Children of a Dead Earth Book One (13 page)

The three of them swept through the home, checking each room in turn for any surprise guests. The first floor consisted of a full kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, and a small office. Artwork covered every wall. The second floor sported three bedrooms, and a second bathroom. What the hell did three people need a
second
bathroom for?

The home secured, Bahadur leaned over the second floor railing and called down to Devorah. “We're clear in here, Madame Curator. You may enter.”

She trotted through the doorway and stopped dead on the textile rug under her feet. Her eyes took in the open plan room with awe, darting from rug, to vase, to each painting in turn. She knelt down and ran thin knotted fingers over the rug.

“This is real silk, woven on a hand loom. Almost certainly genuine Persian.”

She shuffled over to a blue and white vase perched precariously on top of a three-legged wrought-iron table. She picked it up and ran a fingernail over the glazing, then flipped it over to inspect the base.

“Ming Dynasty.”

“Is it valuable?” Theresa asked.

“Priceless,” Devorah answered curtly.

“That's not going to go ‘missing' from the evidence locker later, right?” Benson chided.

Theresa put a hand on her chest in an exasperated gesture. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

Devorah set the vase down gently, then hopped over to the closest wall hanging, a scroll of Chinese calligraphy.

“It's a stone rubbing, probably Wang Xizhi if I'm any judge.”

Benson appeared behind her. “Are any of your missing items here?”

“I don't see any of them yet, but they'd have to be pretty daft to hang them in the living room, wouldn't they?”

“Point.”

“What's upstairs?” Devorah asked.

“Bedrooms,” Theresa said. “And another bathroom.”

“And closets?”

“Walk-ins. Can you believe it?”

Devorah turned and looked up at Benson. “Follow me, detective.”

Devorah had set foot on the first step when a voice exploded from the wall behind them.

“What the hell are you doing in my home?”

Benson spun around, stun-stick at the ready, only to come face to two-meter-tall face with a hologram of Chao Feng's enraged head.

“Detective Benson! I don't know what you
think
you're doing, but you have no authority in Shangri-La. You are breaking and entering.”

Benson felt more than a little bit like Dorothy being dressed down by the Wizard. Even knowing the little man behind the curtain didn't help.

“Ahh…”

“How did you get in? Explain yourself!”

“He didn't get in, Chao. I did.” Devorah shoved Benson out of the line of fire. “Detective Benson is here at my request.”

It sounded good, and had the advantage of being true, provided one didn't know the context of what had prompted Devorah to ask him to come along in the first place.

“And what, exactly, is Detective Benson helping you do in my home, Madame Curator?” Feng's giant floating head looked down his nose at her. If she was intimidated, it didn't show. Then again,
everyone
was bigger than Devorah, so she was in familiar territory.

“Answering some questions,” she said. “Like why the museum has an entire Oriental wing no one told me about.”

“Those are all either family heirlooms or property of the Qin Shi Huang Building LLC.”

Then why aren't they in the lobby?
Benson thought, but he kept it to himself.

“And I'm sure documentation can be provided for any of them,” Feng continued. “So I'll have to ask you to leave, Madame Curator.”

Devorah smirked. “You can ask anything you like. I have intelligence that puts stolen pieces from the museum in this house, and I'll leave once I've either found them, or I'm satisfied they're not here.”

“You have no authority!”

“You know I do, Feng. Goodbye.” She elbowed Benson in the ribs. “Turn off his head.”

“As you wish, Madame.” Benson's hand stretched out for the wall's holo projector controls.

“Benson, don't you da–” With a touch of an icon, Feng's giant head disappeared, leaving them in silence.

Devorah scoffed. “Thought he'd never leave. Go lock the door, he'll be here in fifteen minutes, with friends.”

Benson jogged over to the door and turned the deadbolt. It wasn't connected to any servo, just a good, old-fashioned manual latch. It wasn't standard, in fact, it wasn't technically legal. Feng probably had it installed as insurance against anyone trying to hack their way into his penthouse. Probably never dreamed he'd be the person getting locked out.

In a fit of childishness, he set the keypad in the hallway to “Do Not Disturb.”

“We're good, unless someone brings a battering ram.”

Bahadur shouted down from one of the bedrooms. “I think I've found something, Madame Curator!”

Devorah took the spiral stairs two at a time. Benson followed, admiring her spirit. It wasn't that long ago that he'd thought her a dry and passionless academic. Most people did. They were wrong. Most people focused their fire on the here-and-now, fretting over mundane details of their daily grind that would be forgotten as soon as the lights came on in the morning. Devorah didn't trouble herself with the present. She lived in the past. Benson was only now getting a sense of just how much she lived.

The older woman reached the landing at the top of the stairs and grabbed the railing to keep from falling over, her chest heaving. Benson tried to hold her up, but was rebuffed. “I'm fine,” she huffed.

“Are you sure? Seems you left your breath down in the living room.”

“We're not all pro-athletes, Bryan.”

Theresa's head popped out of the guest bedroom. “The whole closet's full. Come see.”

Benson and Devorah glanced at each other. She held out an arm and let him balance her shaky legs down the hall.

Bahadur had already done a preliminary search of the room, mainly by throwing anything out of the closet that looked old or expensive.

“These are all printed repros. What did you find?”

“In here.” The chief pulled out a pair of paintings. Neither fit with the Asian motif of the collection downstairs.

And one of them looked very familiar indeed.

“It's another of Monet's Haystacks!” Benson hopped from one foot to the other, unable to contain his excitement. He pulled up a search browser in his plant and snapped a picture. The report came back almost instantly.

W
heatstacks (Sunset
, Snow Effect) 1890-91 ACE. Reported missing from the Art Institute of Chicago 18, April, 2135 ACE.

B
ehind him
, Devorah was giddy. She'd already laid the other painting out on the guest bed.

“It's my missing de Kooning, all right.”

“What about this one?” Benson grabbed her shoulder and pointed her at his find. “Is it authentic?”

She took a quick but careful look at it, running a finger over the side and sniffing the canvas. “It certainly feels and smells right. I can confirm later, but provisionally, I'd say it's genuine too.”

Benson actually pumped a fist in the air. He'd never before thought art history could be so thoroughly satisfying.

“Does that help your case?” Bahadur asked.

“Oh yes. Immensely,” Theresa answered for him.

Devorah ripped the thousand-count silk sheets off the bed with a flourish. “These two don't have any glass. Wrap them up until we get back to the museum. I don't want them getting any more contaminated than necessary.” She whipped out her little knife and sliced the ruinously expensive sheet right down the middle.

Bahadur actually winced. “Feng isn't going to like that.”

“He's going to like being charged with receiving stolen artifacts a whole lot less,” Devorah said mirthlessly.

“You're awfully quick to whip that thing out,” Benson observed.

Devorah poked him in the thigh.

“Ow!”

“It's amazing what you can do with a little prick.”

“I'm sure I wouldn't know.” Benson rubbed his leg while Bahadur laughed.

“I would,” Theresa quipped. Devorah actually chuckled. First time for everything.

They secured the paintings, and after a last cursory glance through the rest of the house, returned to the living room. In the hallway, someone very earnestly pounded away on the door.

“Who is it?” Devorah called out sweetly.

“You know damned well who it is. Open my door!”

Theresa's eyebrows inched up. “Boy, he got down here in a hurry.”

“Good, saves us the trouble of chasing him down.” Benson turned the lock. The door snapped open, revealing Feng midway through an angry knock. Bahadur greeted him with a raised stun-stick.

“Are you mad? Put that down!” Feng demanded.

“First Officer Feng, it gives me no pleasure to do this, but I'm placing you under arrest on two charges of receiving stolen artifacts.”

“Are those the sheets from my guest room?”

“Hands on your head, sir. I won't ask again.” Bahadur pushed Feng down to the rug. It wasn't difficult. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and secured Feng's wrists behind him.

Feng shot a withering glare up at Benson. “I know you're behind this. I tried to reason with you, but obviously that wasn't enough. I'll have your badge on my desk by morning.”

Benson pulled the fabric back, exposing a snow-covered haystack.

“No, you won't. Don't worry, I'll make sure your sheets are returned to your wife.”

E
veryone was
in high spirits as they escorted Devorah and the artwork back to the museum. Everyone but Feng, that was. After passing the first dozen onlookers, Feng asked Bahadur to pull off his jacket and hang it over his head to hide his face. Bahadur agreed, but the damage was already done. Plant recordings from the first handful of shocked citizens were already hitting the social net.

Benson's elation at busting Feng lasted right up to the moment the doors of Shangri-La's stationhouse slid open.

“Captain Mahama.” Benson stopped dead in his tracks. The Ark's commanding officer locked eyes with him. Her face didn't look nearly as warm and friendly as the last time they'd talked.

“What are you doing here?” Benson rushed to add, “Sir?”

“One might ask the same of you, detective. You're in the wrong stationhouse, if I'm not mistaken.”

Bahadur stepped up to answer. “I asked Chief Benson to assist in an investigation.”

“May I ask why my first officer is in handcuffs?”

“He's been arrested on two counts of receiving stolen artifacts, sir.”

“I see.”

“And,” Benson broke in, “he's the prime suspect in the murder of crewman Edmond Laraby and attempted murder of a constable, namely me.”

“You see, captain?” Feng shouted. “He's mad!”

“Quiet, Chao. You're in deep enough, don't you think?” Captain Mahama ran a hand through her tightly-curled hair. “Those are serious accusations, detective.”

“They're serious crimes, captain.”

“Indeed.” The captain stood. “Gentlemen, I think we should continue this conversation in Chief Bahadur's office. If you have no objections, chief?”

Bahadur wore the face of a man who knew when and where it was appropriate to have objections. “Be my guest, sir.”

“Thank you. Lieutenant Alexopoulos, is it?”

Theresa straightened her shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

“I'm sure you have other duties that require your attention?”

Theresa shot a conflicted glance at Benson. He answered with a tiny nod letting her know it was OK.

“Yes, sir. I'm needed at the stationhouse.”

Mahama nodded her thanks as Theresa turned to leave, then the captain, Benson, Bahadur, and Feng all piled into the small room. It was a perfect copy of Benson's office in Avalon. Only the wall hangings and chairs were different. Barely two people could sit comfortably. Benson chose to stand, as did Bahadur who motioned for the captain to take his seat. Feng sat in the other chair, or more accurately, was pushed down into it. One of Benson's hands remained on his shoulder as a none-too-subtle reminder of the folly of trying to run.

Captain Mahama cleared her throat, then began. “You will find, constables, that your plant's recording features have been temporarily deactivated. The camera and audio pick-ups in this room have also been shut down. This is to be a private conversation. Is that clear?”

Alarm bells rang through Benson's mind like a cathedral at noon. He tried to start recording, but just as the captain had said, an error message floated across his field of vision.

Bahadur fidgeted with the steel band around his wrist. “This is highly irregular, captain.”

“It's not just ‘irregular', it's breaking protocol,” Benson objected.

“I understand your concerns, constables, really I do. But this situation is ‘highly irregular.' Let's just say for the next, oh, ten minutes or so, that protocol has been suspended. Temporarily, of course.”

Benson had met the woman in person only once before their talk outside Sickbay, when she'd presented the Mustangs the 221 PE Season Zero Championship trophy, her first year of command. Benson had managed to shake the woman's hand and say “Thank you, captain,” without making a mess of the presentation.

Police work had hardened him up a little since then.

“Fine by me,” Benson said. “Because no protocol means we're all just people in this little closet, and that means there's nothing stopping me from telling you what a load of horseshit this is!”

Captain Mahama very carefully placed her elbows on Bahadur's desk and laced her long fingers together. “By all means, detective. But please, be quick about it so that we don't get bogged down.”

The captain's response threw him off. Benson had expected to be shouted down, accused of insolence, or otherwise reminded of his position. He hadn't expected a green light for his brewing tirade.

“Well.” He tried to reignite the fire in his belly. “We're supposed to be independent. At least, that's the line I was told when I took the job. Constables answer to the law, and to the people. But we bust a senior crewmember, and before we can even interrogate him, lo and behold, the captain of the whole goddamned ship shows up to personally interfere. What kind of message do you think that's going to send to the cattle? And don't pretend no one saw you come down here to the deck. I'm sure it's already all over the social net.”

“There'll be rumors, of course, that's unavoidable, but we have systems in place to clean up the net.”

“Yeah, I think I've run into one just recently,” Benson said, the frustration of Laraby's personal files still fresh in his mind. “It's quite amazing what your people can clean up.” Benson's fingers flexed on Feng's shoulder until the smaller man shifted uncomfortably. “But some stains are really hard to get out, like blood. Might take a couple of tries.”

“Too true.” Mahama held out an open hand. “Now, if you're quite finished abusing your prisoner?”

Benson looked down. He hadn't realized how hard he was squeezing Feng. His temper was getting the better of him. His grip relaxed.

“Thank you. Now, to your point, yes, I very much worry about what sort of message this sends, but I'm even more worried about the timing of the message. We're flipping the ship in just a week and a half. Many thousands of man-hours of preparations still remain before we can light off the first bomb. Distractions are the last thing we need right now, and the circus that will inevitably follow the trial of the ship's first officer is just such a distraction.

“That is why I'm here, detective. Not to impede your investigation or to prevent justice from being done, but to avoid a panic. So, keeping that in mind, I would like you to tell me exactly what First Officer Feng has gotten himself into.”

Mahama listened quietly and intently while Bahadur relayed everything that had happened in Feng's home, pausing here and there to share important moments of video from his plant on the wall screen. The captain stopped him twice to ask questions, but otherwise let Bahadur complete his report.

“And that brought us here to you,” Bahadur said in closing.

“Well, that all sounds very official. But it leaves me wondering where, after a three decade hiatus, our indomitable museum curator suddenly found a lead in the Heist case.”

Bahadur flashed a glance over at Benson. It was a small gesture, but Mahama picked up on it and turned an expectant look at Benson.

“Well, detective?”

Benson shifted on his feet but met his gaze. “Devorah was given information by a confidential informant.”

“And would this ‘confidential' informant be Salvador Kite, by chance? I know you questioned him only two days ago.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not have to reveal my witnesses until trial.”

“Of course. But, for the sake of argument, wouldn't any information provided by a felon be more than a little suspect?”

“It would be very suspect if we hadn't found the first painting we were told to look for, where we were told to look for it. Being right kinda lends its own credibility.”

“The first?” Mahama interrupted. “There are others?”

Benson nodded. “My informant has given us leads on all of the pieces still missing from the Heist.”

“I see. I have only one issue with what you've told me so far. Provided my arithmetic is still any good, Commander Feng was only three when the Heist occurred. It would be the rare three year-old trafficking in stolen art.”

“Well yes, obviously. The information pointed to his father being the original buyer. But Feng had it in his possession, and the charge is for Receiving Stolen Artifacts. Nothing in the code says he had to be the first one in line.”

“No, but I read the code in question on the way down here. It says the accused must have
knowingly
taken receipt of stolen artifacts. So, how about it, Chao, did you know the paintings were stolen?”

“No!” Feng blurted out. “They were just part of my father's collection that I inherited when he died. He never told me they were from the Heist. Believe me, I'm as shocked as anyone that he dishonored his family this way.”

“Oh, please,” Benson moaned. “You had them buried behind a bunch of worthless reprints in a closet. You were hiding them.”

“They were in the closet because I never bothered hanging them. Why would I? One was just paint slashes, and the other one was a boring landscape piece. I thought they were worthless like the rest.”

“Right, you just missed the fact you had a Willem de Kooning in a closet your entire life.”

“How well do you know twentieth century
Chinese
artists, detective?”

“About as well as anyone from Avalon,” Benson snapped. He immediately regretted it. His temper had gotten the better of him and he'd walked right into the trap.

Feng smirked, damn him. “Exactly my point. I would have turned them both over to the museum if you'd just asked, if only to repair the damage my father did and restore my family's honor. You didn't need all these theatrics.”

Captain Mahama leaned back in Bahadur's chair. “So you're willing to turn over the paintings without protest?”

“Yes, of course. I'm glad to be rid of them.”

Mahama opened her palms. “Well, I've heard enough. Chief Bahadur, I'm taking Commander Feng back with me. Please release his handcuffs.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. He's already been arrested and the complaint has been submitted to our magistrate. He must remain in custody until she decides whether or not to pursue the charges.”

“And we haven't even gotten to his involvement in the Laraby murder,” Benson added.

“Ah, yes, you'd mentioned that before. I assume you have stronger evidence for that accusation than for the other charges, yes?”

Benson bit off another impulsive reply that he would have regretted. The truth was, everything he had linking Feng to Edmond's murder was circumstantial. The disappearing video records, picked over files, it was suspicious as all hell, but it wasn't hard evidence. It burned at Benson to see the little shit wriggling off the line after he'd come so close to landing him, but it would have to wait.

“I'm still building the case, sir.”

“Good, keep at it. I won't detain you any longer.” Captain Mahama stood. “Chief Bahadur, I understand your objections, but I'm afraid I must insist. I'm invoking emergency operational authority. The smooth operation of the ship requires Commander Feng to be in command until the Flip is done, at the earliest. This supersedes any claim you have on him until the crisis has passed.”

“So am I to take it that protocol is back on, sir?” Benson asked testily.

“Yes, you are.”

Bahadur stood at parade ground attention, his eyes fixed to the wall. “Captain, I must go on record as formally objecting to this. A complaint will be submitted to the citizen's council.”

“That's your right, chief, and frankly I'd be disappointed if you didn't follow through. I recognize how unorthodox this whole situation is, but we're approaching the most critical moment in the history of this ship, perhaps in all of human history. We can't afford to rock the boat.” She held out a hand. “Now, the handcuffs, if you please.”

Reluctantly, Bahadur obliged. He really didn't have any choice. Tradition and case law had given Command wide-ranging powers over anything that could impact ship operations. Once an “emergency” was declared, the captain's powers were virtually limitless. Even if a Council inquiry eventually overturned her actions, the process would take many weeks, even months. The Ark would be in Tau Ceti G's orbit by then.

“You may go, Chao,” Mahama said quietly.

Feng stood up and rubbed circulation back into his wrists and glared at Benson.

“Be seeing you, detective.”

“Yes,” Benson simmered. “You will.”

Feng just sighed and shook his head as he walked back into the lobby and out the doors a free man. Benson glowered at the ceiling, but managed to keep his thoughts to himself. The captain came out from behind Bahadur's desk.

“I'm… sorry for the necessity of that, really I am. But we all know that the charges wouldn't have stuck in trial. There's no way you could have proven Feng knew the paintings were stolen.”

“Oh, please, you didn't buy his little performance, did you?” Benson asked.

“It doesn't matter if I did or not, it's what you can prove. You know that.”

Benson pushed off the back of the chair with a huff. Bahadur broke the awkward silence that followed. “May I speak openly, sir?” Mahama nodded curtly. “You aren't going to allow us to finish the rest of the raids, are you?”

“I wouldn't waste your time, detective. I think you'll find the rest of the missing artwork will be anonymously returned to the museum within the day. That will have to be the end of it, for now.”

“For now?” Benson said. “You mean you're not just going to roadblock us again?”

Mahama shot him a scornful look. “I meant it when I said I was sorry about this, detective. I also meant it when I told you to keep building the Laraby case.”

“I was trying to, sir. I'd be in the interrogation room sweating Feng about it right now if you hadn't shown up!”