Brian McClellan: Murder at the Kinnen Hotel

Adamat approached the desk warily and took the paper with his manacled hands. His throat went dry. “It appears to be a cheque, made out from Ricard Tumblar to myself.”

“Found in your wallet,” Aleksandre said. “Hewi admitted to me that you are friends with Ricard. She gave you his case as a favor, thinking you above petty bribery. Thinking it would give you the chance to see your friend cleared and that if he was guilty, you’d either do your duty or recuse yourself”

Adamat felt his jaw drop. “Excuse me? I have not seen this before. And I’ve never so much as seen that much money, let alone carried it in my pocketbook.”

“And yet it was there, along with the cheque,” Aleksandre said.

Hewi spoke up. Her voice was low, full of disappointment. “Ricard Tumblar denies having written it. But it comes from his own cheque book, the one found in his hotel room. And we’ve already checked with the bank. The signature is his.”

“Forged, likely,” Adamat snapped. “This is preposterous. The cheque book was in custody, here at the precinct building.”

“Constable Jain says you were alone with Ricard Tumblar for several minutes yesterday morning at the crime scene. He says you sent him away.”

“I did,” Adamat said, “to get information from the hotel staff.”

“So you don’t deny it,” Aleksandre said. “And you don’t deny that you’re friends with the accused?”

Adamat wanted to reach out and put his hands around the commissioner’s thick neck. He was getting close on this investigation, he could taste it. He was going to catch both this powder mage and the people who hired him, and they knew it. He looked at White, who’d remained silent through the entire exchange. She looked back at him, her eyes unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Attaché White,” Aleksandre said. “But in light of this discovery, we’re going to terminate Special Detective Constable Adamat’s employment with the Adran police.”

“You can’t,” Adamat said. He stepped forward, jerking at the wrist-irons. Everything was crumbling around him. His job, his reputation. If he didn’t wind up in prison he would be ruined.

“I can,” Aleksandre said. “You aren’t under arrest. Not yet.” He rolled his eyes. “Captain Hewi has insisted we investigate further before throwing you in Sablethorn. But you’re not to leave the city until we have reached a conclusion. We’ll keep an eye on you.” He removed the banknotes from Adamat’s pocketbook, collecting them with the forged cheque, and tossed the pocketbook on the edge of the desk. “The constables outside will release your wrist-irons. You’re free to go.”

Adamat took his empty pocketbook. “You believe this?” he asked Hewi.

“The evidence, as you’ve so often said, is there.”

He took a deep breath and turned to White. Surely she should see the absurdity of it all? The timing? How fortunate this was for Aleksandre and his silent allies? He’d expected someone to put a knife in his back. Nothing this insidious.

He’d been a fool.

White met his gaze. “Well,” she said, “It was good working with you, Adamat. Pity this turned out the way it did.”

“I didn’t … “ Adamat started.

White stepped past him to stand in front of Commissioner Aleksandre. “I’ll continue my investigation,” she said. “Without Adamat. My priority is still to find the powder mage.”

“Of course, Attaché,” Aleksandre said. “Adamat,” he barked, “you’re dismissed!”

Adamat left the office. Outside, his hat and cane were returned to him, the brim of the former badly bent, and his wrist-irons were removed. He felt as if in a daze, walking through the precinct building, the eyes of dozens of constables on him as he left. He reached the front door when a voice stopped him.

“Well look at that, lads,” Lieutenant Dorry said. “If it isn’t the captain’s sweet little favorite. Where are you going, Adamat?”

Adamat put his hand on the door. He could hear Dorry’s footsteps coming up quickly behind him. Dorry grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut, forcing Adamat to turn around and face him.

Dorry bent over, leering in Adamat’s face. He was taller than Adamat and thicker at the shoulders. Adamat guessed the extent of his exercise tended toward striking unarmed witnesses and walking to and from a carriage.

“Are you going to answer me, smart man? The Knacked with the memory? Did you remember that I told you you’d get yours.”

“You never said such a thing,” Adamat said quietly. “You just told me the captain would hear about it.” He raised his voice so the rest of the constables in the recreation room would hear him. “That was right after I implied that you were a sloppy investigator.”

Dorry glanced over his shoulders. “What is that, meant to hurt my feelings?”

“I didn’t mention at the time,” Adamat said, “That you were also a bloody imbecile. That you wouldn’t be able to properly solve a murder if it happened right in front of your face. I may be disgraced, but you’re a failure and a fool. And this, all of this bluster, hides that you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Something in Dorry’s face-the reddening of his cheeks, the widening of his eyes-told Adamat that he’d struck Dorry right where it hurt the most. Dorry flexed his fingers and took quick, shallow breaths.

“May I speak to you from one citizen to another?” Adamat asked. He felt numb inside. A little part of him, distant and still in control of his emotions, told him he was digging his own grave. He didn’t care.

“I don’t know what the pit that means,” Dorry growled.

“It’s an archaic phrase, but it’s still on the books. Rather silly if you ask me, but if you say it to a police officer in front of at least three neutral witnesses, and give him five seconds to say no, you can then punch him in the face without being arrested for striking an officer of the law.”

Dorry squinted at him.

Adamat balled up his fist and planted it between Dorry’s eyes. The lieutenant went down in a spray of blood and curses, crimson streaming from between his fingers as he clutched at his face.

“Bloody pit!” he yelled in a nasally tone, “He just broke my nose!”

Adamat rubbed his fist. The brief moment of satisfaction he felt left him almost immediately. There would be reprisal for this, regardless of any archaic law. He was just as big a fool as Dorry. Best to leave the scene immediately and go somewhere he could figure out how to put his life back together.

He pushed open the door, vaguely conscious of the constables rushing to help Dorry. The lieutenant called out after him. “You’re not just a failure, Adamat! You’re a disgrace! Everyone’s always going to know it, from me down to that stupid cook Genetrie that you tried to convince me didn’t kill her master! You’re a bloody disgrace, and that’s something I’ll never be.”

Adamat kept walking, trudging through the snow. He still had his spare pocketbook on him, but he had the feeling he should save his krana for when he needed to pay the fines that would no doubt be levied when they convicted him for bribery. He’d walk home instead of taking a cab tonight.

He was three blocks from the precinct building when something clicked in his mind.

The cook. Dorry had said her name. Genetrie. Adamat had read that name recently, and not just in the newspapers. He ran through his memories until he found it.

By Kresimir, Dorry was right about the cook . She did murder her master. But not for the reason Dorry thought.

Adamat set off at a run.

Adamat caught up to White as she left by the front door of the precinct building about forty minutes later. He was out of breath and panting as he reached her, a large book from the Public Archives stuffed under his arm. She did not stop, forcing him to walk at a quick pace beside her.