Payoff (3 page)

“Do you have a minute?” I asked. “We’d like to talk to you about Raymond Datini.”

He gripped the wooden door hard. “Yeah. He hasn’t been here. Is he okay?”

Cherabino focused like a pointer dog going taunt. “Do you have reason to suspect he’s in trouble?”

“He hasn’t shown up in a long time,” George said. “I mean, the college assigned us to the room, it’s not like we’re friends or anything. We get along. I don’t know where he is.”

She nodded.

“Can we come in?” I asked. All the interrogation books claimed people were more likely to tell the truth surrounded by their own things. It was strictly book-knowledge though; mostly I interviewed in the interrogation rooms in the basement of the department.

“Oh.” He frowned. “Yeah, I guess.” He opened the door.

The dorm room was small, just large enough for two parallel beds, desks, and two infinitesimal closets. It was also covered in clutter, clothes thrown everywhere, empty pizza boxes, forgotten soda cans and protein cube wrappers, and layers and layers of cheap paper stirred up like in a blender. The smell was of stale sweat, cola, energy drinks, and desiccated food—along with an unpleasant undercurrent of musty . . . something, and more of that faint sweet smell of George’s.

Cherabino removed a banana peel and perched on a clear spot on the far desk. George took a seat at his own desk, less than four feet from her, and, finally catching up to reality, I leaned against the wall by the door.

Cherabino didn’t say anything, which meant I was up. I relaxed my body language, opened up my shoulders to seem friendlier, and uncrossed my arms. I even added a small, polite smile. Interviews were my gig, and I was going to do a good job if it killed me. I owed the judge, and I knew it, and finding the man who killed his grandson seemed the least I could reasonably do. Plus the whole jail question. I couldn’t screw this up, and this early in the morning, when I was feeling good, maybe I wouldn’t.

“How long have you been rooming with Raymond?” I asked George.

He looked uncomfortable, just a little too tense for the situation, and he kept looking back at Cherabino. “Since May. We both did the summer semester this year.”

“And you said the college matched you up?”

“It’s the cheapest housing on campus, and the only one open during the summer. If you don’t have a roommate going in, it can be a crapshoot. But he’s okay. Quiet guy, never really here. As long as I let him sleep, he’s cool with pretty much anything. Doesn’t mind me bringing over girls. It’s not like we’re friends, but it works. We kept the room for fall, saved a little money. It’s weird he’s gone this long though.”

“His grandfather said he talked to you a few days ago.”

“Um, yeah. That’s right. He seemed okay.”

“Why was Raymond always gone?” Cherabino asked, following up. “You said he was never here. What was he doing?”

George shrugged. “He’s a poli-sci major, involved in all those studies with Professor Klaidman, plus he parties. And his internship was intense; he had to stop the work-study. It’s full-time hours even though he’s got a full course load. Too much for me—that’s intense.”

“Parties?” Cherabino said.

“Internship?” I said.

George looked back and forth between us. He shrugged, and looked down. “He works for a state senator. Billy Oden or somebody. The guy’s bad news if you ask me.”

Billy Oden the Incorruptible? Swartz actually liked him, and my sponsor didn’t like any politicians. “Why do you say he’s bad news?” I asked.

“Other than the fact he’s getting Raymond to work for him around the clock without paying him? He says dance, Raymond does a jig, and the whole time Ray’s going into debt. Had to call his grandfather for money a couple of times earlier in the semester. It’s not right. And lately he’s been worried. I think there’s something going on. Maybe Raymond found something he didn’t like and split.”

“How long has he been gone?” Cherabino asked.

“Like, more than a week,” George said. “It’s been a couple days before, and he’s got clothes missing. I didn’t worry about it. But—his grandfather called, seemed worried. He said I should report it, so I did, but the campus police don’t seem worried either, says it hasn’t been enough time. You think something happened to him?” George asked. “He’s not on campus. Nobody’s seen him.”

Wow. Seemed like Raymond’s case had gotten thrown about in a bad way for days. If the judge hadn’t strong-armed us into it . . . would anybody have found Raymond? If the rain hadn’t kept the construction crew from emptying that dumpster, would I have?

“George,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry to inform you that your roommate, Raymond Datini, was found dead yesterday on campus.” I waited.

George’s immediate reaction was scorn, and anger, then he looked down. Took a breath. “I guess I’m going to have to find a new roommate then.”

Had they fought? Was George having to pay more of the money share than expected? There was something there he wasn’t talking about and without the telepathy I didn’t know how to get to it. Normally at this stage I’d be picking up flashes of guilt or shame or whatever he was feeling, and that telepathic read would help me figure out where to press. Without it, I was down to guesswork and prayer.

“You said Raymond partied?” I asked, maybe to chase down the drugs angle. If George was involved, maybe that was Raymond’s connection. I’d been in the Guild school at this age, so I didn’t know firsthand, but a lot of the guys at the Narcotics Anonymous meetings talked about college parties as the places they first met their drug. “Tell us about the parties,” I said.

“Some campus-wide hangout at the Plantation,” he said, then frowned. “Well, it’s not my scene. He went sometimes, but he did the frat party thing too. He liked to drink too much, if you know what I mean.”

I looked at the guy, hyped on caffeine and almost certainly something else, and wondered why he’d felt the need to say something. But people could get real judgmental on other people’s habits, even if they had their own.

“Did he have trouble sleeping much? Did he seem erratic? Up and down?” I asked.

“Sometimes. Look, he paid the rent on time. He’s not a bad roommate,” he said.

“And the Plantation?” I asked.

“It . . .” George paused.

“Yes?”

“Well, it doesn’t have a great reputation. My friends tend to stay away from that crowd. Listen, it’s getting late and I’ve got a paper due in an hour.” He looked at the door significantly.

Cherabino handed him a card. “You’ll call us if you remember anything else?”

“Of course,” he said, and stood up, obviously a prompt for us to go.

“Anything at all?”

“You got it, man.” He looked at the door again.

“We’ll be getting out of your hair now,” I said.

* * *

Billy Oden’s campaign of
fice was on the bottom floor of a large post–Tech Wars concrete condominium building, next door to a dry cleaner and a pizza place. The signs in his window—O
UTSTANDING
O
DEN
, V
OTE
O
DEN
, and other uncreative examples of the type—were printed in garish colors and blocky fonts so large you couldn’t possibly overlook them.

The bell over the doorway rang dully as we entered. It was dim inside, the window largely covered by the signs, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Long rows of tables filled the large room beneath another garish sign, each table filled with papers and people. In the back of the open space, maybe twenty feet back, a boxy office stood next to the restrooms. Its walls didn’t reach all the way to the ceiling, and its door closed with a
click
. The outside walls in the building, like most of the buildings built after the war, were three feet thick, and the acoustics as a result felt heavy and muted.

There was also a security guard, as was traditional for this kind of post-war building, a hefty guy with a large gun seated in an alcove eight feet away on the right wall. I wouldn’t be surprised if a huge concrete cover sealed up the building’s front every night; after the Tech Wars, people got paranoid, and for good reason. Why a politician had chosen this particular building with all its paranoia rather than the newer grown-crystal open buildings told me something about his character.

As we walked in, a hawkish guy in a far too expensive suit punctuated an order to another, then stood up. He came over, his hard-soled shoes making hollow
thuds
on the floor. “How can I help you?” In his mouth, the standard words became almost a curse.

“DeKalb County Police Department,” Cherabino said, flashing a badge. “We’d like to speak with Senator Oden.”

He adjusted his cuff links. “Of course,” he said, in a tone that said anything but. “His earliest available appointment is tomorrow.”

“It’s in his best interest to cooperate with law enforcement. I’d like to speak with him now,” Cherabino said evenly, a kind of leashed expectation coming over the Link. “Who are you?”

“Rafael Mantega, Senator Oden’s campaign manager,” he said smoothly. “And I’m afraid the earliest available appointment is tomorrow morning. I can offer you a slot at eight-thirty a.m.” He seemed pushy, and I wished I could read him to see why, but I felt nothing.

Cherabino held her ground. Finally she shrugged. “Put us down for eight-thirty then. But it will be here, not at the capitol.”

“Of course,” Mantega said smoothly. “Who should I attribute the appointment to?”

She frowned.

“Detective Cherabino,” I told him.

“I’ll make a note.” He smiled an empty smile, his eyes following us as we exited the door. “You have a pleasant day.”

In the steel-lattice-reinforced parking deck behind the building, I asked Cherabino, “Is it suspicious they won’t talk to us right away?”

“Could be. Probably Mantega’s just being an asshole, throwing his weight around.”

“You’re still going to run a background check on him, aren’t you?” I asked.

She stared at me, her car door half-open.

“Sorry, stupid question.”

* * *

The Plantation was an ol
d house in the style of
Gone With the Wind
, with a cluster of huge tall columns, two porches, and a yard that was trampled down so dramatically it was nearly half dirt. It was set far back from the road, down a long dirt path with tire tracks on its sides in long rows. Huge trees, twisted from the pollution and the aftermath of the Tech Wars, shaded the area. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the bright sunlight, even under the trees, was not kind to the house. The paint was peeling in small strips, the columns dented and stained near the base. And the bronzed-lettered square sign on the street had a pair of dirty underwear hanging from its corner and two letters missing.

Cherabino parked her unmarked detective’s car close to the house, angling the driver’s side for an easy dash back to the car. Since I’d been cut off from the world and seeing only her thoughts these last few weeks—even with her mostly blocking me out lately—I was starting to notice how many things she did, as she put it, “with an eye to officer safety.” Even the way she got out of the car, watching the bushes and the house out of habit and cautiousness, stood in sharp contrast to my normal habits.

A month ago, I would have been able to tell whether there was someone there from a distance; I was a Level Eight telepath, and even the quietest mind made ripples in Mindspace I could detect through training, power, and experience. But now—now. I still couldn’t feel anything but Cherabino’s mind, the world a wash of static. If someone charged out with a gun, I wouldn’t be able to drop them with a thought. Not now. I looked at the bushes myself, and suddenly felt vulnerable. Not only could I not see danger coming, but I couldn’t take it out. Not even one, lone guy.

Was this how regular people lived all the time? Was this how I would live now, if my mind didn’t heal itself? Sometimes they didn’t, after the kind of trauma I’d been through, and—

“Ahem,” Cherabino cleared her throat pointedly. “Let’s get this done and back to the station on a reasonable time schedule, okay? I have other cases to work today.”

I sighed and closed the car door, a soft
snick
, and I followed her, cautiously, all the way up the front of the house and inside the huge double doors, which were hanging slightly open.

Inside, a man’s voice called out, annoyed, “Are you back with the carpet cleaner? What did you do, stop at three stores?”

“Who is this?” Cherabino called back. She was bladed, her shoulder leading, hand close to the gun without making a production of it. She was expecting trouble, and for the first time since my Ability had shorted out, I felt . . . naked. I didn’t have a gun, and for the first time, I needed one. I didn’t have telepathy. I didn’t even have a rock to throw.

We were standing in an old entryway, ancient wood floors with chips and scratches so deep you could hardly see the grain. A long, Scarlett O’Hara–type staircase went up to the right, to a place we couldn’t see, and to the left, where the voice had come from, someone had knocked out a wall and set up a raised area with tables and chairs, bright disco lights and a dais on the end, presumably for a DJ since there was DJ equipment set up. Shiny mechanical spinners lined the walls, covered in mirrors. More mirrors adorned the tables, so that, at night, with the lights going, it would be a veritable treasure-trove of glittery lights. Here, now, in the daytime with the blackout curtains up and away, letting sunshine in, you could see the layers and layers of faded stains on the small strips of carpet on the outside of the room, and the deep scratches on the tables and dirt on the floor. This was the kind of club that was ridden hard and put away wet, and I felt dirty just standing here.

Cherabino moved forward, around the corner to the left, toward the voice.

“You know very well what . . . You’re not Parna,” a dangerous voice returned, and Cherabino stopped, her hand going to her gun.

I turned the corner too—a wide door on tracks was closing. Cherabino had seen something; she’d seen something to spark recognition and surprise but I hadn’t seen what.