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End of the hall, to the left. Can’t miss it, Haruka said.Or well – it is unmistakable, that’s what that old pistol said, sipping at his cognac. The man’s probably never seen a contraction he couldn’t stick his nose up at.Obi can’t cotton why he’d think that; all these doors look just as ritzy as the last, probably made from mahogany or teak or whatever else kind of wood you can ship from far away to muffle the sort of existential despair that goes on around this kind of neighborhood. You didn’t make it to the top in Tinseltown without breaking a few eggs, and it wasn’t rare for someone to scramble their own yolks making that omelette.There’s a thousand damn rooms in this house. Overseas, he heard about some rich broad – heiress to some gun fortune as the story went – who thought she was being menaced by the ghosts of all the people killed by her family’s invention. The only way to keep ‘em at bay was to keep building, on and on until that old bird kicked it. Doors that opened into walls, stairs that went to nowhere.Obi can’t help but wonder if old man Wisteria had a similar problem. There’s far too much house here for a handful of people. Maybe he got haunted by all the people’s whose careers he rolled keeping that studio afloat.He takes his chances on the very last room, checking the knob. Open. So trustworthy. Can’t possibly belong to a Wisteria.The door swings on its hinge, and – bingo. This is the only room in the whole damn house that looks lived in. It’s practically a closet next to the other ones, just the size of the whole of his apartment and not it and the one next to it put together.The window’s open, the lace curtains pushed wide to let a breeze in, carrying a hint of bougainvillea with it. The bed’s a queen – fancy for a nurse – the frame wooden and worn. Not shabby but – antique, like something someone’s grandpa made back in the day as a wedding gift for his old lady. The duvet’s a sweet floral thing too; it’s like he’s walked into the room of someone’s grandma. All its missing is some needlepoint and fine china.“Excuse me,” he calls out to the empty room. “Anyone here?”He listens, ear cocked, and hears nothing. “Well then,” he murmurs with a grin. “Don’t mind if I do.”There’s a small closet to one side, and when he opens it a dozen cloth-lined wicker bins line the shelves, all filled with medical supplies. Tubing in one, bandages in another, a whole basket full of bottles that don’t say morphine on them, but hell if he knows what else they are –“Antibiotics,” says bright little voice, flat with displeasure. Obi grimaces. “I don’t keep the morphine in here. Did Kai let you in? Or is the rumor that we keep drugs up here now?”He gets to his feet, letting his lips stretch in his most charming smile. “Now, come on, Miss –”His words stopper up in his mouth. She’s not anything like what he expected. A nurse who gets a hefty proviso in a will? He’s thinking Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth –Not some ginger Judy Garland. She looks like she’s someone’s kid sister, all straw-like hair and speckled face like she just rolled off a hay wagon from Tulsa. “I think it’s common knowledge all the who’s who of Hollywood have a stash.”She folds her arms under her chest, shoulders square. The nurse doesn’t dress like other girls either, buttoned up blouse and tie like the war never ended. She’s got that look that says she has a mean right hook, too. “You still haven’t told me how you got here.”“I’m Obi.” He takes his license out, flashing it under her nose. “Wisteria hired me to look into his father’s murder. You must be Shirayuki.”“Zen?” She blinks, eyebrows drawing down in confusion. “He died of pneumonia. The coroner corroborated my findings.”“Well, he doesn’t seem to think so?” He raises his eyebrows, stepping close. “From what I heard you two were simpatico. Funny how you don’t see eye to eye on this.”“I…” She shrinks back. “He hadn’t said anything.”“Funny.” He takes another step closer; she bumps up against the bureau. “Maybe it might have something to do with how his old man left you with half this house, and some cash to boot.”“I-I don’t…” She stops, and something happens to her face. It’s like the worried little girl recedes from her, leaving some sort of steely-eyed woman behind. Her shoulder straighten her chest puffs out, and she tells him, “Is this what it’s like to be a PI? You go around bullying women and snooping through their rooms unasked?”“What can I say, I’m an opportunist.” He grins. “When I’m up against the wall, I go for broke.”Something softens in her at that, and she lays a hand on his chest – god, what does his heart think it’s doing in there? – and pushes him away. “I shouldn’t, but because Zen asked you…”She pulls a folio from her bedside table. “These are his charts. For what good they’ll do you.”He flips open the cover, running through the first few pages. His jaw twitches keeping back a grimace. Someone better find him a code talker, because there’s no way this is in English. Or any of the other dozen languages he picked up overseas. “Thanks, baby doll.”“Don’t call me that,” she huffs, opening the door. “You can see your way out I hope. At least from my half of this godforsaken house.”He grins, waggling his eyebrows as he passes. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”The door nearly hits him on the ass on the way out.Hah. He might just like that bird.
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Kai’s a good kid; Obi’s never quite been sure exactly what his job title is – bouncer? butler? bodyguard? Both him and the older guy seem to share whatever job gets thrown at them, all in unironic ascots and tails – but he leads Obi straight out to the poolside when he arrives, murmuring, “Miss Arluleon has been waiting for you.”Good thing he wore black today; at least none of these turkeys would see him sweat.“That so?” he manages, adjusting his hat. “Can’t wait.”The first time he’d seen the soon-to-be Mrs Izana Wisteria, she’d been splayed on a bunk in the barracks, all legs and sun-kissed skin, blonde hair bobbing over bare shoulders.The new Betty Grable, Hiro had said proudly, showing off his collection of pin-ups. Obi hadn’t known there was anything wrong with the old one, but there was something about her, barely eighteen and all tits and ass and sunny smile. She’d been the wallpaper of every place he’d bunked down, sharing space with Vargas girls and Rita Hayworth as men talked about their girls back home.Now’s not the time to think about how most of them never made it.Obi’s never held a hundred dollars in his life, never even seen Franklin except in school books, but here he is now, standing at the end of million-dollar legs, all 35-22-35 above them wrapped up in a white bikini that would have been an instant favorite in the bunks.There hadn’t been many good times in the war, but what ones there were, Haki Arluleon was there. She just…doesn’t know that. Her chin tilts up, and beneath her wide sunglasses and brimmed hat, her lips spread into her signature smile. “What do we have here?” she drawls, angling herself so the oil on her skin glistens, so that she looks like one of those bronze statuettes her set are so keen to hoard. “Mr Private Investigator, I presume? Izana did tell me you’d drop by.”She arches a brow, somehow coy and innocent at the same time, and – ha, maybe she does know about those good times.“Obi,” he says, taking the hand she offers. Despite the lean curve of her body, her grip is strong; a businessman’s daughter through and though. “No ‘mister’ needed.”“Obi.” The way her lips wrap around his name is like something out of a Bogart movie. “No last name? How mysterious.”He grins at that. “A little bit of mystery in this town can go a long way.”“My my,” she says, too pleased. “I wouldn’t expect that sort of sentiment from a man in your line of work.”It’s dangerous, this Bogart-and-Bacall banter they have going; it makes him want to like her, want to think that she couldn’t have anything to do with the bad business stinking up this house.He can’t help himself. “Without it I wouldn’t have much of a job, now would I, Miss Arluleon?”“A fair point,” she allows with an enigmatic smile. “Though I can’t see why you’d look for one here. There’s nothing mysterious about Wistal.”He wants to laugh – even without Wisteria gasping his last with his pretty little nurse-turned-heiress holding his hand, there was probably more than enough dirty laundry in these walls to spend two lifetimes unraveling, let alone for the greenbacks Zen Wisteria waved under his nose.Hell, everything in Wistal stinks to high-heaven, and here he is, the sucker who wants to believe Haki Arluleon smells like roses. “Well, someone didn’t feel that way,” he hedges, though by her face, he can tell he might as well have named names for all the secret it was. “And I thought I might as well poke around. You know, since the lady of the house gave me permission.”Obi’s watching her close, waiting for that smile to waver at the mention of the other woman, but instead that mega-watt smile only grows brighter. The skin around her eyes crinkles, and for one moment, he can tell she’s forgotten to mind her face, to remember that every real smile now is a dime she won’t make later.“Shirayuki is always so accommodating, isn’t she?” The words are pleasant, but he doesn’t miss the sharp glint in her eyes as she watches him. “Such a doll. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”He catches himself reaching for his shoulder, flexes his hand instead. Obi’s not sure he’d go so far as to say Red’s been accommodating; he’d been surprised by her letter – or her lawyer’s, really, even if the man swore the permission came from the young miss’s mouth herself – but he wasn’t about to start calling it altruism.People got antsy, trying to prove their innocence. Especially the guilty ones.“She’s sure a lot of something,” he allows, leaning on the lounger. “But I’m not here for her, Miss Arluleon.”“Is that so?” A curved brow arches over the rim of her sunglasses. “A pity.”There’s a strange amount of sincerity in that.She rolls toward him on her lounger, looking attentive. “But I’ll be as helpful as I can.”“I appreciate it,” he says, wry. “Can you tell me where you were when Kain Wisteria died?”She tilts her head, like she has to wrack her brain to remember, like she hasn’t already given this statement half a dozen times since the old man rattled out his last and shook all the tinsel in this town with it.“In bed,” she says finally, slowly. “We’d had quite the late night, Izana and I. A party down at the marina. On Shenezard’s boat, I think. One of them, you know he has something like a dozen. His son was having a little soiree on one of the more…reserved yachts in his father’s fleet.”Now that’s an interesting tidbit. Not to do with the investigation, of course – alibis were such fickle things when their owners had the clams to make bodies disappear – but the tabloids would love to hear something like that: Wisteria Heir Makes Time On Shenezard Pleasure Cruise.“I didn’t think Izana kept up much with Raj Shenezard.” His father worked for another one of the Big Five, and by all accounts the Prince of Paramount ran with a faster crowd than Izana Wisteria would be caught dead with. “Must have been some party.”“He puts in his appearances at a few of them, for old time’s sake.” She waves a hand. “And sometimes it’s the only place to catch who you need to see. Even some of the wallflowers come out for a party on a Shenezard boat.”Obi wouldn’t know, but he nods. “This is the night before.”“And the wee hours of the morning,” she laughs. “I don’t think we left before one, and by then it was much too late for me to be going all the way back home, so Izana insisted I stay here.”He quirks an eyebrow. Another thing the supermarket rags would love to hear. “And I suppose this is your fiancé’s alibi as well?”Without the help of colorists, it doesn’t seem like Haki Arluleon can blush, but she claps a hand to her cheek as if she had. “Why, of course not! I may have spent the night in Wistal, but we stayed in separate beds.”“Of course,” he allows, wry. “And I’m sure you’re planning to keep that arrangement when you’re married too.”She presses a hand to her heart, mouth curved to one side. “I live my life by the Hays Code, sir.”Only because being in her unmentionables doesn’t break it. “Sure you do.”“Why, I’ve already picked out the nightstand to go between our two singles.” Teeth flash behind red lips. “Mahogany and marble tops all around.”“Sounds dynamite,” he assures her. “But what about the morning?”“Asleep,” she tells him, easy. “I don’t think I roused myself before noon. That was when Izana came in and told me –” she gasps, hand pressing to her chest – “told me that Kain had – had –” she makes a real show of struggling with the words – “passed.”It’s a good show; clear to see why she’s got so many of those metal statuettes at home, even though she’s barely scraping twenty-five, but he didn’t come here for a bunch of lines.“Can anyone vouch for you, Miss Arluleon?” he asks, watching her dab at the corners of her eyes. He wonders how many of the chuckleheads down at the precinct have been taken in by her, if they all bought her Perils of Pauline act.“I’m not sure.” Her lips purse into a thoughtful moue. “The staff must have seen me at some point, but there was no one…well, watching me sleep.”It’s tempting to buy into her ingenue act even now, even knowing that she’s not a Grable but a full Bacall. Even more tempting to think that she is just how the nastier tabloids paint her: a gold-digger who made a name for herself with her legs and her measurements, a girl looking for a leg up in the movie world and found a man able to lift her tits and ass and all into the Olympus of Hollywood Royalty.It’s tempting, but Obi is a man who does his research. Not some clown with a badge.“How long had you known your father-in-law?” he asks, voice light, inquiring.“Oh,” she sniffs. “Ages. Daddy hardly worked with anyone else, even in the studio. Only the best for Kain, you know.”And there it is – what sets the gumshoes above the flatfoots. So tempting to think a girl needs a leg up, when she looks like a dream wrapped in a fantasy –But Haki Arluleon never has. Tabloids don’t care about colorists – technicolor might as well be magic, for all they know – but Hollywood does.Kain Wisteria did. The rest of the world might see a pin-up reaching for the stars, but Haki’s practically Hollywood Royalty herself; after all, you don’t get a Swedish model mother by having a nobody as a father. Not in this town.“Of course,” he says with a smirk. “How else would we have that Wisteria blue?”Her smile freezes like a rictus on her face. “Arluleon blue.”Sitting so close to her, he can tell why. Sure, it comes close to the shade of Izana’s eyes, to Zen’s, but –It’s not their peepers that would be true to color on film.He leans in, conspiratorial. “Can you think of anyone that would want to rub out Kain Wisteria?”The piercing look evaporates, as if it never existed at all. “Oh, never.”“Never?” She’s got to know that’s a bridge too far, even if he was a cop. If there were a thousand reasons to kill in this city, all but a hundred of them would have to do with the Big Five.“Well,” she tilts her hair, coy. “He had been in the business for years. I’m sure he’s stepped on a few toes.”An understatement of the century. Like saying Randolph Hearst was moderately wealthy.“But someone who would want to – to kill him?” She shakes her head sadly. “I can’t imagine it.”“You know, people say Kain and Izana had been arguing in the days leading up to his death,” he presses.She waves a hand, as if the idea itself was absurd. “It’s hard to thrive under a shadow as large as Kain Wisteria’s. Izana has been wanting to try his hand at directing for ages, but Kain was determined to keep him on screen as long as possible.”“And you don’t think he’d try to get out from daddy’s thumb another way?”She sighs, unimpressed. “It’s the same story all around this country. Boy doesn’t want to take over the family business, him and his father fight about it until we’re all sick of hearing it. Zen was trying to take some opportunities at another studio, and they’d all been having a fit about that too.” She shrugs. “Nothing anyone would kill over.”He sits back, doesn’t tell her that happens all the time. People get tired of being bossed around, they fight back, and suddenly Pa’s on the floor with a crack in his skull. Or in this case, poison in his lungs.“It’s all so unfortunate,” she sighs dramatically, settling back against the lounge. “Kain was an institution in this town, but he’s been ill for years. Gassed in the first war, you know. That’s the reason he had to drop out of acting. Ruined his voice, and all they wanted after the war was talkies.”He hesitates. Now that he hadn’t know.“That’s why he had Shirayuki,” she confides, keeping her voice soft. “Chronic infections. Every sniffle could be the end. It was only a matter of time until it was.”Obi grits his teeth around the truth. Something tell him Miss Arluleon wouldn’t be so forthcoming if she knew what the papers in his pocket said.“He died as natural a death as a man could in his condition,” she concludes. “It’s sad that some have got to see shadows in sunlight. Though,” she adds, a bit lower, “I suppose that apple never fell too far from its tree.”“Is that what Kain was like?” Obi asks, a little too sharp. “Seeing shadows in sunlight? A few sandwiches short of a picnic?”Her body goes rigid, just for a moment, and then she eases back into her sultry lean, her bright smile. “Of course not! Kain had his eccentricities, but so do all geniuses, don’t they?”He nods. “So you can your soon-to-be father-in-law got along well, I take it?”She gives him a reproachful look, as if she’s surprised he doesn’t know better. “Of course. I was his muse after all.”Obi raises a brow. “Didn’t they say that about Haruto, back in her day?”“And his first wife,” she adds, her playful tone taking an edge.He blinks. “First wife?”He’d known about Haruto – a scandal that the rags still like to bring up whenever there was a good photo of Kain standing next to young starlets; she’d hardly been eighteen when he’d cast her in her first role, and before it’d even wrapped they were married, Kain nearly twenty years her senior.But a first wife? That’s…something different.“That’s the only way to be a Mrs Wisteria,” she says, voice tight. “Catch Kain’s eye.”There’s something about the way she’s looking at him, like she’s willing him to hear the words she’s saying, but –“Shirayuki!”He blinks, head swiveling over his shoulder, back towards the house, only to find his nose practically brushing the cotton of a sensible skirt. Thoroughly ignoring his presence, she skirts around him, holding out a dripping glass.Haki seizes it with gusto. “You’re a darling, Shirayuki. What would I ever do without you?”The lady of the house offers a tight smile, pointedly not looking in his direction. “I’m sure you would manage.”“I’d suffer,” Haki tells her, raising the glass to her lips. “After all, who else would bring me –” she sputters as she takes a sip, eyes wide – “Why, darling, this isn’t gin at all.”“It’s water,” Red tells her, brows raised. “It’s practically desert weather out here. You need to keep hydrated.”Haki gestures out to the pool. “I have plenty of water.”A long suffering look passes under those freckles. “Sitting by it doesn’t count.”“It should.” Under Red’s unwavering look, Haki sighs, taking a sip. “If you’re up anyway, darling, do you mind heading back inside? I need a little gin to help the water go down.”If Red were any less of a lady, she’d roll her eyes. As it is, she just muffles a sigh. “Of course.”Nowakoski pivots on the stacked heel of her Oxfords, military-sharp, and strides past him without a glance, like he’s no more than a stain on the pristine white of the lounge.He clucks his tongue, gathering up his fedora. A dame like that should know that ignoring a man was more intoxicating than come-on. At least men like him, who make their business digging up the skeletons everyone else would rather stay buried.“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Arluleon,” he murmurs, getting to his feet, “I think I’m getting a little parched.”Her mouth rucks to one side in a smirk. “And here I thought you’d come for me.”Obi reaches out, gives her hand another shake. “Who’s to say you can mix business with pleasure?”Her lips give a wry quirk, amused. “And here’s me, wondering which one I’m supposed to be.”In the closed confines of the house, Obi can admit – he’s in a real pickle trying to suss out which one Red is himself.There’s a right answer: between pin-up and zipped-up, it should be clear to any red-blooded man which one is the pleasure part of the equation. There wasn’t a boy in Camp Shelby that wouldn’t have given his best nut to have ten minutes with Haki Arluleon, sure, but –But there’s a real economy of movement in Red as she nips behind the bar, a sort of focus he hasn’t seen since he crossed back over the Atlantic. She looks almost at home back there, even with the high collar of her blouse, and the school marm cut of her skirt. There’s enough booze on the shelves it’s daunting; he doubts there’s a single person in this house that’s tried a nip from every bottle, but she cuts through with hardly more than a glance, gripping a bottle’s neck with a sort of confidence that leaves him more than a little dry-mouthed.“So.”She startles, hand slipping on the lemon she’s juicing. Her eyes dart up, owlish and wary, watching him lean on the bar.“What’s the most expensive thing here?” He makes a show of squinting at the bottles, like he knows a damned thing about anything that isn’t a couple of cents a bottle. “Whiskey?”She stares. Arluleon would have made a fortune if he could capture a color like that on film.“How about two fingers of that.” He knocks on the bar, like he’s at any old dive. “On the rocks.”Her mouth tightens, lips pressing white.“If you’re thirsty,” Red says with her politest voice, “I’m sure there’s a half dozen bars between here and the bus stop that would be happy to oblige.”“Aw, kicking me out, Red?” he drawls, leaning on a fist. “After you gave me an invitation and everything?”“I don’t believe that it included the bar,” she tells him primly, opening a jar of what looks like powdered sugar – even now, he salivates just thinking about that much of it in one place – and mixing it in with the juice.“Part of the investigation,” he fires back. “Perfect place to hide poison, isn’t it? An after-dinner drink?”Her eyes narrow, just the slightest bit. “Then you’re picking the wrong spirits. Mr Wisteria wasn’t a whiskey man.”Those flushed cheeks, those ruffled feathers – just what he likes to see. People are so much easier to grill if they’re about to blow a gasket. He grins. Only thing left is to apply the right pressure.He eyes the top button of her blouse, closed prudishly at her throat, the trailing bow that ties over it, contrasting neatly with crisp white. Good thing he knows just what laces to tug on girls like this.“Now that’s what I’m looking for,” he drawls with a wag of his eyebrows. “Some moxie. Been missing out there with our Able Grable.”This should be the point where she preens a little, where Cinderella takes a little joy at poking at one of her stepsisters, but –Instead her expression shutters, shoulders tense as she tosses him an incredulous look. “If that’s what you think after talking to Haki, then Zen should have saved his money.”It’s his turn to stare, for his jaw to practically come unhinged. That’s not – that’s not how the script is supposed to go. The hard-working Girl Friday and the Femme Fatale are not – not –Friends.“I may not…agree with Zen’s feelings,” she says haltingly after a moment. “But I respect that he needs to…to know. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.” She fixes him with a look. “So let me tell you that Haki is far cleverer than men like to think. And that’s the way she likes it.”He recovers enough to ask, “Clever enough to murder a man?”She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Kain Wisteria died of pneumonia.”Not according to the paper burning a hole in his pocket. “That wasn’t the question.”She stares at him them, hard. “In my expert medical opinion, it doesn’t require much cunning at all to kill someone. It was harder to keep Mr Wisteria out of his bed than in it, at the end. But do I think Haki would kill a man? No.”Obi taps his glass, watching her pour the gin, mix in the syrup, crush some ice. His chest burns where the paper sits, Suzu’s scrawling script practically tattooing itself into his skin. It’d be stupid to bring it up, to tip his hand early, but –But there’s something about this girl that makes him want to ruffle her a little. Shake some of that blind confidence in the goodness of man.So of course, he does. “You know, I had a friend look over your notes, and the ones from the coroner.”Her eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “Is that so?”“He works over at the university,” he says. “A real egg-head, you know? His boss is some big shot in medicine. Wise? Wives?”“Weise?” she prompts, gaze swiveling toward him. “Your friend works for Shidan Weise?”He’s not sure what the big deal about that is, besides that he made some…antidote for something during the war. Suzu’s explained it, but it all flies over his head. Still, it’s got Red’s attention, which is what he needs.“Apparently,” he leans in, conspiratorial, “it all looked like pneumonia. Both you and the coroner’s notes agreed. But.”She leans in, just slightly. “But?”“The coroner’s report mentions something interesting.” He pitches over the bar, just a little more, until he can smell the soap on her skin. “An edema in the nose.”She rears back, face ashen. “Edema?”He nods. “Yeah, you know, some swelling –?”“I know what an edema is,” she tells him, flatly. Her fingers drum on the countertop. “Do you happen to have that report?”“Made a copy,” he says, showing it to her. “But I –”It’s gone from his hands in seconds, Shirayuki poring over the words as her face goes stark white.“I-interesting,” she murmurs, before adding, slightly louder, “But I’m not sure if – that’s not entirely – conclusive.”“Well,” he drawls. “I think I can draw a conclusion from it.”Her hands shake as she sets the paper back down. “If you’ll excuse me, Haki asked for that drink some time ago.”She steps out from around the bar, hurrying toward the poolside.The glass sits on the bar, sweating, forgotten.
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“So let me get this straight.” Suzu heaves a sigh like a pair of cement shoes, nose pinched between a pair of fingers so long and spindly that if he moved them together with the other eight, spiders would start jawing on about his fine set of gams. “You just…gave her the paper.”“Gave is a strong word.” Obi kicks his heels up, dirt crumbling right onto the placard that reads SUZU EASON, ADJUNCT. “I showed her the stuff, and she took ‘em.”Right out of his hands too, so quick he’d hardly had time to blink. That Nowakoski girl had some fight to her, that’s for sure.“And by ‘she,’ you mean our murderess,” Suzu snips, waving his hands. “Get your boots off my desk! This is– this is an academic institution, not some– some speakeasy or something.”He slants his smirk the way he knows will drive his favorite almost-professor crazy. “They don’t let you do it at bars either.”“Then I cannot fathom why you think you can do this here, to my very own desk!” Suzu frowns down at the worn desktop, running his fingers over the grooves of the hundred despairing adjuncts that came before. “I just got the thing, Obi, I want to keep it nice for at least a little while.”He gives it to him, dropping his soles back down to the dirt. The egghead looks like he could use the break.“And stop smiling!” Suzu huffs, brushing the clay and gravel off after him. “You just let a murderess take our only proof that Kain Wisteria may have died of something other than an unlucky break in Amiens.”Obi waggles a finger at him “You’ve been hanging around that fussy grouch box and his rocks, haven’t you?”Suzu puffs up, using all six foot, four inches of him to be just as intimidating as Raggedy Andy. “Professor Lata is a tenured professor.”Obi doesn’t have the heart to tell him that’s not as impressive to all the non-eggheads outside.“And he’s the geology chair,” he continues, as if that’s helping matters. “So his opinion–”“Ah.” Obi fishes a wrapper out of the trash, the spicy scent of hot pastrami still thick on the air. “He bought you lunch.”Suzu deflates, eyes skittering away from Obi’s grin. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”“Seems to me like you’re taking pages out of his book,” he says as Suzu snatches the paper out of his hands, crumpling it back down into the trash. “Being a real grouch, I mean.”“I’m not– I’m not being grouchy!” he hisses, mouth pulled thin. “Do you know how much trouble I could get into for all this? You told me this would just be a little favor and now–” he throws up his hands– “I didn’t even ask Shidan for permission! We’re sitting on a– a ticking time bomb of a theory that you just gave to a murderer.”“Oh come on.” He shrugs beneath the weight of his trench. “She didn’t kill anyone.”Suzu’s as pale as they come in this city, so it’s a real light show when he gets hot and bothered. Which he is right now, if Obi can tell his colors.“And which head made that deduction?” he grits out. “I’ve practically staked my career on this– by accident– and now our only proof is in the hands of–”“Hey.” A head sticks around the corner, wearing a face so cute someone could slap it on a doll and it’d sell like hotcakes. “So this is where you’re hiding out.”“Oh!” Suzu presses a hand to his chest, clutching at the cotton of his button-down. “It’s just you, Yuzuri. Can you tell Obi that he can’t just–”“I’m not here to get involved in your lover’s quarrel.” Her hands hook on her hips, right where her sweater meets the swell of a decent pair of hips. “Shake a leg, mister. You’re needed down in reception.”Suzu blinks. “Wha?”Yuzuri’s mouth purses, sour, accentuated by the vibrant blush of her lipstick. Most earthly creatures could only aspire to be in Haki Arluleon’s league, but the department’s secretary certainly comes closer than most. “Kihal Guerreiro is down there reenacting Sunrise Over Okinawa.”Obi tilts his chair back, mind grinding through his memories like a freight train through a signal gate. “Isn’t that the one where the girl burns down–”“Sure is.” She fixes Suzu with a glare. “And it’s your fault.”Ah, the girl’s got spunk. No wonder Suzu’s so stuck on her. The aforementioned adjunct gapes. “M-me? I’ve never met her in my life! I don’t know anyone famous!”Yuzuri cocks her hip in a way that clearly says, yeah, pull the other one, too.“Okay, well,” he hedges, “I did see Rita Hayworth having an ice cream once. But that’s it, I promise!”“I don’t care if you saw Hedy Lemarr dancing naked on Rodeo,” she snaps. “That woman is down there kicking up a real fuss because of you.”Suzu goes whiter than a sheet that’s shook hands with Clorox. “You haven’t– you haven’t told Shidan, have you?”She barks out a laugh. “I didn’t have to. She’s down there reading him the riot act as we speak.”“Oh.” Obi’s seen poltergeists with more solidity than this post-doc. “Oh no.”“So you better get down there lickity-split,” Yuzuri tells him, “or else I’ll tell her where you live.”She turns on her heel, real neat, like some of the flyboys did in their birds, showing off that long seam up that back of her nylons before she slams the door behind her, hard enough to rattle a diploma off the wall.“Oh hell,” Suzu breathes, hands digging runnels through his hair. “Oh hell, I’m in for it now.”“You know,” Obi muses, gaze lingering on the door. “I like that dame.”Suzu sighs. “You would.”Reception’s never been a quiet place; the secretaries are always typing away like gunfire, writing up the department’s next magnum opus or fielding calls that have them cradling their receiver like another appendage, but today it’s certainly, well–Louder.“Listen here, Mister.” The words ring off the walls like an air raid siren, spoken from the diaphragm with true talent. “My friend has been calling your office for days, and she hasn’t heard from a single person who can give her an answer for this.”Obi rounds the corner just in time to see Tinsel Town’s rising star shove a paper right into the professor’s chest, blue eyes blazing with a fire that would put Dresden to shame.She’s dynamite up close; an Amazon straight off the isle with the stilettos she’s wearing, staring Shidan straight in the eye without having to crane her neck. Every inch of her is as dangerous as the femme fatales that have made her a household name, but still–He’s hardly paying attention to her. Hard to, when her shadow’s got hair so red it practically blazes.“My apologies, Miss Guerreiro,” Shidan soothes blandly, gaze hooded with the kind of weariness only a chair could muster. “I would normally be happy to answer any questions one of the public may ask, however–” his mouth pulls thin– “I wasn’t even aware that one of my fellows had undertaken such an investigation.”Suzu stiffens beside him, knuckles white where they grip the corner. “Well,” he breathes, backing away. “That’s my cue–”“Why look.” Shidan’s gaze snaps over his shoulder, fixing Suzu as thoroughly as formaldehyde. “Here’s my fellow now. Suzu–” his teeth flash as quick as gun cotton– “why don’t you come over here and explain yourself to this nice young woman.”Suzu gulps, throat making a hollow thunk. “Ah…of course, Professor Weise.”Obi’s not the kind of guy that leaves a man behind, but as Suzu shuffles his sad-sack self into the fray, he finds himself diverting from the flight plan, circling right around to where a high-necked blouse and Mary Jane bobs worriedly in Guerreiro’s wake.“Well, well, well.” She jumps, turning those big eyes toward him, green as any of the arsenic bottles in the lab’s cabinet. “If its isn’t our winsome Wisteria heiress. Funny seeing you here.”Her mouth pulls thin. “Oh. It’s you.”“It’s me,” he agrees, slipping up beside her. She smells nice, something floral and vanilla that clings to her hair and makes him think of cookies at grandma’s. “I gotta say, Miss, for a humble war nurse, you sure got friends in some very high places.”She huffs, arms crossing over her chest. “For your information, we met long before she got into show business.”“That so?” he hums, hiking up a brow. “Now that you mention it, she was in one of Kain Wisteria’s flicks, wasn’t she? That one about the South Pacific.”“She was in three,” the little miss corrects primly. “But the one you’re looking for is Sunrise Over Okinawa.”He snaps his fingers. “Right, it came out just as I…”She turns, all question.“Ah, never mind,” he coughs. “Seems like Wisteria sure liked her work, if he kept using her like that.”“Mm.” Her face crumples with the shadow of concern. “He did. He told her that with a little more work, she could be his muse.”“Hah.” Obi lifts his hat, scratching at the back of his head. “That man liked his muses.”Her knuckles blanch where they grasp her elbows. “He sure did at that.”“You know, I’m surprised he didn’t try to put you in one of his flicks.” He grins down at her. “You might not be no Veronica Lake, but you got that Judy Garland look.”Something happens to her face, so quick he can’t catch more than a ripple of it before it’s gone. She turns to him, shoving a paper into his hand.“Here’s your report back,” she says, the words trembling. “You might want to be more careful where you leave these things.”She glances at him, and he hears loud and clear: or who you leave them with.“Right.” He glances down, catching the coroner’s letter head, stark and official under the university’s warm light. “Hey, ah, if you’re having trouble, I could get you in to see my friend.”The girl whips back to him, wide-eyed, staring like maybe he’s missing a couple of sandwiches from his picnic basket. “I…appreciate the offer, detective.”“Obi,” he offers, giddily.“Obi.” Her mouth parts just slightly, uncertain. “But isn’t he right there? I could just ask him myself.”“Well, sure,” he wheedles, “but that’s no guarantee he’ll talk to you. You know these egghead types. Insular.” He leans in, flashing a smile that could charm the hose off a Hepburn. “But me, I can put a good word in for you.”She hums, hose still snug. “That so.”“Sure thing.” He nods toward the charlie foxtrot happening hardly two yards from where they’re standing. “I could go up there right now and ask for you. I’m sure he’d be happy to do me the favor.”“Of course he would,” she huffs. “He’s having a strip torn off him from both sides. Thank you very much, Mister…Obi, but I think I can wait.”“Not at all.” He grins so wide the Cheshire Cat would go green with envy, and he’s rewarded with a look so wary that Wisteria’s pet cop would slap him in irons just to head him off. “Good thing for you, Miss, I don’t have any shame.”She blink. “What? No, you can’t–”He steps right up to the Western Front, marked by Guerreiro’s sharp elbow and says, “Hey, Suzu, this is the girl I was telling you about. Miss Nowakowski. She’s got some questions about that report you gave me.”Suzu goggles at him. “Ah, sure, pal.” His mouth pulls into a rictus grin. “I’d–I’d love to meet her. Why don’t we all just go up to my office–”“No need.” The red head shoulders through, nearly knocking him off his feet. She might be a tiny thing, but she stands shoulder to shoulder with the rest of them like she’d the tallest personality in the room. “I only came here to say that I’m giving permission to exhume the body.”Shidan chokes. “I– I’m sorry? I don’t think I heard that–?”“I’ve already put in the request at the precinct,” she explains, shoulders square she she stares them all down. “But I want to come down here as request personally that you do the toxicology report, Mr Eason.”“Oh, I– I don’t– I’m not–” Suzu pants, hand hooks in his sweater vest– “I don’t have the authority for that, Miss.”“But I do.” Shidan stares down at the lot of them, his mouth in a thin line. “I think we should be discussing this in my office. Come this way, Miss Nowakowski, Miss Guerreiro. It seems I’ve missed a few crucial conversations.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The paper rattles in the wind, caught between two knuckles. Marina del Rey, it says, all in the boss’s looping, private school script. Dock 2. Tanbarun.Obi lifts his head, hood still hot beneath him, and squints out over the marina. He’s no stranger to the docks, not even to hunting down boats tied up at their moorings, but this place– it’s different. A whole other world from what he’s used to.It’s new, for one. It’s dark now, the only light coming from the ones they’ve strung along the pier, but he can tell under the sun the paint’s still so white it gleams. There ain’t even litter on the ground; can’t have none of that when King Shenezard parks his boat here. Man might get a wrapper stuck to his shoe and sink the whole place just to keep someone from selling the story to the rags.For another, these boats aren’t some little skiffs meant for puttering around the bay, or one of the bigger work boats meant to haul in fresh catch. Oh no, these were practically houses, almost as big as the ones that shipped him stateside, two decks tall, made to see and be seen. With a little organization and some pep, a real enterprising body could fit a whole squadron in there– and instead it’s being used to ferry around a handful of VIPs on a pleasure cruise.He whistles, taking it all in. Must be nice having enough clams to grandstand on a vehicular level. Sure would make a good home away from home, specially if the cops still pounded on your door about parties, no matter how much cash you threw at them.That’s where he’d put his money for why Raj Shenezard moved his little shindig aquatic; boy had a reputation for bringing the hammers and saws whenever he threw one of his tinseltown bashes. Daddy might have plenty of green to paper up the worst of it, but a better plan was relocation. Baby Boy could take his dog and pony show down to where the coppers kept less of a watchful eye– and the neighbors had less reason to want to call them, and he’d stop throwing good lettuce straight into the bullpen.Obi sighs, pushing himself off his crate’s chrome. Well, he’s not gonna learn nothing just standing around like some slack-jawed stiff in the parking lot. Time to get to work.The second he hits the planks, he knows: this is a mistake, pure and simple.“A party,” he laughs, because that’s what a fool does: laugh in the face of danger. “He said it was a party.”HAPPY V-J DAY the banner says, hastily painted on what looks to be sheets. Fine silk, high thread count, he’d bet. His hand clenches his shoulder, thumb pressing hard on the scar. Why, Obi’s practically embarrassed– Boss sent him here personally, and he shows up wearing the wrong face.Doesn’t change a damn thing though. Wisteria’s paid enough dough to keep him on retainer, and if he says jump, Obi asks him how high. If he says go–Well, Obi goes. Maybe not without his two cents on the matter, but he goes. Maybe if he gets creamed under enough stars and stripes, he’ll get to add another Purple Heart to the pile. Or at least be able to negotiate some hazard pay out of those deep Wisteria pockets.Trumpets wobble across the water, lapping against him like a wave. They only get louder as he saunters closer; he’s not sure where he stops hearing the clunk of his boot heels, but by the time he’s at the bottom of the gangplank, there’s hardly any room for anything in his brain pan besides the wail of brass.“Would it kill ‘em to take five?” he mutters, trying to shake some space loose for a thought.“You ever met a man who blows hard for a living?” That low, raspy drawl is all-too familiar lately. Guerreiro smirks down at him from the high ground, smoke spiraling off the tip of her straight. “It might.”“Hot damn!” It’s a losing battle to keep the grimace off his mug. “It’s you.”“It is.” She’s more agreeable tonight than she’s ever been, stole slumping around her bare shoulders. “And it’s you.”“Yeah.” He rolls onto the deck, trying to give himself the extra inches he needs to keep this dame on her toes instead of the other way around. “It is. You want to make some trouble about it?”“Me?” One of those camera-loving thick brows arch; it’s a pity she didn’t make a splash until after a war, he can think of at least three brothers that would have loved to have a stare that scathing above a bikini. “I was under the impression we’re on the same side.”“Are we now.” That was news to him. Last he checked, if he were on fire, Guerreiro would need a nice long think before she lifted her skirts to help.Her hips shift against the rail, the starched planes of her skirt swinging like a bell around her ankles. There’s no smiles now, just those striking eyes on him, Wisteria blue only on film. It’s all her now, no colorist between him and that steady dark stare.“Shirayuki told me what you did for her at Laxdo.” She talks like the prelude to a storm, all silky rumbles from far away; a threat still, but to someone else. “I’m not saying I trust you any further than she could throw you, but I owe you one.”His palm riffles the bristle at the back of his neck; a better habit than showing a weakness in front of a cougar like this one. “Forget about it.”“Don’t tell me what to do, jack,” she snaps, quick as a shot. “We’re not walking down the aisle together.”His hands fly up between them, waving like he’s trying to soothe some wild cat. Going by what they print about her in the rags, he’s probably not so far from the mark. “Wasn’t sayin’ we were.”Her eyes narrow, everything about her askance, and he braces himself for the inevitable shake down. What’s a guy like you showing your face around here for? What are you about tonight of all nights?Instead, curiosity rolls off her like water down a duck’s back. Or maybe more like a swan’s. One of those black ones, the kind that chases grown men down to the ground and takes a part of their ear for good measure.“If you’re going to be poking around–” there’s no question in that voice of hers, just a flat sort of acceptance– “watch yourself in there.”With her dressed like a girl who walked straight out of a catalogue– no, one of those woman who take pictures with Paris behind them, like the War didn’t happen at all, hairline plucked and eyebrows shaped until she looks like one of them, it’s hard to remember she and him come from the same place. That they both took a little tug stateside and never looked back. Maybe she came up in the world, and he clung to every last rung he could to make sure he never fell back down that ladder, but tonight–Tonight everyone with eyes like theirs looks like the enemy.“That why you’re out here?” His voice is low with the question he isn’t asking, the one that might have him come home empty handed and short a couple of teeth.“No.” It’s too quick an answer for the truth and she knows it. She taps the ash off her straight, and he can’t help but notice she hasn’t taken a single drag on it; beneath those satin gloves could be white knuckles, holding tight to an excuse none of these jingle-braided tabloid jockeys will look too hard at. “Or maybe it is.”He leans in, close enough to get clawed up real nice should the cougar think he’s too close to the cage. “Anyone need to be taken care of in particular?”For once, this dish smiles, and it’s easy to see how so many men go dizzy with her when it doesn’t look like a shiv with his name on it. “No, I just got experience reading a room.” Her grin flattens to a grimace. “And this one said, ‘Get out.’““Well,” he chuckles, pulling away. “Never was too good with my letters. I’ll take my chances.”She watches him all careful, like she’s only just seeing him. “You know you don’t have to do this.”He should think about that slip of paper in his pocket, of that boys’ school handwriting wide enough to loop around his neck, but instead he thinks of jade green and the way it felt to have it meet his with gratitude. Of how small a girl could get when she trembles, and how big a man can feel when he’s the one she shelters under.“I can handle a few people who haven’t taken a turn in a dust up.” Guerreiro lifts her brows, and he adds, “A real one.”With a sigh, she flicks the butt over the side, pulling another out of her deck. “Your funeral.”He grins as he saunters past, hooking a heel around the first stair up. “Always is.“There’s not a body alive who doesn’t know how a scene like this plays out on the big screen: he walks in, smoke trailing up through the shot, the whole room shuddering to a standstill as every eye fixes itself to the odd man out. It’d be the prelude to a shakedown, and Bogart might not play that chin music the way Obi can, but it sure is easier to take a punch when everyone’s pulling them to keep you pretty.But that’s not how it shakes out here; the band keeps on playing, trumpet wailing as every fine set of gams in this joint cuts a collective rug on the dance floor. The first time he’d set foot on the ship that took him across the pond, he’d thought it could fit a real fine ballroom if there were enough ladies to make numbers, but actually seeing it, a shining set of boards to trod set on a dinghy that would sink quick and dirty with a hole the size of a sneeze–Sure must be nice, having enough scratch to build castles in the sand.No one stares either, least not all at once like some sort of amen choir. Instead it’s just the pressure of eyes on his back, that sense that something’s happening just in his peripheral only to disappear when he tries to take it head on. It’s not hostile, but it’s not exactly friendly either, and the longer he stands there, the more his goosebumps get goosebumps.He’s casting his own glances too– Shenezard’s not hard to miss, all knees and elbows wrapped in a pinstripe suit, jacket already lost to the crowd. What did he care? Daddy could always buy him a new one in the morning, made to match. The everyman might need to get into fisticuffs to get a shirt that doesn’t choke at the collar, but with the money King has to throw around, baby boy could burn a suit every other day and still show up to dinner dressed in style.He’s covered in women, two accessories on each arm like a pair of cufflinks, hanging off every word he says. They’re trying to look adoring, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes, but instead they just look hungry, a pack of dogs gnawing on a steak only one of them can eat.Obi grimaces; he doesn’t need long with the kid, but he needs it private, quiet, and preferably sober. The girls press closer, plastered against him so tight it’d probably take the Big Guy and some serious dedication to a crow bar to get them off.All right, he’ll be happy to just getting two out of three, at this point. Maybe even just being able to hear him sing without the big band drowning it out, since Shenezard’s already lit like Christmas. He can work with it; loose lips sank ships, and nothing made them looser than some whiskey and a bevy of girls to egg a man on. He didn’t need the pyramids from this guy, just a couple of bricks to build a hunch.By the time he sets his bearings towards where the captain is sailing three sheets to the wind, it’s too late– some ankle’s already pressed up beside him, knocking all the other pigeons off their perch. These other broads might like playing coy, but this one’s doing some real clear semaphore about what berth he might moor in tonight if he played his cards right. Obi nearly shoves right up anyway, ready to tow the good ship right out of the wrong canal–But that wild, tawny hair stops him dead. Her fingers might trace up Shenazard’s fly with ease, but his are numb at his side, ears ringing as he catches her profile, sharp and all-too familiar. She hooks a slim finger around a belt loop and starts towing like a tug down Panama, smile promising that it wouldn’t be a short ride.Obi scrubs a hand over his face. Well, things just got a little more interesting. And complicated. Good thing the whiskey here could make anything go down smooth.He swings back to the bar, a skip already in his step, but red draws his eye like a bull in the ring. Oh, he should have known– why else would Kihal Guerreiro be haunting the decks on a night like this? She’s not the kind to stick her neck out for a pap shot at the right party, but for Red–Well, every dame she plays takes a bullet for her man. Maybe he’s projecting, putting a silver cast over flesh and blood, but it ain’t a reach to figure she might be more the sort to take one for a friend.He slides up, shoulder bumping freckles as he hooks the stool next to hers, “Hey sugar, you rationed?”A weak line for a gal like this, but it’s better than saying, you’re not supposed to be here. Which she isn’t. That was the whole point of dragging himself here tonight rather than telling Boss to go fan himself. He had enough dough handy to do the job.Her neck’s swiveled away, taking in the room with the subtlety of a hound sniffing for scraps. But it snaps back at his first breath, eyes wide and wild as Red drags her gaze up the length of him. “Obi.”“Why, Miss,” he drawls, leaning over to twizzle the stick in her cocktail. At this distance it still smells like fruit instead of paint thinner; either this bartender has a delicate hand at doping his drinks, or it’s as virgin as a saint. “I didn’t realize you ran with the fast crowd.”She hesitates, staring at where his fingers swirl idle circles with her stirrer. Her mouth quivers, and he can see it, that struggle to answer straight or pay him back in kind, and oh, how he hopes she can give as good as she gets–“I don’t,” she says sternly, sliding her glass out from under him with a quick yank. “Why are you here?”How disappointing. He flags down the bartender, leaning in with a smile. “Is talking up a pretty dame not a good enough excuse?”Her mouth edges toward a frown. “Not for you.”He’s saved from having to answer; the barman clops up to him, face as friendly as a minefield and already looking like a few have gone off. The stare he fixes on him practically asks if he’d like to make it another.It’s the sort of in-born rudeness that would tempt Obi to rattle his chains, but this man looks like he’d rattle ‘em back and then some. He’s seen more color on a bottle of vodka than on this man; hair so pale and skin to match that he’d be tempted to call him sickly if he wasn’t a head taller and a whole set of shoulders wider. Not the usual slick son of bitches that showed up to these things, but at least he still looked good in a suit. Not someone to fuck with either, by the way the seams strain at the shoulders.“I’ll have what the lady’s having,” he says, plucking a toothpick off her glass and biting off the cherry skewered on it. “One for the lady too, extra cherries.”The only color on the barman is his eyes– they’re dark, the shadows here making them deep and nearly black. That the gaze he fixes on Obi, brows drawn and mouth weighing down into a frown that’s doing him no favors. He casts an even longer look at Red, real thoughtful, but turns his back to them, hulking away with his orders.Obi hears her huff before she’s even properly wound up. “I didn’t say I wanted–”“What?” he drawls, swiveling around on the stool. “Afraid you can’t hold your liquor?”For once, when her mouth twitches, it’s up instead of down. “I could drink you under the table,” she promises, eyes meeting his with a challenge that sets his heart galloping in the stall of his chest. “As long as we stick to Shirley Temples.”He leans in, enjoying the way she has to crane her chin up to look at him. Does nice things to that neck of hers. “Isn’t it the challenged that gets to pick the weapon?”Both her brows lift, and he doesn’t think he imagines her interest. “Does that make me the injured party, then?”“Well.” He tries to pull back, but those eyes of hers have him pinned. “I think maybe that’s stretching the metaphor–”“Is it?” she asks, a thrust he’s got no hope of parrying. “After saying we were partners, I find you coming here behind my back–”Two drinks slam onto the bar, the barman frowning between them. “Enjoy.”He casts them one last look and then lumbers away. Even still, Obi can feel his attention like a hand at his neck, waiting for a moment to clamp down.“Well, Miss,” Obi says, striving for a lightness he doesn’t meet. “It’s getting a little crowded in here, don’t you think?”She blinks. “Crowded?”He puts a hand to her back, helping her off the stool. “Why don’t we take these out on the deck. Little sea air never hurt no one.”She frowns– a tragedy now that he’s seen her almost smile– and stands. “If you say so.”The deck’s not quite empty; there’s no sign of Guerreiro, but there’s a few couples towards the bow that have mistaken quiet for privacy and are making some good progress towards things better left behind closed doors. Red, for her part, doesn’t seem to notice, or leastwise doesn’t care, just turning to face him with an expression that would fit just as well on a schoolmarm twice her age.“I suppose there’s a reason you lead me out here,” she says, chiller than the breeze coming off the water. “And I know not to get my hopes up for an apology.”“Tactical repositioning.” He leans on the rail, taking a long drink of that sweet cherry fizz. “Everyone in there already thinks you might be a murderess, there’s no reason for you to get damned by association too.”Those soft little brows furrow, her mouth pursed in a knot of confusion. “And just what shouldn’t I be associating with?”Obi barks out a laugh. “Anyone who has this face. Not exactly the best look to be having tonight, but it was the only one I had in my closet.”A stubborn light flashes in her eyes, so bright they might as well glow. St Elmo’s Fire those navy boys called it, dangerous and beautiful, and standing here next to her, he relates. “I don’t see what the problem is. You have just as much right as anybody here to celebrate the end of the war. More than most of them.”He arches a brow. “How do you figure that, Miss?”Her face eases. “You fought in the war too.”Even if he screws his jaw shut, there’s no way to hide how his eyes make like saucers, or how every muscle in his body goes stiff as a board. “How–?”“I’ve known since we met.” Her arms fold along the rail, mouth hooked into a satisfied smile. It looks good on her. “When I’m up against the wall, I go for broke. That’s the 442′s motto.”His knuckles blanch to bone around his glass. “Not many people know that.”Not many people knew they existed either. A whole mountain of Purple Hearts, and all they got for it was men who spat at them in the market.“I was stationed at Saint-Die for part of my tour. I was there when…” Her mouth works, but word’s don’t come out. Obi knows all too well what that’s like; he can yak all day long, stuff that goes in one ear and out the other, but the moment he tries to talk about the war– nothing.“I was there when they came back from the Vosges.” Red’s got a great voice, the kind he’d like to hear read a phone book at bedtime, but it goes all soft when she says the name, like a brown-out. “My unit was assigned to treat them. What was left of them really. A nasty business all around.”Obi can barely breathe, just barely managing a, “That so?”She turns those eyes on him, green and dark as those forests in France. The very same the view he saw when he tilted his chin up to the sky and asked for whoever was listening to get them all back alive. “It is. Those boys came back in so many pieces not even all the king’s horses or all the king’s men could put them back together again.”The very same the view he had when he woke up, chest heaving beneath the bandages, sweat and blood mingling on the one wrapped tight around his head. Good morning, soldier, an angel tells him, light wrapped up in the rust of her hair, you should still be asleep.“Well,” he tries not to wheeze. “That musta been some clean up.”“They were so banged up they were more bandages than body. One of the other girls used to say they were half cotton, half human. I don’t even think I saw most of their faces before they shipped out.” She lets out a long breath. “I don’t think I could recognize half of them if I saw them now.”He bites back the words, I know.“So I know,” she tells him, voice low and dire, “you earned today just as much as anyone else on this ridiculous boat. Certainly more than Raj.”He opens his mouth to say– something. Anything. Any words that aren’t, did you fall from heaven because I think I found my angel–“Well.” Something clomps to the desk behind them, all limb. “Isn’t this nice.”It’s a kid. A pretty one, just like that monkey warned him about, his pencil-thin mustache stretch wide above his lips as he says. “I’m almost sorry to interrupt. But you see, I’ve got places to be, and Shirayuki, well– she’s gotta come with me.”