Dragons & Dwarves (11 page)

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Authors: S. Andrew Swann

BOOK: Dragons & Dwarves
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For the first time I heard the other elves speak. There was a whispered conversation in a language that didn’t belong on this planet. It lasted a few seconds before Elf One said something harsh. The closest thing to an emotion I had heard in his voice.
“You believe that there is more than the story of the dragon’s death.”
“Yes.”
“What do you believe?”
“There are major winners and losers. Who gains from the dragon’s death? Who’s losing something? If there’s a power vacuum in the paranormal community, who’s going to fill it?” Something in my gut turned sour hearing myself voice things so starkly. I had told myself that I was interested in Aloeus for his own sake. I didn’t like the fact that, when it came down to it, I wouldn’t have been so interested in him if he hadn’t cut so wide a swath both literally and figuratively.
“Do you believe Aloeus’ death was an accident?”
“No.” My answer was flat, final, and a complete surprise to me. Whatever spell bound me was digging deep into unexamined areas of my own mind. The elf had plucked a suspicion out of my head that I wasn’t even aware I’d been harboring.
“Why?”
“Aloeus should have been able to avoid it, whatever
it
was. I have a natural suspicion whenever any public figure dies in a freak accident.”
More elvish talking then, “Does the name Faust mean anything to you?”
“He made a deal with the Devil. Old book.”
“You know no one by that name?”
“No, I don’t.”
My vision was dimming, and I had lost even the numbness that connected me to my body. I kept thinking back to the mage’s comment about draining me dry.
“These answers have been truthful?”
I was surprised that I didn’t answer. Apparently the question wasn’t addressed toward me. The mage said, in a voice now very far off and wee, “What you think you paid me for?”
“Then we are done.”
Silence.
Darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
 
I
WOKE up the next morning with enough memory of the prior night to realize that it was far from the nightmare I wanted it to be.
 
This was uncharted territory for me. The greatest physical threat I’d ever suffered before this was when an elderly George Forbes threw a chair at me during a press conference when I asked a question that—apparently—questioned his judgment in reentering city politics after umpteen years of retirement.
There is a considerable difference in tone between a chair wielded by a washed-up politician, and a Glock wielded by an emotionless elf cop. My pulse raced in my neck, and my mouth tasted of copper just thinking about it.
But, on reflection, the motive behind both was the same. Intimidation.
That pissed me off.
One major self-destructive part of my personality was that whenever someone threatened me to get me to abandon a course of action, I became more committed to whatever I was doing. Even if I
want
to cave, I can’t.
That was pretty much what happened to my marriage. When Margaret started telling me I had to spend less time at the job or our marriage was in serious trouble, I couldn’t bring myself to change. I knew better, but some adamantine kernel of ego kept me from responding. The Portal opening was the biggest story of the millennium, and, by God, I was going to cover it.
I can’t say I was surprised when I came home to an empty house.
All in all, the divorce was amicable. Because, once I’d done the stupid macho shit and refused to bend, I was so pathetically guilty that I caved on every other point. As if responding to my wife’s needs now was somehow going to fix it. Fortunately for me, Margaret didn’t have her lawyer feed too much on my bloated corpse.
And, if I wasn’t going to let the loss of my marriage intimidate me, a cabal of armed elves didn’t have much chance.
That was what was running through my head as I pushed open the door to Columbia Jennings’ office the morning after. The smoke smell was as thick as ever, and she was half turned away from me, facing the screen on her desktop. I could see an image of this morning’s
Press
on the flat screen before she looked up at me. “Maxwell?”
“Morning, Bea,” I said as I pushed the door shut behind me.
“I was going to congratulate you. Good story. Above the fold.”
I nodded. She was being way more gregarious than usual. She almost smiled. The subliminal nervousness that I’d sensed yesterday was there full force now that I knew what to look for. “Yes. It turns out to be more my line than I’d thought at first.” I didn’t sit. “Perceptive of you to give me the lead on this, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you.” She said it in a way that made it clear she wasn’t sure it was a compliment.
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did you give the story to me?”
“It’s your line. Like you said—”
“Bullshit!”
She stared at me, stunned at my outburst. I was a little surprised myself. I was running on instinct here, but that little reporter barometer in my gut was saying
warmer . . .
“Bea, you
needed
to get me on that story. When I agreed without a fight, the relief in this room was as thick as the smoke. If you, for one moment, thought of this as a political story, you would have used that to sell me on it. One mention of Phillips, Nesmith, Rayburn, Baldassare, and you would have
had
me on this thing before you finished the sentence.” I leaned across the desk. “
You
didn’t know who the dragon was when you pawned this off on me, did you?”
She didn’t answer.
“If you remember, I
asked
you who it was.”
She nodded slowly.
“You had no idea of the political ties to this story when you assigned it to me.”
“No.”
“Why, then?”
“I have bosses, too. You think I decide everything here by personal fiat?”
Yes.
However, this wasn’t the place to say that. “Hackket?” I asked, naming the editor-in-chief of the
Press
.
“He’s the one who gave me the news that you should cover the dragon. He has a boss, too.”
Nyle Montgomery, owner of the
Cleveland Press
, a man who was probably richer than Leo Bladassare. Bea was telling me that my assignment to the dragon story had come from the top, before the victim had even been identified.
Officially identified
, I corrected myself.
“Do you know anyone named Faust?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” I turned and walked to the office door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a dragon story to cover, remember?”
 
I had several directions I needed to go in now. I had a dead dragon who had his talons in a lot of local pies. I had the suspicion that his death was more than an accident, the unvoiced hunch gaining a lot more credibility based on my nocturnal questioning. I had at least four elf cops with an interest in this; all probably members of O’Malley’s Special Paranormal Unit since only two or three elves were cops outside the SPU. I had a human mage that I wouldn’t have any problem picking out of a lineup. I had a name, Faust.
And I had Adrian Phillips on a Coast Guard cutter.
Why?
There was a tenuous connection. For a variety of historical reasons, the Port Authority had direct executive control over the Portal. It was the Port Authority that maintained the stadium, ran the buses in and out. Because of that, they also had regulatory control over the magic in this town, such as it was. Several times the Council had tried to spin off the magic stuff into its own agency, but Phillips and his Port Authority fought that turf battle tooth and nail. They were the agency in direct contact with the world beyond the Portal, so they should keep control of what came out of it.
Because of Phillips’ tight rein on his own agency and what it controlled, he was probably the third most powerful person in the city government. Under his control was every mage who worked for the city, with the sole exception of the forensic mages who worked in the SPU. Even those had to work under guidelines drafted by Phillips and his agency.
Aloeus’ nosedive had drawn some high-powered attention. The more I thought of it, the more Phillips’ presence seemed to confirm the thought that there was more going on here than a simple accident. I began wondering if the report Nesmith passed out gave the whole story.
While I was at my desk, I tried to give the coroner, Egil Nixon, a call. Again, I got voice mail. This time the message said that he was going to be out of the office the remainder of the week. I left a message, feeling a little uneasy. I made a few more calls, found out his home number was unlisted, and used a source in the sheriff’s office to get it and his address.
No answer at home.
That goes on the things to do list.
I wrote myself a note, then I called Baldassare.
 
“The dragon will be expecting you,” he told me. “Like I said, don’t do anything that makes me regret setting this up.”
“Thank you,” I said, writing down the meeting time under my note to check up on Coroner Nixon. Before he hung up, I added, “I wanted to ask you something.”
There was a pause. “Okay, Kline. What is it?”
“Has it ever crossed your mind that Aloeus’ death might have been less than an accident?”
“I don’t put any credence in rumors, Kline. Whenever a public figure dies, especially a political one, there’ll be conspiracies around every corner. I won’t contribute to that.”
“You’ve heard rumors?”
“What did I just say?”
“You know I had to ask.”
“That’s the difference between me and you. There are some questions I wouldn’t ask.” A beat. “Anything else?”
“Two things,” Both were long shots. “I ran into someone on the way back from your place,” Almost ran into, anyway. “Her name’s Ysbail. I wondered if you knew her.”
“You did?” Hard to read his voice, hard to tell if the surprise was real or feigned. “How in the world did you two meet?”
“By accident. Friend of yours?”
“Acquaintance.” He seemed to consider carefully before he said, “Is she the source of your rumors?”
Interesting.
“You know a reporter doesn’t reveal sources—where would you be if I did that?”
“What was the other thing?”
“Do you know anyone named Faust?”
A very cold,
“No.”
I waited a moment, which told me all I needed. Just the denial, no question about why I was asking or who Faust was supposed to be. Either Baldassare wanted me to know Faust meant something, or I had—for the first time—really surprised him with something. My bet would be the former.
“Thanks again for the help.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Just remember all this when
I
ask
you
for something.”
 
I walked into the glassy atrium of the BP Building trying to fit several disjointed pieces together. My discussion with Baldassare gave me some impressions of what was happening. From the sound of things, my escorts last night weren’t the only elves out there who thought Aloeus had suffered something other than an accident. From Baldassare’s point of view, this Ysbail elf was of a similar mind.
It would make sense. If Aloeus was a political advocate for the paranormal underclass, it made some sense that the people he supported would view his death with suspicion. However, since some of them seemed to be cops, I suspected it was more than a knee-jerk reaction.
I wondered if Theophane had heard any rumors.
I walked back to where the elevators were kept. There was one elevator, separate from the others, that went to Theophane’s floor. I had expected an intercom, a phone line, something—but all there was was the single call button mounted in its brass plaque in the marble wall.
I pressed it, looking around for visible wards or security cameras. I saw one recessed area near the elevator that could have been either, but I didn’t have the time to examine it closely because the mirrored brass doors slid open immediately.
I stepped inside the wood-paneled elevator and turned around to see the doors close in front of me. I reached for the button for the thirty-ninth floor, and didn’t find one. Where the control panel normally sat was a blank brass plate. The only controls were the key-operated fire department override, and the stop/alarm button. I suddenly had the feeling that those were there only because the fire code required it.
The elevator didn’t move.

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