Buried Deep Read online

  He had smiled too. He liked her and he had come to support her in this, one of the more important press conferences of her career.

  It hadn’t been fair of him to think of her as a victim. DeRicci was no one’s victim except her own. She was about to become the recipient of Armstrong’s highest honor, the Silver Moon, given to public servants who acted with bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

  DeRicci had deserved this for her work a few years ago, stopping a highly infectious virus that would have contaminated the Dome and killed most of its inhabitants. She hadn’t received the award then, partly because she had no political clout at the time, and partly because of Flint’s involvement in that case—something the city had wanted to keep hidden.

  But Flint had no involvement in this latest triumph of DeRicci’s. She had investigated, along with the help of an impressive team, last year’s bombing of Armstrong’s Dome. In the course of her work, she had found structural cracks in the Dome that would have caused it to disinegrate suddenly and without warning.

  Once again, DeRicci had saved the Moon’s largest city. And this time, she was getting recognized for it.

  Arek Soseki, Armstrong’s mayor, had been droning for nearly ten minutes now about the bombing, the costly aftermath, and DeRicci’s actions. The group on the stage, most of whom knew all of this, tried to pay attention.

  That group included a whole host of political dignitaries, including the Moon’s governor-general. The only police officers included, besides DeRicci, were her immediate boss, Andrea Gumiela, and the chief of police.

  “He can talk, can’t he?” Ki Bowles leaned against the wall next to Flint. Bowles worked for InterDome Media. She had made her reputation as an investigative reporter, but in the past few months she had spent most of her time behind a desk, framing other reporters’ stories for the nets’ constant live broadcasts. Flint had no idea if that was a demotion or not.

  “Isn’t talking his job?” Flint asked.

  She smiled at him, her almond shaped eyes twinkling. Her hair, which had been curly and multicolored when he met her more than a year ago, was now a strawberry blonde, which made her dusky skin seem even darker than usual. Her lemon-scented perfume was light enough to seem tasteful, but strong enough to announce her presence.

  “Talking is my job,” she said. “Governing is his.”

  “And I believe that as much as I believe you’ve gone back to your natural hair color.”

  “So says one of the few remaining natural blonds in the universe.”

  Flint felt color rise in his cheeks. He had always been self-conscious about his looks. His hair was blond and naturally curly, his eyes blue, and his skin so fair that his blood vessels were visible on the underside of his arms. His looks underscored the narrowness of his gene pool and displayed his family history for all to see.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. “I thought press conferences got assigned to cub reporters, not to big-time investigators.”

  She tugged on the silk scarf around her neck. Her hair had tamed, but her clothing hadn’t. She wore vivid reds and golds, colors that accented her skin and hair. “Have you read the report?”

  “No,” Flint said.

  “It’s amazing how much information is missing.”

  Flint nodded toward the podium. “All of the speakers so far have called it comprehensive.”

  “It is,” Bowles said, “except for one teeny-tiny detail.”

  Flint waited. Bowles wanted him to ask what that detail was, and he wasn’t about to. Instead, he listened to the murmur of voices mixing with the scripted eloquence of Mayor Soseki.

  “That detail is,” Bowles said, letting a bit of annoyance color her voice, “the thing we all want to know. Who placed that bomb? The report says that detail is unknowable. If the bomber was a suicide, then the remains were lost in the blast.”

  “I thought the bomb was remote detonated,” Flint said.

  “They don’t know. They don’t know anything, and they’re hiding it under words, vids, analysis, and thousands of footnoted details. This report is truly a multimedia event, burying the most important information beneath stuff that seems relevant.”

  “Like that’s never been done before,” Flint said.

  “No one has successfully blown a hole in Armstrong’s Dome before,” Bowles said. “Don’t you think it’s a little disingenuous to give a medal to the person who couldn’t solve the crime?”

  “That person is an old friend of mine,” Flint said. “I’m here at her request.”

  Bowles shrugged a single shoulder, but the brightness in her eyes told Flint that she already knew Flint and DeRicci had once been partners. Bowles had probably stopped beside Flint for that very reason.

  “I wondered why a Retrieval Artist would voluntarily come into Police Central,” Bowles said.

  “And now you know.” Flint smiled at her. “Retrieval Artists have lives too.”

  Although that technically wasn’t true. The most effective Retrieval Artists had no solid ties. That prevented blackmail, or worse—the kidnapping or loss of a loved one in the middle of a particularly sensitive case.

  Flint had no family, unless an ex-wife he hadn’t seen in years counted. He was an only child. His parents and grandparents were long dead, and his marriage ended after his daughter Emmeline died at the daycare center where Flint had left her every afternoon.

  “Lives and secrets and friendships,” Bowles said, as if she wanted to discover every single aspect of his. “Tell me, what kind of partner was Noelle DeRicci?”

  She had the audacity to interview him. She knew better. He had told her over and over, he had no interest in talking to the media.

  Flint turned so that he looked at Bowles directly. “Ki,” he said softly, “if I find you were recording this conversation, I will sue you and InterDome.”

  “I’m just asking about an old friend,” Bowles said.

  He moved away from her, crossing behind several of the standing visitors, and moving to the other side of the door.

  Soseki had finished his speech, and was turning toward the governor-general. Apparently, she was the one who would give out the award.

  DeRicci’s back was straight, and although she hadn’t really moved since she spoke at the podium half an hour before, she looked tense. She hated public attention.

  The governor-general walked to the podium. She was a tiny woman with a deceptive delicacy. As she hit the button that adjusted the podium’s size so that it was appropriate to her build, she smiled at the audience.

  Flint suppressed a sigh. He hadn’t meant to spend the entire afternoon here. DeRicci had asked him to come, promised him dinner and time to catch up, which they hadn’t had much of these last few months. He was beginning to think they wouldn’t have any of that time tonight either.

  Bowles hadn’t moved from her place on the other side of the door. When she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and shrugged.

  Flint turned away. He certainly hoped she hadn’t recorded him. Now he would have to have one computer monitor InterDome, and make certain he didn’t appear on any of the media conglomerates’ holdings.

  The governor-general finished her little speech, then waved a hand at DeRicci, commanding her to rise.

  DeRicci did, tugging at her skirt, showing her nerves. She was taller than the governor-general, which surprised even Flint. He used to tease DeRicci about her height—or lack of it.

  The governor-general took a jeweled case from an assistant, opened the case, and showed everyone the medal inside. From his place in the back of the room, Flint could only see a flash of silver. Then she turned to DeRicci, took the medal out of the case, and handed the case back to the assistant.

  DeRicci looked as if she were queasy. Flint wished he were closer, so that he could wink at her, or mouth words of encouragement.

  But he couldn’t. He had to wait, and watch.

  The governor-general pinned the medal on DeRic
ci’s lapel. The material bowed forward and both women laughed at the awkwardness. DeRicci helped as the governor-general pinned the medal again.

  Then the governor-general turned DeRicci toward the audience, and the entire room erupted into applause. DeRicci’s face was flushed and her eyes seemed too bright.

  And then, with surprising suddenness, the event was over. Soseki waved his hands and thanked the crowd for coming, then turned toward DeRicci. People stood in unison. Most of the crowd filed out of the room. The press stayed, of course, and so did Flint.

  DeRicci started down the stairs to the side of the stage, but the governor-general caught her arm. Soseki approached them, followed by several other politicians. Andrea Gumiela and the police chief stood off to the side, looking confused.

  Flint felt his shoulders tighten. This whole ceremony was part of a larger event, something the police hadn’t been told about. He couldn’t see DeRicci through the crowd of people surrounding her.

  He wondered if he should just leave.

  Instead, he worked his way toward the front, in case DeRicci needed an excuse to escape.

  Four

  Ki Bowles touched the information chips on the back of her hand. She filtered her sound meters for room noise, trying to get rid of the surrounding chatter. Chairs clanged, voices rose, and people laughed, preventing her from hearing anything that happened near the stage.

  She already felt out of touch. She had shut off her infotainment feeds when she had come into the room, hoping her focused concentration would help her find other leads. Instead, she’d actually had to listen to this press conference rather than multi-tasking.

  She had been about to turn the infotainment links back on when she saw Miles Flint. He had provided enough of a distraction that she had made it to the end of the goofy medal-pinning part of the conference.

  Now all she had to do was double-check her recording links, make sure she got everything going on in the room, and hope that she happened on something important.

  She had worried about this. She hoped that the sound chip she had placed against the stage’s edge when she arrived would get the information she needed.

  Bowles continued recording, using wide-angle on her wrist chip, a double-link to the provided overhead camera on another chip, and an eye-level zoom that she had just recently installed. She would get and keep her own personal perspective, just in case this story went big.

  Flint hadn’t left yet. His lanky frame dominated the left side of the room. He was a distinctive man, and too smart for his own good. When she had first spoken to him, she had been struck by his pre-Raphaelite looks. Those looks—so rare these days—had helped her remember Flint from a previous story.

  She had watched him years ago, her gaze caught by his striking resemblance to the European art she had studied when she had been an art history major, before she had come to her senses and had started pursuing a career.

  Since she had never seen anyone who looked like him before or since that moment, she was able to make an instant connection between the Retrieval Artist she knew and the grieving father she had first seen when she was a cub reporter.

  In those days, he had been conducting a war against the day care center where his daughter had died. Bowles had never seen a man as angry as Flint had been when he discovered that yet another child died from the same trauma as his daughter. Shaken to death by a worker. A preventable death.

  Another death had preceded his daughter’s. If that death had been properly investigated, Flint’s daughter and the other child would have lived, and he would never have quit his job as one of the best computer specialists in the city. He would never have applied to the police academy, worked the space ports, and then got promoted to detective.

  He would never have met Noelle DeRicci, and he would never have become a Retrieval Artist.

  From the second time Bowles had seen Flint’s unique face, she had known that a major story lurked there. She just wasn’t sure what the story was, or how to tell it.

  Or how, even, to discover it.

  Bowles moved closer to the stage, careful to stay as far from Flint as possible. She had worked her way to a comfortable living. She was well-known in Armstrong as one of InterDome’s main reporters. She had taken a job anchoring live feeds so that her face would become even more recognizable.

  All of her work was good. But the great reporters, the ones who became famous throughout the Alliance and the Outlying Colonies, all had one great story—a career-making story—that sent them on their way. And the really great ones continued to get the best-of-the-best, parlaying an excellent career into a memorable one.

  Bowles wanted that, and she knew the only way to get it was through incredibly hard work and a lead that no one else had, a perspective that was uniquely hers. That was what succeeded in the Alliance. Vision, voice, and a spectacular hook, something none of the thousands of other reporters on all the Allied worlds had.

  She edged closer to the stage. She still couldn’t see Assistant Chief DeRicci, but Soseki bent forward, as if he was talking to someone shorter than he was. Two other mayors from nearby Domes hung back, more as protection for the discussion, it seemed, than part of it.

  Bowles counted five members of the United Domes of the Moon’s Governing Council, three of them representatives of Armstrong and its environs. They were all participating in the discussion. Something was happening here. Something important. And with luck, Bowles had it all.

  She tapped another chip on her wrist, opening a link with the sound chip she’d pressed against the lip of the stage. Still too much chatter. Voices of cops greeting each other, a few saying hello to Flint, someone making a date, and earnest conversation beyond. She couldn’t get anything, but maybe she could filter it when she got back to the office, see if she could isolate some of the famous voices.

  A hand covered hers. She looked up to find Andrea Gumiela peering at her. Gumiela was being groomed for the next chief’s position. She was ambitious, not that smart, but incredibly political.

  Rumors around the city now floated the idea that DeRicci would get Gumiela’s position. Or maybe even become Assistant Chief of Police, instead of Assistant Chief of Detectives, leapfrogging over Gumiela herself.

  “Press conference is over, Ms. Bowles,” Gumiela said.

  “I know.” Bowles made sure there was no animosity in her tone. “I’m getting ambient noise and some extra vids for background.”

  “That’s all it better be,” Gumiela said. “If I found out you’ve been recording private conversation—”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Bowles said. “But for the record, it seems to me that any conversation held in a press room before members of the press couldn’t be considered private.”

  Gumiela’s grip tightened on Bowles’ hand, crushing the imbedded chips. One chip clinked as it went off-line. Bowles pretended like nothing had happened.

  “That sounds like an issue for the courts,” Gumiela said. “And you know they hate deciding Freedom of the Press issues after the offending story has already made its way into the media.”

  Bowles shrugged. “I’m not doing anything wrong, Chief. I’m just getting background, like I said.”

  “I hope that’s all.” Gumiela let go of Bowles’ hand. “It’s probably time we clear the room anyway.”

  Bowles gave Gumiela her best smile. “Do you have a few minutes for an interview? I need some background on Assistant Chief DeRicci for my extended piece on the medal ceremony. I’d also like to find out about the future for Andrea Gumiela.”

  As Bowles expected, Gumiela’s entire expression softened. That woman loved media attention. “How about we go to the hallway, so that we aren’t interrupted?”

  “That or your office,” Bowles said. “Whatever is more convenient for you.”

  Her chip would have to do its job on its own. Bowles needed to keep this interview short, so that no one had time to sweep the room before she had a chance to return and retrieve the chip.<
br />
  As she followed Gumiela out of the room, she dropped her scarf beside the door. She needed a reason to return. That was as good as any.

  By then, she hoped, she would know what the big conference was with DeRicci and the politicians.

  That might not be Bowles’ great story, but it would do.

  Five

  Noelle DeRicci sank into the overstuffed couch on the far side of the mahogany table. Her stomach growled. The restaurant smelled tantalizingly of roast garlic and baking bread.

  Flint stood at the edge of the table. A large light with a moonscape painted on the shade hung over the table’s center, half obscuring his face.

  She motioned for him to sit down. To her surprise, he sat beside her on the couch.

  “It’ll be easier to talk,” he said.

  They were in a private room in the Hunting Club, one of Armstrong’s most exclusive restaurants. The Hunting Club kept its private rooms free of listening devices. This particular room automatically shut off people’s links, all except emergency links.

  It surprised DeRicci that Flint felt they would need even more privacy.

  But caution was part of his job—and his nature. He had kept secrets from her even when they were partners. Over the years, she had come to realize she would never get to know Flint well. It wasn’t until he nearly died on his last case that she realized how much she valued his friendship, whether she knew all his secrets or not.

  A waiter came over to the table. The Hunting Club vetted its employees, paying them a tremendous amount so that they’d be incorruptible (theoretically) and requiring that they have no links whatsoever. DeRicci hated her links—she had gotten in trouble more than once for keeping her emergency links off, something she was now forbidden to do—but she couldn’t imagine life without them.

  The waiter went through a list of specials, offered drinks, and took their order by writing everything on a piece of paper—one of the most inefficient and expensive methods DeRicci had ever seen. This dinner was Flint’s treat—even DeRicci, with her high salary and three outrageous bonuses—couldn’t afford an average meal at this place.