Many Words

Amber turned the weapon over, then pointed to the number stamped into its frame. “It hasn’t been registered,” she said. “Will the serial number be in any way helpful?”

Tyson shrugged. “Many dealers in antique pieces keep detailed records for liability purposes. At the same time, most dealers who would keep records would also register their antiques.” Amber put the gun back into its evidence bag, and Tyson added, “I could put together a list of local dealers, if you think that would help.”

“It could,” Amber said. “One never knows how accurate our records are. Thank you for your time, Mr. Tyson. The desk officer on your way out will give you my contact information.”

We returned to the seventy-second floor, to find Baker and Carpenter still poring over McKenzie’s known associates. Carpenter told us that Dalton Heath would be arriving in fifteen minutes, so while Amber rang the information desk for their list of local dealers in antique firearms, I further familiarized myself with his life story as told by records from across the City of Nexus.

His was a privileged life. His family’s fortune had come from investment in the colony in New Caledonia, dating back almost eight hundred years. Money could hardly be much older than that. Prior to the time of the Dalton Heath of whom I was reading, the family fortune had been on a steady decline for generations, and so Heath’s childhood had been spent in the pleasant environs of University Park. That district gave away something in ritziness to the ritziest parts of the city, but although it was not a traditional home of the wealthy, the availability of green space set it apart. Room for a child to play was, however, equivalent to room for a teenager to get into trouble, and Heath’s file indicated he had done so. I scribbled a note to have his juvenile criminal record unsealed, then slid it over to Amber. Precisely what sort of trouble he had gotten himself into during his youth would serve to illuminate whether he was apt to be capable of getting into rather more serious trouble as an adult.

His adult record was not illuminating at all, owing to its nonexistence. That avenue closed, I read on about his career in business. Eleven years had passed between his Academy graduation and his partnership with McKenzie, which he had spent by personally managing his family’s investments. He had made money hand over fist, through tactics people given to the same tactics would call bold. Others might have called them aggressive to a fault.

One Port Authority Plaza’s stairwells were for emergency use only, for entirely understandable reasons of security. A short elevator ride brought us to the seventieth floor, one of several spread through the building dedicated to conference and interview rooms. The floorplan was not nearly so open as 72’s. As we left the elevator, a bored-looking uniform hiding a crossword behind his desk checked our credentials. Before waving us through, he handed Amber the evidence bag holding the murder weapon. I caught a glimpse of it; the box on the label marked ‘Processed’ was ticked.

“Fast work,” I said.

Amber shrugged, and led the way through the labyrinthine hallways, which I am still incapable of navigating on my own. We came to a door with a brass ‘7113’ upon it. Amber had her hand on the knob before she said, “Did you get his name?” I shook my head. She coughed. “Nor me. Nothing for it.”

We went in. Two chairs faced our subject’s across a table; the room finished the stereotype with a one-way mirror reflecting the scene edge-on. It did play against expectations with the carpet and the potted plant in the corner, but the overall effect reminded me of some cartoonish archvillain offering an olive branch which turns out to explode.

I took a seat, and Amber remained on her feet. “I’m Inspector-Lieutenant Brighton, and this is my colleague Doctor Hill. I’m afraid we missed your name on the way down. It’s been rather a hectic night.”

“If the news is to be believed, it most certainly is.” I watched the man while he spoke. He was just taller than me, which is to say just taller than average, dark-haired and brown-eyed, and youthful. He had a genial face. “Geoffrey Tyson. I understand you have an antique for me to have a look at?”

Amber took the revolver from the evidence bag, then set the bag on the table and the revolver on top of it. “Please don’t touch,” she said.

Tyson leaned forward over the gun. “Yes, I’m familiar with this type. It’s a Twigg and Sons Model Nine, chambered in .42 Long.”

“Pardon?” Amber said.

“Ten and a half millimeters,” translated Tyson. “Archaic measurements. They were in use in Hinterland until the Brenner gates went up. This particular model was designed by John Twigg himself in 660 or so, and was produced for nearly five hundred years, Hinterland’s development of successful caseless ammunition in the early 700s notwithstanding. These,” he said, framing the revolver with outstretched hands, “have a reputation for absolute dependability. It took a very long time for the Hinterlanders to trust more modern weapons in the same way.”

“Are they rare?” asked Amber hopefully.

“Quite the opposite. Total production ran to the high tens or low hundreds of millions, and they’ve proven remarkably resistant to deterioration.”

“Evidently. He went on to found Heath, McKenzie, and Company with Dalton Heath, who is listed here under known associates as an Academy roommate.” I looked up from the papers. “Could you pull up Mr. Heath’s Naval Arm records?”

“One step ahead of you,” Amber said. She typed at her terminal, and after a minute said, “He doesn’t have any. He comes from money, then, I would think…”

“Evidently,” I repeated. She ceased looking up Heath’s financials, presumably, and gave me the look which meant she was unsure whether I was in jest. I ignored it. “McKenzie was the brains, given his background. What could Heath bring to the table?”

“Money it is,” she said, “evidently.” She turned the terminal to me. “The Heath fortune isn’t big enough to turn their family into household names, but it is big enough to register.”

I nodded. “Does he have a criminal record?” She fiddled with the terminal, and it showed a new list. “He seems an aggressive womanizer, according to the complains.” I scrolled through the list, and something caught my attention. “Hmm.”

“What?” Amber said. I held up a finger for a moment and read on. She rolled her eyes and drummed her fingers impatiently on the table.

Eventually, I found the information I wanted. “Alright,” I said.

“Finally.”

Unperturbed, I went on. “Heath’s wife is Anneli Marchand.” To Amber’s querying look I said, “She was an actress in the twenties, a very popular choice for casting directors on romance films. She made something of a comeback in war epics in the late thirties, and has been on a decline since then.”

“I assume you’re coming to the point where this bears on my case.”

“Yes. Two years ago she was divorced from Abbot McKenzie. Shortly after, she took up with Dalton Heath.”

“Some bad blood between the two, then,” said Amber.

“Potentially,” I agreed. “It was certainly messy. The society pages would not stop going on about it.”

“I wouldn’t have marked you as the type to read such dreck,” she said.

I lifted my shoulders helplessly. “My clients expect me to be up on the latest happenings. The young ones see their childhood heroes torn down daily, and the old ones wonder when the scandal-hounds will catch up to them.”

“Strange creatures, actors.”

“You have no idea.” I shook my head. “It’s the sort of situation that might drive a man to kill another. Is Mr. Heath a suspect?”

“I’m inclined to call him a person of interest for now,” Amber replied. “We’ve no more than conjecture against him so far.”