Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (11 page)

“What have you found?” Gutterson stood behind Camilleri, working at a floating screen over the conference table. A profile picture of the shorter man from the café peered back at them. Smyth and Harding were off working on other cases—Gutterson couldn’t seem to get them all working in the same room at once.

“Charles Neilsen Billings, thirty-four, married, worked at Janefield Investments for a little over two years.”

“What’s his role?”

“Senior Investment Analyst—according to his business social media profile. Pretty normal.”

“What about the other guy?”

“Thomas William Bright. Thirty-five. Single. Three years. Title is Regional Director of Investment.”

“Regional Director? That’s quite high up.”

Gutterson’s implant phone sounded. “Excuse me.” He stepped away from Camilleri, touched behind his ear, and greeted the caller.

“It’s Ronald Motley down at the medical examiner’s office.”

“Ronald?” Gutterson stiffened. “How are you? What can I do for you?”

“You said to call you if I came across anything else.”

“I did. Thanks for following that.”

“Say… will you be keeping those payments coming? I mean, they’re not much, but it all helps.”

“You bet, Ronald. In fact, I was thinking of increasing them a little. You’ve been really helpful lately.”

“Oh wow, that’d be great. Okay, so we received another body yesterday. Motor vehicle accident.” Gutterson’s pulse quickened. “Name’s Adler. Bryce Adler. That name familiar to you?”

He steadied himself on a chair. “Bryce Alder? It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well, it should; he worked for the same company that Curwood worked for—Janefield Investments.”

Gutterson felt some sort of body separation. “Is that right?”

“Haven’t seen that before. Two guys from the same company a week apart.”

“Incredible.”

“I’ll send you a copy of the report when it’s done.”

“Thank you, Ronald. Thank you indeed. I really appreciate you keeping me updated about these things.”

“I’ll keep doing it, Detective. Glad to be helping.”

Gutterson fell into the chair with a thud. Camilleri turned to him. “What is it?”

“There’s been another death at Janefield.” He explained the rest. “Jesus Christ, I need those approvals.”

He left Camilleri and rushed downstairs to confront Newell about the delays in their application. Harding had gotten nowhere; Gutterson didn’t care how busy people were, he had a goddamn murder investigation to solve.

The traffic around Newell’s office was hectic—a queue of people waiting to speak with her; others coming and going between the departments within the vicinity. As Gutterson approached, Newell and a male officer were arguing, their shouts and cries rebounding down the corridor. Despair filled the pit of his gut. The risk in pissing her off was that she delayed the approval even longer. But how had it taken so long? That’s what he wanted to know. They were the law, part of the NYPD trying to maintain order in the city and investigating crimes. How could bureaucracy have become so bad?

Gutterson lined up behind the others, trying to ignore the squawking from the window. The soft conversation of people in the line told him he wasn’t alone in his frustrations. Obtaining approvals was a far different process from the one Gutterson was taught in the academy. In the old days, they simply applied to the courts for a warrant and usually obtained it within hours, not days. Police work had been easier then. He understood why change had been necessary—government organizations and large corporate entities messing with the public’s privacy in the ten's and twenty's had forced tighter laws, but Gutterson felt things had gone beyond that.

Finally, he reached the window. After a moment, Newell looked up and peered at him. Mousey, insipid hair hung at her shoulders. She had a large neck, and her ample body sat hidden behind the counter. She reminded Gutterson of a giant frog.

Newell swiped and tapped at a screen beside her. Eventually, she said, “Ah, Mr. Gutterson, son of the famous Roy Gutterson, decorated officer of the New York City police department.” Her features tightened and her jaw flexed. “I never liked your father. He might have been decorated, but he was a bully in my eyes.”

Gutterson raised his eyebrows and made a soft noise. Nobody at the precinct had ever said such a thing—even at the time when they’d taken his badge. He wanted to tell her he agreed. He felt his lips curl, and her narrowing eyes told him she understood.

“What is it?” Newell asked.

“One of my detectives put in an application for witness questioning on Wednesday. I’d like to know… when it will be approved.”

Newell watched him, her large, protruding eyes cautious. “Wednesday, you say.” He nodded. Her hands did their work again, swiping and tapping. “You’re the requesting officer?” He said he was. “And for what citizen or entity?”

“Janefield Investments.”

Her eyes flicked up at him. “Nothing here, I’m afraid.”

Gutterson gripped the edge of the counter, his face screwed up in misunderstanding. “Nothing? I don’t believe that.” Newell gave a wide-eyed shrug. “Are you sure? Can you check again, please?”

“I’ve got no pending or recently approved requests from you of any kind—warrants, apps for questioning, observation, or anything else. Last one was July 2043. I’ve got nothing for Janefield Investments either. Again, last request was July 2043, denied.”

“What about, Harding? Detective Harding. Anything from him?”

She swiped her finger back and forth and then tapped the screen. “No.” Gutterson rocked back from the counter, bemused. “Is there anything else?”

Gutterson shook his head and left.

On the way back upstairs, he checked both Harding and Smyth’s desks, but they were empty. He tossed the possibilities around in his head, but it all lead back to two probable conclusions—either Newell was lying or Harding never put the request in.

He stomped his way back to the conference room and found Camilleri working on a company structure on a large clear screen hanging from the roof. He stopped before her, hands on hips, lips pressed together.

“What is it?”

“Newell says it was never lodged.”

Camilleri frowned. “The application?” Gutterson nodded. “Was she joking?”

“She doesn’t look like a woman who jokes around.”

“Strange.”

“I don’t get it either. I need to speak with Harding.”

“He’s out working on a case.”

Gutterson sat, exhaustion slithering into his body. “I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Confront him. Find out what the hell is going on.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t help but feel a bit of déjà vu right now. It’s like all the same barriers are being put in front of me that were last time.”

Camilleri pulled out a chair and sat beside him. “But you don’t want to go down the same path. Rule breaking, I mean.”

He nodded. “I know. It’s just… if we can’t prove to Cap there’s something more in this, he’ll divert the resources. And I’ll probably be back to analyzing crime data.”

Camilleri thought about this, the lines on her forehead full of worry. She had been a bitch in the past, but now, he was grateful for her consideration. “What else can we do?”

Gutterson shrugged. “We’ve read through the death scene report. That’s closed now so we can’t go back there and examine the scene. The autopsy—though we know it's falsified.”

“Why don’t you take that to Cap?”

“He already knows the condition of the body didn’t quite match the report.”

“What did he say?”

“Essentially, if there’s more to this whole thing, extra evidence will be the key.” Camilleri considered that as Gutterson continued. “It won’t be enough. It’s an ME assistant’s word. I’m worried they’ll bury it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It’s my smoking gun at the moment, though. And I don’t want to jeopardize it by revealing anything too soon.”

“I’ll be interested to hear what his colleagues say.”

“Exactly. They’ll be able to give us an insight into whether he was capable of doing it. I just have to find a way around these shitty privacy laws and a back log of approvals.” He turned to Camilleri. “Tell me why can’t I just approach one of them?”

“You can. But if you’re caught, that’s it. Forever. No solving this case, no solving the original case, and you’ll never work detective again.” Gutterson scratched his head. She was right. He knew she was right, and he didn’t know why he kept pushing it. “Hang in there,” Camilleri continued. “Just a little bit longer. Let’s force the application through and get the approval the right way. Then nothing comes back on us later if this thing is something more, okay?”

Nodding, Gutterson said, “You’re right.” He rubbed his eyes and stood, then looked back at Camilleri. “I meant to ask. What’s your first name?”

“Janice.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Janice.”

Jennings parked in his usual spot beneath the Janefield building and took the elevator to the lower ground level three where he scanned in to the IT server room via a simultaneous retina scan, fingerprint impression and DNA sample. He considered parking a few blocks away, but if anybody found out, it would draw suspicion.

IT was on a twenty-four hour clock, their presence mandatory to ensure the company’s secrets were kept safe and troubleshooting was available. His contact was working the late shift.

The room was modest, fifty-foot square with half a dozen screens and a limited number of computer towers. Jennings remembered visiting a similar room twenty years ago when he was in the military. Cables had snaked everywhere; now there were none. Everything was virtualized and data was held off-site in secure locations so that if the site was compromised, the secrets were cut off. Although small, the room was the epicenter of control for the company’s activities and information—the layer of security that might make the difference between compromise and safety.

Jennings shivered at the cold air used to keep the machine’s heat down. In the far corner at a large swipe screen sat a skinny man in jeans and ski-jacket. Palinski. Jennings footsteps alerted him and he swiveled, meeting Jennings' gaze.

“Hello, sir,” he said, rising from the seat. Palinski stuck out a hand. Jennings ignored it.

“You got the passwords?”

From the desk, Palinski picked up a scrap of paper filled with handwritten scrawl. “Here.”

Jennings looked over the writing. Three sets of numbers stared back at him. “That’s it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tomorrow morning, I want you to wipe my audit trail, everything I do on my computer after 10 pm tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Jennings turned to leave. “Excuse me, sir?” Palinski asked. Jennings raised his eyebrows. “Can I assume my payment will… be… made soon?” His words drifted away as he noticed the scowl of impatience on Jennings' face.

“Just like we discussed, the extra money will be transferred with next month’s salary. A performance bonus, if you like. I’ll notify the paymaster.” Palinski nodded thanks. “But I have another job for you. A most important job.” Palinski’s eyes lit up. Jennings reached into his pocket and removed a vial. “Before we get to that though, I want to show you what our scientists have been working on.” Palinski’s eyes followed the object. “This is called HKX-5501. It’s a synthetic drug that causes cardiac arrest within thirty seconds. It rapidly degenerates the surrounding heart tissue and localized arteries to mimic a person with severe heart disease. We use this often. It works. Nobody knows.”

Palinski gulped; his face taut with fear. “That’s… nice.”

“Working with me, you’ve been given a tiny insight into the true nature of this organization. But that just puts you and your family at greater risk.” Jennings took a tablet out of his pocket and held it up. “Familiar with these people?” He scrolled down the screen, showing an older man and woman and a younger girl that looked similar to Palinski. “We know every last detail about your parents and twin sister.” Palinski’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging. “Remember that…

“Anyway, the job I have for you is to monitor Bryan Fox’s computer and phone activity.”

“The CEO?” Palinski croaked.

Jennings nodded. “We have reason to believe he’s feeding information to an external source. Putting the company at risk. I want daily reports on his activities—who calls him, who he calls, what sort of communications go through his message center. Don’t miss a thing.” Palinski nodded. “If you do this well, you won’t be working the Friday night shift any longer, you’ll be on the day shift, and supervising the other network administrators. That’s a promise.”

Palinski broke into a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Remember,” Jennings said, holding up the vial, “not a word to anyone.”

Jennings caught the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor and stepped out to find the low hum of machinery at work. The offices were empty aside from the ‘Bots vacuuming the floors and wiping down surfaces. They wouldn’t interrupt if he locked his office door.

This was the beginning of the third stage of his planned attack on Fox. It was the riskiest of the lot, but as close as he dared to go to Fox’s circle of senior executives. He had studied the profiles of the entire group looking for a weakness. In the end, it of course had to be Charlie Billings. Jennings had a plan for Charlie and he was going to use his wife as bait. It was a long shot, but within the broader rules of the company. If his actions ever surfaced, he had some protection. He would use the backbone of the company’s population control methods: the
list
. He had manipulated the list on two occasions before; once to kill a man who had ridiculed him prior to his working at the company—straightforward revenge. The second time to murder his wife’s sister in-law, after she had cheated on Diane’s brother. Nobody knew. He’d gotten away with it using Palinski’s help, and compensated him adequately for it. Besides, Palinski knew the consequences if he ratted.

Jennings swiped into the system and his terminal activated. Palinski had shown him how to access the program. Now, he did so from memory until he reached the first password block. He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and tapped eleven numbers on the screen. The screen made a clicking sound and a fresh menu appeared. It listed all the territories within the U.S.; Charlie was responsible for the northern part of the state of New York. It didn’t matter that his wife lived in the city; Jennings would add her to his list for the following week.

He selected the region and another password protection box flashed up. Jennings tried the second password. The screen disappeared and a list of names materialized. He swiped his two fingers up the screen and scrolled through them. He decided to replace a female with Charlie’s wife, Samantha. He picked the name Nicole Hansen, and deleted the entry. Nicole Hansen, whoever she was, would live another day, perhaps a lifetime. He selected the ADD ENTRY icon and a third password box appeared.

This was the moment. Jennings could probably have reached this point alone if he had scrounged around hard enough. But adding a person to a list was a big deal. The computer
always
managed the task. Human interaction was cause for severe disciplinary action. From Friday night at six o’clock, it began building all the lists across the continental United States. By Monday morning, they would be complete and each regional manager would receive one for approval. The only other staff member with power to alter the list—adding or deleting—was Fox. Technically the IT guys
could
do it because they had full access to the systems and passwords, but the punishment was worse than dismissal. If this password didn’t work, the IT team—along with Fox—would get an instant alert of a system breach.

Jennings punched the code onto the screen. It lingered, frozen for a long moment. Hell, if it didn’t work, it might expedite the impending confrontation with Fox.

The screen flashed once and the amended list appeared. Nicole Hansen had disappeared, replaced by Samantha Billings. It was done.

Sure, the move was a risk, but he was certain that Charlie would not approve the execution of his wife, and that would transition to the next stage of Jennings’ plan—getting rid of Charlie.