Jayne Castle: After Dark

She took a step closer to the case that held the shirt and boots, widening her eyes at the neatly penned description and price.

"You're selling these as genuine first-generation apparel?" she asked politely.

"Both the shirt and the boots have been authenticated," Bartholomew said smoothly. "Excellent examples of early colonial-era work. There is every reason to believe that they were crafted within the first decade after the closing of the Curtain."

"I'd say it's a lot more likely that they were made last year by a forger who didn't do enough research."

Bartholomew scowled. "No offense, Lydia, but you're an expert in Harmonic antiquities, not colonial antiques."

"Give me some credit, Bart." Lydia eyed him. "Just because I specialize in ruin work doesn't mean I don't know a fake human antique when I see one. I was trained to recognize all kinds of frauds."

Bartholomew's wide face reddened in outrage. "What makes you think that shirt is not First generation?"

"The color. That particular shade of green wasn't used in the early colonial era. It appeared about forty years after the Curtain closed."

Bartholomew sighed. "Thank you for your opinion."

Lydia chuckled. "Hey, don't go changing the price on my account. Like you said, I'm no colonial-antiques expert."

"Quite true," Bartholomew said a little too readily. "And I won't be changing the price."

She took another look at her watch. Fifteen minutes left until she had to be back at Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors. There had been time for visits to only two antique galleries on her lunch hour today. She had deliberately chosen to start with Greeley's Antiques and Hickman's Colonial Artifacts because both proprietors dealt in Old Earth and first-generation artifacts and because neither gallery owner was overburdened with scruples.

"I've got to get back to the office," Lydia said. "We've been swamped at Shrimpton's today. You will let me know right away if you hear anything, won't you?"

"You have my word on it, my dear." Bartholomew looked at her. "Speaking of your job at Shrimpton's little museum, mind if I ask a question?"

"I didn't murder poor Chester."

Bartholomew gave her a limpid glance. "Good heavens, Lydia, I wasn't about to suggest that you did."

"Why not? Everyone else has felt free to suggest exactly that."

Bartholomew leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter. "The thing is, why was he found in that tacky little establishment where you work?"

"Haven't got a clue." Lydia turned to walk toward the front door. "But I'll tell you one thing. If I had killed Chester, I wouldn't have left his body just down the hall from my own office. A little too obvious."

Bartholomew looked thoughtful. "I suppose that's true. But it does raise another interesting question."

"I know." Lydia opened the door. "What was Chester doing in Shrimpton's in the first place?"

"What do the cops think?"

"They think he went there to steal something. Granted, we're not a front-rank museum, but we do have some interesting items in the collection, especially in the Tomb Gallery. I wouldn't put it past Chester to lift a couple of vases or some tomb mirrors."

"I wouldn't put anything past Chester. But why was he murdered, do you think?"

Lydia shook her head. "Who knows? Detective Martinez believes that one of his truly annoyed clients followed him and killed him in the museum."

"Poor Chester. He never got that big break he was always looking for, did he?"

"No," Lydia said quietly, "he didn't."

She stepped out onto the sidewalk and closed the door behind herself. She was satisfied with what she had accomplished. Both Greeley and Hickman operated in the gray area between the world of respectable galleries and the illegal underground of the antiques business. By tonight, the news that she was looking for the cabinet of curiosities would have reached every dealer in Cadence.

She shot another glance at her watch and smiled to herself. So what if she was a suspect in a murder investigation? Things were looking up. Counting travel time to and from Ruin Row, she was about to post her first billable hour to Emmett London's account.

Her first job as a private consultant was off to a nice start. She could only hope that she wasn't successful too soon. The less time it took to track down the London family heirloom, the less she could charge Emmett for her services. She pursed her lips. Maybe she should have done a fixed-price contract.

Emmett emerged from the crowded bar and walked down the cracked sidewalk. The weak streetlamps in this section of the Old Quarter made only small inroads in the dark valleys of the night, and the light fog didn't help. It created impenetrable pockets of shadow in the unlit doorways of the looming buildings. It was a little like moving through a Dead City catacomb, Emmett thought, but without the green glow and the eerie, alien quality.

He crossed the silent street, automatically adjusting his balance so that his boot heels did not echo on the pavement.

He walked deliberately back to where he had parked the Slider, but he did not hurry. He was in no great rush to return to his hotel. He needed to think, and it was easier to do that out here in the shadows.

Things were becoming complicated, he reflected. Hiring Lydia Smith had not been part of the original plan. But with Brady dead, the only thing he could do was improvise.

The prickle of awareness at the top of his spine interrupted his thoughts. It got his immediate and complete attention.

The telltale,whiff of synch-smoke told him that the watcher was somewhere in the shadows to his left. He continued along the sidewalk without pause, but he took his hands out of his pockets.

A figure stirred in an unlit doorway.

"Mr. Emmett London?"

Well, that was a first, Emmett thought. Small-time thugs who preyed on late-night bar crawlers rarely addressed their intended victims by name, let alone in a polite, damn near deferential tone.

Which meant that the young man in the shadows of the doorway was probably not a garden-variety street thief.

Emmett came to a halt and waited.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the pale glow of the streetlamp. He was thin and lanky, and he had the trademark ghost-hunter slouch down cold. He also had the wardrobe. He was dressed in khakis, boots, and a supple black leather jacket with the collar pulled up around his ears in a rakish manner. His long hair was tied back at his nape with a black leather thong. He wore his amber in a belt buckle the size of a car.

The size of one's amber wasn't important. It took only a small chunk of the stuff to focus psi power and convert it into a usable energy field. But try telling that to the flashy dressers.

"Didn't mean to alarm you, sir. My name is Renny. I'm just the messenger."

"That can be a high-risk profession."

"That sounds like something the boss would say," Renny replied.

"Who's your boss?"

Renny scowled. "I'm a guildman. My boss is Mercer Wyatt."

"Really?" Emmett smiled slightly. "You take orders from Wyatt?"

Renny flushed. "Well, not directly, of course. Not yet, at any rate. But I'm movin' up fast in the Guild. One of these days I'm gonna take orders from the big man himself. Meanwhile, I get 'em through Bonner."

"And what exactly did Bonner tell you to tell me?"

Renny drew himself up as if preparing to recite from memory. "Mr. Wyatt requests your presence at dinner. His place."

"Let me be sure I've got this straight. This is an invitation."

"Yeah, right."

"So why didn't Wyatt just pick up the phone and call me at my hotel?"

Renny looked slightly taken aback by that suggestion.

"With all due respect, sir, Mr. Wyatt is real big on tradition, y'know? He likes to do things in the old ways."