stared at me, lips pursed, arms crossed.

“Did he have an opium problem?”

Nothing. Her left foot tapped at the air.

“Listen,” I said. “You could really help me out by being open with—”

“You want money, don’t you? This is some kind of scam.”

“I don’t want any money. What I want is the truth.”

“You want truth? Then tell me who you really are. How did you know my son? What was he to you?”

I took a deep breath. “My name is Juno Mozambe. Like I said, I used to be a cop.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m a businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind you can’t talk about,” I said with finality. She wouldn’t get any more.

She fingered her necklace, pinched the pendant between her fingers. “I should throw you out.”

“But you want to know what happened to your son. You don’t believe he overdosed.”

“How would you know?”

“Because you’re still here.”

She dropped the pendant. “Tell me how you knew my son.”

“I didn’t. But somebody’s killing people, and I think he started with your son.”

“This killer, he killed somebody close to you?”

“Somebody I was responsible for.” I leaned forward in my seat. “Did your son have a drug problem?”

“He liked to party. He was only twenty-two. Nothing wrong with that at his age. But he wasn’t an addict. When the police found him and told me how he died, I refused to believe it. For a long time I refused to believe it.”

“But you eventually accepted it?”

“Until now. If this is some kind of scam, I swear I’ll—”

“It’s not. Where did he like to party?”

“He mentioned a place called the Maze a few times.”

“Did you know about the tattoo on his cheek?”

“He didn’t have a tattoo.”

“He did. It was the kind you can turn on and off. Two interlocked snakes in a circle, each one eating the tail of the other. Do you know what that’s about?”

“No.”

“Was your son gay?”

She rubbed the pendant, her face a blank mask. She uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way.

“Mrs. Samusaka? Was your son gay?”

“He might’ve been.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means just what I said. I didn’t pry into his private affairs.”

“Can you think of anybody who would’ve wished your son harm?”

“No.”

“What about your husband? He have any enemies?”

She shook her head no.

“This could be important,” I said.

She dropped the diamond pendant and picked it back up.

“I’m not trying to poke into your husband’s business, but I’d like to check out his enemies, see if any of them could’ve killed your son.”

“My husband doesn’t have enemies.”

“C’mon, Mrs. Samusaka, he’s a very successful businessman. You and I both know there are no angels in business.”

She looked down and smoothed the hem of her skirt. She was shutting down. My instincts said push. My instincts always said push. I leaned in as far as I could, my ass on the edge of the sofa. I upped the urgency in my voice. “Tell me who his enemies are. Who did he screw over? Tell me.”

She stood. “I will not be bullied by a stranger in my own home. You need to go.”

Not before I exhausted my arsenal. “If you loved your son, you’d tell me.”
That’s right, lady. No fucking shame.

The low blow had the desired effect. Her cheeks turned red. Same with the skin under her necklace.

I stayed in my seat with the hope of coaxing her back into hers. I softened my tone. “I’m sorry I said that. I’m really sorry, but I get carried away sometimes. Listen, in business, people get screwed, right? I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t care who your husband screwed over or why. I only care about how it relates to your son’s death. Please sit and talk to me.”

I’d done it just like my fuckhead father used to do my mother. Hit her hard, then go sweet. Abuse then apologize.

I waited for her to spill. She was hiding something.

She gestured at the door. “Good-bye, sir.”

I stubbornly crossed my arms. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“It’s time for you to go.”

I stayed, my ass cemented to the sofa.

With a huff she walked to the door and went out.

I stood to follow, ready to chase her through this house if I had to. I reached the hall and did a double take when I found the housekeeper waiting right outside the door. Had she been out there the whole time? “This way,” she said curtly.

A man rushed toward me from down the hall, tailored pants swishing over his legs. Mr. Hudson Samusaka. “Who are you?”

The housekeeper responded eagerly. “He was asking about Franz.” Damn snoop. “I called you right away.” Damn brown-nosed snoop.

“Yes, Paulina, you did the right thing.” He dished the compliment like a pat on the head. Crystal Samusaka stepped over to stand next to her husband.

“Answer my question,” he demanded. “Who are you?”

“He says he’s—”

“I’d like to hear it from him,
dear.
” He grabbed his wife’s wrist and gave it a tug. She lowered her head and meekly took her place a half step behind him. The housekeeper was already positioned slightly behind. She knew her place.

“I came to talk about your son. I think he was murdered.”

“Who do you think you are coming to my home,
my
home, and bothering me with this garbage?”

“I was just—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Get the hell out.”

I opened my mouth to protest some more but could see the futility of it. Hudson Samusaka held his head high, nose aimed upward, chin jutting like he was completing a chin-up. Like he’d spent his whole life keeping his head above us riffraff.

He tapped his ear, activating some kind of communication device. “Who let this joker in here? I want him out, you hear me?”

Defeated, I headed for the door.

*   *   *

“Where are Kripsen and Lumbela?”

Deluski scratched his nose. “They got called in on riot duty.”

“Again?”

“Half of Villa Nueva went dark an hour ago.”

“Fucking blackouts.” I shook my head and looked up at the sign above the door.
MAZE.
The name of this club was all I’d managed to weasel out of Samusaka’s mother. That was one touchy family. The rich were naturally suspicious. All that money to protect. Giant nest eggs resting in a forest full of starving vultures.

Maggie should’ve been there with me. Wealthy as she was, she would’ve known how to put Samusaka’s mother at ease. How to deal with Samusaka’s prick of a father. Maggie’s family was old money. Brandy-era plantation owners. She knew the ways of the rich.

We should be working together.

Deluski lifted his shirttails, a pair of lase-pistols tucked in his belt. “I brought an extra like you asked.” He handed a weapon over, and I tucked it into my waistband. You never knew when those Yepala cops might show again.

Deluski pulled open the door, and we stepped inside. Heads turned. Men’s heads. A dozen or more gave us the eye. I could practically hear the pings of gaydar. This was Franz Samusaka’s favorite hangout. I was tempted to call his mother and cinch it for her.
Your boy liked outies, not innies.

I scoped the room. Crammed tight with tables and booths, the place was near full, and uniformly male with a few fag hags thrown in. A small dance floor jammed to club music, sweat-streaked faces bouncing and swerving in a melee of arms and legs and pheromones.

I led us forward, not really knowing what I was looking for. We meandered through tables, drawing a multitude of stares. Appraising stares. Who-the-fuck-are-you stares. Stares that said,
fresh meat.

I stopped at a table of five, flashed my YOP badge, and raised my voice over the music. “Did you guys know Franz Samusaka?”

Quintuple no.

“Marvin Froelich? Emil Mota?” More negatives. I moved to another table. Same questions, same responses. Deluski went off to question the bar. Old-fashioned police work.

I canvassed from table to table. “Ever seen a tat with two snakes in a circle? How ’bout an offworlder with a steel trap for a hand?”

I wandered up a short set of stairs into a second room—sofas and settees, mood lights, and opium smoke. This room had its own bar, little more than a window cut into the wall. I stepped up and ordered a brandy from the shirtless bartender, dropped a generous but soggy tip on the bar. “Did you know Franz Samusaka?”

“We don’t kiss and tell around here.” He nabbed the bills and abruptly turned his back to wash glasses in the sink.

Brandy in hand, I turned around and leaned against the bar, my eyes soaking up the scene. Gay porn on vid screens. Sofas loaded with entwined twinks, frenching and fondling. Flames milled around, libidos in overdrive. Flirtatious winks and waves ricocheted off the walls. Shit, there were more pup tents in here than in Tenttown.

I spied an offworlder in the near corner, inside a circle of admirers. His shirt was unbuttoned, hairless pecs and tight abs on display. He had a brandy in one hand, and he held the other out front. Some caterpillar-like creature snaked through his fingers, coiling and uncoiling, slithering and sliding. Always in motion. Some kind of genetically engineered pet.

One of his admirers held up a thumb and the offworlder transferred the creature. Fluffy fur wrapped the thumb, then wound back and forth between outstretched fingers. Delighted shrieks sounded over the bar’s hubbub.

The offworlder finished his brandy, and his gaze turned toward the bar, his eyes snagging on my stare. He stepped out from his group and came my way, his legs scissoring inside nut-hugger pants. Despite the still air, the back of his shirt flapped like he was walking into a breeze. His hair blew too, long raven-colored hair that whipped in fictional wind. Vain bastards with their high-tech bullshit.

“I saw you watching me. Do we know each other?”

“No.”

“In that case, I’m Angel. And you are?”

“Straight.”

He lifted a brow. “Forgive me if I doubt that, the way you came in here acting so butch. It’s quite the look you’ve got going there. Badass shades. A bump on your forehead like you’re a tough boy.” He took hold of my empty sleeve. “Oh, and this is a nice touch. Where’s your hand? Is it detachable?”

I leaned back to pull the sleeve from his hand. “You been coming here awhile?”

“You could say that.”

“Ever know a guy named Franz Samusaka?”

“Maybe. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m looking into his death.”

“You police?”

I lost patience. Not sure I had any in the first place. “Did you know the fucker or not?”

He acted taken aback, his lips forming a playfully exaggerated O. “You’ve really got that rough-boy act down, don’t you?”