Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [69]
But when she looked up at Worf, her anger was hard not to miss. “How long,” she asked in a subdued tone, “is this going to go on?” “It is finished,” he rumbled.
Her brows came together. “What do you mean? Did you get a look at the killer?”
He shook his head. “No. But I know who it is.”
A Riker followed Picard out of the turbolift, the younger man had to hustle to catch up. He had never seen the captain so intense-so driven.
It had to be hard on him, the first officer thought. He could only imagine how hard:
If it were anyone else, he would have suggested that they stay on the sidelines, commanding officer or not. In cases like this one, personal involvement usually led to trouble. But Picard wasn’t just anyone. Riker had never once seen him lose his composure, not in the four years and more that he’d served under the man. He could only trust that the captain would not make this instance the exception.
Down the corridor, the trio of armed security personnel was doing exactly what they’d been told-remaining-silent and well back from the door monitor, so that they wouldn’t alert anyone inside to their presence. They’d been instructed not to make any move on their own unless the killer tried to leave.
As Riker and Picard approached from one direction, Worf approached from the other. Momentarily, the first officer wondered why the Klingon was naked from the waist up-and then he remembered Worf’s account of his discovery of Ben Zoma. He swallowed as he recalled the bloody details.
Quickly, wasting no time, the captain pointed to Worf and to Burke, who’d been in charge up until now. Then he indicated either side of the door, showing them where he wanted them to position themselves. Even as he drew out his phaser, the Klingon looked none too happy about the idea. “Captain,” he whispered, “you cannot go in first-was But Picard cut him short with a simple raising of his hand. “I can,” he whispered back, “and I will.” He turned to the door, gathering himself. “This is my responsibility. I should have discharged it some time ago.”
It was a clear admission that he’d been wrong about the assassin’s identity-and that Riker had been right. But the first officer derived no satisfaction from the fact. There were no winners in this situation, only losers. And, unfortunately, Ben Zoma had been the biggest loser of all.
While the captain and Worf were engaged in their exchange, Burke had been working to override the door’s programming with a security-level code. Finished now, he nodded to Picard. “Ready, sir,” he breathed, taking out his phaser. Holding it close to him, he pointed it at the ceiling. Without hesitation, the captain walked forward, confident that there would be no beeping inside the apartment to serve as a warning of his approach. Stripped of
any programming instructions to the contrary, the doors opened to admit him.
As luck would have it, the apartment’s occupant was sitting at a table in the center of the reception room. She barely turned her head as Picard entered with Riker close behind. Idun Asmund looked from one to the other of them, remarkably calm-though she had to know that they were on to her. Captains and first officers didn’t just march into their guests” quarters unannounced. “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked, half smiling. “You are charged,” Picard responded, his voice flat and mechanical, “with the attempted murder of your fellow officers. On three separate occasions— including one just moments ago, when you savagely attacked Gilaad Ben Zoma with a Klingon ceremonial knife.” The woman’s brow creased. “What are you talking about? I haven’t touched my knives since I came aboard. If this is a joke-was “It’s no joke,” said Riker.
Asmund stood. She darted a glance out into the corridor, where she must have caught sight of Worf and his security team-because the crease in her brow deepened, She turned back to the captain, “Sir, if Ben Zoma’s been hurt, I had nothing to do with it. You must believe that.