I wasn’t going to receive a crime scene model of this murder, but I had viewed enough to assure me that the murders were linked. They had the same angelic motif, the same artistic ability and the first victim’s Enochian pointed to the Hamilton parties as well. Beatrice had provided art for the Hamilton estate, and George had clearly known the second victim, even if I wasn’t sure how. My best bet would be to watch the estate for now, see who came and left in the next few hours. Just so long as I could avoid another beating from George’s goon.
They’d be monitoring most of the property, so I found a spot across the roadway and settled in for a stake out. It didn’t surprise me to see Chief Marks arrive soon after, and leave just as quickly. An automated ambulance followed, and the large medical drones carried a man-sized parcel out of the house and into the back of the ambulance. That was Allen Barnes, no doubt to be ferried away to the morgue and ultimately disposed of.
The estate was quiet for an hour after this, lights slowly going out in the windows. I pushed myself from the wall I had been leaning against, prepared to return home for the night and start again tomorrow. Just then, the front doors opened and Constance came into view. A small car buzzed up the estate’s drive, and a woman in dark clothing left the driver’s side. I recognized her as a cryptocurrency accountant that I had occasionally seen working with the Syndicates, Jennifer Matthews. Constance gave her a quick hug, and then they both got in the car – with Constance driving.
The car zipped away, and I made a mental note to track down the woman the following day. I trekked my way back across the Uptown Torus to the public passenger tram station. As usual, it was empty. Uptowners despised the public transit system, and I again had the tram car to myself. The painkillers from the convenience terminal were doing their work, dulling the painful throb where the goon had gone to work on my midsection.
I sank low in my seat, watching the tramway lights flash by in intermittent clusters. They spaced out, and finally froze as we came to a stop at the Midtown Torus tram station. There was more activity here, more people boarding the tram, and I was careful to avoid jostling my stomach too much. I stood up as straight as I could manage, and semi-staggered my way back in the direction of my apartment.
I noticed something wrong immediately. The streetlamp outside of my apartment was flickering, spending a longer period dark than light. The entry lights on either side of my front door had been smashed, glass lying haphazardly around the front step. I stopped while I was still within the circle of light from the next nearest streetlamp, waiting to see if anyone was still here. I counted slowly to fifty, and then finished my walk to the door.
Not easily visible from the street, there was Enochian text scrawled across my door. I touched two fingertips to the nearest letter and found them covered in blood when I pulled them back. I took one further glance behind myself, convinced that no one had lingered after the vandalism, and entered my apartment. The blood was still wet on my fingers, so it had been placed recently. I accessed my terminal with the other hand, and scanned the blood in. While the computer cross referenced my other case file, I washed my hands and changed out of my work clothes.
When I returned, it had made a match – Beatrice York, the first victim. Whoever had murdered her was still in possession of her blood, and knew that I was on the case. Without support from station enforcement, things were going to get more difficult. I saved a hard copy of the case files, fully expecting to be locked out of them in the morning when Chief Marks arrived at headquarters. Translating the Enochian was much easier – a quick search provided the alphabet, and the text was short. On my door was the phrase;
We need for nothing, we want for anything.
It was simple, and unfortunately told me very little about who the culprit could be. Requesting an electrolyte infused drink from the nutriprinter, I avoided my usual drink for fear it would react poorly with the painkillers. I sank into my couch, briefly holding the cold drink to my forehead before downing it in a few quick, thirsty gulps. I remembered setting the glass down on my coffee table, but nothing after until my comm started to chime.
I started awake, activating my comm in the same moment. Constance Hamilton’s face popped into view, and she started speaking before I had even cleared the sleep from my eyes.
“Mr. Evans, I need your help,” She said, continuing without waiting for a response, “I think something may have happened. Father, Beatrice and Allen had all been working on a deal with Mr. Wethers, and…” She swallowed heavily. I could see her throat working as she held back a sob. Mr. Wethers could only be Reginald Wethers, the most powerful figure in the syndicate and a man not to be trifled with.
“What makes you think that something happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even and calming.
“Father left right after the party, he went to confront Mr. Wethers,” She said, her voice wavering, “I’m worried they may have done something to him.”
I lurched from my place on the couch to a standing position, my entire midsection flaring into pain as I did so. I couldn’t help but think that George’s goon wouldn’t let anything happen to the man.
“I’ll go and see, you stay where you are. Call some friends, don’t be alone,” I said, and flicked off the comm. I didn’t relish the idea of coming up against the Syndicate boss, but if he had done something to George Hamilton, it would throw the entire station into chaos. I left my apartment; the lights still smashed, the station still dark, and took the tram into the industrial zone. The slick walls of the Midtown Torus fell away to the grunge and exposed electrical conduits of the central spire.
Several repair drones were at work outside of Ian’s den, fixing a steam leak on the piping that ran over his door. The condensation had pulled some of the grime off of the wall, leaving a rusted streak down to a puddle on the ground. I slammed my fist against Ian’s door, and took a step back while I waited for it to open. There was no response.
I knocked again, louder, and Ian finally opened the door. He had clearly been asleep, or drug-addled. His eyes were glazed over, his clothing stained. He sputtered a bit and then managed to speak.
“I don’t know anything, Jack. I don’t,” He mumbled, causing me to shake my head.
“Not looking to talk to you, Ian. I need to speak with the big boss,” I said, which rocked Ian back on his heels.
“Wethers? I don’t know if I can arrange that, Jack. I ain’t got that kind of clout,” Ian said, taking a step back into his den. He waved for me to come in, and I did so. “I’d have to run that up the chain, and ain’t no one gonna be happy with that.”
“It’s gotta happen, Ian, I think he may have something to do with the murders,” I said, explaining the situation as delicately as I could.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ian said, exasperated, and picked up his comm. “You stay here, I’m going to see what I can do.
I waited as Ian disappeared into the backroom, shrugging off a few condensation drips from the overhead piping. The air smelled acrid, a result of the welding going on outside, and a distinct hint of body odor from the drug den. After ten minutes had passed, he returned to the room. He rolled one shoulder, eyes darting around before speaking.
“I couldn’t get a meeting with the big guy, but I got a meeting with his lieutenant. You convince him that you need to talk to the boss, you get to talk to him,” Ian said, licking his lips.
“That’s all I could ask for. I’ll do the rest,” I said, “Thanks Ian.”
“Yeah, you just remember this, alright?” He said, opening the door. “You owe me one.”
I nodded, and he sent me the information via comm. There were no trams that traveled between points in the central spire, everything in the industrial zone was considered fully automated. It helped the syndicate operate their gray market, but made traveling take significantly longer.
At the top of the spire, the syndicate had claimed a swath of abandoned offices as their own. Utilitarian, falling apart on the exterior, these offices had once housed the administration of the industrial zone. When automation had fully taken over, the area had been abandoned. Maintenance drones flitted about, co-opted by the Syndicate to perform enough repairs to keep the office livable. They couldn't prevent the smell of rust, decay and mildew. A lanky man in a dark suit met me at the entrance.
“Jack Evans?” He asked as I approached. I nodded, and jerked his chin towards the door. “Yeah, c'mon in. We've got a few things to discuss.”
The hallways were carpeted, unusual for official station construction. It betrayed the age of the area. They were occasionally water stained, or ripped up all together. We passed offices, warehouse spaces and break rooms. I flexed my hand, burning the layout into my mind in case I needed to make an escape.
“Ian says you're working those crazy murders,” The man asked as we neared the end of the hallway. “If you're here, you must be thinkin' it was us.”
“It wasn't even on my radar,” I said, keeping a healthy distance between the two of us. “Until someone called to tell me you were keeping a hostage.”
“A hostage?” The man asked, laughing. “Buddy, you're way off mark. You've been dealing with us long enough to know we stay above board.”
The lieutenant was so amused by the suggestion that I was actually taken aback. I looked over my shoulder, ensuring no one was behind me.
“You don't have George Hamilton?” I asked calmly, but a nervous twitch of my hand followed.
“You think we've got Hamilton of all people? Who sold you this bill of goods, detective?” The man shook his head. “Look, we avoid attention. Everything we do could be made illegal tomorrow, if we were pulling the kind of racket you're suggesting.”
“So you have no knowledge of a deal gone bad between Beatrice York, Allen Barnes and George Hamilton?” I asked.
“Not one involving us, at least. And before you ask, we don't have anything to do with Jennifer Matthews either.” He said sternly, tugging a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. That rocked me back on my heels.
“What do you mean?” I asked, “What about Jennifer Matthews?”
He raised an eyebrow and tapped his comm. A holographic news display appeared in front of him. The anchor was talking about the discovery of another murder. Jennifer's face was plastered in the corner of the image.
The man lit his cigarette as I turned to stumble back towards the entrance. The carpet squelched beneath my shoes as I left the office complex, a steam leak having re-soaked it. I flipped open my comm and contacted Chief Marks.
“Jack,” He said as he answered, eyebrows furrowed, “This better not be about the Beatrice York case.”
“I need to find Constance Hamilton,” I said, bypassing his statement as best I could.
“You're off the case, Jack. The case is closed,” He continued, sipping from his coffee. “George assures me that he has the situation, whatever it is, under control.”
“Yeah, I'll bet he does,” I snarled, “We need to a drone net across the entire station for Constance Hamilton.”
“You need to stay away from Ms. Hamilton, Jack.” He said, “She feels very threatened.”
I snapped the comm shut and cursed, before realizing that I still had Constance's comm number from earlier. I dialed it in and waited as the comm buzzed incessantly. Finally, without video, Constance's voice bubbled up.
“Hello detective,” She purred, her voice entirely different than it had been at the party. “I trust the syndicate didn't have much to tell you?”
“It was you,” I said, “You killed them.”
“They were very willing participants, Jack,” She said non-nonchalantly. “Head down to the space port, I'll meet you in bay 36. See you soon, detective.” The comm snapped off.
I set off at a run, covering the distance to the central spire's pedestrian corridor in a matter of minutes. Flickering lights, in a various states of disrepair, illuminated the walkway as I ran through intermittent haze of rust and steam. It took me the better part of an hour to get to the spaceport, and I was gasping for air as I came to a stop in bay 36.
There were no ships moored in this bay, but a single chair had been set in front of the airlock. I caught my breath slowly, approaching the chair with an abundance of caution. The intercom to the airlock projected in Constance's staticy voice.
“Have a seat, Mr. Evans,” She said, coming into view through the airlock porthole. “I've one last work of art to share with you.”
“You're insane,” I said, refusing to sit down.
“How could I not be?” She said, pouting, “There's nothing, absolutely nothing for me. No conflict, no pain. Can there be pleasure without pain, Mr. Evans?” She huffed, her breath fogging the glass.
“Beatrice agreed with me, she really did,” She continued, “We both had everything we could ever need, but not what we really wanted. I can't even describe the sense of elation when I killed her.” She shivered.
“You killed her for fun?” I asked, mouth agape.
“We killed her for fun, detective,” She said sternly, “We agreed I should be the one to kill, because I could make the wings. She loved it. Her last words were thanking me for such a beautiful work of art from her life.”
“And Allan Barnes?” I asked, swallowing.
“We discussed it,” Constance said with a sniff, “He agreed it could be interesting.”
“Did he agree to dying?”
“Not in so many words, I had to hurry with him. In those moments, I felt more alive than I ever had before.” Her eyes flashed, “And in that moment before he died, the fear, the elation. I know he felt the same.”
“Why are you in the airlock, Constance?” I asked, stepping around the chair.
“I want to know, Jack,” She said, turning to look at the outer door, “I want to know what they felt. I want to float through eternity, preserved and beautiful. Oh, the thought makes me so happy.”
“I need you to come back inside, Constance.” I said, keeping my voice as utterly even as I could, “We'll bring you back to your father. We'll get you help.”
“I've always been taught to help myself,” She said with an unhinged grin, slamming her hand down on the lock release button. The intercom died, the static gone, and I watched as the rush of air from the airlock jettisoned Constance Hamilton from the station. Weightless and ephemeral, she floated free in the vacuum. I saw the moisture from her eyes drift out, boiling in the low pressure. Her skin slowly frosted, permanently freezing her face in that rictus grin. Her body turned, her dress twirling about her body as she drifted away.
I took a step back, and dropped into the chair. A highball glass of station alcohol was sitting on the floor next to me, and I picked it up with a resigned sigh.
The entrance to the bay opened, and Chief Marks entered – flanked by station enforcement on either side. I turned to look at them as they approached, and downed the alcohol in one gulp.
“Jack Evans,” Chief Marks said, “You are under arrest.”
I felt the alcohol burning my nose as I nearly snorted it up. I coughed, using the chair for support as I stood.
“For what?” I asked.
“You know damn well,” the chief said, as he looked out at the frozen corpse of Constance Hamilton twirling in space. “We received a call from Ms. Hamilton that you were threatening her. Then you call me, demanding to know where she is?” He nodded to the two men, and they clapped a pair of handcuffs over my wrists.
“You can't believe that, Alex,” I pleaded, “What about the other deaths?”
“You'd have had plenty of time to kill York, you were at the party with Barnes and...” He glanced to me, “Where were you last night, Jack?”
I swallowed heavily, staring at him. He stepped across to me and looked directly into my eyes.
“I told you to drop the case, Evans.” He waved his hands, and the two men dragged me away. I caught a glimpse of Chief Marks before we left the bay. He was staring out the airlock window.