Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (28 page)

“John, have you got a moment?” Martinez asked, leaning against the door of the conference room.

Picking up a sheet of paper, Gutterson froze. He almost told the captain he was busy. Based on experiences lately, Martinez coming to see him was never a good thing. He stood, and said, “Sure. Come on in.”

The captain folded both hands into his pockets and strolled in.

“Not good news, is it?” Gutterson said.

Martinez shook his head. “I’m sorry, John, but it’s over. I've got to shut you down.”

He waited for Martinez's face to soften; to lighten up the mood and tell Gutterson he had only been kidding, but it didn’t come. The boss was serious. Gutterson considered feigning misunderstanding, but that wouldn’t go down well and wouldn't change things. Camilleri had warned him. He should have expected it. Still, his frustration rose.

“Over?” Gutterson dropped the paper and threw his hands out, palms up. “Define over?”

Martinez drew a chair out from the conference table, and sat, his dark skin contrasted against the pale surface. “I need Camilleri back. There’s a ton of cases piling up and…”

“What?” Gutterson asked, pulling out his chair.

“We’re not getting anywhere here, John.”

“Yes, we are. It’s slow, but we’re making progress.”

“Not quickly enough.”

“We can work faster.”

“No. Camilleri is too important. She’s an outstanding detective. There are other cases—more important ones that need her attention.”

“And what about me? What about my attention?” Martinez shook his head. “Where do I go after this?”

“I can put you back into the administration role. There’s a backlog—”

“No, Cap, no.” Gutterson rubbed a hand over his face, probing the corner of his eyes. They stung. “Can I get a little bit more time? Just a couple of days?”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“But…” Martinez raised his eyebrows. Gutterson had nothing else. “I’ve got someone who might be able to help.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

Lines of skepticism etched Martinez's forehead. “What woman, John?”

“She works at Janefield. For Charlie Billings, one of the guys who died.”

“And what’s she going to do for you?”

“She’s going to help us.”

“Doing what?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet.”

Martinez laughed. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not a stupid man, and neither was your father.” Gutterson bristled, clenching his jaw. “Charlie Billings wasn’t your savior. The woman isn’t your savior, either. There’s no help coming, my friend.”

Gutterson wanted to tell Martinez that they weren’t friends, that he could stick the entire police force up his ass if he took away the case. They were friends though, and Martinez had stuck by Gutterson for a long time when most others had departed. Nobody would have given him a team of detectives on the strength of one death, or let him keep Camilleri a week ago. None of that meant he’d give up, though.

“Come on, Cap. I’m close. I’ll get her on board. I only need a few more days.”

Martinez squinted hard, shaking his head. “I can’t. I wish I could give you time, John, I really do, but I haven’t just got people breathing down my neck; they’re scorching me with fire. I’ve already given you more time than I’d have given anyone else. My credibility is on the line now. The commissioner is asking what the hell is happening. People in high places have gotten wind of what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem. You brought in these warrants and other than talk to a few employees you’ve done nothing with them.”

“My primary contact died. Don’t you think that’s too coincidental?”

“It happens. People die. What—?”

Gutterson leapt out of his seat. “Three of them? All within a month?”

“Then prove it's more than coincidence, John. That's your job. What can you prove? Where’s the evidence? Are you going to arrest anyone?”

“Soon.”

“Soon doesn’t cut it, my friend. If there was anything in this, wouldn't you have found it by now?”

“We’re close.”

“You’re not close.”

Gutterson swallowed. “We are, Cap. I know it.” He shifted seats and sat beside Martinez. “She’s the key here. She can help us.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“Gather evidence. She said there were others who think something is going on. I’ll find out who, and talk to them too.”

“What have you got, John? What convinces you there is more to this than what you're telling me?”

How much did he tell the captain? Everything. If he didn’t, none of it might matter. “We know Dominic Curwood didn’t commit suicide. Bryce Adler died in an automobile accident. They are rare events these days, Cap. And now Charlie Billings dies of a heart attack. Autopsy results are not back yet, but I’ll warrant there are some anomalies.” Gutterson peered back at him, unmoving. “Now we’ve got this woman, Tabitha Marks, and she doesn’t think it was a heart attack. Neither does a colleague of hers.”

“So?”

“She’s saying we should investigate his death.” Martinez raised his eyebrows again. “She’ll be on the inside. You know what that means. And… she’s agreed to work with us. Provide information about what’s going on in there.”

“She’s going to work with us?” Gutterson gave a slight nod. “She said this?”

“Yes.”

Martinez smiled and sighed. “John, you don’t make it easy on me, I’ll tell you.” He gritted his teeth, moving his head from side to side, in thought. “I’ll be moving Camilleri back to vice—”

“No, Cap, please—”

“On Friday.”

Gutterson hung his head. He had a few more days. He couldn’t believe it. “Thank you, Cap. Sincerely, thank you.”

“I swear, John if you were ever gonna find something, you’d better do it soon. Otherwise, neither one of us will be around to discuss it.”

“I will, Cap. I promise I’ll find out what’s going on. For both our sakes.
”

Jennings guided the silver Mercedes up the long, winding driveway of the family property. Trees flashed past, and he barely slowed at the narrow bridge over the small dam. He regularly drove in under darkness, with headlights guiding him along the narrow pathway, and almost didn't recognize the new plantation his wife had been working for weeks. Diane and the kids would be surprised to see him home so early. But he wasn’t there to see his family. He’d received a message from Chekov just after four-thirty insisting they video call from Jennings home rather than the office. The Russian wanted an update on things.

He knew “things” meant the missing drive. So far, there had been no developments. Jennings understood his lack of answers would draw Chekov's wrath. That was part of working for the man. You either learned to deliver on his expectations or failed. It wouldn't be that way forever. The truth was, Jennings despised Chekov but needed him for now. One day he would devise a strategy to usurp Chekov and take over the entire U.S. division.

The garage door lifted open, revealing a row of luxury cars—a Ferrari, two Range Rovers, and an Audi, his work chauffeur vehicle. Jennings angled the Mercedes in beside them and turned off the engine. He didn’t often drive to work but enjoyed the freedom of driving when he did.

He passed through the door leading from the garage and into the house. He thought about letting Diane know he was home, but she’d want to discuss one thing or another, and he had to call Chekov at six sharp.

In his office, Jennings locked the door and prepared his terminal. He sat in his luxurious leather chair and considered all the possibilities Chekov might throw his way.

At six, he pushed aside the first threads of anxiety and used his implant to call Chekov. The Russian never connected via the holographic system. The feeling was unfamiliar—usually Jennings controlled the situation. Under Chekov, things were different. He had the ultimate power to thwart all of Jennings' ambitions. For now, he had to continue playing his part, like a chess piece working his way towards the Queen.

“Mr. Jennings.” Jennings greeted Chekov. “Tell me about this storage drive.”

There was no getting around it now. “We… still don’t have it.”

“My warning wasn’t strong enough?”

“Of course—”

“We need that drive.”

“I understand, sir. We're making some moves, bringing the girl into the circle. Fox feels if she knows about the company she's more likely to hand it over.”

“What do you think of that idea?”

“I'm… not sure.”

“Fox is shrewd. Has she completed the training yet?”

“No, but it's scheduled for next week. That’s—”

“If you want to run a division of Janefield Investments, you need to hasten your actions. Cities crumble in a heartbeat. Things are falling apart while you're deciding how to retrieve this damn drive.”

Jennings pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don't even know if she has the drive.”

“What does your gut say?” Jennings kept silent. “You'd better hope she does, because, at this point, you've got no other idea about where it might be.”

“My gut says she has it.”

“You’ve got twenty-four hours. Get her fully briefed or go and get the drive. I don’t want to have to send my men back a second time, Mr. Jennings… there won’t be a third.”

Jennings ended the call and lay back in his seat. Another headache. They seemed to be an aftermath of dealing with Chekov. What did he do about the chairman? That would need addressing at some point, certainly after he took over the CEO role at Janefield.

Tabby propped up several pillows and slipped under the welcoming sheets of her anti-gravity bed. She took a warm cocoa drink prepared by Stella from the bed stand and recounted the day’s events in her typical detail.

Following the impromptu meeting with Mr. Jennings and Tom, things had become almost frantic. The recruitment staff was on the video call within fifteen minutes, and would present people for her to interview by lunchtime. There was apparently more desperation in the job market than she anticipated. Mr. Jennings brought her contract down and she signed it after scanning the text. This unnerved her, but given she didn’t expect to be in the role for too long, so she ensured there was at least a notice period for her resignation.

Eventually, she shut off her implant. Gutterson, the NYPD detective, would leave her seven messages by the end of the day, none of which she’d be able to return. She knew he wouldn’t give up until she gave him what he was after—information about the company’s activities, specifically relating to Dom Curwood’s death, and maybe even Bryce and Charlie’s. She could see from the lines around his eyes and the tension in his jaw when they met that he did not give up easily. She wanted to help him but figured she'd be more beneficial once she'd settled in and established herself in the throes of the company’s activities.

She pushed on, reluctantly interviewing and subsequently hiring an assistant from the six men and women the recruitment firm had provided. The woman—Rachel, a thirty-something mother with several small children—had come across confident, impatient, and blessed with a constant smile that reminded Tabby of her own naïve self. Tabby made a decision promptly, though full of guilt that the woman thought she’d be embarking on a long-term job, when in truth, Tabby didn’t know how long it would last.

The Janefield system continued working overtime with messages from other departments requesting times for her training, interior designers to remodel her office, and a financial planner to help with managing her remuneration. Three different luxury car dealers pushed to show her the latest model vehicles, and a real estate company promising unparalleled views once she moved to the most expensive company building on the Upper East Side. It was overwhelming. Tabby didn’t know where to begin. She thought she’d been organized working as Charlie’s assistant, but this was a whole new level.

After a short bite of a sandwich Tom had ordered from a local vendor, she bustled on, seeing the interior designer, which took longer than she expected. She didn't need too many options. The woman—mid-seventies, carved with plastic surgery and implants—insisted on numerous variations of colors that might go with Tabby’s golden hair. In the end, Tabby selected only a handful of changes, not wanting to take away from Charlie’s tastes too much.

Following the designer, Mr. Jennings—along with a lady from level thirty-two—had arrived with a schedule of training for the next week. It included a fourteen-day plan full of administration meetings and daily training sessions—most of which she had already gleaned from Charlie’s work. It was ‘meant to help her prepare for the new role’, but she knew most of it, and it all seemed superfluous.

The final meeting of the day amongst all the craziness was with a real estate representative. Tabby knew the company held a sizeable amount of property in New York, including several apartment buildings near the office where staff lived under exceptionally attractive conditions, such as unlimited access to utilities, no food restrictions, and the most comfortable conditions. The woman promised to show her through her allocated apartment the following day. Tabby sat in her new office listening to it all in staggered silence.

Now, as she drifted towards sleep, the one surprise—though, in hindsight, it should not have been—was the expectation that she would find out more about the company’s secrets. She kept waiting for someone to appear—perhaps Tom, or Mr. Jennings—to divulge its regular activities. Tom had promised it was part of the process and that it would all be explained.

There were moments where she wondered what she was doing. Guilt manifested, for Charlie mostly, but also that any delay was an agreement to the company’s principles, as though if she wasn’t fighting back, she was joining them. She promised herself she would never let
that
happen.