Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (36 page)

A low ceiling of grey gloom hung over upper New York State, the air thick and heavy with humidity. The weather report promised it would break up later in the day, but there would be rain overnight. Steamy, Fox thought. He hated it. Canada would be colder if he could make it. No humidity where they were going.

Fox decided to drive into the office, instead of porting. He’d been teleporting more recently and was feeling the effects. If he continued using it without letting his body rest, he’d wind up spending a day or two at home sick. At least he told himself that. Deep down, he knew his days working at Janefield were numbered and he wanted to make the most of the scenic drive into the city.

He settled down for the journey by going over the details of Piper and the kids’ relocation, making sure they had all the relevant equipment and supplies to stay off the grid for the next twelve months. The rural property would keep them out of harm’s way until whatever occurred over the next week had blown over. So far, Fox’s strategy had gone to plan.

But he was less than ten minutes from the office when the hum of the car’s engine began to diminish and he felt the vehicle slow. Fox checked the digital display for an error—sometimes if the vehicle had a problem with the electrical or solar system it might pull off the road—but there were no visible warnings. He put the tablet down and glanced out the back and side windows, looking for an emergency vehicle that might have required passage. Nothing. His car continued its speed descent then pulled out of the main traffic flow and onto the closest service road where it came to a halt, idling momentarily before the engine shut off.

Fox sat eyeing the rear view mirror, his frustration growing.

A black, unmarked vehicle pulled in behind. He stiffened, noting the NYPD plate. This was unusual. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been stopped by an unmarked car. Agreements between government agencies usually prevented the likes of him from facing such attention.

From the vehicle, a tallish man in a fitted white shirt and black suit pants stepped out. Dark, silver-flecked hair fluttered in the breeze. He had narrow eyes and a smooth face, but as he approached, Fox saw lines and angles that told him the man was no rookie. Fox lowered the window as he reached the vehicle.

“Morning, sir,” the man said. He flashed a holographic badge with the NYPD Detective logo.

“Morning, Detective. What can I do for you?”

“Could you please step out of the car for me, sir?”

Fox hesitated. “Is there a problem?” Conversations inside Company vehicles were monitored. He didn’t know if this was anything more than a random traffic review, but remaining within earshot of the vehicle’s audio recording systems provided an element of security for him.

The detective shook his head. “No. I just prefer talking out here.”

Fox opened the door and climbed out, the creaks and aches of old age suddenly more palpable. “What’s this about?” He leaned next to the slightly open door and adjusted his dark glasses.

They stood face to face, the detective not quite as tall as Fox first thought, but no less imposing. Fox leaned back against the car as the detective stepped away, turned, and then looked at him with a tight, serious expression. A break in the clouds revealed a lone ray of sunshine. “Janefield Investments. I know what it is. What you do there.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “You’ve lost me.”

The man gave a light, humorless chuckle. “I don’t think I have. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Fox pursed his lips. “I assume you have a warrant for this discussion?”

The man pressed his watch and a holographic image appeared above the device. Fox touched the side of his glasses and the text scrolled on the inside of his lenses where he read it, validating the document. Sleepy unease stirred in his gut. He tightened his expression to ensure that outwardly he gave no indication of his concern. To obtain a warrant to speak with him meant there was sufficient evidence to support the police’s claim to the court. “Okay. It’s valid,” he said, finally. “You must have some information that suggests we need investigating.”

“My name is John Gutterson and I was investigating the death of Dominic Curwood. He used to—”

“I know who Dom was,” Fox hissed. “But he committed suicide. Why does that need investigating?”

Gutterson stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Because I don’t believe he did commit suicide.” Fox’s raised eyebrows collapsed in puzzlement. “I believe he was murdered.”

Fox straightened up. “And you have evidence to back this up?”

“I do.”

He rubbed his jaw, eyeing Gutterson. There was more to this. The detective was leading him somewhere. He had to be cautious. “The autopsy corroborated suicide.”

“The autopsy was falsified. And I think you know a little about falsification, Mr. Fox. Don’t you?”

The sleepy unease in Fox’s gut came fully awake. There was more to this than the detective was saying, possibly much more. He thought back two years ago when he’d been warned somebody from the NYPD was watching them. It has cost a lot of money to make that go away. Was this man connected to that, or another in a long line of snooping police? “You’re telling me categorically that Dom Curwood was murdered?”

“Yes. I am.”

“How?”

“Most likely pills were forced down his throat. There was a head contusion, and his nose was broken. That could relate to having it pinched shut.”

Fox thought of Dom’s smiling face, always willing to do the extra work or cover for somebody, a real company man. If it turned out that Dom was collateral damage, Fox would never forgive himself. “That doesn’t make it certain,” Fox said, folding his hands across his chest.

A light wind blew up. Murky clouds swallowed the break of sunshine. “I’m going to give you the chance to come down to the station with me. We can talk there, iron out a few details.” He leaned in close. “There’s still a chance for you, Mr. Fox.”

Fox scoffed. “Oh, I don’t think so, Detective. If you know as much as you make out you do, this is beyond fixing.”

Gutterson put his hands out. “Maybe so. But you can do the right thing, even now, near the end. There’s still time to make some sort of salvation.”

Fox thought of Tabitha and Tom, Johanna and Maggie. As much as his job was to protect the survivors in his region, so was it to protect the people who worked for the company too.

He walked away from the vehicle as the hum of engines drifted past on the street. The breeze ruffled his hair. He turned back to Gutterson, swallowing the last of his pride. “How?”

Gutterson considered this. “I was investigating the death of Dominic Curwood and I… got a tip from the ME’s office that his death wasn’t suicide. There were some… anomalies. The more I poked about, the more I discovered. But it was beyond that. I was investigating your company eighteen months ago. It—”

“You?” Gutterson’s face grew wide.

“What?”

“You were the one investigating Ralph Reindolf’s suicide?”

Gutterson’s face squeeze into confusion. “Yes.”

“But we…” Fox pulled back the comment. Gutterson’s face transformed into one of understanding.

“You shut me down,” he said, the realization taking his voice away. “Didn’t you?”

“One might say you gave up.”

Gutterson stood tall now, almost snarling. “I was forced to. I got suspended and lost my badge. Somebody put in claims I was taking bribes. Made up a load of shit to frame me.”

“That’s how it works,” Fox said. “That’s how it’s always worked.” Gutterson faced Fox, and there was a look in his eye that Fox had seen in his own reflection as a younger man—a determination that had taken him to one of the world’s most powerful jobs. “Maybe you’re different now.”

Gutterson rolled his tongue around his mouth, choosing his words carefully. “Let’s just say that experience made me stronger. I wasn’t going to let it go this time.”

“How long?”

Gutterson spoke in a low, confident tone. “I have two people ready to talk. They want to work with us.”

Fox’s faced folded. “Who?”

“I won’t say, but Charlie Billings was one of them. At least, we were working towards that. No doubt he was murdered because of it.”

“Not by me,” Fox said.

“But you agree he was murdered?”

Fox hung his head, looking at his two thousand dollar shoes. It was like a ball of string unraveling before his eyes. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He sensed a fateful moment, knowing either way he went, his future was written. What did it matter now? Despite the autopsy report, Fox had suffered that deep nagging voice that maybe something wasn’t quite right with Charlie’s death. But what kind of man was he if he’d ignored that nagging doubt about one of his faithful employees? “I think so. I don’t have proof, but yes, I think so.”

“That’s why I won’t give up. And I know there’s more to it than just the deaths of Dominic Curwood and Charlie Billings. We’re closing in. Janefield is in our sights. It’s a formality now.”

“Nothing’s a formality in this business.”

Gutterson was nodding. “I know. That’s why I got shut down last time. I thought we had enough. But now… this time… I won’t let it happen. And I’m giving you the chance to come with me now and put an end to it for the sake of the millions of people that are still alive.”

Fox looked away, along the busy street. A long line of cars moved in both directions. In the distance, a small air carrier hummed low between columns of buildings. Through gritted teeth, Fox said, “What you want and what I want are two different things. And it’s likely we won’t end up in the same place.”

“If you help us, it may minimize your prosecution.”

“It won’t make a difference.”

“You don’t know.”

“I can’t. I need to take care of it myself.”

Gutterson nodded and looked away. He stood there for a long moment in thought, glancing back towards the traffic. Fox expected him to say something poignant. “Tell me why? If the whole business is anything like the information I have, tell me why?”

“It’s worse,” Fox said, looking at his feet. “Without us, the world you know wouldn’t exist. There’d be people starving, millions more children dying, higher crime. People would be miserable. At least now they have a chance.”

“We’ll see.”

Fox stepped slid along the car and opened the door. A gust of wind yanked it wide open. “I admire your resolve, but you won’t stop this.”

“This is not going to end well for you.”

“I know,” Fox said, sliding into the back of the vehicle.

“Cap, it’s me, John,” Gutterson said, pulling away from the side of the road into heavy traffic. A yellow splotch of sun was emerging from the east, indicating in Gutterson’s eyes that the day was going to be a good one—an omen for his finale.

“John, where are you?” There was a harder edge to the captain’s voice that had been missing the previous day.

“Driving. I’m on my way in.”

“Well, you’d better be here soon. The chief is due in at seven-thirty.”

“What?” Gutterson felt a wash of excitement. All the uncertainty he’d felt about Martinez vanished. He kept expecting another insurmountable roadblock. Instead, another brick in the wall of expectation fell out. “How’d you manage that?”

“You know I don’t know everything, John. I realized after our discussion yesterday that you’d taught me something important, something I could have done with twenty years ago. Persistence. I finally got onto him late last night. We spoke for two hours about it all.”

“You’ll have a whole lot more to talk about after you hear what I’ve got to say.”

“You spoke to the CEO?”

“Yes. He basically admitted it all, said he thought Curwood and Billings were both murdered.”

Cap’s voice was high and sharp. “Is he going to talk?”

“No. He said he had to take care of things from his side.”

“Jesus, John, if we can—”

“No, Cap, he won’t. As much as he’ll admit it to me, he won’t go against the company. I think he honestly believes that what they do is for the benefit of mankind.”

Martinez was silent for a long moment. “John, we’re close now. You’ve done real good, but we have to bring this thing home following all the rules. They’re working against us and if we don’t follow the letter of the law, we’ll lose this.”

“I understand, Cap. I’ll be there in ten. We’ll hash it out then.”

Gutterson ended the call and spoke Camilleri’s name, keen to relay the good news.

Tabby stood outside the wooden double doors to Bryan Fox’s office, her heart beating to an intense drum rhythm. What she was about to do contravened everything she believed about behavior towards one’s employer. But then, her employer contravened everything she thought about one’s behavior towards mankind, so she supposed it was all right. In her right hand, she cupped the drive Charlie had given her a lifetime ago.

“You sure you want to do this?” Tom asked.

Tabby brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Yes. I have to.”

“You remember the password to his terminal?” She nodded. “He’ll have the same filing system as you, only with more options. Just insert the cord into the drive and plug it into the socket, then tap the folder icon on the desktop.”

“I know.”

“You understand this will change everything, don’t you?”

“Yes. But everything needs to change.” His mouth curled up but his eyes were heavy with concern. “By the way, I didn’t thank you for giving me that Taser. Might have saved my life last night.” Tom’s expression changed. Tabby waved it off. “Just Scott, my ex-boyfriend. Nothing compared to this.” But she had spent hours last night lying in bed thinking about what might have been. “I’ll tell you about it another time. Let’s do this.”

Tom scanned his card over the reader on the side of the doorway and the lock disengaged. “Good luck. Be as quick as you can. I’ll be in my office so as not to alert anyone.” She smiled at him, her fear threatening to sabotage the task. He touched her shoulder. “Be strong. We’re almost there.”

Tabby took the door handle and twisted. With a push, it came open and she entered, leaving Tom behind.

The room was vast, stealing her breath momentarily with its magnificence. It was the kind of office she imagined the CEO might have. A stunning view of the city greeted her from the entire east wall, early morning light smiling on gleaming skyscrapers. Drawing herself away from this, Tabby approached the beautiful redwood desk; beyond it sat a row of bookshelves filled with endless hardcover and softcover volumes, interspersed with relics and artifacts from around the globe. She fought the urge to stop and turn them over in her hands, instead focusing on the large screen hanging over the desk. She withdrew the chair and sat, reminding herself why she was there.

As she pulled herself to the desk, she momentarily wondered how she might explain herself if Bryan Fox happened to return.

She placed the drive onto the desk and touched the screen. The terminal activated, throwing bright light on the desk. A large box appeared with the alphabet and the numbers zero to nine. This was it. If the number was wrong, she was finished.

Tabby tapped the ten-digit code onto the screen and stiffened.

The password prompt disappeared and the terminal rolled into the desktop. Relief washed over her. She was in. Tom was right; the screen looked similar to hers, although this one had more icons. She found the folder image and reached out with a trembling hand and tapped it.

A list of drives and folders appeared. Tabby placed Charlie’s drive on the desk and found the
sync
icon on Fox’s screen. She lingered, holding her finger above it, wondering what her next action would bring. Tom had said somebody would be alerted. Would it be Mr. Fox? Jennings?

Tabby tapped the icon and the machine began to sync .