When the Gods Are Away, page 9
Virgil paused. The letter actually did concern him. Someone had written about him, by name. That was ominous.
Glezos has the skill level necessary to prove our point about the effectiveness of detectives, though I suggest you aid him appropriately in order to achieve our goal. You have done precious little for me compared to what your counterparts in other city-states have done for my fellow senators. I expect you to obey me in this instance. I think you will find your obedience will suit your purposes as well.
Your Senator,
Gregor Kelipapalous
They wanted him to fail. I guess that’s unsurprising. What was surprising was that they had selected him, specifically, for this job. Then Virgil realized Kelipapalous’ plan: he would use Virgil's failure to solve any cases as evidence for the uselessness of homicide detectives in order to pass the bill through the Senate.
It meant the chief wouldn't grant an extension. It also meant Virgil had less than a day to solve this case.
Before he set the letter down again, he noticed a handwritten addition in the corner.
I mean it. –GK, Eris 1.
Chapter 10
VIRGIL SAT AT HIS DESK, staring at the wall and contemplating the senator's letter. It made him feel more important to know the city-state had hired him for the sole purpose of discrediting his entire profession. I do matter.
Initially, the chief seemed to have obeyed the senator's request by removing Virgil from every case. Something had changed when Manikas was murdered, though. The chief might, as Virgil had speculated earlier, want true justice for the former officer. Or maybe he no longer agreed with the senator. The most likely possibility, Virgil decided, was that he had let Virgil work the case because he wanted the detective's failure to be even more spectacular. After the series of blunders Virgil had made, he could set back the Alliance's acceptance of detectives by decades.
Virgil sighed. The chief's motives were irrelevant. The deadline for the Manikas case expired tonight and, regardless of how many mistakes Virgil had made, he still had a chance to solve it. He pulled out his notebook and flipped to his last entry.
An hour later, Virgil had made progress of sorts by eliminating two of his suspects. Checking the Manikas brothers’ alibis had confirmed their stories: Alexandros had spent the night in question at a Chronic Death concert, and Boris had gone to a dog-fighting ring in the Drowned Sailor’s basement. The proprietor had said Boris had been the one fighting the dogs.
The prime suspects were gone. That left only the unknown cloaked man, the man who had desecrated the corpse, and Patroklus as suspects. Of course, Patroklus could have been either or both of the other suspects.
At least Virgil had one other lead to follow: Manikas' diary. Virgil loaded one of his high-adrenaline Rejects of the Sirens albums into his tape player, more to keep himself awake than because he enjoyed their music, and settled into his chair with the book. After picking up the frigid lamb wrap from his desk, he opened the diary to the second entry.
Zeus 2: I pulled someone over today for speeding. When I told him I was giving him a ticket, the guy just laughed and drove away.
Fucker. If I see him again, I’ll slash his tires.
I wish I could find someone, just one person, that I could share a bond with or who would at least respect me.
Virgil knew how that felt, when others demonstrated such a profound lack of respect for you that you wondered if you were a real person. Maybe Manikas and I could have been fake people together.
Virgil's stomach rumbled. He bit into the lamb wrap, frowning as he chewed the congealed fat. It’s still food, and I don't feel like walking to the kitchen to heat it, and, anyway, a fuck-up like me doesn't deserve decent food. He took another bite and continued reading.
Many of the entries elucidated Manikas’ opinions of his coworkers, sometimes at great length. Artino, for example, was a ‘smarmy bully with a spine made of olive oil and the moral compass of a serial killer,’ while Schirra was ‘the worst kind of asshole, one who takes out her frustrations on those around her,’ and Chief Dimitriou was a ‘testosterone-engorged, self-aggrandizing half-brain whose idea of intellectual prowess is beating up a checkers set.’ Manikas reserved the largest share of his ire, though, for Kostas.
Ares 19: When I’m chief, I’ll force everyone to work overtime during a holiday weekend and make everyone play darts while Kostas holds the dart board. Today, he told me he was going to tie me to a chair in my parents’ living room so I could watch him seduce my mom. She’s like twenty years older than him. Disgusting. Then, when I was on patrol, he arrested me on a busy street in front of everyone. He handcuffed me and shoved me in the back of his car. When we got to the station, he led me inside and everyone laughed. Then he took off my handcuffs and told me the charges were dropped.
When he left the station again, I pissed in one of his desk drawers.
Virgil wrinkled his nose. A creative response, if crude. And, he figured, probably ineffective: Kostas didn’t use his desk often.
Ares 31: Heading to the Dionysium for a few days. Never been before. This is going to be awesome. I’ve heard about it and all the fucked-up shit that happens there. Well, for an entire week, fucked-up shit is going to be my daily routine.
Drinking and screwing and eating
Sleeping and shouting and running
Starting fires
Smoking until I can’t feel
Sauce on my dick and wine in my ass
This is the great escape
This is the Dionysium
An interesting poem, Virgil decided as he finished his wrap. It described the festival accurately, or at least agreed with the accounts Virgil had heard before. For a moment, he considered attending next year’s Dionysium. He decided he wouldn’t fit in.
Dionysus 8: Back! Oh, it was glorious! I was glorious! Enough food and drink for a year and the quantity of sex I should be getting on a regular basis. Gotta go back next year. I’m not writing everything down; too incriminating.
I made a friend there. He’s probably the first real friend I’ve ever had. We were both fucking women next to each other and he said he recognized me. We started talking and it turns out he was the asshole who drove off while I was writing him a ticket.
We hung out the rest of the week, drinking together and fucking together. It was great. And since Tim lives in Arestia, it won’t be a long-distance friendship. Maybe I won’t slash his tires.
Eating from the same plate
Drinking from the same bottle
Puking into the same hole
Sharing the same women
Ignoring each other’s flaws
That’s true friendship
VIRGIL NODDED. SO NICHOLAS had found a friend, someone to brighten his last few weeks of life. Ordinarily, Virgil would have felt relief for the former officer. Given Nicholas' fate, though, this 'Tim' became a potential murderer and someone to question. Maybe Tim was even the cloaked man Virgil had chased this morning. Manikas might have mentioned the diary to his new friend, and that friend had now removed all pages that contained incriminating evidence. Virgil recorded Tim's name in his notebook and returned to the diary.
Dionysus 20: Tim said we should meet up at this bar, The Ferryman’s Oar. He says he goes all the time, so I figured I’d join him. It was pretty fun. He told me to stay away from the dart board. There’s a gang that dominates it and they’re all pretty tough. I told him it wasn’t a problem for a police officer. I just walked up to them and said, “Tim and I are playing.”
A guy who had knives strapped to his arms, legs, and belt, who later told me his name was Malcolm, looked me up and down like he was thinking of fighting me. Then he shrugged and said he wouldn’t mind an easy win.
He did win, but I think his friends might have been helping him cheat. Anyway, he invited us to play again another night. Probably I’ll beat him then.
MALCOLM. ANOTHER ASSOCIATE of Nicholas. Though the diary provided insufficient information for a phone directory search, Virgil at least knew where he could find Tim and Malcolm: The Ferryman’s Oar. He could conduct interviews tonight. Virgil checked his watch. 1341. A few more hours, then. If Nicholas' associates were helpful enough, Virgil might solve the case before the chief's deadline expired. That might give respectability to the profession and upset the senator's plans for him.
It’s a nice dream.
Virgil knew he would find some way to ruin the opportunity. And, he realized, the cloaked man hadn’t removed the diary pages that mentioned the bar, which meant this new lead would likely yield nothing.
But he had nothing else to try. Maybe visiting the bar wouldn’t provide direct evidence, but it might supply an indirect link. Another thin thread to follow.
Manikas had left an inconveniently low number of clues about his death.
Virgil wished they had met, even if Virgil’s employment at Nicholas’ expense would have made initial conversations awkward. They would have liked each other. They responded a little differently to persecution, but they could have bonded over their shared mistreatment.
Sighing, Virgil returned to the diary. There were several more entries, some of them complaining about Nicholas’ treatment at his job and some of them about the denizens of The Ferryman’s Oar. Nicholas had become closer to Malcolm and the others than to Tim. It seemed as though his initial hopes for friendship had dimmed and he had settled for distant companionship.
After an hour of reading, one final entry remained. Virgil felt as though he knew Nicholas better after reading about the last few months of the victim's life, but it was too late for them to meet. This final entry might be the last chance Virgil had to experience Nicholas.
Hera 14: Maybe I made a mistake becoming a police officer. I thought people would respect me. My parents don’t respect me, my brothers don’t respect me, the other officers don’t respect me, and the civilians don’t respect me. It was just a bad idea, thinking I could gain the respect of others through a police uniform. I should have become a soldier instead.
At least this job pays enough to keep me out of the temple charity wards. And if I get good enough at handling weapons, I can gain the respect of others. I’ll at least be able to give out tickets without people laughing at me or asking if I’m going to a costume party.
Respect isn’t given
It’s taken
I will have mine
If I have to rip your heart from your bleeding chest
I will have mine
If I have to smash your car with my bare hands
I will have mine
If I have to hold you in the fire while it eats your flesh
Respect isn’t given
But I will have it
Actually, that’s kind of creepy. I won’t mind burning this diary next year. But that poem makes me sound pretty tough.
VIRGIL CLOSED THE BOOK and rested it on his desk. At least my parents and Chrysanthe always loved and encouraged me, despite my flaws. Though his father had died when Virgil was young, Virgil had recollections of the man and knew he had shown his love for Virgil. His mother, despite having to work to support a family of three by herself, had always found time to let her children know she cared about them. Chrysanthe had always listened to Virgil, had always made him feel as though he could succeed.
If Nicholas' family had given him that kind of support, he might have still died, but he would have been happier beforehand. At least Nicholas found friends near the end. Those friendships were his sole meaningful contributions to the investigation of his death.
Virgil realized he couldn't interview those friends without help. I’ll just say or do something stupid. And I’m terrible at telling if people are lying.
Patroklus could detect lies, though. Yesterday in the lab, he had known Virgil's pretended faith was false. Maybe Patroklus can use his skills at the bar, maybe in conjunction with another ritual.
The priest's two previous spells had revealed nothing, though, due either to lack of evidence, incompetence, or Patroklus' sabotage. If a third consecutive spell failed, Virgil decided he would feel confident in a thorough investigation of the priest. If it worked, he would have more evidence to catch Nicholas' killer.
Virgil pulled out his phone and called the priest. There was no answer, so Virgil left a message outlining his plan for the night. He hoped The Ferryman’s Oar would provide answers. Maybe Nicholas’ diary would lead the way to the truth.
Chapter 11
VIRGIL KEPT BOTH HANDS on his car's steering wheel, dividing his attention between the road and his passenger, Patroklus. A continual stream of cars passed them, many of them honking.
"I hope the killer's at the bar tonight,” said Virgil. “The chief said tonight is the deadline, and I don't have any other leads. Not real leads."
“I see.” The priest sat straight in the passenger seat, eyes forward and face empty.
Virgil gripped the wheel more tightly, trying to think of another conversation topic. It shouldn’t have surprised him that talking about himself bored other people.
"So, um," he said, "Nicholas' body was desecrated yesterday."
Patroklus had no reaction. "Interesting. How does this affect your investigation?"
"It makes the investigation more difficult. I had wanted to compare spear tips to the wound to see if I could determine what the murder weapon was.”
“Clever.”
He’s right: it was clever of the perpetrator to destroy evidence. "Since I couldn't do that comparison, it makes tonight even more important."
"Of course."
Virgil frowned. He would almost prefer conversing with Schirra, despite her barrage of insults. At least she would do more than ask questions or give two-word statements, which seemed to be Patroklus’ sole concessions to the practice of socialization. “So, do you think you’ll ever make High Priest?”
“An odd question.” The silence dragged on long enough that Virgil thought Patroklus had considered those three words a complete response, but then the priest elaborated. “Serving as a priest for the police force is a parallel career path and will not lead to selection as the High Priest.”
“I’m sorry.” Virgil turned onto the next street, avoiding a particularly large pothole. “But most priests aspire to that, right? I mean, you have to prove you’re really good to be High Priest. Does that mean you’re not—"
“Perhaps a different conversation topic would be advisable.”
Virgil wanted to hit his head against the steering wheel. “Sorry, sorry. You're right.” I always say something offensive. I always make people hate me. For several moments, he tried to think of something neutral to say. “Why don’t priests take a vacation this week? Since there isn’t anything for them to do?”
“Priests must prepare for the return of the gods.” Patroklus still gave no hints of emotion. “There is much to do.”
Virgil hoped he hadn't offended the priest again. He turned right at the next traffic light and felt relief when he saw their destination: The Ferryman’s Oar, the bar Nicholas had mentioned in his diary. It was a small space nestled between an automobile-repair shop and a children’s daycare.
They pulled into the gravel parking lot and clattered to a stop in the first available space. Virgil heaved himself out of the Nymph and stood for a moment, studying the lot. Cars and trucks of various sizes had crammed into nearly every space. Several looked similar to the one he had chased this morning, but were the wrong color. Then he saw it, in one of the spots on the far left. The dark blue Titan or Gorgon. The cloaked man was here.
Virgil knew he could be wrong. The car was a common model and a common color. But this type and color of car had intersected the investigation twice, here at the bar and at Nicholas' apartment, and Professor Lambros had cautioned against believing in coincidences. Since no black cloth covered the license plate this time, Virgil pulled out his notebook and jotted down the characters.
"Another clue?" Patroklus stood behind Virgil, having given no indication of his approach.
"Maybe," said Virgil. "It means someone of interest might be here." When Patroklus gave no response, Virgil gestured to The Ferryman's Oar. "Do you think we should..."
Patroklus inclined his head. Virgil berated himself inwardly. Stupid question. Obviously, that was the next step. He led the way toward the bar.
The bar was made from beautiful white rock slabs with arched windows cut into the sides. Above the windows, a wooden sign proclaimed the bar's name. Soft strumming drifted from the inside, mixing well with the peaceful night sky. A pleasant sea breeze drifted over the new arrivals and wafted its briny scent through their nostrils. Virgil wished the place had outdoor seating.
He halted before going inside and adjusted his tunic and hat. “Okay.” Deep breath. He pushed through the swinging doors and entered, with Patroklus behind him.
Inside, candles sat atop every creaky wooden table and torches lined the wood-paneled walls. The lights flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room and its inhabitants. The bartender watched everyone from his counter at the back of the room as he polished a glass. Most patrons sat, nursing their wine or playing dice or shouting at the television screen on the wall, but one cluster stood several meters from a target with darts in hand.
“I like playing darts,” said Virgil. “I make lucky throws pretty often."
One of the television-watchers slammed a fist on his table. “We should nuke them all! Stop rolling over like cowards!” At first, Virgil thought the man might be watching a sporting event, but the screen showed the Senate chamber in Sparta. He wondered if the man were one of the people Nicholas had mentioned in his diary.
