The Reporter (The Galactic Football League Novellas) Read online

  “Gracie,” Yolanda said. “You knew her?”

  Miriam shook her head, then nodded. “Well, yeah. I was asking her about what she wanted done to the hallway. I didn’t know her personally or anything. I thought I had a real job again. Oh, High One, I was so stupid … I was so used.”

  Miriam hid her face in her hands. She rocked back and forth slightly.

  Yolanda watched her and mulled over the rush of information. If all of this was true, Villani had constructed the perfect frame-job on Ju Tweedy: there was a “witness” who saw Ju standing over the body, a witness who knew Ju closely and couldn’t possibly misidentify him, a witness who was an architect on site doing actual architect work, a witness who had a very valid reason for wanting her name kept off the reports. That would give the cops critical information, but that information would escape the scrutiny of the press.

  “Miriam, is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Miriam shook her head and wiped away a tear. “No, that’s it.”

  Yolanda took the other woman’s hand. “If Villani did this, she’ll do anything to cover it up. Maybe you should get out of town.”

  The HeavyG woman shook her head. “No, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m fine. I paid my debt to Villani. I’m out, Yolanda. This is where my life is; this is where my team is. I have season tickets to the Death games. I get to hang out with the current players and some of my old teammates. The Creterakians don’t control OS1, and that means I can have my prosthetic arm and any mods I need to control it properly. That cricket Juarez took my life away, but here I can have two arms and not be a freak. I have my home, and I’m not in debt to Villani anymore — I won’t leave.”

  Yolanda shook her head. “You believe that? She’s a gangster, Miriam. You’ll never be out.”

  Miriam stood up. “You don’t know her. The murder was a year ago, and she hasn’t bothered me since. Villani is evil and horrible and a killer, but her word is good. Just as good as your word that you won’t give up a source. And if you’re true to that word, Yolanda, then Anna will never know about this conversation, and I’ve got nothing to worry about. Right?”

  Miriam almost shouted that last word, but it wasn’t a threat — it was a plea.

  Yolanda stood. “I swear to you, Miriam. No one will ever know about this conversation.”

  The bigger woman turned to face Whykor. “And you? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. You don’t owe me any loyalty. How do I know you’ll keep your mouth shut?”

  Whykor stood and held his pedipalp hands down, palms out. “Miss Connor, my shamakath instructed me to assist Miss Davenport and do whatever I was told. If Miss Davenport tells me to never mention this, then I am honor-bound to obey, as long as that promise doesn’t put my shamakath in danger.”

  Miriam turned to Yolanda. “Who’s his shamakath?”

  “Commissioner Froese.”

  Miriam’s eyebrows rose. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding,” Yolanda said. “And it’s clear nothing you have said would involve his safety, so Whykor — as he said — is honor-bound to keep his little mouth shut. Your secret is safe with us. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Miriam thought for a moment, then shook her head. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. She had made mistakes and feared those mistakes would cost a friendship. Maybe they had, but this wasn’t the time to put a nail in that coffin. Yolanda reached out and hugged the bigger woman.

  With the hug, the tears came.

  “Thank you,” Miriam said. “Thank you for not hating me.”

  Yolanda patted the muscular back. “You did what you had to do.”

  In a way, that was true. The first mistake was making a deal with Anna Villani — that horrible things would follow was inevitable.

  Yolanda pulled away. “Is there a way out of here other than the stairs?”

  “There’s an internal hallway and an elevator,” Miriam said. “Goes down into the parking garage. Call a cab, and it can pull right in — even if someone followed you here, they won’t see you leave. And thanks for not recording any of this, Yo-Yo, that makes me feel so much better. I hope you find the monster that did this.”

  Miriam showed them the way out. Yolanda assured her once again that the secret was safe.

  Yolanda and Whykor rode the elevator down together.

  “Whykor, you get all of that?”

  “Oh yes, Miss Davenport. Every word.”

  “Good. As soon as we get in the cab, take my messageboard and start transcribing. There’s something off about her story.”

  “The body,” Whykor said. “What was she doing with the body? If McDermot’s body was as damaged as she says, no sane sentient would check for a pulse. Was the damage as bad as Miss Connor described?”

  “I don’t know,” Yolanda said. “The autopsy report was sealed. I tried to get in and see the OS1 chief of police, see if I could get access, but he wouldn’t even give me a meeting.”

  “Bob wouldn’t see you?”

  Yolanda stared at him. “Bob? You call Chief Robert Gilliland Bob?”

  “He prefers that name,” Whykor said. “When I check for stadium security on this planet, I speak to him often.”

  Yolanda laughed. “Imagine the luck.”

  “There is no such thing as luck,” Whykor said. “If a city can’t guarantee the safety of players and staff, it will lose its GFL franchise. That would cost any city millions, if not billions, in revenue. Therefore, police departments are invested in making sure things stay safe and secure. As a representative of Commissioner Froese, I frequently deal with the local law enforcement administrations.”

  So a lowly Worker was on a first-name basis with big-city police chiefs? Maybe there was more to Whykor than she’d first thought.

  The elevator stopped. The doors opened to the parking garage.

  “Whykor, can you arrange a meeting with Bob?”

  “Of course,” Whykor said. “He is always happy to see me.”

  Yolanda nodded, knowing full well that this time Bob might not be so happy at all.

  • • •

  In a city of blue crystal, the translucent red tower of police headquarters dominated the landscape like a glowing torch at dusk.

  The police headquarters building was as old as the city itself. When engineers began Orbital Station One, they introduced several strains of the silicate organism, each a different color. Yellow failed to take root, and a pale orange started out strong but couldn’t compete against the red. Initially, Madderch’s red strain grew like wildfire, but once the blue was introduced, the latter immediately dominated, wiping out all other colors. By the time the blue dominated, however, significant tax dollars had been spent on the police headquarters. In the interest of historic preservation, maintenance crews worked to keep that building and a few others in their original red state.

  Keeping it that way required aggressive, constant maintenance. Threads of blue had to be identified and removed before they could consume the red around them. If enough blue strains took root, the building itself would eventually collapse. Maintaining the red wasn’t impossible, it just took money. A lot of money.

  Sitting on a couch outside the police chief’s office, Yolanda saw that the influence of money didn’t stop at the foundation and walls. The chief’s waiting room — just the waiting room — was one of the most well appointed places she had ever seen. The latest smart-paper played pleasing images of a field of tall plants swaying in the wind. The hanging art looked incredibly expensive, the statues in the corners even more so. The room was designed to impress, to let those waiting know that the person they were to meet was very powerful.

  “Funny how no one wonders out loud how a public servant can afford an office like this,” she said.

  “Just wait until you see his actual office,” Whykor said. “That is very impressive.” He pointed at the closed double doors that led into Robert Gilliland’s office. Old wood, real wood, just like the p
aneling in Froese’s office. Considering how there were no trees on OS1, the material had been imported, always an expense. And it looked like Earth wood — a major expense multiplier.

  “But how does he afford all of this? I mean, how corrupt can you be?”

  “I believe his city salary is quite significant,” Whykor said. “He also was integral to Sikka the Death’s business practices, and I imagine he is now accepting donations from Anna Villani. The Commissioner makes donations as well.”

  “What? Froese makes donations? What the hell for?”

  “Player safety, of course,” Whykor said. “Local law enforcement is a big part of securing any large public facility. You know as well as anyone, Miss Davenport, that players are in constant danger of assassination attempts by other owners, religious factions or just unruly fans.”

  “Okay, but Froese bribes cops?”

  Whykor’s eye swirled with black. “My shamakath does not bribe anyone, Miss Davenport,” he said, his voice low but full of intensity. “He runs a league that spans fifty inhabited worlds and eleven sovereign, interstellar governments, each with its own set of laws and customs. The citizens of many of these governments would like nothing more than to kill the citizens of other governments, yet he must find a way to make sure that players, coaches and other staff are not injured or detained in any way. To accomplish this, he will make any deal necessary. What is accepted custom on one world is illegal on the next, so he simply does what has to be done. Perhaps it is simpler for you to think he is as lawless as the franchise owners, but you could not possibly understand the complexities and nuances that my shamakath must manage to ensure the games go on and the players stay safe.”

  Yolanda stared and blinked. Whykor had just lost his temper. She’d never seen a Worker lose it like that. She tried to think of something to say but was saved by the office doors opening. Two Quyth Warriors in the dark-blue uniform of the OS1 police came out, each holding one of the doors. And through those doors walked Anna Villani.

  Yolanda’s breath caught in her throat. She suddenly felt self-conscious about her jeans, sneakers and Galaxy Sports Magazine zip-up jacket. She looked neat and clean, but compared to Anna Villani, she looked like a schlub.

  Villani wore six-inch red heels. Skull-patterned, black fishnet stockings covered her toned legs, which led into a red leather skirt with a matching top. She wore black lace gloves and some kind of stiff, black plastic mesh shawl that made her shoulders look bigger, made her seem a little bit more physically imposing. She wore her raven-black hair swept to the left, where it curled thick and luxurious over her left collarbone and into the cleavage left visible by the low-cut red leather top. Orbiting Death skulls hung from her ears. Dark shadows around her eyes blended gracefully into her bleach-white skin. When Villani saw Yolanda, metalflake-red lips curled into a wicked smile.

  Yolanda had met almost every owner in the league, and yet as Anna Villani approached, she fought an urge to run for the door. This woman had the air of a predator — an already full predator — stalking prey just for the fun of it.

  “Miss Davenport,” Anna said. “A pleasure to meet you.” She held out a gloved hand. Through the mesh, Yolanda could see the metalflake-red fingernails, each one decorated with the Orbiting Death’s skull logo.

  Yolanda shook her hand; she’d expected Anna’s skin to be cold, but the woman’s hand was unusually warm. “Miss Villani, a pleasure.”

  “I read your article on Quentin Barnes,” Anna said. “I couldn’t agree more, that boy is what’s wrong with the GFL. Excellent reporting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I trust OS1 is treating you well?”

  Yolanda nodded. “It’s an interesting city.”

  Anna’s smile widened. “And a dangerous one. I’d hate to see something happen to that pretty face of yours, Yolanda. If you want to see the city’s hot spots, you should come out with me. I can make sure no one will bother you.”

  Did she know Marik the Covetous and the Ki who had tried to tail them to Miriam’s? Or was Villani making a thinly veiled offer of protection: you be nice to me, and I’ll make sure no one hurts you.

  “Thank you, Miss Villani, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Villani nodded, then looked at Whykor.

  “Well-well-well,” she said. “If it isn’t Froese’s taskmaster. Imagine seeing you here.”

  “Anna,” Whykor said. “I will convey your best wishes to the Commissioner.”

  Villani sneered and laughed. “You do that, Whykor.” The owner of the Orbiting Death walked out.

  Yolanda bent and whispered at Whykor. “You’re on a first-name basis with her, too?”

  “I often bring the Commissioner’s words when sending them via beacon isn’t appropriate.”

  Yolanda stood. That made sense. If Froese was passing out bribes — no, donations — then that wasn’t the kind of thing you put into a beacon and sent through punch-space where someone might intercept it. There was so much more to Whykor than the Worker let on.

  One of the Quyth Warrior cops stepped forward. “The chief will see you now.”

  Yolanda and Whykor followed him into the office. Whykor had been right — this was far more impressive than the waiting room. No smart-paper here — the walls were the translucent red of the building itself. An entire wall of crysteel looked out over a stunning view of the city, its meandering river and the towering, living, interlinked buildings of blue.

  She’d covered games in the green crystal city of Orbital Station Two, home of the Sky Demolition. OS2’s wide, blue-green river was far more beautiful, but that didn’t take away from the sparkling blue ribbon cutting through Madderch.

  She forced herself to look away from the breathtaking scene beyond the window and examine the rest of the office. Still and moving statues lined the walls, each seemingly more expensive than the next. In the center of the room sat a massive, wooden desk, easily large enough for five sentients to work side by side in comfort. Only one sentient used it, of course — Robert Gilliland, chief of the OS1 police.

  “Whykor,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Hello, Bob,” Whykor said. “I have brought a friend.”

  Gilliland’s eyes swung to lock on Yolanda. The eyes narrowed in recognition — she had never met the man in person, but her face was well known, and doubly so in a football town like Madderch.

  He was Human, neither big nor small for the species. He looked middle aged, with salt and pepper hair and a gut that remained barely hidden behind his uniform, but with the kind of mods a person of his financial status could afford, there was no telling just how old he really was. You could usually tell if you looked at the eyes, and his green eyes looked like they had seen much.

  “Yolanda Davenport,” he said. “Working on another story about how inept the OS1 police are?”

  She smiled. “Now, Chief, why cover a new story on that when an old one will do just fine? I’m still looking into the murder of Grace McDermot.”

  The chief sighed. “Your story is only a month old, but the murder was a year ago. We both know who did it. The whole galaxy knows who did it. But Ju Tweedy is protected by GFL immunity. And let’s face facts — no one misses Grace McDermot.”

  “That’s quite callous for a police chief.”

  “Madderch has fifty million residents,” he said. “When our crime rate is at an ebb, we still have a hundred murders a day. We have four morgues, not one, and all four run three shifts, so they are constantly working. There is no down time here, Davenport. So am I callous about the murder of one call girl who saw a few too many people at the same time? Sure, I’m callous. You’d know that if you’d ever bothered to talk to me before you ran that story.”

  Yolanda laughed. “I asked you for an interview, and you stonewalled me. I also asked you for the autopsy report on McDermot, and you wouldn’t return my calls. But I knew that was just because you were so busy, Chief. I knew that if I could just get in to see you, we co
uld chitchat about that. Well, here I am.”

  “You want the autopsy report?”

  “That’s right.”

  Gilliland looked at Whykor. “You couldn’t have given me a heads-up on this, old buddy?”

  “Commissioner Froese has assigned me to assist Miss Davenport,” Whykor said. “Therefore, her needs take precedence over my personal relationships.”

  The chief glared, then shrugged and nodded. “Sure, I can see that. Not your fault, Whykor.”

  “Thanks, Bob.”

  The chief looked at Yolanda. “No, you can’t have the autopsy report.”

  She suddenly wondered if that decision had anything to do with his earlier visitor. Had Anna Villani told him not to reveal details?

  “But you said everyone knows who did it,” Yolanda said. “And, as you said, the case is a year old, so why not?”

  “Because the case is still open, Miss Davenport. And until we can bring Ju Tweedy in for questioning, which — due to Creterakian-decreed diplomatic immunity for GFL players — we can’t do while he is a member of the Ionath Krakens roster or any other team roster, it will stay open. We won’t discuss the details of an open case with the press.”

  “Even if those details could show Ju Tweedy didn’t commit the murder?”

  Chief Gilliland’s face tightened into a scowl. “Oh, I see. The detectives and medical examiners and data analysts and administrators couldn’t possibly tell if evidence cleared Mister Tweedy, right? That could only be done by a highly educated member of the media, is that what you’re saying, Miss Davenport?”

  “Of course not, Chief, it’s just—”

  He pointed to the doors. “This meeting is over. I’ve got work to do.”

  She started to speak but became aware of a presence right behind her — one of the Quyth Warrior cops.

  “This way, Miss Davenport,” the Warrior said.