LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 8

      Volhynia

      I forget,” Doctor Hastings said as they glided back down toward the planet, “do you deal with this sort of thing head-on, or are you the type to swallow your feelings?”

      “You know exactly what type I am,” she told him. Bob, as it happened, was one of the few people who would know for certain.

      “You’ve been swallowing a lot lately.”

      Not now, she thought, shoving a bubble of grief back down her throat. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if my friends weren’t being such assholes.”

      “Did it ever occur to you that he’s even worse at dealing with loss than you are?”

      “Did it ever occur to you that that’s no excuse for his behavior?”

      “Didn’t say it was an excuse.” Bob always spoke mildly, as if nothing he ever said was of any import. “I’m just suggesting that when someone who copes poorly makes the mistake of getting intoxicated in public, he’s not going to handle it well.”

      Annoyance began to blunt grief, and she clung to the topic. “He’s a grown man,” she said. “He has a tantrum, and I’m supposed to shrug it off and forgive him?”

      “It’s really that bad between you?”

      “You were there,” she reminded him. “What do you think?”

      Everyone had been there. Bob had been at the bar right next to her, talking with Emily Broadmoor until Greg’s yelling drew their attention. She had retorted, for all the good it did—there was no real comeback to what he had said. His outburst had crossed a line she had thought long crossed. He had hurt her, when she had thought there was no more room for hurt in her life. At least she wasn’t spending any more time trying to figure out how to forgive him.

      Bob had known Greg for years; knew his father, his sister, his wife; had known his mother before she died. Duty notwithstanding, Elena knew where his loyalties lay.

      “If I asked you, as a personal favor, not to close the door on him,” Bob asked, “would you do it?”

      For a moment she thought quite seriously of screaming at him. Instead she bit her tongue, and took a mental step back. Underneath her irritation, her guilt, her grief, there was bone-deep exhaustion. She had not slept, she had not eaten, she had too much left to do, and none of that was the fault of the physician. “I didn’t close anything,” she said, with more civility than she felt. “But he sure as hell did.”

      Novanadyr’s traffic control guided them through the atmosphere and onto the spaceport’s tarmac, keeping them hovering until they were waved into the hangar. The deck coordinator assigned them a spot right by the back door. She appreciated the placement—she always preferred to be close to the exit, even on a developed colony—but she suspected they were simply hoping that Central wouldn’t leave their representatives on the surface for long.

      They took one of the public trams to the police station. Elena was aware of stares. She kept her face expressionless and her eyes forward; both of her hands gripped the railing, but she was conscious of her handgun at her hip. Next to her Bob leaned into the wind, a half smile on his face. At one point he turned to a woman standing behind them and said hello. The woman looked startled and moved away; Bob gave a low chuckle.

      “We need to be efficient,” she told Bob as the tram slowed in front of the station. “Once we walk in there, the press will descend like vultures.” She hopped off, Bob at her heels.

      “A proper postmortem is going to take me at least an hour,” he warned her.

      “You do what you need,” she said. “If we get separated, you can go ahead and take the shuttle back up.”

      “He’ll skin me alive if I do that, Chief.”

      “He’ll skin me alive, too. But I’m not sticking around here if it means dealing with stringers.” If she had to choose between Greg’s anger and the full force of the press corps, she would face her captain’s rage.

      His lips thinned, and he shook his head. “Stubborn,” he murmured, and she knew she’d won this one.

      As they were walking up to the station’s entrance, a wide gap open to the building’s lobby, she caught sight of a man halfway up the block, slouching against the wall, eyes looking ahead at nothing, as if he were listening to a comm. He was absurdly thin, absurdly tall, and absurdly handsome.

      She cursed.

      “Bloody Ancher,” she said to Bob’s look. Ancher was a stringer: a professional journalist who had covered the Corps for years. He was tenacious, good-natured, and entirely without ethics. “Someone’s leaked that the dead man is a soldier.”

      “Then we’d better get it done,” Bob said wearily, and opened the door.

      The desk officer, a young man with disapproving eyes, checked her weapon and directed them upstairs to the main office, a wide, airy room spanning the width of the building. Behind the reception desk stood a young woman, pale and petite, like Jessica; but her hair was dark, her skin was free of freckles, and she lacked Jess’s palpable exuberance. She watched them patiently, and Elena stood back, allowing Bob to handle the social aspects. “Good afternoon,” he said to the officer. “We’re here to see Chief Stoya.”

      He flashed her a smile that Elena had long ago noted many women—even as young as this one—found charming. Elena saw the pale cheeks color a little, and her dark eyes warmed. “Of course,” she replied easily, giving Elena a perfunctory glance. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” She walked off toward the private offices that lined the room’s interior walls.

      One of the office doors opened, and the weary-eyed Chief Stoya emerged. In person he seemed smaller, although he was easily Elena’s height. She thought the illusion came from the way he moved, compact and efficient, threading himself between the desks with ease. He scanned the room with wary intelligence, and despite his cold expression she wondered if he would prove more flexible than she had assumed.

      She did not have to wonder long. He shot her a look of open dislike, then let his gaze settle on Bob. “You are Doctor Hastings,” he said. His rigid mouth thinned. “Doctor Velikovsky is waiting for you downstairs in the morgue,” he said. “Officer Keller will escort you.”

      That accent again, different

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