Part 3 (1/2)

Ki Bowles touched the information chips on the back of her hand. She filtered her sound meters for room noise, trying to get rid of the surrounding chatter. Chairs clanged, voices rose, and people laughed, preventing her from hearing anything that happened near the stage.

She already felt out of touch. She had shut off her infotainment feeds when she had come into the room, hoping her focused concentration would help her find other leads. Instead, she'd actually had to listen to this press conference rather than mult.i.tasking.

She had been about to turn the infotainment links back on when she saw Miles Flint. He had provided enough of a distraction that she had made it to the end of the goofy medal-pinning part of the conference.

Now all she had to do was double-check her recording links, make sure she got everything going on in the room, and hope that she happened on something important.

She had worried about this. She hoped that the sound chip she had placed against the stage's edge when she arrived would get the information she needed.

Bowles continued recording, using wide-angle on her wrist chip, a double-link to the provided overhead camera on another chip, and an eye-level zoom that she had just recently installed. She would get and keep her own personal perspective, just in case this story went big.

Flint hadn't left yet. His lanky frame dominated the left side of the room. He was a distinctive man, and too smart for his own good. When she had first spoken to him, she had been struck by his pre-Raphaelite looks. Those looks-so rare these days-had helped her remember Flint from a previous story.

She had watched him years ago, her gaze caught by his striking resemblance to the European art she had studied when she had been an art history major, before she had come to her senses and had started pursuing a career.

Since she had never seen anyone who looked like him before or since that moment, she was able to make an instant connection between the Retrieval Artist she knew and the grieving father she had first seen when she was a cub reporter.

In those days, he had been conducting a war against the day care center where his daughter had died. Bowles had never seen a man as angry as Flint had been when he discovered that yet another child died from the same trauma as his daughter. Shaken to death by a worker. A preventable death.

Another death had preceded his daughter's. If that death had been properly investigated, Flint's daughter and the other child would have lived, and he would never have quit his job as one of the best computer specialists in the city. He would never have applied to the police academy, worked the s.p.a.ce ports, and then got promoted to detective.

He would never have met Noelle DeRicci, and he would never have become a Retrieval Artist.

From the second time Bowles had seen Flint's unique face, she had known that a major story lurked there. She just wasn't sure what the story was or how to tell it.

Or how, even, to discover it.

Bowles moved closer to the stage, careful to stay as far from Flint as possible. She had worked her way to a comfortable living. She was well-known in Armstrong as one of InterDome's main reporters. She had taken a job anchoring live feeds so that her face would become even more recognizable.

All of her work was good. But the great reporters, the ones who became famous throughout the Alliance and the Outlying Colonies, all had one great story-a career-making story-that sent them on their way. And the really great ones continued to get the best of the best, parlaying an excellent career into a memorable one.

Bowles wanted that, and she knew the only way to get it was through incredibly hard work and a lead that no one else had, a perspective that was uniquely hers. That was what succeeded in the Alliance. Vision, voice, and a spectacular hook, something none of the thousands of other reporters on all the Allied worlds had.

She edged closer to the stage. She still couldn't see a.s.sistant Chief DeRicci, but Soseki bent forward, as if he was talking to someone shorter than he was. Two other mayors from nearby domes hung back, more as protection for the discussion, it seemed, than part of it.

Bowles counted five members of the United Domes of the Moon's Governing Council, three of them representatives of Armstrong and its environs. They were all partic.i.p.ating in the discussion. Something was happening here. Something important. And with luck, Bowles had it all.

She tapped another chip on her wrist, opening a link with the sound chip she'd pressed against the lip of the stage. Still too much chatter. Voices of cops greeting each other, a few saying h.e.l.lo to Flint, someone making a date, and earnest conversation beyond. She couldn't get anything, but maybe she could filter it when she got back to the office, see if she could isolate some of the famous voices.

A hand covered hers. She looked up to find Andrea Gumiela peering at her. Gumiela was being groomed for the next chief's position. She was ambitious, not that smart, but incredibly political.

Rumors around the city now floated the idea that DeRicci would get Gumiela's position. Or maybe even become a.s.sistant Chief of Police, instead of a.s.sistant Chief of Detectives, leapfrogging over Gumiela herself.

”Press conference is over, Ms. Bowles,” Gumiela said.

”I know.” Bowles made sure there was no animosity in her tone. ”I'm getting ambient noise and some extra vids for background.”

”That's all it better be,” Gumiela said. ”If I found out you've been recording private conversation-”

”I wouldn't do that,” Bowles said. ”But for the record, it seems to me that any conversation held in a press room before members of the press couldn't be considered private.”

Gumiela's grip tightened on Bowles' hand, crus.h.i.+ng the embedded chips. One chip clinked as it went off-line. Bowles pretended like nothing had happened.

”That sounds like an issue for the courts,” Gumiela said. ”And you know they hate deciding freedom of the press issues after the offending story has already made its way into the media.”

Bowles shrugged. ”I'm not doing anything wrong, Chief. I'm just getting background, like I said.”

”I hope that's all.” Gumiela let go of Bowles' hand. ”It's probably time we clear the room anyway.”

Bowles gave Gumiela her best smile. ”Do you have a few minutes for an interview? I need some background on a.s.sistant Chief DeRicci for my extended piece on the medal ceremony. I'd also like to find out about the future for Andrea Gumiela.”

As Bowles expected, Gumiela's entire expression softened. That woman loved media attention. ”How about we go to the hallway, so that we aren't interrupted?”

”That or your office,” Bowles said. ”Whatever is more convenient for you.”

Her chip would have to do its job on its own. Bowles needed to keep this interview short, so that no one had time to sweep the room before she had a chance to return and retrieve the chip.

As she followed Gumiela out of the room, she dropped her scarf beside the door. She needed a reason to return. That was as good as any.

By then, she hoped, she would know what the big conference was with DeRicci and the politicians.

That might not be Bowles's great story, but it would do.

5.

Noelle DeRicci sank into the overstuffed couch on the far side of the mahogany table. Her stomach growled. The restaurant smelled tantalizingly of roast garlic and baking bread.

Flint stood at the edge of the table. A large light with a moonscape painted on the shade hung over the table's center, half obscuring his face.

She motioned for him to sit down. To her surprise, he sat beside her on the couch.

”It'll be easier to talk,” he said.

They were in a private room in the Hunting Club, one of Armstrong's most exclusive restaurants. The Hunting Club kept its private rooms free of listening devices. This particular room automatically shut off people's links, all except emergency links.

It surprised DeRicci that Flint felt they would need even more privacy.

But caution was part of his job-and his nature. He had kept secrets from her even when they were partners. Over the years, she had come to realize she would never get to know Flint well. It wasn't until he nearly died on his last case that she realized how much she valued his friends.h.i.+p, whether she knew all his secrets or not.

A waiter came over to the table. The Hunting Club vetted its employees, paying them a tremendous amount so that they'd be incorruptible (theoretically) and requiring that they have no links whatsoever. DeRicci hated her links-she had gotten in trouble more than once for keeping her emergency links off, something she was now forbidden to do-but she couldn't imagine life without them.

The waiter went through a list of specials, offered drinks, and took their order by writing everything on a piece of paper-one of the most inefficient and expensive methods DeRicci had ever seen. This dinner was Flint's treat-even DeRicci, with her high salary and three outrageous bonuses, couldn't afford an average meal at this place.

When the waiter left, DeRicci sighed. ”Do you know what they offered me today?”

”Who?” Flint asked.