Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (25 page)

Fox took his glass from the buffet and sat down on a three-seat leather sofa facing a tumble of yellow and orange flames in the fireplace. The room was dim, the diffused glow of a corner lamp and the flames making shadows on the walls. He sipped at his third Scotch—with a fifth of the bottle to go, he imagined a longer night ahead enjoying the ambience of the den he had built upon first purchasing the house. His great-grandfather had a similar room, and Fox had gone there as a boy. Such retreats had almost fallen from existence in the last two decades, except for the older generation, and then only the ones who appreciated the times of yesteryear. Sleek, modern apartments and houses full of the latest gadgets and appliances to limit individual workload were prevalent. Fox couldn’t leave the past.

A large mahogany desk, which had taken Fox almost two years to track down, sat beyond the fire as the centerpiece of the room. A dozen bookshelves stood against the walls, and between them, photos large and small hung from the mix of brick and wood paneling: ancestors, family holidays, and breathtaking landscapes of a world long gone to ruin by over-consumption and climate change. Fox’s grandchildren loved the room, racing in between the desk and bookshelves when they visited. It always brought a smile to his face.

He had turned the multitude of problems over in his head, and would do so until solutions presented themselves. It wasn’t unknown for him to spend an entire night in the den, foregoing sleep to contemplate one issue or another. But this was unprecedented; Tabitha, the leaked drive, Charlie’s death, and his future. His world seemed to be crumbling around him. He’d forewarned Piper not to expect him anytime soon.

Fox gave the voice command to call the IT department at the office and his implant did its magic trick. One of the staff answered. “It’s Bryan Fox. Could I speak with Sash Palinski, please?” There was a flurry of movement, and then heavy breathing.

“Yes, sir. Palinski here.”

“Hello, Sash. You have the night shift again?”

“Last one, sir. Thanks to you, I suspect.”

“Your good work supports a move to the day shift if that suits you.”

“A great deal, sir, thank you. How can I help?”

“We had a security breach this afternoon. Somebody downloaded files off the server.”

“Yes, sir, at twenty-seven minutes past four. In Charlie Billings' office.”

“What happens when they copy those files onto the device, Sash?”

“A small encrypted batch file is copied with every such transaction, sir. Wherever those files went, so did the program.”

“And what activates that program?”

“As soon as the device is synced with an operating system, the program will ping a signal back to our server, identifying the location of the device.”

“Very good, Sash. Has that happened yet?”

“No, sir.”

“But you’ll tell me the moment it does?”

“Of course, sir.”

“There’ll be a generous reward for whoever can locate the drive first, Sash. And nobody can offer a bigger prize than me. What about the other work? How is that going?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to report, sir. I have a small amount of information. I’ll send it through tomorrow. Your objective has been particularly quiet.”

“Very well. Keep monitoring him. And thank you, Sash.”

Fox ended the call and went to the sofa where he swirled his glass of scotch and then sipped. There was nothing more he could do about the rogue files for now. His gut told him that Charlie had trusted Tabitha, and given them to her. He must have sensed something was wrong. Fox had no doubt somebody had fixed Charlie up. He would find out, and they would suffer. He considered confronting Tabitha, forcing her to give up the files, but that would damage their relationship, and she’d lose all trust in him. He couldn’t allow that now; the most important thing was getting her into the company, which offered some protection once he was gone. At least Jennings had taken the bait. The timing was right. He had made a promise all those years ago, and always intended to keep it. He’d considered the idea of just getting her out of the company, someplace safe, setting her up for a new life. But the explanation would be significant and who knew where that would lead. And as much as he could try to hide her, eventually, she would be exposed to the same risks posed to those outside the company, and that was something he wasn’t prepared to do. Her mother had explicitly asked for that not to happen. If he hadn’t made that move, they’d have targeted her or her father, and she wouldn’t have lived long.

Thinking of Tabby’s mother reminded Fox of another lifetime. Things had been less complicated then. The concept of the company seemed simpler, then. They had purpose and direction. He understood now that a big part of their ailing results was his lack of belief and passion for the cause. In the beginning, when they had brought him into the circle, he had embraced the idea, despite the horrors he quickly uncovered. Necessity, his boss at the time had told him. Take the lives of some to spare the rest, leaving them with a higher quality of life. It had seemed almost romantic—people dying to save others without knowledge of doing so. But gradually, that righteous notion had faded. The new wave—from the Chairman down though the divisional CEO’s weren’t just in it to save the people, as he and the others had been. They were in it to build their empires. It was as though they had foreseen the end of humanity, and decided to take their share before it was too late. The randomness of death was no longer. It had grown personal. It had been fortuitous, where everyone outside the immediate boundaries of the company had an equal chance to live or die. Now, he was certain half the divisions in the world were hand picking the people for their lists. It wasn’t the Company he and come to work for all those years ago, and Fox was powerless to stop the decline.

The desk screen beeped, notifying him of an incoming hologram. He stood from the comfort of the sofa and walked to the unit. Only half a dozen people had access to the private number, encoded with significantly higher privacy than the phones they used at the Company.

He pressed the icon, and a blue holographic image appeared above the desk. Jonas Whitmore’s displeased face and upper torso greeted him. “Hello, Bryan.”

Fox couldn’t help but smile. “Jonas. How are things?”

“Dangerous, my old friend. As usual. How are you? What is happening on your side of the country?”

Fox sighed. Part of him didn't want to discuss it again today, but his old friend often had good advice. “It’s gotten worse, Jonas. One of my best executives died today. That’s the third one in a month.”

“How?”

“Heart attack. Supposedly. But I have my suspicions.”

“That’s unfortunate. It’s bad sign when our people are attacking each other.”

“Indeed.”

“Was it Jennings?

“Had to be.”

“Did you confront him?”

“Yes. He denied everything.”

“Are you compiling evidence against him? You can’t let this linger, Bryan.”

“I know. I have a grave feeling it’s going to draw its conclusion.”

“We need you to come out on top, Bryan. What about your plans to lift revenue?”

“We’re working on something called Project Nightboat. It’s a gastrointestinal virus, but I don’t like the thing. It’s too destructive.”

“Can you wind it back a little? Reduce the impact?”

“We’re looking into it. The scientists claim it loses its transmission ability.” Fox fell back into his chair. “What happened to it all, Jonas? Back in the day, we had strict principles. We followed tradition and protocol—rules, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, my friend. It all worked, too.”

“It was her, wasn’t it? She kept the checks and balances in place, made sure everyone was accountable for their actions.”

“She was strict but fair. Things ran with few issues.”

“We're almost all that remains of that wonderful time. Although how much longer remains in contention.”

“You need to act, Bryan. Swiftly and aggressively.”

“I’m working on it.”

After the call, Fox returned to the comfort of the sofa and finished two more glasses of scotch before Piper insisted he join her in bed.

In the conference room on level two, Gutterson stood before the length of wall on which they’d set up their fragmented organizational structure of Janefield Investments. He knew he should be at home looking after the kids, but his mother had offered to help again. It would deepen her frustration at the situation even more, but since his chance meeting the previous afternoon with the woman who worked at Janefield, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. He’d be no use to his kids now.

He wasn’t using contemporary methods. He was printing out pictures and sticking them onto a wall was old school police work, the stuff they used to do thirty or forty years ago. The department could provide access to the latest visual devices, but he didn’t mind. It reminded him of a time when his father had set up a smaller version at home in the basement while he was solving murder investigations. He had explained to a young John what it all meant and Gutterson had never forgotten.

They were adding the faces and names of a person or two each day and, with Camilleri’s help, filling in the other gaps. Understanding the organizational structure was an important part of the investigation, but the key was still getting to the employees. Particularly Charlie Billings, who knew a whole lot more than he had revealed. Gutterson was acutely aware they were losing time with every hour. Except for Camilleri, he’d lost the rest of his team, and he wondered how long before Martinez pulled her off the case too.

He looked over the upper echelon of the organization. In the box at the top was a picture of a grey-haired man with an authoritative face, under which sat the name BRYAN FOX. Fox's role as head of Janefield Investments was public knowledge. That was the easy part. Four boxes lay in a row underneath Fox. Two of these contained the names Joanna Pirez, Finance Director, and Robert Jennings, Operations Director. The other two boxes were blank. Below that line was a third row with a box at the far left containing Charlie Billings’ face.

Gutterson stared at Charlie’s picture. “What do you know, Mr. Billings?”

A lot, he suspected; a lot that would help Gutterson if he could get hold of it. At the very least, Charlie had confirmed what Gutterson alleged—Dominic Curwood had not committed suicide. Charlie was his best chance. Maybe his only chance.

Gutterson turned back to the desk where a rough outline of the strategy to gather evidence spread out. He’d assembled a timeline of Charlie’s expected movements for Monday; photos of his apartment, a Lamborghini, and numerous shots of the Janefield building.

Gutterson had now added Tabitha’s name underneath Charlie. She had seemed genuinely concerned by something that had occurred yesterday. It just added more uncertainty and unease about the situation. Gutterson wished he had pressed her for more details.

It was twenty minutes later, as he reread his dossier on Charlie Billings, that his watch phone flashed. It took him a moment to draw his attention away from the report. There was nothing to identify the caller—no holographic image, or even a number. He tapped the screen and said, “Hello, this is John Gutterson.”

“Detective Gutterson, it's Tabitha Marks. We met at the café yesterday. Outside the Janefield Investments building.”

“Um… yes… hello, Tabitha. What can I do for you?” He stood, filled with a mix of anticipation. Maybe she had further information. Her voice caught as she tried to get the words out. “I’m sorry?” Gutterson said, raising his voice. “I didn’t hear that.”

“It’s Charlie,” she said, talking louder. “I’m not sure how to tell you this. I thought you’d want to know.”

Gutterson held his breath. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Gutterson’s mouth fell open. He dropped into his seat. “Charlie's dead?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“How? And when?”

“Yesterday evening. Sometime around five-thirty. They’re saying it was a heart attack.”

“A heart attack? He didn’t look much like a person who might have a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much more at this point.”

Gutterson stood again and ran a hand through his hair. Charlie was dead. His best chance of finding out the truth about Janefield was gone. Anger surfaced, but he bit it down, thinking of Tabitha. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Tabitha. I know you must have been very close to Charlie.”

“Yes. I was. I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

“Sometimes these things take time to… accept.”

“I wanted to ask… are you going to investigate his death, too?”

“Oh, well, that depends on whether there was anything suspicious.”

“I think there was,” Tabitha said. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but…”

Gutterson massaged his brow. He needed a moment; needed time to consider what had happened. But he couldn’t crawl past the fact Charlie, his best chance of knowing what was going on at Janefield, was dead.

“Sir? Are you there?”

“Yes. Sorry. It’s just a shock.”

“So will you let me know about the investigation?”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t promise anything.” He took a moment. “Thanks for letting me know, Tabitha.”

She hung up. Gutterson slumped down into the chair. He had lost his best chance of finding out what was happening inside Janefield. He felt a pang of sadness for Charlie, too. He had seemed like a decent man. He steeled himself and added it to his determination to solve the investigation.