Money. It’s always about money. So where was the money? Trond Landvik hadn’t become a billionaire by randomly guessing at shit. If he wanted to make aluminum, he had a tangible, solid reason. And whatever it was, it got him killed.
That was the key. Before I worked on who I had to figure out why. And I knew where to start: Jin Chu.
He was the guy at Trond’s house the day I delivered the cigars. He was from Hong Kong, he had a box labeled “ZAFO,” and he tried to hide it from me. That’s all I had.
I poked around online, but I couldn’t find anything about him. Whoever he was, he kept a low profile. Or he’d come to Artemis under an alias.
That cigar delivery felt like forever ago but it had only been four days. Meatships come once a week and there had been no departures in that time. Jin Chu was still in town. He might be dead, but he was still in town.
I finished my “breakfast” and put the packaging back in my nook. Then I sealed the nook, straightened my rumpled jumpsuit, and headed out.
—
I hit a secondhand shop in Conrad and bought a hell of an outfit: a bright-red miniskirt so short you could almost call it a belt, a sequined top that exposed my midriff, and the tallest heels I could find. I topped it off with a large red patent-leather handbag.
Then off to a hair salon for a quick updo and voilà! I was now a floozy. The girls at the salon rolled their eyes at me as I checked myself out in the mirror.
The transformation was disturbingly easy. Sure, I have a nice body, but I wish it had been a little more effort to become so trashy.
—
Travel’s a bitch. Even when it’s a once-in-a-lifetime vacation.
You leak money like a sieve. You’re jet-lagged. You’re exhausted all the time. You’re homesick even though you’re on vacation. But all of those hassles pale in comparison to the food.
I see it all the time here. Tourists love to sample our local cuisine. Problem is: Our cuisine sucks. It’s made of algae and artificial flavors. Within a few days the Americans want pizza, the French want wine, and the Japanese want rice. Food makes you comfortable. It’s how you recenter.
Jin Chu was from Hong Kong. He’d eventually want proper Cantonese food.
The types of people who have one-on-one meetings with Trond are business magnates or, at the very least, highly important people. Those people travel a lot. They learn to stay where the food’s good.
So we had an important, travel-savvy guy from Hong Kong who’d want home cooking. One establishment fit the bill perfectly: the Canton Artemis.
The Canton, a five-star hotel in Aldrin bubble, catered to the Chinese elite. Owned and operated by Hong Kong business interests, they provided a homelike experience to high-end travelers. And most important, they had a proper Cantonese breakfast buffet. If you’re from Hong Kong and you have unlimited money, the Canton is where you stay.
I walked into the plush, well-adorned lobby. It was one of the few hotels in town that had an honest-to-God lobby. I guess when you charge 50,000? a night for a room, you can waste a little space on presentation.
I stood out like a sore thumb in my prostitute regalia. A few heads turned in my direction then turned away in disdain (though the male heads took a little longer). An old Asian lady manned the concierge desk. I walked straight up without a hint of shame. Internally, I was embarrassed as all hell—I did my best to hide it.
The concierge gave me a look that told me I’d offended her and her great ancestors. “Can I help you?” she asked with a slight Chinese accent.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got a meeting here. With a client.”
“I see. And do you have this client’s room number?”
“Nah.”
“Do you have his Gizmo ID?”
“Nah.” I pulled a compact out of my handbag and checked my ruby-red lipstick.
“I’m sorry, madam”—she looked me up and down—“I’m unable to help you if you don’t have his room number or some other proof that you’ve been invited.”
I shot her a bitchy glare (I’m good at that). “Oh, he wants me here all right. For an hour.” I set the compact on her desk and fished around in my handbag. She leaned away from the compact like she might catch a disease from it.
I pulled out a piece of paper and read: “Jin Chu. Canton Artemis. Arcade District. Aldrin Bubble.” I put the paper away. “Just call the fuckin’ guy, okay? I got other customers after this.”
She pursed her lips. Hotels like the Canton wouldn’t contact a guest just because someone claimed to be meeting them. But rules get bent where sex is involved. She typed a few keystrokes on her computer, then picked up the phone.
She listened for a while, then hung up. “I’m sorry, but there’s no answer.”
I rolled my eyes. “You tell him he still has to pay!”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“Whatever!” I snatched up the compact and tossed it back in my purse. “If he shows up, tell him I’m in the bar.”
I stomped off.
So he wasn’t in. I could stake out the lobby—the bar had a great view of the entrance—but that could take all day. I had a different plan.
That lipstick adjustment earlier hadn’t just been for show. I’d placed the compact so I could see the concierge’s computer screen in the mirror. When she looked up Jin Chu, it popped up his room number: 124.
I reached the bar and hopped up on the stool second from the corner. Habit, I guess. I glanced through the lobby to the elevators. A beefy security guard stood nearby. He wore a suit and nice shoes, but I know muscle when I see it.
A guest walked up, waved his Gizmo, and the elevator opened. The guard watched but didn’t seem too interested.
A few seconds later, a couple approached. The woman waved her Gizmo and the doors opened. The guard stepped forward and spoke to them briefly. She said something and he returned to his post.
No sneaking aboard the elevator. You had to be a guest or with a guest.
“What can I get for ya?” said a voice from behind.
I turned to face the bartender. “Have you got Bowmore fifteen-year single-malt?”
“Indeed we do, ma’am. But I should warn you it’s seven hundred fifty slugs for a two-ounce pour.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “Round it up to a thousand and keep the change. Charge it to my date: Jin Chu, Room 124.”
He typed on his register, confirmed the name matched the room number, and smiled. “Right away, ma’am. Thank you.”
I stared at the elevators and waited for the guard to take a break or something. The bartender returned with my drink. I took a sip. Oh, man…good stuff.
I poured a little out on the floor for Trond. He was a sneaky moneygrubber who would break any laws that got in his way. But he was good to the people in his life and he didn’t deserve to die.
All right. How would I get past the goon at the elevator? Distract him? Probably wouldn’t work. He was a trained security guard and his whole job was controlling access. He wasn’t likely to fall for bullshit. Maybe I could find someone tall or fat and literally hide behind them? Hmm, that seemed a little too “Buster Keaton” to actually work.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. An Asian man in his mid-fifties sat next to me. He wore a three-piece suit and an ugly comb-over.
“Purai?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“Eh…” He pulled out his Gizmo and gestured to it. “Purai?”
“English?” I asked.
He typed on his Gizmo then turned it to face me. The text read: Price?
“Oh,” I said. Well, that’s what I got for dressing like a prostitute and hanging out in a bar. It was nice to know I had an alternate career path if smuggling didn’t work out. I glanced at the elevators and their guardian, then back to my john.
“Two thousand slugs,” I said. Seemed reasonable. I was rocking that miniskirt.
He nodded and typed up the transaction on his Gizmo. I put my hand over his to stop him.
“After,” I said. “Pay after.”
He seemed puzzled but agreed.
I stood from the bar and downed my Bowmore. I assume everyone in Scotland gasped in psychic pain.