apartment. If there was any clue
as to who had killed Vivian, it was going to be in there in that
apartment, with her things.
But I had to admit that I was inextricably
drawn to the place. After living rough for so long – bed hopping
with whatever women I could get and sleeping the rest of the time
in the drunk tanks – it was alluring to find somewhere that I felt
at home. The furnishing, the odors, the taste of that coffee, all
seemed oddly comforting to me.
It must have triggered some long-forgotten
memory in me, something from my childhood, like Max in his wolf
suit. I’ve heard of smells and tastes doing that for people. Not
that I could remember living in an apartment like Montavez’s,
either with my folks or without.
My father had been an attorney in Cleveland
and my mother a homemaker. I remember the big house out in the
suburbs. The apartment was all so...urban. I didn’t live in a town
until I’d come to Seattle to work in my uncle’s restaurant, and
then I’d been twenty-two. He was the one who’d hooked me up with
the police gig. His campaign contributions to the last mayor had
earned him some favors. And back then I’d been living with Annetta,
in that house in Green Lake...
I took my cup of coffee back to the futon and
sat down. I lit a Kools and took a long drag, looking around. What
was it about this place?
I let my mind wander, staring at the dark TV.
I was daydreaming of crazed Rosicrucians, burning books in some
Neo-Nuremberg style, Nazi flag waving rally, when snatches of the War of the Planets movie popped into head. I’d only
seen it once, as a kid, but I remembered being particularly
terrified of the mouthless, eyeless killer drones used by the
invading Galronts. How they’d left their human victims slowly
dissolving into a pile of goo. The comparison to Geneing was
inescapable.
Dark and Geneing. What was the connection
there?
Q? I was convinced that Dark’s book and the
shadowy, underworld figure were somehow connected. It just couldn’t
be a coincidence. And I knew Vivian had believed the same thing
before her death. She bought that first edition from the bookstore,
but she’d really been looking for the man, as Constantine had
suspected. Did it detail his identity in some fashion? Could she
decode it? If she had a copy of it on an e-reader, why did she need
a physical copy? And where was it?
I had lots of questions and not many
answers.
I shook myself and reached for the TV remote.
Sitting there in the empty, quiet apartment thinking about spooky,
low budget aliens was giving me the heebie jeebies. I turned the
television on for some noise.
It was showing a breaking news broadcast. A
demonstration downtown. The Mayor was leading a protest against the
Federal Wardship. Good for him, I said to myself. He was screaming
into a gathered collection of press microphones as protesters waved
makeshift signs behind him. He was red-faced, bellowing into the
cameras, denouncing the President and the illegal actions of his
administration. The crowd churned behind him, seething with
collective rage. By the looks of things, it wasn’t going to stay a
peaceful protest for long. I’d watched crowds working themselves up
into a riot before, and they’d looked a hell of a lot like the one
on TV.
My phone rang. I was slow to answer it. Riot
duty was the last thing on my mind.
“Detective Fonseca?” It was Dispatch.
Shit.
“Yep,” I said, taking a gulp of my
coffee.
There was a long, silent pause on the phone,
like the dispatcher was trying hard to phrase something
correctly.
“Hello?” I asked the phone.
“Detective, we have a four fifty-one call,
originating from the University of Washington Campus...”
Four fifty-one? What the hell was that? Not a
homicide, I knew that. “Four fifty-one?” I asked.
“Yes sir, an arson.”
“Arson? Was somebody killed?”
“No sir, that is not my understanding,” the
dispatcher sighed.
“Then call CBRNE, those are their
as to who had killed Vivian, it was going to be in there in that
apartment, with her things.
But I had to admit that I was inextricably
drawn to the place. After living rough for so long – bed hopping
with whatever women I could get and sleeping the rest of the time
in the drunk tanks – it was alluring to find somewhere that I felt
at home. The furnishing, the odors, the taste of that coffee, all
seemed oddly comforting to me.
It must have triggered some long-forgotten
memory in me, something from my childhood, like Max in his wolf
suit. I’ve heard of smells and tastes doing that for people. Not
that I could remember living in an apartment like Montavez’s,
either with my folks or without.
My father had been an attorney in Cleveland
and my mother a homemaker. I remember the big house out in the
suburbs. The apartment was all so...urban. I didn’t live in a town
until I’d come to Seattle to work in my uncle’s restaurant, and
then I’d been twenty-two. He was the one who’d hooked me up with
the police gig. His campaign contributions to the last mayor had
earned him some favors. And back then I’d been living with Annetta,
in that house in Green Lake...
I took my cup of coffee back to the futon and
sat down. I lit a Kools and took a long drag, looking around. What
was it about this place?
I let my mind wander, staring at the dark TV.
I was daydreaming of crazed Rosicrucians, burning books in some
Neo-Nuremberg style, Nazi flag waving rally, when snatches of the War of the Planets movie popped into head. I’d only
seen it once, as a kid, but I remembered being particularly
terrified of the mouthless, eyeless killer drones used by the
invading Galronts. How they’d left their human victims slowly
dissolving into a pile of goo. The comparison to Geneing was
inescapable.
Dark and Geneing. What was the connection
there?
Q? I was convinced that Dark’s book and the
shadowy, underworld figure were somehow connected. It just couldn’t
be a coincidence. And I knew Vivian had believed the same thing
before her death. She bought that first edition from the bookstore,
but she’d really been looking for the man, as Constantine had
suspected. Did it detail his identity in some fashion? Could she
decode it? If she had a copy of it on an e-reader, why did she need
a physical copy? And where was it?
I had lots of questions and not many
answers.
I shook myself and reached for the TV remote.
Sitting there in the empty, quiet apartment thinking about spooky,
low budget aliens was giving me the heebie jeebies. I turned the
television on for some noise.
It was showing a breaking news broadcast. A
demonstration downtown. The Mayor was leading a protest against the
Federal Wardship. Good for him, I said to myself. He was screaming
into a gathered collection of press microphones as protesters waved
makeshift signs behind him. He was red-faced, bellowing into the
cameras, denouncing the President and the illegal actions of his
administration. The crowd churned behind him, seething with
collective rage. By the looks of things, it wasn’t going to stay a
peaceful protest for long. I’d watched crowds working themselves up
into a riot before, and they’d looked a hell of a lot like the one
on TV.
My phone rang. I was slow to answer it. Riot
duty was the last thing on my mind.
“Detective Fonseca?” It was Dispatch.
Shit.
“Yep,” I said, taking a gulp of my
coffee.
There was a long, silent pause on the phone,
like the dispatcher was trying hard to phrase something
correctly.
“Hello?” I asked the phone.
“Detective, we have a four fifty-one call,
originating from the University of Washington Campus...”
Four fifty-one? What the hell was that? Not a
homicide, I knew that. “Four fifty-one?” I asked.
“Yes sir, an arson.”
“Arson? Was somebody killed?”
“No sir, that is not my understanding,” the
dispatcher sighed.
“Then call CBRNE, those are their
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