Titan Song by Dan Stout (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📕

“And?” I dusted off my jacket, hoping for good news.

“And we’re in a bad spot.” Bryyh frowned, hands on hips. “The management company thinks Vandie Cedrow was set up. The out-of-town bands and the audience don’t trust the police, and the military base is hesitant to help because we’ve alienated the AFS by arresting Paulus.”

“What can we do?”

“Decisions are being made at a higher level than us. It’s up to the mayor and City Council at this point. We’ll mobilize to be ready at a moment’s notice, but all we can do right now is put out a press statement. Maybe we’ll pull enough media attention that we’ll limit attendance, maybe even pressure the festival staff to work with us.”

“All those people at the concert, and the best you can do is hope for favorable media coverage?”

Bryyh’s sad smile held more sorrow than I could have expressed in an hour-long rant. “That’s the power of the press,” she said, and left us standing in the hallway.

Jax’s hands ran over his head plates, kneading them, massaging away the same tension that boiled beneath my skin. “For everything we know about Serrow, we can’t touch her. They’ve given more access to the paper where the dead reporter worked than the entire police force.”

The power of the press, I thought, and watched Bryyh disappear down the corridor.

“I’m going to try something,” I said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Guyer and Jax threw questions after me, but I didn’t have any answers they’d want to hear.

I stalked the halls, my worn soles devouring vinyl tiles as if walking fast could soothe the anger inside. When I got to my desk, I sat very still, staring at the Bullpen and the cops who went about their business, trying to find killers and protect the innocent. And then I did something I never thought I’d stoop to.

I picked up the phone, dialed information, and said, “Yeah, can I have the number for The Titanshade Union Record?”

38

I SAT IN AN OVER-PRICED SANDWICH shop near the foothills of the Mount and waited. I’d already finished one coffee that had cost more than an entire meal in my neighborhood, and was seriously considering springing for a second, when the reporters arrived.

The human male was tall and dark haired, with a crisply trimmed beard. He wore a tailored suit in a rich green that matched his eyes, and there was a youthful spring in his step that made me feel exhausted just looking at him. Klare looked much as she always did, professional, serious, with eyes that took in everything and a camera slung over her shoulder.

She spotted me while her companion was still scanning the room. She headed my way, and he lengthened his stride to reach me first. Eager to impress and competitive. I filed it away for future reference.

“This is Jihan,” said Klare. “He’s the one writing this piece. Jihan, you know who this is.”

His grin widened. “I do.” He mock-bowed to the photographer. “Klare, when you told me you’d lined up security, I didn’t realize what you had in mind. This is brilliant!” He turned back to me. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I didn’t know what to think when Klare pitched me this idea, but I’ve got—”

“You knew to say yes,” Klare spoke over him. “We don’t have much time, so you go on outside, Jihan. I need a minute to make peace with the detective.”

He nodded, and I heard him whisper “Brilliant!” on his way out.

When her compatriot was gone, I said, “You didn’t tell your new partner? You must’ve spent a lot of capital at work to make this happen.”

“All of it,” she said. “And I didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. But how could my editor pass up the idea of the dead man’s partner photographing the scandalized Barekusu alongside the hero cop?”

“It’ll sell papers.”

“It might backfire. The press can’t afford to be seen as bought and paid for. Unlike cops. Everyone knows you’re corrupt already.”

“Keep telling yourself you can make a difference snapping pictures,” I said. “We’ll keep risking our lives and putting away the bad guys.”

Klare pushed into my space, the way she had at Mickey the Finn’s. She stared me down, and her voice grew quieter, more intense. “When this is done, you’ll lock Serrow up for what she did.”

“If I can,” I said, “I’ll do it with pleasure.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Her biting jaws closed with a click, a sound not too distinct from the sound of a camera shutter closing. “Now let’s go. Jihan gets nervous when I leave him on his own.”

The Barekusu caravan had relocated, moving farther up the base of the Mount, away from the tragedy of the sinkhole. The camp was comprised of deceptively simple structures, wood and canvas tents with luxurious kusuma linings arranged in concentric circles around the center of the camp. The hum of generators indicated that they had electricity. A few Barekusu sat in a ring, playing instruments that were equal parts string and percussion, delicate fingers dancing along the necks, while powerful show hands thumped out a rhythm on the body. Several of the instruments showed signs of recent repair, likely damaged in the chaos of the sinkhole. Children frolicked around us or hid behind parents, reacting to strangers much like human children. The youngest were long-legged and awkward, their hair not yet grown out to the luxurious lengths of the adults.

As we walked through the camp, heads the size of my torso swung in our direction. They didn’t appear to be shocked at our appearance or to perceive us as a threat. They simply followed our progress as we moved toward their leader. We had an appointment with Weylan.

Or rather, my companions did. Part of the fallout from Serrow’s murder of Glouchester had been an agreement with the Union Record that they’d have a