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who owned the Centeotl project. His name was Lolco Molpilia. I knew the name from news reports over the years, but I didn’t think I had ever seen his face before.
    A middle-aged man with a large head and small eyes, Molpilia was sitting on one side of an expensive ebony table. A commentator from one of the news sites was sitting on the other.
    I had missed the first few minutes of the program but I got the gist of it pretty quickly.
    “And you’re dissatisfied with their efforts?” the commentator asked, following his script.
    “I’m just disappointed,” said Molpilia. “We pay our share of taxes in Aztlan. We should receive value in return.”
    “It’s only been a day and a half since the incident,” the commentator pointed out. After all, he had to maintain at least a semblance of credibility.
    “Forgive me,” said Molpilia, “but even a day and a half is too much when the person—or people—responsible for this crime are right in front of our faces.”
    “You mean Ancient Light?” said the commentator. “It’s true that they have been demonstrating in front of Centeotl for weeks now, trying to keep it from opening its doors, but isn’t the idea of committing a murder on the property a bit of a stretch?”
    “It’s not my place to identify the killer or killers,” said Molpilia. “That’s the job of the police. I just want them to do that job on a timely basis so I can get about the business of re-sanctifying my property.”
    “An event we’re all looking forward to,” said the commentator.
    “No one more than I,” said Molpilia.
    Bastard, I thought.
    It would have been lovely if catching the killer were that easy. But it wasn’t. The cultists weren’t the ones who had killed Patli no matter how many programs Molpilia paid for.
    The next morning I got to the office early, so early that the sky was still on fire in the east.
    I skimmed the Mirror to see if the cultists were up yet. Apparently not. At least, I couldn’t find any mention of them.
    I didn’t have any love for Eren’s people, but it irked me that Molpilia was hanging the blame for the murder on them, and without a shred of proof. He had been careful not to actually accuse them in so many words, because he would run afoul of the Emperor’s Law if he did that, but his implications were accusation enough.
    And in the process, he was accusing the police as well. Because if Molpilia could identify the killer, why couldn’t we ? All of which made me desperate to prove him wrong—as if I needed more motivation to find Patli’s murderer.
    But when I sat down to get to work, it wasn’t the details of the murder that filled my head. It was something else.
    That is, until I saw a shadow fall across my desk and I realized I wasn’t the only one who had come in early.
    “Takun,” I said. I could tell by the scent of cinnamon.
    “What happened?” he asked. “Did you get evicted?”
    “That’s right,” I said. “They found out I’d had you over once and my building doesn’t allow animals.”
    “Which would be funny,” he said, taking a seat on the corner of my desk, “if you’d ever invited me. But it works out fine that you didn’t. In this line of work, you see enough piss holes. Why add one more?”
    “Good morning to you too,” I said.
    “So what’s the problem?”
    I shrugged. “What makes you think there’s a problem?”
    “I haven’t seen your face crease like that since you had that constipation a couple of cycles back.”
    I didn’t see any reason not to tell him. “You remember Zuma Yaotl?”
    Takun thought for a moment. “Sure. Never knew him too well. What about him?”
    “I found him at the Centeotl property last night.”
    “Where you found the murder victim?”
    “Yes. He said he wanted to see the place for himself. He was bored sitting at home, watching the news coverage.”
    “Bored?” said Takun. “I’d retire right now if I could afford it, and never look back. Wouldn’t