“Serials are usually loners.”
“We can't be sure he isn't a loner. His bubbly personality could be nothing more than a digital implant.”
“True,” she admitted, “but it occurred to me that the killer could be one of his clients.”
Horst Jeffers: Tour Guide for the Discerning Serial. Maggie could be right. “Is there a way we can get our hands on a list of his clients?”
“Not without walking into their office and demanding one. I thought that was a little too bold for us right now.”
“I agree.” Stay on the fringes.
“The only other thing I could think of was to talk to somebody at the Koba Office of Customs. Offworld visitors have to write in their tour operator's name on customs forms, so I thought they could compile a list for me. I must've talked to a dozen people before I got somebody who said she could get me the information in two or three days.”
“Days? All they have to do is query the database.”
“I know. But she needs to get approval.”
Typical government bullshit. “Anything else to report?”
“No. Just that Ian's making it tough at work.”
“How so?”
“Nobody will talk to me. I mean nobody. Not even Lieutenant Rusedski. They all ignore me like I'm not there.”
“Just stay out in the field.”
“I'll do that as much as I can, but there's always going to be a meeting or two that I have to attend.”
“I say skip them.”
She gave me an annoyed exhalation. “That wouldn't look very good on my record.”
She'd never change. Career first. I was already in the outskirts of Tenttown. No more roads, just footpaths that wound their way through haphazardly placed tents. “Listen, I gotta go. I'll see you after you get off work.”
To keep out of the mud, I walked across a series of planks laid end to end. At one point, I had to step off to the side in order to make room for a series of men with rickety wheelbarrows loaded down with sacks of rice. Once the sweat-stained group had passed, I almost tipped over trying to yank my feet out of the suctioning mud. The tents were getting denser as I penetrated deeper into Tenttown, each one now a mere meter from the next.
I took a set of rock steps down toward the canal, the smell of sewage coming through strong. I found a nice new-looking tent with the renter's red rag tied to the corner post. I popped my head in. “Got any openings?”
“Yeah,” said the man inside as he rushed out to meet me.
I followed him as he led me around back. I weaved left and right to avoid having to step over tied tent stakes. He stopped at a faded blue tent and grinned rotten teeth. I looked the tent over, thinking that it wasn't as new as I'd have liked, but it looked solid enough. I couldn't see any frayed edges that told of leaks. “How about the inside?”
“Yes, yes,” he said. He shook the tent by grabbing hold of one of the ropes. Out came a young woman holding her baby. The man waved me ahead and I peeked into the now vacated tent, deciding it would do.
We haggled over price while the woman, who looked like his daughter, went back in and began stuffing her belongings into a threadbare carpetbag. It didn't take her long to come back out. She didn't have much-the bag wasn't even half full. I momentarily felt bad about evicting her from her home but knew that she'd be glad to move in with her father if it meant they could earn a little money. Once her father and I settled, I went in and stripped off my muddy shoes, setting them on a rock by the entryway. I stepped from stone to stone to keep off the otherwise dirt floor and hung my duffle from the center post. Then I hoisted myself into one of the hammocks and sent the entire tent shaking and ruffling.
I swatted a mosquito, angry that I'd forgotten my bug spray. Hopefully it would start raining soon, putting enough moisture in the air to keep the little bloodsuckers grounded. I swatted another one… and another. I hate this fucking place. I began to wonder if it was a good idea to come here. Surely I could tough it out for a while. I'd grown up here, for god's sake. And my family's tent was a hell of a lot rattier than this one. Yet I knew that I'd softened after so many years of living high on the KOP food chain. I'd just have to suffer through it.
I called Vlad. “Did you get the new room?”
“Yeah. I got her set up in the morgue.”
“The morgue!”
“Yeah. You don't want anybody to find her, right?”
“Shit, Vlad. I don't want her in the morgue.”
“Listen, Juno. The morgue's perfect. It'll be the last place anybody looks, and the doors have locks.”
“No, Vlad. Find someplace else.”
“But-”
“Fucking listen to me, Vlad. You're going to find someplace else. You hear me?”
“All right, boss. Whatever you say.”
“Do it now.”
“You got it, boss. Hey, are you coming down anytime soon?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, she's been asking for you.”
“What's she been saying?”
“Listen, Juno, I don't want to get in the middle of anything.”
“Just tell me, Vlad.”
“Well, she's in a real bad way. She just keeps crying, and then she starts choking like she can't clear her throat. I have to keep getting the nurses to come and take care of it.”
“Can't they give her a sedative or something?”
“Yeah, but she refuses.”
Unbelievable. “Okay, I'll come down.”
“When?”
“Fucking later, okay?”
“Sure, you bet. Just call me before you come, and I'll tell you where we are.”