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“You with us, Hart?” Doc asked me.
I ran a hand over my braid, tugging on the end. “Yeah, fuck, sorry.”
Ward began by summoning Ian Whitehead, a man of average height and build, largely unremarkable in pretty much every way I could imagine.
“Mr. Whitehead,” Ward greeted him. “We were hoping you would be willing to give us some information about your death.”
The man bobbed his head.“Yes, of course. But I don’t know what happened. I was walking from the dining room across the front hall to the sitting room. I liked to read by the fire. And then…”
It was the same pattern from the Picton murders. People minding their own business, thenbam.
“You know anyone by the name of Oldham?” I asked.
He blinked at me.“I—Not personally, no.”
“Meaning, what, exactly?” I pressed.
“I knowofsome. Jeremiah and Faith Oldham. They—”If he’d been alive, he might have swallowed.“—they have a television show that is…”
“Hateful bigoted drivel?” I suggested.
Whitehead’s lips quirked.“I—yes.”
“You ever watch it?” I asked him.
Whitehead shook his head.“No. But I know of it.”
“So you’re pro-Arcanid?” I asked casually, examining the long, pale fingers on one hand, looking up at him after a moment through my eyelashes.
Whitehead stared at me, his mouth working.
“That’s a no,” I answered for him, keeping my tone mild.
“No! It’s not a no. It’s—I don’t think—The Oldhams want to get rid of Arcanids. I don’t think that way.”
I gave him a look that said I didn’t think much of his magnanimity in not wanting me dead. “How do you think, then, Mr. Whitehead?” I wanted to know.
He blinked at me.“I—just—”He stopped, probably because he had a modicum of awareness that announcing he didn’t believe in Arcanid equality in a room with an elf and an orc—to say nothing of the fact that there was really obviously also at least one Arc-human involved—was fucking dumb.
I crossed my arms over my chest and raised one eyebrow. I knew I was supposed to play moderately nice with the dead man who could tell us potentially useful things. And, yeah, Ward could drag whatever it was out of him either way, but I really shouldn’t make my boss’s life any more difficult than it already was.
Apparently my open disdain nevertheless shamed Whitehead into answering. Or maybe Ward was putting on the pressure in the background, I don’t know.
“I—I don’t think we should bar people from rights and jobs just because of an illness,”he said, clearly being more diplomatic than I was capable of.
Ward shot me a look down the table that told me to behave myself, and I decided to take a hint.
“Fair enough, Mr. Whitehead. What about the name Bazan? Does that mean anything to you?”
Whitehead blinked a couple of times.“Bazan? No. Should it?”
Fuck.I didn’t let my disappointment show on my face. “Not necessarily. After you were shot, did you happen to stick around to see if anyone came into your house?” I asked, then.
“I—no.”
“Did you look around your house after you died?”
“Not—not beyond the foyer.”
