The cold case of jack ge.., p.23
The Cold Case of Jack Gemini, page 23
“What about this Smith from yours? This universe?”
The woman shrugged. “Who knows.”
“Then why the face change?”
“To avoid unnecessary complications. Last thing we wanted was to have him out in the streets bumping into the real Augustus Smith, the Smith from this universe. And it was his idea.”
“And the blackmail?” I stubbed out the cigarette.
“Wasn’t blackmail,” said Ms Bex. “Not really. There was an agreement to give him ID, keep him hidden, and to fund his church provided he came in once a month for tests. It was the only way to keep him cooperative. The scientists wanted to find out what made him so special, wanted to replicate it so that they could bring someone through alive.”
“Keep the organs fresher for longer, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s morally repellent.”
The CEO glared at me. “That kind of attitude isn’t going to get us anywhere, is it?”
“I don’t know, it made me feel a little better.” I took another cigarette from the pack and lit it. So much for quitting. “Let me guess what happened next; he kept asking for more and more money. Too much. Threatened to out your little experiments if you didn’t give him what you wanted. You had an argument with Smith... Greene... and he almost killed you.”
Ms Bex seemed to shrink; she was afraid. “Yes,” she whispered. She shook herself, sitting upright, a stern expression returning. “This whole thing is all your fault, in a way.”
“There you go again, blaming me.”
“I know you wouldn’t have agreed to being experimented on. Given our history. You gave me no choice but to use Smith.”
“That’s utter bullshit and you know it!” I snorted a laugh and threw my hands up. “You didn’t have to do any experiments; you could’ve just stopped!”
“Now, now, Mr Gemini, you know that wouldn’t ever happen,” she said with a sly grin. “Tribeca needs to make money; progress isn’t cheap.”
“Ha! Big businesses are all the same! Literally built with the blood of innocent people!”
“No-one is innocent.” An eyebrow arched. “No-one.”
“And what about the copycat killer? It’s Greene, right? Smith is up to his old tricks.”
She shrugged. “We had to make it look like there was a copycat to keep him hidden, keep the police off the scent. An investigation started, one too big for me to shut down. I just manipulated it by setting up a task force. One I could control.”
“You don’t care that he’s killing again.”
“No, but if you’d done as I’d wanted, Greene... Smith... that cult would be out of the picture. And maybe, just maybe, my son would still be alive.”
“You brought this on yourself, Ms Bex,” I said. “You’ve could’ve asked me directly, hired me directly. Instead of all this damned manipulation.”
“You wouldn’t have agreed.”
“You’ll never know; you gave me no choice.”
Ms Bex pushed her chair back and stood. “I think we’re done here.”
“No,” I said. “You can stop this now. Come clean about Smith and Greene; the police can arrest him and shut down the Church of the Third Encounter. Smith can pay for what happened to Regan.”
She shook her head. “I’ll find another way; I need to protect my legacy and protect Tribeca.”
“Oh, come on, Ms Bex, you’re being stupid.”
The CEO scowled at me, the anger had returned, and she charged out of the small room, slamming the door behind her.
Goddammit.
31. Back
I stood at my office door, listening intently to the noises within the apartment. I knew who was inside; I could tell by the off rhythm tune she hummed. I hesitated. It wasn’t some assassin meant to take me out or attack me.
I didn’t know if I was in the goddamned mood for her.
I opened the door and entered the office space, then crossed the room to the living area on the left. And there she was.
“What’re you doing here?” I said.
“I’m back,” said Queenie. “Again.” Her voice was steady and unemotional. She didn’t even look up at me. “For now, at least.” She was standing in my kitchen in my apartment, wearing a smart dress, with an apron in front to protect the fabric, and scrambling some eggs on my hob. “Sorry but I haven’t cooked enough for you.” This was the first time I’d ever seen her cook anything. Or apologise.
“I didn’t expect anything,” I said. I shuffled past her and opened the fridge. “Your ‘sister’ sick of you?” There was very little inside and she’d used the last of my eggs. “Where have you been?”
“I don’t need to tell you anything, Jack.”
“Yet you feel you can use my apartment like it’s your own personal hotel.”
“We’re supposed to be in a relationship.”
“Supposed to be.” I found an energy food bar at the back of the fridge; it would be better than nothing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The eggs in the pan spat and hissed and Queenie slapped the white and yellow mess with the spatula to silence it. “And what the hell have you been up to?” Her voice was still dispassionate and cold with not even a hint of worry. She didn’t care. “You’re covered in blood.” Not one bit.
I let the fridge door slam shut and took a seat by the table. I didn’t answer her. I didn’t want to. I was too tired, too exhausted and I was sick of explaining Regan’s death again and again, over and over. Damn it. And Queenie didn’t deserve to know about him.
“Well?” she said.
“It’s from a case.” I lit a cigarette. “Some of its mine.” Despite my hunger, I couldn’t face eating right now. “Most of it isn’t.”
“My case?”
“No.” I thought about telling her it was over between us. Afterall, I owed her the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t face it.
“And how is my case going?”
I ignored her and focussed on the narcotic hit of the cigarette; it was stimulating and relaxing, scratching an itch that was only there because of itself. The smoky taste was intoxicating.
“Jack!”
“What?!” I snapped out of my fugue.
“You shouldn’t be smoking.”
I shrugged. “So what?”
She slammed the pan against the hob in anger. “You’re a liar and a cheat, Jack! I don’t trust you! You told me you quit smoking and,” she pointed at me with the utensil in her hand, “here you are smoking right in front of me, again!”
“At least I’m not doing it behind your back.” I felt a smirk slide up my cheek.
“Don’t! You promised me that you’d find my missing artwork and what have you done? Nothing! And look at you! Covered in blood! And you stink. You look like a tramp!”
“I’ve been almost killed several times thanks to your goddamned piece of shit statue!” I sucked on the filter and blew some smoke in her direction. “I haven’t eaten or slept in who knows how long. I’ve taken a crossbow bolt to the shoulder and a knife to the torso. I’ve got a broken nose, a black eye. I’m covered in bruises. And I’ve been kidnapped, attacked and threatened all within the last eight hours. And you only care about your goddamned case! What about me? Not a lick of care from you. I hurt... everywhere. I’m absolutely wiped out, Queenie.” I sighed. “Just let me enjoy a damn cigarette in peace in my own home.”
“Whose blood is that?”
“Queenie! What did I just say?”
“Fine.” She dished her eggs onto a plate. I didn’t know how she could be so loud; she was making as much noise as possible, slamming and banging whatever she picked up. She was trying to get me to react, but I ignored her and continued to smoke. She took a seat opposite with a huff and crossed her legs. The apron, my apron, had been placed back behind the fridge and she wore only her black dress. She looked smart. Handsome. With a fiery expression. It was her temperament that had attracted me to her in the first place and I was not a fan of having it directed toward me. She ate in silence and glared at me as I lit up another cigarette. I watched her slam mouthfuls of eggs into her mouth with a fork; somehow, she even managed to eat angrily. The pace at which Queenie ate the scrambled eggs made it seem as if she’d inhaled the contents from the plate with little time to digest or enjoy the meal. I took my time with my cigarette. I wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.
Queenie huffed and stood. She strode to the kitchen and threw the plate into the sink. It smashed and broke. I ignored it, ignored her. She stomped back to the chair, crossed her arms, and glared at me.
I took another drag of toxins, long and slow, savouring it.
She cleared her throat.
“I’ll talk about it when I’m ready,” I said.
The woman grumbled under her breath. “And when will that be? Tell me what happened! Tell me! You can’t just leave me in the dark!”
“Fine,” I said. I quickly searched my brain for the lie I’d told her about Regan’s identity. “It’s... Edward’s. Mainly.” I stubbed out the cigarette on the table; there was still half left. “Remember him? You met him when he stayed over? He’s dead! Are you happy now?”
“No, no of course not,” said Queenie. “I’m sorry.” She reached out her hand to comfort me, but I rose from the seat and walked to the kitchen.
“And as for your case, it’s reached a dead end.” I didn’t want to mention the hitman’s SmartBoy that I’d kept in my pocket to her. “Temporarily.” Or the events of the morning. I didn’t really want to talk about anything. “I’m running on empty, Queenie. I can’t think straight, and I would really appreciate it if you gave me some time to recuperate and recover.”
Her expression was telling; she wasn’t happy with my responses, but she couldn’t force me to say anything to her. I could see cogs turning over in her head. She’d know that if she pushed me too far, I would just shut her down and leave. I’d make her wait even longer for answers about her case.
Her face softened. “Eat something,” she said with only a hint of disappointment. She got to her feet and placed her hand on my shoulder. She smiled at me. “Then get some sleep. For as long as you need. In the meantime, I’ll use your office to sort out some of my insurance claim forms for Flare.”
“Are you serious?” I raised an eyebrow. She’d eaten most of what was left of my food, not that I kept much in, but I appreciated the sentiment. “You aren’t exactly known for your empathy and patience, Queenie.”
“Appreciate it while it lasts,” she said; the smile had disappeared. “It’s not unlimited.” She moved to the door separating the living space from the office. She stopped in the doorway. “And clean yourself up, yeah?” said Queenie with an acid tongue. “Shower and change your clothes. You look like shit.” She left me alone and closed the door behind her.
I only took some of her damned suggestions to heart and that was only because I was planning to do them anyway. I ate the food bar I’d retrieved from the fridge; it was stale and tasted of cardboard, but I ate it. I decided against a shower, since that would involve walking through the office and to the bathroom on the other side, and I couldn’t face another confrontation with Queenie; her sympathy was undoubtedly short-lived and, even if it wasn’t, I didn’t want any more draining interactions with her. Not until I’d rested, recovered, just a little.
I threw myself on my bed, still clothed, still in my bloodied apparel. I was wiped out. The shower and fresh clothes could wait until I woke.
For now, sleep.
I drifted away to disturbing dreams of blood and death. I tossed and turned, half awake, half in the land of nightmares.
Something buzzed and beeped in my pocket.
I tried to ignore it, tried to get back to sleep, but the goddamned thing trilled again.
I sat up, bleary eyed and dead to the world.
It beeped once again, a happy tune. Unfamiliar.
It was a SmartBoy, but not mine.
I shook myself awake, rubbed the brief and weary delusions from my eyes and retrieved both Regan’s and the hitman’s devices from my pocket. I dreamt for a half-asleep moment that I was being contacted from the other side, from Regan. But I was wrong, damn it. The alert was from the hitman’s SmartBoy.
The bright screen hurt my vision.
A message.
The guy had told me the SmartBoy was encrypted but that wasn’t true. I had access to the messages. I could see all the goddamned messages in the go-between application he used.
It held one word.
“Update?” The letters blinked in front of my face. I wondered if I should reply. And what would I say if I did?
This might be a chance for me to gain the upper hand, maybe buy me some time with Queenie’s investigation. I might even be able to use it to find out who was behind all this... but that was a long shot.
I felt a grin sneak up my lips.
I could have some fun with this.
“Gemini is dead,” I typed in reply. The hitman had told me that my death wasn’t the intention; this might throw a spanner in the works for the perpetrator.
A response shot back. “Liar,” it said. “Seen alive thirty minutes ago.”
What?
I checked the time.
Goddammit.
God-fucking-dammit.
I’d dozed for about twenty minutes and there was only one person who’d seen me since I’d left the police station.
I knew who was behind the missing Delartes and I knew who was behind the attempts on my life.
“Queenie,” I whispered to myself.
Damn it.
32. Fake
She was sitting at my desk, focused on the blue screen of her SmartBoy. Sinister shadows cast on her face, which I could see through the transparent screen, shadows created by the reams of transcript that blended with the sapphire illumination.
I sat opposite and lit a cigarette. The modest sleep had done little to ease my aches and pains.
“You’re awake.” She didn’t look up and her voice was monotone, emotionless.
“Yeah.” I leant back in the chair and threw my feet up on my desk. The fake wood was decorated with dozens upon dozens of stains and scars; the result of years of cigarette burns, coffee rings and unwashed whiskey glasses. “What’re you doing?” I asked.
“Insurance forms,” she said. She still didn’t look up.
I took a few moments to enjoy my cigarette, and to enjoy the silence before I revealed what I knew. She said nothing, engrossed in her work; even the questions she’d been so eager to ask me before I’d slept, lingered unspoken.
“I solved your case,” I said. I blew out a cloud of smoke. “Most of it, anyway.”
“What?” Queenie stared at me; there was a mix of fear and confusion on her face. “What do you mean you’ve ‘solved’ it? You’ve been asleep barely half hour.”
“Exactly what I said.” I sucked more toxins into my lungs; the amber tip flared as I pulled air through and poisoned it. “You might say I had an... epiphany.”
“And?”
“And...” I dropped my feet from the desk and leant forward, “I just want to know why.”
“Why what?”
I sighed and placed the hitman’s SmartBoy onto the fake wood. Regan’s remained in my pocket. “’Seen alive thirty minutes ago.’” I studied her face as comprehension grasped her. It was a bittersweet feeling, one that sunk deep in my stomach. On one hand, there was the delight of getting one up on her and the satisfaction of being right, and on the other, there was the grief and misery of betrayal.
Queenie closed the screen of her SmartBoy and secreted it in her handbag. “I don’t know what that means,” she lied.
“Cut the bullshit; I’m not stupid.”
She sat back and folded her arms. “I’m sorry, Jack, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” She raised an eyebrow. “Besides, why would I steal precious artwork from my own gallery.”
“Insurance,” I said. “Weren’t you just submitting a claim? I imagine there’s a hefty pay out due for such a revered art piece, yes?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “I’ve lost revenue by not having the real ‘Call of Narcissus’ displayed in Flare.”
“It’s very much the point. You’d be very rich from that damned missing statue, won’t you?”
“I don’t think...”
“You know...” I said as I finished the dregs of my cigarette and stubbed it out on my desk, “there’s one very important thing you need for an insurance claim like that. A crime reference number or at the very least, proof that you’ve tried reasonably enough to locate the missing item. For example, by hiring a private detective.”
“I hired you, Jack, because I trust you.” Her face told a different story; she was worried and scared. “There was no other reason.” She knew I’d found her out.
I withdrew another cigarette from the packet in my pocket. I placed the filter between my lips. “Queenie,” I said. I lit the end and took a drag. “Don’t play a player; I know you’re lying. You just need to admit the truth, that’s all.”
“I...I...”
I tapped the SmartBoy I’d placed on the desk, just to emphasize my point. “I picked up this little device from a mutual friend this morning. He tried to kill me.”
Queenie sighed, a look of relief passed across her face, and she grinned. “So, what now?” she said with a giggle. “You can’t prove anything.”
She was right. Not wholly. I had the hitman’s SmartBoy which was only half the story; the other half was in her handbag. Her SmartBoy. Both devices together gave a complete record of the attempts on my life. I was sure once I had that, threads would begin to unwind on this case, one after another, spiralling, unravelling until all that was left was the truth.
“Well, haven’t you got any reply?” she said. “A scathing insult?”
“No.” I let smoke pour from my nostrils. “But I want to know why you wanted to have me killed.”
“That wasn’t the intention.”
I knew this, the third hired gun had told me as much, but it was best to keep my cards held close to my chest; I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
