toward the restaurant. She peeled off to approach the dock workers.
Kerry stopped and shook his head. "With me. All times."
"I don't have time for this."
"Then work without your list."
"Jesus H." She rolled her eyes but followed him to the restaurant. Inside the back door, a woman sat at a desk, hunched over a report the way felons guard their food.
"Today's attendance," Kerry said. "Do you have it?"
The woman glanced up, just noticing them. "Today's files."
Kerry moved to a stack of plastic shelves at one side of her desk. He withdrew a sheaf of papers, leafed through them, and handed a list to Lucy.
"That's my original ," the woman said slowly. "If you want the records, make a copy."
"Mr. Nerve said I have access to whatever I want," Lucy said.
The woman gazed at her over her glasses. "You want my original? Leave your left hand as collateral. If that's too steep, then make a fucking copy ."
"Don't strain your back celebrating when Nerve executes me." Lucy gestured around. "Pen and paper."
The woman pursed her mouth and retrieved both. Lucy set to work. Still scribbling, she glanced up at Kerry. "Listen, beefcake, you got any idea who did this?"
He didn't hesitate. "The Kono."
"The Kono being?"
"Fans of violence."
"You disapprove? Isn't violence your job?"
He shrugged mildly. "Most people don't like their jobs."
Lucy finished up and walked out, taking the pen and extra paper with her. The list was comprised of 33 names. Two of the dockworkers had not been present for morning attendance, but there had been a revision since then. A man named Woody Sloan had shown up just after the attack.
She tapped her notes. "Take me to Woody."
Kerry led her toward the barge tied at the pier, where he exchanged words with a gnarled woman overseeing the stevedores. She swore and climbed up in the boat. A seagull cawed from the roof of the neighboring pier. It smelled like cold fresh water and a drop of salt. A stevedore rattled by with a hand cart. Lucy smelled something she hadn't smelled in a long time: cinnamon.
The woman came back leading a short thin man with muscles as taut and tough as the ropes mooring the barge to the dock. A mess of cross-hatched scars covered the socket where his right eye should be.
"Mighty rude not to cover that thing, Woody." Lucy flapped her paper at him. "You were late to work today."
"I was given leave," he said.
"Not according to what I've got."
"Just ask Miss Tibbs." His sweat smelled like cumin and beef. "I got switched to the afternoon shipment."
Lucy looked up from her papers. "Then what brought you in early?"
"I heard the shots."
"You live nearby?"
He pointed across the street to a narrow tower overlooking the piers. His index finger crooked at the last knuckle where it had once been broken. "I'm not much for commutes."
Lucy frowned. "You like tobacco, Woody?"
"When I can get it."
"Filtered or unfiltered?"
He squinted at her with his good eye. "If I like it, why would I stick a filter on it?"
"Perhaps you intend to make it to your sunset years." She repressed a sigh. "That will be all, Woody."
As long as she was there, she took the chance to interview every stevedore hopping in and out of the boat. Most resisted her inquiries until Kerry shook his head, a gesture that somehow promised they could either move their mouths or lose their teeth. After that, the workers answered with grudging brevity. Lucy avoided insinuations and accusations, sticking to questions about what they had been doing when the raiders swooped in, who they thought the raiders may have been, and whether they'd seen anyone acting funny, whether that morning or within the last couple weeks.
Most didn't know jack shit, but several were happy to cast shade on their fellow employees. She wrapped up the first round of interviews with four names to attack with a second round of questions. Along with the man who still hadn't come in to work, that gave her five leads.
Kerry announced it was time for dinner.
Kerry stopped and shook his head. "With me. All times."
"I don't have time for this."
"Then work without your list."
"Jesus H." She rolled her eyes but followed him to the restaurant. Inside the back door, a woman sat at a desk, hunched over a report the way felons guard their food.
"Today's attendance," Kerry said. "Do you have it?"
The woman glanced up, just noticing them. "Today's files."
Kerry moved to a stack of plastic shelves at one side of her desk. He withdrew a sheaf of papers, leafed through them, and handed a list to Lucy.
"That's my original ," the woman said slowly. "If you want the records, make a copy."
"Mr. Nerve said I have access to whatever I want," Lucy said.
The woman gazed at her over her glasses. "You want my original? Leave your left hand as collateral. If that's too steep, then make a fucking copy ."
"Don't strain your back celebrating when Nerve executes me." Lucy gestured around. "Pen and paper."
The woman pursed her mouth and retrieved both. Lucy set to work. Still scribbling, she glanced up at Kerry. "Listen, beefcake, you got any idea who did this?"
He didn't hesitate. "The Kono."
"The Kono being?"
"Fans of violence."
"You disapprove? Isn't violence your job?"
He shrugged mildly. "Most people don't like their jobs."
Lucy finished up and walked out, taking the pen and extra paper with her. The list was comprised of 33 names. Two of the dockworkers had not been present for morning attendance, but there had been a revision since then. A man named Woody Sloan had shown up just after the attack.
She tapped her notes. "Take me to Woody."
Kerry led her toward the barge tied at the pier, where he exchanged words with a gnarled woman overseeing the stevedores. She swore and climbed up in the boat. A seagull cawed from the roof of the neighboring pier. It smelled like cold fresh water and a drop of salt. A stevedore rattled by with a hand cart. Lucy smelled something she hadn't smelled in a long time: cinnamon.
The woman came back leading a short thin man with muscles as taut and tough as the ropes mooring the barge to the dock. A mess of cross-hatched scars covered the socket where his right eye should be.
"Mighty rude not to cover that thing, Woody." Lucy flapped her paper at him. "You were late to work today."
"I was given leave," he said.
"Not according to what I've got."
"Just ask Miss Tibbs." His sweat smelled like cumin and beef. "I got switched to the afternoon shipment."
Lucy looked up from her papers. "Then what brought you in early?"
"I heard the shots."
"You live nearby?"
He pointed across the street to a narrow tower overlooking the piers. His index finger crooked at the last knuckle where it had once been broken. "I'm not much for commutes."
Lucy frowned. "You like tobacco, Woody?"
"When I can get it."
"Filtered or unfiltered?"
He squinted at her with his good eye. "If I like it, why would I stick a filter on it?"
"Perhaps you intend to make it to your sunset years." She repressed a sigh. "That will be all, Woody."
As long as she was there, she took the chance to interview every stevedore hopping in and out of the boat. Most resisted her inquiries until Kerry shook his head, a gesture that somehow promised they could either move their mouths or lose their teeth. After that, the workers answered with grudging brevity. Lucy avoided insinuations and accusations, sticking to questions about what they had been doing when the raiders swooped in, who they thought the raiders may have been, and whether they'd seen anyone acting funny, whether that morning or within the last couple weeks.
Most didn't know jack shit, but several were happy to cast shade on their fellow employees. She wrapped up the first round of interviews with four names to attack with a second round of questions. Along with the man who still hadn't come in to work, that gave her five leads.
Kerry announced it was time for dinner.
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