Dead Waters - Anton Strout [16]
“I don’t think so,” Jane said. “Look at the floor. Until Simon tilted his head, there wasn’t a drop of water anywhere. If there had been a struggle or something like that, you’d think there would be water all over the place.”
I stood up. “She’s right. No wonder the regular cops are spooked. No signs of struggle. . . nothing that makes sense.”
Davidson crossed his arms and stood in silence for a minute. When he looked up again, he was staring at me. “You want to do your little magic-fingers thing you do?”
“Magic fingers,” I said, standing. I stripped off my gloves. “You make me feel like a coin-op bed in a sleazy motel.”
“Hey, if that’s what works for you . . .”
“Quiet,” I said, and then set to work passing my hands over all the objects, antiques, and decorations around the room.
“Well?” Davidson said, sounding rather annoyed.
“Nothing,” I said and shrugged.
“Did you forget to charge your psychometry or something?” he asked.
I stared at him, shaking my head. “Do you have the first clue how this works with me? The building is new, and I think a lot of the stuff this guy has here is new, too. All of these quality-looking antiques? Fakes.”
“So?”
“I can read a lot of objects—old, new—but it helps if they have some significance for there to be a psychometric charge. Either everything is too new to have a lick of a charge or something is blocking it somehow. Not everything in this world carries a charge to it.”
Davidson looked more confused than ever. He turned to Connor. “Is there a chart of some kind that I could use to follow all this?”
“This isn’t science,” I said. “It’s parascience. The research, even in our records down in the Gauntlet, is a bit sketchy on the how and why of it all. I’m sorry if it doesn’t fit your investigative needs.”
Davidson unfolded his arms and pointed at the corpse in the center of the room. “What about reading the body?”
“Thanks, but no, thanks,” I said. “I don’t do the dead.”
“Eww,” Jane said, flailing her hands like she was trying to shake the mental image off of her.
I scrunched my face up. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I just meant Connor’s the guy who deals with the dead.”
Connor stood up from the body. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “Like I mentioned a minute ago, this guy’s soul ain’t around here.”
Davidson’s lips were pursed in agitation. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, his usual mask of composure was back in place. He walked over to Jane and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Listen, Jane,” Davidson said. “I need you to go around to the rest of the apartments on this floor and ask some questions. See if anyone heard anything.”
“That’s why you brought me along?” she said, looking a little miffed. “Couldn’t your cops have done that for you?”
David Davidson shook his head. “Did you see them in the hallway before?” he asked. “They were freaked-out enough that they didn’t even want to come back into the apartment. You want me to send those guys knocking on all the doors? I think you’d be a far more welcome sight to the residents. The people who can afford to live in a building like this are either cultured or rich beyond the beyond. Probably both. They’re going to be more receptive—more forthcoming—to a pretty young woman than to creepedout cops.”
“Oh,” Jane said, crossing her arms. “How sexist of you. And here I thought you might actually need me for my technomancy.” She made no effort to move.
Davidson looked over at me. “Are all ex-cultists this stubborn?”
Jane’s eyes flared with anger, so I spoke up quickly.
“Pretty much,” I said. “Be lucky she’s an ex-cultist. Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to be standing that close to her if I were you.”
Jane gave him an evil grin. “A girl can learn a lot from cultists. Like how to fillet a man using a kukri . . .”
Davidson smiled back at her, not missing a beat. “Maybe we can save that as our second option. . . you know, after asking questions of the nice people who live here.”
Jane looked over to me. Her eyes smoldered. I nodded. “Go,” I said. “There’s nothing to be done