After Dark (4 page)

“True, but there's a small problem with that approach.”

“What problem?”

“If you really think that I'm semidelusional or just overly sentimental about an old family antique, you probably won't be sufficiently careful.”

“Why do I need to be careful?”

“Because there are collectors who do believe that the box dates from pre–Curtain Earth. Some of them would no doubt kill to get their hands on it.”

“A
SMALL CHEST
, you say.” Bartholomew Greeley folded his hands on top of the locked glass case. His broad, ruddy features assumed a meditative expression. “Made of a yellowish wood. With a number of tiny hidden drawers.”

“That's how my client described it.” Lydia glanced at her watch. She had only twenty minutes left on her lunch hour. “Apparently it's been in his family for several generations. Between you and me, he's convinced it's an Old World antique.”

Greeley looked pained. “Highly unlikely.”

“Yeah, I know. Probably a nice heirloom-quality piece made right here on Harmony less than a hundred years ago but with a history that has been, shall we say, embellished by a long series of grandfathers and grandmothers.” Lydia nodded. “You know how families are when it comes to that kind of thing.”

“Indeed.” Bartholomew's eyes gleamed. “But if the particular family in question actually believes the item is of Old World manufacture—” He let the sentence trail off suggestively.

Lydia got the point. “Rest assured, my client is convinced that the cabinet came from Earth, and he is prepared to pay well to get it back.”

“How well?” Bartholomew asked bluntly.

“He has instructed me to put out the word that he will top any offer from a private collector.”

“What about an offer from a museum?”

“My client says he can prove ownership of the cabinet and will go to court to get it back if necessary. No curator will touch it if he or she thinks the museum will lose it in a legal battle. What with the initial expense plus legal costs, it wouldn't be worth the price.”

“True. Not unless the artifact in question actually is a work of art from the home world.”

“As you said, highly unlikely. The thing to keep in mind is that my client
believes
it's from Earth. That means there will probably be some other collectors who can be persuaded to believe it too.”

“Hmm.” Bartholomew pursed his lips. “So you need concern yourself only with the private market.”

“Not just the private collector market, Bart.” Lydia gave him a meaningful look. “A very special segment of that market.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “The segment that does not ask too many questions.”

“Right. We both know that you would never get involved in questionable transactions, of course.”

“Absolutely not. I have my reputation to consider.”

“Naturally.” Lydia was proud of the fact that she did not even blink at that statement. “But a dealer in your position sometimes hears things. I just want you to know that my client is prepared to compensate you for any information that leads to the recovery of his antique box.”

“Indeed.” Bartholomew glanced around the cluttered interior of Greeley's Antiques with an air of satisfaction. “You're quite right, of course. A dealer in my position occasionally picks up rumors.”

Lydia followed his gaze. The display cabinets were crammed with odd bits and pieces of rusty metal and warped, faded plastic. She recognized some of the items in the cases, including what looked like the remains of an Old World weather forecasting instrument and the hilt of a knife. They were typical of the kind of basic tools the settlers had brought through the Curtain or crafted shortly after their arrival on Harmony.

A torn, badly stained shirt with a round colonial-style collar was displayed in one of the glass-topped counters. Next to it was a pair of boots that looked as old as the shirt. Neither the shirt nor the boots bore any traces of artistic adornment. The colonists had tended to be an austere lot. They'd become even more focused on the basics of survival after the Curtain had closed.

She took a step closer to the case that held the shirt and boots, widening her eyes at the neatly penned description and price.

“You're selling these as genuine first-generation apparel?” she asked politely.

“Both the shirt and the boots have been authenticated,” Bartholomew said smoothly. “Excellent examples of early colonial-era work. There is every reason to believe that they were crafted within the first decade after the closing of the Curtain.”

“I'd say it's a lot more likely that they were made last year by a forger who didn't do enough research.”

Bartholomew scowled. “No offense, Lydia, but you're an expert in Harmonic antiquities, not colonial antiques.”

“Give me some credit, Bart.” Lydia eyed him. “Just because I specialize in ruin work doesn't mean I don't know a fake human antique when I see one. I was trained to recognize all kinds of frauds.”

Bartholomew's wide face reddened in outrage. “What makes you think that shirt is not first generation?”

“The color. That particular shade of green wasn't used in the early colonial era. It appeared about forty years after the Curtain closed.”

Bartholomew sighed. “Thank you for your opinion.”

Lydia chuckled. “Hey, don't go changing the price on my account. Like you said, I'm no colonial-antiques expert.”

“Quite true,” Bartholomew said a little too readily. “And I won't be changing the price.”

She took another look at her watch. Fifteen minutes left until she had to be back at Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors. There had been time for visits to only two antique galleries on her lunch hour today. She had deliberately chosen to start with Greeley's Antiques and Hickman's Colonial Artifacts because both proprietors dealt in Old Earth and first-generation artifacts and because neither gallery owner was overburdened with scruples.

“I've got to get back to the office,” Lydia said. “We've been swamped at Shrimpton's today. You will let me know right away if you hear anything, won't you?”

“You have my word on it, my dear.” Bartholomew looked at her. “Speaking of your job at Shrimpton's little museum, mind if I ask a question?”

“I didn't murder poor Chester.”

Bartholomew gave her a limpid glance. “Good heavens, Lydia, I wasn't about to suggest that you did.”

“Why not? Everyone else has felt free to suggest exactly that.”

Bartholomew leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. “The thing is, why was he found in that tacky little establishment where you work?”

“Haven't got a clue.” Lydia turned to walk toward the front door. “But I'll tell you one thing. If I had killed Chester, I wouldn't have left his body just down the hall from my own office. A little too obvious.”

Bartholomew looked thoughtful. “I suppose that's true. But it does raise another interesting question.”

“I know.” Lydia opened the door. “What was Chester doing in Shrimpton's in the first place?”

“What do the cops think?”

“They think he went there to steal something. Granted, we're not a front-rank museum, but we do have some interesting items in the collection, especially in the Tomb Gallery. I wouldn't put it past Chester to lift a couple of vases or some tomb mirrors.”

“I wouldn't put anything past Chester. But why was he murdered, do you think?”

Lydia shook her head. “Who knows? Detective Martinez believes that one of his truly annoyed clients followed him and killed him in the museum.”

“Poor Chester. He never got that big break he was always looking for, did he?”

“No,” Lydia said quietly, “he didn't.”

She stepped out onto the sidewalk and closed the door behind herself. She was satisfied with what she had accomplished. Both Greeley and Hickman operated in the gray area between the world of respectable galleries and the illegal underground of the antiques business. By tonight, the news that she was looking for the cabinet of curiosities would have reached every dealer in Cadence.

She shot another glance at her watch and smiled to herself. So what if she was a suspect in a murder investigation? Things were looking up. Counting travel time to and from Ruin Row, she was about to post her first billable hour to Emmett London's account.

Her first job as a private consultant was off to a nice start. She could only hope that she wasn't successful too soon. The less time it took to track down the London family heirloom, the less she could charge Emmett for her services. She pursed her lips. Maybe she should have done a fixed-price contract.

 

Emmett emerged from the crowded bar and walked down the cracked sidewalk. The weak streetlamps in this section of the Old Quarter made only small inroads in the dark valleys of the night, and the light fog didn't help. It created impenetrable pockets of shadow in the unlit doorways of the looming buildings. It was a little like moving through a Dead City catacomb, Emmett thought, but without the green glow and the eerie, alien quality.

He crossed the silent street, automatically adjusting his balance so that his boot heels did not echo on the pavement.

He walked deliberately back to where he had parked the Slider, but he did not hurry. He was in no great rush to return to his hotel. He needed to think, and it was easier to do that out here in the shadows.

Things were becoming complicated, he reflected. Hiring Lydia Smith had not been part of the original plan. But with Brady dead, the only thing he could do was improvise.

The prickle of awareness at the top of his spine interrupted his thoughts. It got his immediate and complete attention.

The telltale whiff of synch-smoke told him that the watcher was somewhere in the shadows to his left. He continued along the sidewalk without pause, but he took his hands out of his pockets.

A figure stirred in an unlit doorway.

“Mr. Emmett London?”

Well, that was a first, Emmett thought. Small-time thugs who preyed on late-night bar crawlers rarely addressed their intended victims by name, let alone in a polite, damn near deferential tone.

Which meant that the young man in the shadows of the doorway was probably not a garden-variety street thief.

Emmett came to a halt and waited.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the pale glow of the streetlamp. He was thin and lanky, and he had the trademark ghost-hunter slouch down cold. He also had the wardrobe. He was dressed in khakis, boots, and a supple black leather jacket with the collar pulled up around his ears in a rakish manner. His long hair was tied back at his nape with a black leather thong. He wore his amber in a belt buckle the size of a car.

The size of one's amber wasn't important. It took only a small chunk of the stuff to focus psi power and convert it into a usable energy field. But try telling that to the flashy dressers.

“Didn't mean to alarm you, sir. My name is Renny. I'm just the messenger.”

“That can be a high-risk profession.”

“That sounds like something the boss would say,” Renny replied.

“Who's your boss?”

Renny scowled. “I'm a guildman. My boss is Mercer Wyatt.”

“Really?” Emmett smiled slightly. “You take orders from Wyatt?”

Renny flushed. “Well, not directly, of course. Not yet, at any rate. But I'm movin' up fast in the Guild. One of these days I'm gonna take orders from the big man himself. Meanwhile, I get 'em through Bonner.”

“And what exactly did Bonner tell you to tell me?”

Renny drew himself up as if preparing to recite from memory. “Mr. Wyatt requests your presence at dinner. His place.”

“Let me be sure I've got this straight. This is an invitation.”

“Yeah, right.”

“So why didn't Wyatt just pick up the phone and call me at my hotel?”

Renny looked slightly taken aback by that suggestion. “With all due respect, sir, Mr. Wyatt is real big on tradition, y'know? He likes to do things in the old ways.”

“You mean he likes to run things the way they were run in the days following the Era of Discord. Somebody ought to tell him that times have changed.”

Renny's brow furrowed deeply. “Just because the Resonance City Guild decided to turn itself into some kinda wimpy business corporation doesn't mean the other Guilds got to do things that way. Here in Cadence, we're into tradition.”

“Well, Benny—”

“Renny.”

“Excuse me. Renny. Tell you what. Go ahead and honor your traditions. In the meantime, not only is the Resonance Guild making money hand over fist, but one of the vice presidents is getting ready to run for a seat on the Federation Council.”

Renny's mouth dropped open. “The Council? Are you serious? A guildman is running for public office?”

“He's mounting a campaign, and the latest polls show he's probably going to get elected. You know why? The voters think he's had a lot of good, solid business experience because of his executive position in the Guild.”

“Well, shit.” Renny shook his head. “If that don't beat all. How the hell did they do it?”

Emmett shrugged. “Let's just say that the last boss of the Resonance Guild decided he didn't like being regarded as the CEO of a racketeering mob. He decided to upgrade the Guild image. You know, mainstream the organization.”

Renny's face scrunched up into a puzzled frown. “Mainstream?”

“Never mind. Look, it's getting late. You've delivered your message, so why don't we just say good night?”

“Wait—you haven't accepted Mr. Wyatt's invitation.”

“I'll go back to my hotel and think about it. If I decide I can fit it into my busy social schedule, I'll give him a call.” Emmett started to move on. “You know, on the phone?”

Renny looked alarmed. “Mr. Wyatt will be real disappointed if you don't have dinner with him, sir.”

“Good old Mercer. He always was the sentimental type.”

Renny cleared his throat. “One more thing. I'm supposed to tell you that if you accept Mr. Wyatt's invitation, he might be able to help you out with your business here in Cadence.”

Emmitt stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Is that a fact?”