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“Yes, I saw that. Very unfort—”
“The killers are after me now. They might go after you for leverage because you’re the only person I care about. So get the hell out of there.”
He was silent for a while. “All right. Meet me at the shop and we’ll go stay with Imam Faheem. He and his family will take care of us.”
“I can’t just hide—I need to find out what’s going on. You go to the imam’s. I’ll contact you when it’s safe.”
“Jazz”—his voice quavered—“leave this to Rudy. It’s his job.”
“I can’t trust him. Not now. Maybe later.”
“You come home right now, Jasmine!” His voice had risen a full octave. “For the love of Allah, don’t tangle with murderers!”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. Just get out of there. I’ll call you when this is over.”
“Jasmi—” he started, but I hung up.
Another benefit to the proxy service: Dad couldn’t call me back.
I cowered in the nook the rest of the evening. I darted out to go to the bathroom twice, but that was it. I spent the rest of the time just fearing for my life and compulsively reading the news.
—
I woke up the next morning with cramped legs and a sore back. That’s the thing about crying yourself to sleep. When you wake up, the problems are still there.
I pushed the access panel aside and rolled out onto the corridor floor. I stretched out my complaining muscles. Bean Down 27 didn’t get many people coming through, especially this early in the morning. I sat on the floor and ate a hearty breakfast of unflavored Gunk and water. I should have stayed hidden in the nook but I just couldn’t take the cramped quarters any longer.
Sure, I could just hide out and hope Rudy caught the killer, but it wouldn’t help. Even if he succeeded, the people behind it would send another one.
I took another bite of Gunk.
It was all about Sanchez Aluminum.
Duh.
But why? Why were people killing each other over a bygone industry that didn’t even make much money?
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 onlin
e, 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.
