this. They better have the best investigator in charge of this thing, and by best, I mean someone who can close cases and someone considered incorruptible. If this is murder, then we have to plan not just for an arrest, but for a conviction.”
“And if it’s not murder?” Popova asked softly.
“That’s not a concern at the moment,” DeRicci said, knowing she sounded cold. “We’re going to proceed as if it is. Get some medical examiner down there too. We need answers as fast as we can.”
“Already done, sir,” Popova said.
DeRicci didn’t doubt that. Popova had a great ability to multitask. She had probably been sending messages through her links as DeRicci spoke. Back when DeRicci first got this job and she discovered that Popova was going to be her assistant, it irritated her that Popova could do more than one thing at a time. DeRicci didn’t entirely believe it; she felt like people who multitasked the way Popova did were less competent.
But Popova was more competent because of her work method, and DeRicci now relied on it, even if she didn’t understand it.
“I assume there’s some kind of audio or visual footage,” DeRicci said. “I want that immediately. I want eyes and ears on this case right now.”
Popova nodded, then hovered. Popova never hovered. That was odd, too.
“Thank you, Rudra,” DeRicci said. “Now give me a minute.”
“Yes, sir,” Popova said, and walked out of the room. Just from her tone, DeRicci could tell Popova thought DeRicci was going to take a private moment to mourn.
But she wasn’t. As shocked as she was, she was also calm. She hadn’t really liked Soseki, although she worked with him. She never felt like she knew the man, just the politician.
She sighed, got up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Armstrong, and curving in the distance, the Dome. From this vantage, nothing looked different. But on the ground, she knew, everything was about to change.
She knew how things changed in an instant. She’d been through it more than once. The worst time was four years ago today, when an unknown suicide bomber tried to destroy the Dome. The resulting blast ruined an entire section of the Dome and demolished a whole neighborhood.
She had been the chief investigator on that bombing. She had learned most of what happened—what kind of bomb it was, why it did the kind of damage it had, what it had destroyed. What she hadn’t learned—no one had—was who the bomber was, and why that person had tried to destroy the Dome.
Usually this view reminded her that not everything had an answer—and even without answers, the city went on. The people continued, life moved forward, and everyone could recover from catastrophic events.
She had no idea if Soseki’s death was a catastrophic event.
She would find out—and if it was, she would minimize the damage, just like she was paid to do.
Twelve
Bartholomew Nyquist sat at his desk in First Unit of the Armstrong Police Department’s Detective Division. Somehow he had managed to keep his office through all of his recent ups and downs. People still treated him as if he was fragile—hell, the brass still treated him as if he was fragile—and he’d been back on full duty for months now.
He felt different. Who wouldn’t, after being sliced to pieces and nearly killed by a Bixian assassin? Although he had no one to compare the experience with. He was one of the few people to ever survive a Bixian attack, and that, he believed, was because the assassins, who work in pairs, went after the man he was with first.
Not that that detail mattered. The survival mattered—survival because Nyquist fought back and won, not because he was rescued at the right moment. People should treat him like a victor. Instead, they treated him as if he were still in his hospital bed, about to die at any moment.
He sipped the completely stale coffee he’d set on the side of his desk. At least he wasn’t on
“And if it’s not murder?” Popova asked softly.
“That’s not a concern at the moment,” DeRicci said, knowing she sounded cold. “We’re going to proceed as if it is. Get some medical examiner down there too. We need answers as fast as we can.”
“Already done, sir,” Popova said.
DeRicci didn’t doubt that. Popova had a great ability to multitask. She had probably been sending messages through her links as DeRicci spoke. Back when DeRicci first got this job and she discovered that Popova was going to be her assistant, it irritated her that Popova could do more than one thing at a time. DeRicci didn’t entirely believe it; she felt like people who multitasked the way Popova did were less competent.
But Popova was more competent because of her work method, and DeRicci now relied on it, even if she didn’t understand it.
“I assume there’s some kind of audio or visual footage,” DeRicci said. “I want that immediately. I want eyes and ears on this case right now.”
Popova nodded, then hovered. Popova never hovered. That was odd, too.
“Thank you, Rudra,” DeRicci said. “Now give me a minute.”
“Yes, sir,” Popova said, and walked out of the room. Just from her tone, DeRicci could tell Popova thought DeRicci was going to take a private moment to mourn.
But she wasn’t. As shocked as she was, she was also calm. She hadn’t really liked Soseki, although she worked with him. She never felt like she knew the man, just the politician.
She sighed, got up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Armstrong, and curving in the distance, the Dome. From this vantage, nothing looked different. But on the ground, she knew, everything was about to change.
She knew how things changed in an instant. She’d been through it more than once. The worst time was four years ago today, when an unknown suicide bomber tried to destroy the Dome. The resulting blast ruined an entire section of the Dome and demolished a whole neighborhood.
She had been the chief investigator on that bombing. She had learned most of what happened—what kind of bomb it was, why it did the kind of damage it had, what it had destroyed. What she hadn’t learned—no one had—was who the bomber was, and why that person had tried to destroy the Dome.
Usually this view reminded her that not everything had an answer—and even without answers, the city went on. The people continued, life moved forward, and everyone could recover from catastrophic events.
She had no idea if Soseki’s death was a catastrophic event.
She would find out—and if it was, she would minimize the damage, just like she was paid to do.
Twelve
Bartholomew Nyquist sat at his desk in First Unit of the Armstrong Police Department’s Detective Division. Somehow he had managed to keep his office through all of his recent ups and downs. People still treated him as if he was fragile—hell, the brass still treated him as if he was fragile—and he’d been back on full duty for months now.
He felt different. Who wouldn’t, after being sliced to pieces and nearly killed by a Bixian assassin? Although he had no one to compare the experience with. He was one of the few people to ever survive a Bixian attack, and that, he believed, was because the assassins, who work in pairs, went after the man he was with first.
Not that that detail mattered. The survival mattered—survival because Nyquist fought back and won, not because he was rescued at the right moment. People should treat him like a victor. Instead, they treated him as if he were still in his hospital bed, about to die at any moment.
He sipped the completely stale coffee he’d set on the side of his desk. At least he wasn’t on
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