Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(55)
Benedikt’s breath caught in his throat. “I know. I do know.” He paused. Backtracked. “And by that, I meant to say I love you too.”
A twitch of Marshall’s lips. He breathed a laugh, then kissed him, as if it sealed in the assurance he had just made.
“We need sleep,” Marshall decided. “Come on. It’s a new day when we rise.”
8
The time zone had changed again overnight, which meant when Marshall lifted himself awake and peered at Benedikt’s wristwatch on the bedside table, he was rather confused. The display hands didn’t match the high sun streaming through the window. The hours kept moving forward, and his watch couldn’t catch up.
Benedikt was pushing the curtains back. Once he noticed that Marshall had stirred, he tossed something over, giving Marshall scarcely a second to register the object flying at him before his sleep-addled reflexes caught the apple.
“You are quite fond of tossing fruit at me, do you know that?” Marshall remarked.
“I’m feeding you, and you protest?”
“I was not protesting. I was fondly admonishing.”
Benedikt snorted, reaching into the wardrobe. He shook out a towel. “I asked Vodin to check everyone’s shoes in soft-class on the chance someone didn’t clean the paint off.”
Marshall dragged himself out of the blankets. God, he hated getting up. When his body was in stasis, it wanted to stay in stasis.
“He’s doing that right now?”
“He is. He may find you to report back. In the meantime, I am off to rinse myself before I start smelling like a corpse.”
Benedikt lightly thumped Marshall’s head as he passed by, walking out of the compartment and toward the washroom. He was so suave sometimes, never saying much but communicating with his touch. Marshall had learned by now that that was Benedikt’s brand of affection, though he didn’t think Benedikt had figured it out himself yet. A harmless bonk on the head may as well be a full-mouth kiss in Benedikt’s mind.
“Up we get,” Marshall muttered to himself, rolling right off the bunk and throwing himself onto the floor. The harsh landing snapped him into sudden alertness, finally giving him enough energy to stand up and shake some feeling into his arms. The apple was still sitting by the pillow, so he picked it up again and took a big bite. He didn’t finish biting down—he kept his teeth lodged inside, holding the apple with his mouth so his hands were free to get dressed.
Ten minutes later, with his hair brushed back nicely and his spiffy clothes on, Marshall stepped out of the compartment and wandered into the dining carriage. It was nearly empty—only three occupied tables, passengers picking at their mystery meats and sauerkraut salads. Perhaps everyone else was still asleep too, unaccustomed to the changes in hour. Or perhaps they were hiding out in their rooms, either avoiding the murderer lurking on board or avoiding being caught as the murderer lurking on board.
An attendant offered him a drink, setting the glass on a coaster, an enormous block of ice taking up half the space inside.
“Mr. Marshall, a moment of your time?”
Vodin was striding through the dining carriage when Marshall turned around. Lev hurried at his heels, taking two quick steps for every one his uncle took. Where the kid looked bright and alert, the morning light wasn’t kind to the officer, showing his tired eyes and the wrinkles in his collar. When Vodin drew closer to the bar and propped his elbow on the smooth granite surface, his appearance somewhat improved, gold color washed into his face by virtue of the chandelier lighting.
“If anything, it should be my pleasure to beg a moment of your time,” Marshall replied. He turned to Lev and offered a casual two-finger salute. Lev returned the gesture enthusiastically. “How are the findings?”
“No paint on anyone’s shoes, unfortunately,” Vodin replied. “We asked passengers to volunteer their assistance, so you can imagine that if anyone boarded with more than one pair of shoes, it would be rather easy to hide the guilty set. For the sake of propriety, I do not think we are quite at a point of desperation to barge into each passenger’s room to make a search.”
No—that would be a waste of time when there were so many rooms in soft-class. The more effective route would be to narrow down the plausible suspects first before running searches of their compartments, but they didn’t even have that yet.
Marshall kept his expression even. He didn’t want the officer to think that they were struggling with this investigation. Or rather, he didn’t want to confirm what Vodin might already be thinking.
Vodin patted dust off his sleeve. As Marshall stayed silent, mulling over his next suggestion, the officer continued: “Omsk is coming up along our route. The next stop, if we were running on a normal schedule. The police there will have tools to dust for fingerprints—”
“No, no, the moment we stop we will lose the culprit,” Marshall cut in. “Don’t you know how easy it is to run off? You have a few weak-muscled attendants standing as door guards, not militia soldiers. You cannot.”
The attendant behind the bar frowned. “Hey.”
Marshall grimaced. “Sorry. No offense. I am sure you are very lovely, but you have to admit”—he leaned over the bar, poking one finger at the attendant’s thin arm—“you likely cannot go hand-to-hand with a murderer and win.”