Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (10 page)

Gutterson’s watch phone rang, beeping softly in his ear.
Mom,
a voice informed him. He stood, glanced at Smyth deep in thought reading through notes, and stepped out of the conference room and into the dark hallway, touching the sensor button behind his right ear.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, John, I just wanted to check what time you thought you’d be home? I’m just about to collect the kids. Your stepfather and I have a dinner engagement tonight, remember?”

A memory flashed through his mind, his mother telling him about the dinner engagement tonight. Was it their anniversary? He couldn’t recall. “Ah, well, we’re pretty busy down here. I’m just trying to finish a few things up. I’ll try to make it by say six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty is too late.” She paused, waiting for him, but he said nothing. “Don’t do this to me now
,
John. It’s been booked in for a month.”

“I know, Mom. I’ll try—”

“I don’t mind looking after the kids and I enjoy helping out, but you need to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Truth was that the job was impossible without their help. “Okay. What time do you need me there?”

“Five-thirty. Latest.”

“Okay. Great. I’ll be there. And thanks again.”

Gutterson hung up and stepped back into the conference room where Smyth was still reading through notes.

“Has Harding come back yet?” Smyth looked up and shrugged. “I sent him down to put in those signed right to engage forms half an hour ago.”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen him.

He should have sent Camilleri, but she was working on another case that required her urgent attention. Gutterson felt the pressure squeeze a little harder. It had only been a couple of days since Martinez had agreed to let him take over the case, but he knew, given their lack of resources, solid leads were the only way to keep the investigation open.

He sat at the conference table in silence and tried to reengage in the documentation. Harding strolled into the room soon after, puffing and red faced, as though he’d been out for a run.

“Any luck?” Gutterson asked. Harding shook his head. “How long is it going to take?”

Harding wiped his mouth with the back if his hand. “She didn’t say.”

“Who’s handling the requests now?”

“Newell. Who else?”

“She’s still running it?” Harding nodded.

This was where he got stuck last time and his unwillingness to follow the rules brought him undone. Ten years earlier, legislation to protect people’s privacy and civil rights was overhauled, taking privacy laws to a whole new level. In the first quarter of the century, countless incidents of breaches by government bodies and police occurred. From phone tapping and falsifying evidence, to witness coercion and bribery, and in the end, the people demanded change. The aim was to protect the increase in civil rights breaches, but also in attempt to streamline the legal process. But it also made investigation and prosecuting crimes slower and less effective. Gaining approvals just to speak to a witness now took longer. Part of the overhaul was to reinforce the rights of witnesses who might not want to get involved in the investigation of a potential crime. Obtaining a warrant to search a citizen or premises was even worse. Instead of partitioning a judge or court, requests were now handled through each precinct, where a nominated person handled all matters pertaining to any legal requests. In the midtown precinct, that person was Cleo Newell. All requests went through her, and she actioned the relevant legal procedure. Everybody knew she played favorites though—some officers obtained their permits quickly, while others sometimes had to wait a week, and if you pushed or made noise, she made you pay by taking longer.

“…hear me?”

“Huh?” Gutterson snapped out of thought.

“What do you want me to do?” Harding asked.

“What’s the process for fast-tracking something?” Harding shrugged. Gutterson glanced at Smyth, who wore the same helpless expression. “I need to start talking to Curwood’s colleagues. I need those approvals.”

Gutterson wondered whether he might be able to sneak a conversation with one of them. Although, if they knew the law or were particularly sensitive to having questions asked about the recent death of a colleague, he might find trouble. He knew it was the wrong approach, but—

“I know what you’re thinking,” Smyth said in a low voice. “Don’t do it.

“Huh?”

“Isn’t that what happened last time? The rules and regulations are changing all the time, my man. The law is even more onerous in protecting people’s rights. You’ll get nabbed for some kid of violation, I promise.”

“Don’t go anywhere near that place without the appropriate approvals,” Harding said. “Otherwise you’ll invalidate any evidence you might attain and it will all fall over later on.”

Gutterson nodded. “Yeah, I know. Did she give you any idea when they might be ready?”

“No. The place was crazy. There’s a ton of people in the same boat. I’d say—”

Gutterson stepped towards the door. “Maybe I should go down and speak to her myself.”

“No,” Harding said, putting up a hand. “I’ll go back. Anybody else will only infuriate her and it’ll probably take even longer.”

Harding returned fifteen minutes later.

“What took you?” Gutterson asked.

“She said it’s in the queue and she had no idea when it would be done.”

Gutterson ground his teeth. “How can she do that?”

“She said the backlog is the worst she’s ever seen. Everybody thinks their job is the most important.”

“Okay. Just keep the pressure on—without pissing her off.”

Gutterson slumped down in the chair again, and pretended to review more documents. Each day without progress was a day closer to the captain taking away his resources or even shutting him down. The approval wouldn’t come through today, or even tomorrow, most likely. The frustration burned him. The evidence from Ronald down at the ME’s office indicated something dishonest was happening. But what? And how did he find out more if he couldn’t talk to anybody yet?

He wasn’t waiting any longer. He knew he risk overstepping the line, but he was getting desperate. The lack of progress so far was infuriating, and each passing hour made reminded him of the previous investigation and the difficulties he faced with that.

He left the office just after four. Camilleri called in to say her other case needed more attention, and that she’d be back working on Curwood’s death the following day.

He took the subway levitation train down to lower Manhattan and trudged along the sidewalk towards the Janefield Investments address, a voice in his head reminding him that he shouldn’t be anywhere near the place. Traipsing the streets though, he felt like a real NYC policeman again, and maybe his father had walked the same beat back in the early part of the century. He passed several ‘Bots on the other sidewalk, watching them from the corner of his eye. They hurried on to some altercation or another. Gutterson knew the potential violation, but couldn’t convince himself to abandon his plan.

He reached the block and, from the other side of the road, walked up and down the street surveying the building. It contained thirty or so stories, a dwarf amongst a city of giants, but it glittered with resplendence, standing out amongst the other faded and worn façades of twentieth century structures.

An old-style coffee shop, three building fronts down on the opposite side of the road, beckoned with the clink of glasses and mugs, and the strong aroma of coffee. People spilled out onto the seats at the edge of the sidewalk. Once, New York City was teeming with these sorts of places. Now, there just wasn’t enough custom to have so many, though the cafes that survived did a good trade. He liked the ambience of the place and the traffic would camouflage him. Gutterson spied a spare seat at a table with two women and a man. He pulled out a chair, smiled, and angled it away from them. A waiter approached and he ordered a latte, removed his electronic tablet, and began the pretense of working.

Gutterson sat for almost an hour, drinking two coffees, and scrutinizing most of the people that left the building from the corner of his eye as he pretended to examine data on his 3D tablet screen. A steady flow began after five o’clock. Many of the men who left the building—and several that entered—were all dressed in particular colored suits. Blue, grey, and brown—never black. He did not observe one person enter the building wearing a black suit.

At a quarter of five, Gutterson finished the last cold mouthful of coffee and prepared to leave. The people who’d originally been sitting at the table had left, replaced by a couple of smart young women who had eyed him suspiciously. As he stood to vacate the café, he spied two men leave the Janefield building and stroll across the road towards the coffee shop.

Fear urged him to leave, telling him that if they saw him, he might be exposed, but rationale assured him they had no idea who he was. It quickly dawned on him that this might be an opportunity.

They took a table about ten feet away, talking in low tones amongst the diminishing crowd. The café served a modest food menu, but more appropriate restaurants in the area had begun to draw people away. The taller man wore a blue suit; the shorter, pinstripe light grey. Both were immaculately dressed, like something out of fashion magazine.

Gutterson sat for another hour. He’d scrutinized the men from his position, trying to catch a word here or there, watching as they talked in low, unnerving tones. Something was going on. He perceived this from their repeated glances back at the building. His position allowed him best view of the smaller man wearing the grey suit and, using the strategic placement of his watch, was able to capture a clear image of the man to run through the facial recognition software back at the office.

It was after six when they finally left. Gutterson had polished off a chicken salad to authenticate his stay. He was going to be much later than he promised his mother, and trouble surely waited. He headed for the subway wondering what the images would tell, hoping the approvals would arrive the following day, and they might begin a proper investigation of Curwood’s death at Janefield.

Jennings put forward a call to Chekov’s private number through his implant just after 10 pm. It rang for a long time. He was about to hang up when a voice with a hint of a Russian accent answered.

“Hello?”

He floated forward on the chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “It’s Jennings.”

“Yes?”

“Stage two is complete.”

There was a long silence. “Good. I hope you didn’t use suicide again.”

“Auto accident. Untraceable.”

“Does Fox suspect anything?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him for several days. Apparently, he spent most of the afternoon with two of his closest confidants, and on a call that lasted some time.”

“To who?”

“We don’t know.”

“You’re not monitoring his voice communications?”

Jennings leaned back, rubbing his stubbled chin. “There have been some challenges.”

Clinking ice cubes sounded through the phone. “You need to tighten your control, Mr. Jennings. I suggest monitoring all his communications.”

“We’re working on it.”

Another long pause. “What about your team? How are they handling your demands?”

“Very well.”

“They still have your trust?”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Have you selected the third target?”

“I have.”

“How long?”

“A week.”

“Fox will be on his knees by then.”

“Do I confront him?”

“Not yet. But a confrontation is unavoidable… in the end.”

There
was
a first time for everything, Tabby thought, as she passed through the entrance of the Janefield building after her official start time of nine o’clock. She looked directly at the machine on the wall with her remaining good eye, wondering whether the retina scanner would work properly with her other eye swollen. But the green light flashed and the door opened. She touched a finger to the puffy skin around the socket, wincing at the pain.

She’d visited the doctor on advice of her taekwondo master following the grading the previous night. The moment she arrived home, she’d iced it until half her head felt numb, and taken several pain relief tablets with a hint of a sedative. Sleep had come quickly, but when she’d woken, her head throbbed and the area around her the bruise and the top of her cheek remained painful to touch.

It was not enough to keep her at home though. She was yet to record a sick day in her time at Janefield. Her father had instilled an early commitment to such things. She couldn’t recall him ever taking a day off work, regardless of his condition.

Reaching level twenty-eight, she poked her head inside Charlie’s door and greeted him. He was talking in a low voice, but it took her a moment to realize Tom was also in the room. Tabby stopped, glancing from one to the other, suddenly uneasy, and certain she had interrupted an important conversation.

“Tabby,” Charlie said, and the uneasiness vanished. “What the hell happened to you?”

Tom was up out of his seat in a flash, an expression of concern in his Caribbean blue eyes. Approaching, he said, “Let me have a look.”

Tabby halted, peering sideways at Charlie, who was grinning. Tom stood before her, examining the injury. She stiffened, realizing they had never been so close. It made her uncomfortable, conscious of her scent and state, but she wouldn’t move. “It’s really not that bad.”

Tom frowned. “Are you joking? How did it happen?”

“I got off lightly.” She flashed a smile. “The other guy has two of them.”

Tom’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“Grading for a second dan black belt is serious business. If you don’t come out of it with some form of injury, you haven’t been tested.” Tom stepped away, still eyeing the bruising. Tabby forced an awkward smile. She almost reached out to him.

“Maybe you should have stayed home,” Charlie said.

She waved it off. “It’s fine.”

“Can you actually see through that eye?”

“Yeah. I’m
fine
.”

He put up his hands. “All right, all right.” When he dropped them, his laughter transformed into a look of admiration; mouth curled up in contentment for her. He glanced at Tom. “She’s a tough one.”

“I know,” Tom said in an almost hypnotic voice. He smiled, and in it, Tabby saw everything Charlie had told her about earlier.

Charlie cleared his throat. “So you made second black belt, huh?”

A smile unfolded, her feat still not sinking in. “I did… after two years.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Hell, yeah. You wouldn’t want to mess with me.” They all laughed.

“No chance.” Charlie strolled back to his desk. “I admire your commitment, you know. You’re such a hardworking person, and this is the result. It’s fantastic. Is there anything you can’t do?” He glanced at Tom, who shook his head.

Tabby chuckled. “I’m sure there is.”

The door slid open and Bryan Fox appeared. The smile melted from Tabby’s face and she stood straight, as though she were a private being inspected by her army sergeant.

“Morning,” Fox said, glancing around them. Tabby managed a soft smile. Fox looked at her with an awkward expression. She considered that they had only spoken a handful of times since her interview. “Tabitha,” he said, noticing the bruising around her face. “Are you okay?”

She waved it off. “I’m fine thank you, sir.” Charlie explained her endeavors.

“Quite impressive,” Fox said. “I’ve always admired such dedication.”

“Thank you. I have my father to thank, really.”

Fox smiled. “I’m here on more unfortunate matters… Bryce Adler has been found dead.” Charlie reached out for his chair and sat, thunderstruck. Tom stuck a hand on his forehead. Tabby only knew Bryce to say hello, but understood another death of a company employee was never a good thing. “I was told yesterday afternoon, but have kept it quiet until now. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do, or how I was going to tell people.”

Tabby made for the doorway. This was not her business, and she felt the sudden need to call her father. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry to hear about Mr. Adler.”

At her desk, she spoke the command for her father’s implant number. She was just about to hang up when he answered in his gruff, raspy voice.

“Ethan Marks.”

“Dad, it’s me, Tabby.”

“Hello, darlin’. What a nice surprise.”

“I just wanted to say hello, and find out how you were.”

“That’s lovely. You’re a good kid.”

“We had an unfortunate incident at work; somebody passed and it made me think of you. I just wanted to chat for a bit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m doing okay.”

“How are your legs?”

“A bit sore on the colder days.”

“Your back?”

“Bearable.”

“You’re moving around, getting
some
exercise?”

“A bit.”

She knew he would never tell her the truth. “No word on the trial yet?”

“Nothing. I’m sure I’ll get in. Just a little bit longer.”

But a notch in his voice told her otherwise. “Dad? Have you heard something?” Silence. Her tone flattened. “
Dad?
Tell me now or I’ll come over there and—”

“All right, all right.” He sounded annoyed now. “I heard from the doctor running the drug trial. He said sorry, but he can’t fit me in this time.”

She sat forward. “What? But that’s not fair.”

“That’s life, honey.”

“How long before the next one?”

“Three months.”

Tabby wondered whether he’d be around in in three months. Though she didn’t want to convey that to him. “Don’t give up on it, Dad. Sooner or later you’ll get into that trial. You remembering to take all your medications?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Oh! I got my second dan last night.” She couldn’t help sounding happier at that.

He let out a cheer. “Congratulations! That’s a fantastic achievement.” A silence opened up. “I can’t believe you got to this point from where you started. What a fine example of dedication you are.”

“Well, I have you to thank. I know I fought you in the beginning, but you kept me at it and I’m so glad you did.”

“That’s my job, darlin’; to look out for you.”

But Tabby knew the roles had now changed.