Under a Killing Moon

UAKM — CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was back at the window overlooking the street when the first rays of sunlight knifed through the blood red sky. Feeling like a voyeur, but glad to see a familiar human being, I stared as Chelsee walked to her newsstand from the direction of the Brew & Stew.

There was no one else on the street, though I could see speeders beginning to dot the sky in the distance, over the new city. I watched as Chelsee opened bundles of newspapers and laid them in neat piles on the counter. Even from across the street, I could see faint clouds of her warm breath. It was an appealing sight.

I ran my bourbon-soaked tongue over my teeth. My breath would probably scare off a pit bull. Down at the newsstand, Chelsee finished arranging her papers and then sat on a high stool with her knees up and hands cupped around a large plastic mug, undoubtedly full of Louie’s panacean coffee.

I glanced at my watch. It was 6:54. I trudged to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and brushed my teeth. Twice. There was a vague sensation in the back of my head like an echo of a hangover. I grabbed a plastic bottle, shook out four aspirin, and took them with water straight from the tap. A little aftershave, and I was good as new.

Chelsee looked up as my clanging footsteps reverberated noisily off the rusty fire escape and ricocheted down the empty, puddle-pocked street. Damn, it was nippy. I crossed to the newsstand where she was huddled over her coffee, soaking up a java-steam facial treatment.

Chelsee Bando was a rare dame — that kind that could hold her own with anyone, as well as turn a man’s knees to jelly. Long, blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth, and the kind of voice that curled your toes. Every dope in the neighborhood had the hots for Chelsee, but she seemed to think she was just one of the guys. Unfortunately, she had all those curvy parts to complicate things. On any normal day, I would’ve made polite conversation, brought up the suggestion that we go out sometime, get shot down, then leave.

After a sleepless night, I didn’t feel up to it. To Chelsee’s amazement, I actually bought a paper, politely thanked her, and headed for Louie’s diner. Safely in the warm belly of the Brew & Stew, I proceeded to fill my veins with steaming caffeine. The diner had a goodsized breakfast crowd, and Louie was bustling around, too busy for idle chitchat. It was just as well. I wasn’t in a verbal mood.

Louie’s television, mounted in the upper right corner behind the bar, was turned on to a morning show, hosted by two wide-eyed “beautiful people.” The program seemed to be a cross between a fourth grade show-and-tell and an infomercial. I was too beat for such mindless joy and turned my attention to the sports section of my newspaper.

I finished the crossword puzzle and my ninth cup of Armageddon a little after eight o’clock. It was late enough, and I was sufficiently wired, so I got up and left the diner.

The interior of my speeder was like an icebox. Ten minutes later, I was cruising over an old part of the city, near Oakland, as rundown an area as the one I lived in. As I flew over the rubble-strewn streets and disintegrating apartment complexes, I had to wonder how much longer the Mutants would put up with the current state of affairs. The war had pretty much obliterated the middle-class. The rich, for the most part Norms, had decided to build the new city and leave the old city in ruins. The only sections they’d cleaned up were the prime ones, along the bay. The Mutants, along with destitute Norms like myself, were left with the scraps.

Melahn Tode’s residence was a nineteenth-century brownstone, the color of a used cigarette filter. Columns rose in front of the building, cracked and stained, like an old man’s fingers. I walked to the front door and saw the word Knickerbocker stenciled over cheap stained glass. Pushing the door open released the odor of rotten wood and ancient dust. The landing was unlit, and the walls and floor were a uniform shade of soil. I glanced at the row of mail slots and saw the name M. Tode listed for apartment eleven.

Three flights of stairs later, I was slightly out of breath, and the stale air wasn’t helping.

I reached number eleven and paused to collect myself before knocking. After several moments, the door opened just enough to reveal a long, shapely leg, a white terry cloth bathrobe, and a cascade of untamed blond hair. Even with only a sliver showing, Melahn Tode was certainly an eyeful. She checked me over thoroughly before saying anything.

“What do you want?”

I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my fake police ID, and held it squarely in front of her light blue eyes.

Melahn looked back at me casually. “What do you want?”

I reached into my pocket and held up the photo of her and the Colonel. I didn’t react as her hand shot out from behind the door and snatched the picture. The sudden movement had pushed the door open halfway. As she examined the photo, I couldn’t help but notice that her robe had loosened some, revealing the center third of an amazingly constructed torso. Only money could buy that kind of sculpture.

Melahn glanced up at me sharply. “Where’d you get this?”

“We found it at the Colonel’s office. He’s missing. We’re pretty sure he’s been murdered. And we’re hoping you know something that will help us in our investigation.”

Melahn stood as still as a statue for several seconds, then turned away from the door and walked into her apartment. Since she didn’t slam the door, I took it as a cue and followed her in. She crossed the room to a small hutch and poured herself a half glass of something clear. Her hand shook as she took a long drink. It wasn’t water. Melahn turned to me, and I barely detected a throb in her voice. “What happened?”

For some reason, I hadn’t thought about what effect the news of the Colonel’s death would have on a paroled prostitute. Now, staring at Melahn, I felt stupid and uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I should make an attempt to comfort her — which I suddenly wanted to do — or stick to the facts and get through this as quickly as possible. I decided to try and make it as gentle as I could.

“He was abducted from his office. It may have had something to do with one of the cases he was working on.”

Cradling her drink in both hands, Melahn sat down on a wicker chair and stared miserably at the floor. “He said he wasn’t going to take any more cases. He said he was done with all that.” Melahn looked up at me and took another drink of stabilizing fluid.

“We were going away together… at the end of the month. He was going to retire… and we were…”

Without looking at me, Melahn sprang up and bolted from the room. I watched her leave and decided I needed to smoke. An ashtray with several cigarette butts in it sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, so I figured it would be OK.

I’d almost finished my cigarette when Melahn came back into the room. Even with no makeup and red, puffy eyes, she was beautiful. The body, the face… but there was more to it than that. I’d never been a good judge of female character — my wife had sworn to that under oath in divorce court — but something indefinable about Melahn told me that there was a good deal more to her than I, or maybe anyone else, had first thought. The Colonel must’ve seen whatever it was she had. Maybe he’d met her through one of his cases and helped her back on her feet. He’d always been smarter than I was.

But now he was dead, and I wasn’t. Melahn sat back down on the wicker chair and buried her nose in a tissue as I stubbed out my Lucky Strike. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Melahn shook her head. I looked at her, knowing that I needed her to talk to me, but not sure how, or if the subject should be broached. Luckily, she took a shaky breath and looked over at me. “Sorry, I haven’t cried in years.”

I nodded. She dabbed her nose and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. After a moment, she glanced at me. “You’re not a cop.”

I paused and thought it over, then shook my head. “No, I’m not. I’m a PI… and an old friend of the Colonel’s.”

Melahn nodded. After a few seconds, she straightened up and pulled her robe tight.

“What do you want to know?”

I shrugged. “Anything. I’m just trying to find out who would’ve killed him.”

“I can’t help you. Roy never talked about his work. And we’d only been seeing each other for a few months. I knew him, but not about the other things in his life.” She raised the tissue to her nose, then folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t look like a hooker.

“That was the way he wanted it. He said we were starting over, together. We didn’t talk about other things.”

A wave of disappointment washed over me. I didn’t want to be insensitive, but I’d been hoping that Melahn could help. Apparently, she couldn’t. I believed what she was telling me, as much as I didn’t want to hear it.

“Tell me, Melahn, is there anything you can think of… anything… Roy… said during the past few times you saw him?”

Melahn’s eyes focused on the floor thoughtfully. After some time, she shook her head.

“No.”

I looked up at the ceiling. Maybe I was asking the wrong questions. “Do you remember him saying anything about CAPRICORN?”

Melahn’s head moved slowly from side to side.

“How about something called the Winter Chip?”

“No.”

Melahn stared back at me, her eyes were starting to brim again as she said, “I’m sorry.”

I was sorry too, and for more than one reason. I stood up and walked to where she was sitting. She looked up as I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me too. I’m sorry about what happened, and I’m sorry I had to tell you.”

I reached into the inner pocket of my overcoat. All I could find was a cash register receipt. I wrote on the back of it, then handed it to Melahn. “Here’s my name and my number. If you can think of anything, or if I can help in any way at all, give me a ring.”

Melahn nodded. I felt like dirt and really wanted to get home and shower. There was probably something I should have said, but I couldn’t think of anything constructive. I put on my hat and walked to the door.

“Wait.”

I turned around, and Melahn stood up. “Roy left some things here. You can see them if you think it’ll help.”

I crossed the room and followed Melahn into her bedroom. She looked into a closet and several drawers and laid a handful of items on the bed. There was a hardback novel, which I flipped through and found nothing in, a pair of cheap reading glasses, a tartan vest, two shirts, a pair of khaki trousers, and a half dozen boxer shorts. I didn’t bother to search the undies, and the shirts and pants turned up nothing. I’d just about decided that I’d hit a dead end when I checked the watch pocket of the vest. Inside was a notebook, about two by three inches. I held it up. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”

Melahn shook her head and began to gather up the items as I left the room. I reached the door and glanced back. She had sat down on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. I turned and closed the door quietly behind me.

As I walked down the stairs, I flipped through the notebook. Something fluttered out and dropped to the floor. It was a clipping from a newspaper, folded up. As I opened it, a picture in the center caught my eye. It was a photo of the countess’s statuette.