Tek Net (23 page)

“What? Tell me.”

“He can't seem to figure out how it works exactly. You know, how to turn it off like you said to do.”

“I saw Quadrill. Use it. Nick. It's on now. Giving me a lot of pain.”

“I know, I'm sorry, honey,” apologized Nick. “But my guy was calling me from the shuttle on his way home here. Maybe, you know, it could be I didn't hear him all that good.”

“When's he. Going to be in GLA. Nick? He's got to bring it to. Me so I can stop. These goddamn headaches.”

“Listen, Yedra. Tell me where you are.”

“At the beach. Because I like to walk. Along here.”

“Where, honey, which beach?”

“By Johnny's new club.”

“I'll contact Johnny and tell him to come down there and get you. Can you hold on?”

The pain took her over and she couldn't talk anymore.

41

Anzelmo pushed back in his chair. “Go over that again, lady,” he requested of Lana Chen.

“All right, this disc is the only headgear our customers will need.” She was standing at the front of the meeting room with a small grey disc held between thumb and forefinger. “This'll give you a better look at it.”

Lana placed the disc on a small projection stage, and a large holographic image of it formed over the center of the meeting table.

Mrs. Dooley, frowning and with her head cocked to the right, studied the projection. “What about the Brainbox every Tekkie has to hook the headgear to?”

“We've succeeded in making that superfluous,” put in Marriner, smiling.

Lana continued, “You'll notice a tiny clip at the back of the disc. That allows you to—”

“Where?” asked Macri. “I don't see any—”

“That little silvery dingus, schmuck,” said Anzelmo, pointing at the floating hologram.

“Oh, yeah, there it is.”

“You attach the disc to your hair,” explained Lana, placing the demonstration disc over her ear, “and that provides sufficient contact with your brain.”

Mrs. Dooley asked, “And, I believe you told us earlier, there are no Tek chips needed either?”

“They're no longer necessary,” answered Marriner, his smile broadening.

“I came into this project late,” said Macri, “and I guess I'm not too bright in some areas. But it seems to me that this is going to put Tek cartels like mine out of business.”

“It puts,” Giford corrected, “our major competitors out of business, old man.”

On a small table next to the projection stage rested a small portable computer. “From now on,” said Lana, moving closer to it, “anyone who has access to one of these can have access to Tek.”

“So long as,” added Marriner, “they deal with our consortium.”

Anzelmo turned his chair to get a better view, resting one hand on his knee. “How does that headgear connect with the computer?”

“Anytime you're within five feet of a terminal, you can become connected,” answered the Chinese woman. “You activate the whole operation verbally, reciting a series of passcodes and then ordering whatever kind of Tek illusion you want to enjoy.”

Macri was frowning. “I don't quite comprehend how the money gets from them to us,” he admitted. “Can you, slow, explain exactly—”

“Emergency! Security emergency!” announced the trio of voxboxes floating up near the ceiling.

Marriner jumped up, glancing at Lana. “Any idea what the hell is—”

“Rodriguez is on his way here,” she replied, tapping at the voxbug in her left ear. “He says—No, I'm losing him.”

A different voice from a different voxbox said, “Ramon Rodriguez requesting entry.”

Anzelmo pushed back further in his chair and, with considerable effort, stood up. “You promised us complete security for this meeting, Marriner,” he said, upset. “But instead we get bitches from Newz and now—”

“Rodriguez can enter,” said Marriner toward the ceiling.

A wall panel slid aside and the slick, handsome man came hurrying in. He moved to Marriner's side and reported in a low voice, “There may be some kind of bomb aboard the Movie Palace.”

“May be—or is?”

“Well, we better assume there is.”

“And how the hell did it get past our security checks?”

“I don't know that yet,” admitted Rodriguez. “But I think we better assume it is here—because Austin Quadrill has a reputation for being able to plant a bomb just about anywhere.”

“Austin Quadrill?” said Anzelmo, shuffling over to them. “Is that son of a bitch here?”

“Well, he is—he was,” answered Rodriguez.

“Which is it, asshole?”

Rodriguez took a deep breath before answering, “He got aboard somehow and we think he planted a bomb before he was killed.”

“Shit,” said Marriner, taking hold of the handsome man by both shoulders. “What the hell are you telling me now?”

“It's a sort of screwed up chain of events,” he admitted, and ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Jake Cardigan is on the Movie Palace, too, and it's his notion that—”

“That's wonderful,” said Anzelmo, dropping both hands to his sides. “We got a flapping mad bomber who does most of his work for my bitter enemies—assholes like Johnny Trocadero and—”

“That's who Cardigan suspects is behind this whole mess,” offered the uneasy Rodriguez.

“And as the frosting on the whole mess,” the old Teklord went on, “we got operatives from the frigging Cosmos Detective Agency crawling all over the damn satellite.”

Marriner let go of Rodriguez and stood back. “I want to talk to Cardigan,” he said quietly.

“We have to find him first,” answered Rodriguez even more quietly.

“You had a nice little chat with the bastard,” suggested Marriner, “then let him go on about his business.”

“He says he can find the bomb Quadrill planted,” explained Rodriguez. “And we only have about two and a half hours to—”

“Why did you let him get away from you?” said Marriner. “We've got our own bomb experts. I don't need—”

“I didn't have that much choice. He knocked me flat on my ass and when I awoke—he wasn't there.”

Mrs. Dooley had joined them. “Forget about Cardigan,” she told them. “What are your people doing about this bomb?”

“I've alerted the entire security force,” answered Rodriguez, and licked his lip again. “They're combing every nook and cranny of the entire satellite looking for the explosive device.”

“Tell them also,” said Marriner, “to look for Cardigan.”

42

It was Rodriguez who found Jake.

Not much of an accomplishment, since all he had to do was walk around the bend in a corridor down near the center of the orbiting satellite and there was Jake.

Grinning, striding right toward him.

“You'll have to come with me, Cardigan,” he ordered, pointing his lazgun. “Marriner wants to see you.”

“I wouldn't mind seeing
him
,” said Jake.

Rodriguez noticed the small grey metal box in Jake's right hand. “Is that it?”

“It is, yeah.”

Rodriguez ran his tongue over his upper lip and then his lower lip while he moved, rapidly, over against the strutted metal wall of the corridor. “What's the … What's the status of the damn thing, for Christ sake?”

“I inactivated it.”

“You know how to do stuff like that, Cardigan? What I mean is, you're sure it won't explode anymore?”

“Oh, it'll explode again,” said Jake. “I learned a hell of a lot about bombs while I was with the SoCal State Police, Ramon. Quadrill was a pretty clever lad, but there's almost no bomb that can't be controlled.”

“Oughtn't you to hand it over to me now? Then I can have our demolition experts make absolutely—”

“Here's how things work,” said Jake, speaking slowly and patiently. “Unless Marriner guarantees me and certain friends of mine safe passage off the Movie Palace—I'll rig this to blow again.”

“That would be suicide for you,” said Rodriguez. “And you'd also kill off hundreds of innocent people.”

“So?”

“C'mon, Cardigan, you're not that—”

“Think about it, Ramon,” he said evenly. “The Teklords framed me and got me sent up to the Freezer for four years. Four years in suspended animation and when I came out I didn't have a wife anymore and pretty nearly lost my son, too. Sure, I'd like to stay alive—but if I can't, then let's get rid of Anzelmo and his buddies
and
your boss Marriner.”

“You're bluffing.”

“Better see what Marriner has to say.”

After a moment, Rodriguez nodded his sleek head. “Okay, we'll go talk to him.”

“You're bluffing, Cardigan,” accused Marriner.

“Sure he is,” seconded Anzelmo, who was back sitting in his meeting room chair, breathing slowly and with a considerable wheeze.

“I'm not sure of that,” said Mrs. Dooley. “I've heard a lot about Cardigan and he's supposed to be mean and—well, not exactly rational.”

“That's a good appraisal of my character,” said Jake, grinning over at her. “Now, bring Natalie Dent here and then I'll get in touch with my partner, Sid Gomez, and we'll—”

“Don't do anything irrational, Cardigan,” said Rodriguez, holding out a placating hand to him and eyeing the little grey box. “But, see, we're going to have a problem here. We sort of lost track of the Dent woman and—”

“Well, I suppose this is as good a dramatic spot as any to make an entrance, although, if you want the absolute truth, I don't go in for flamboyant behavior,” said Natalie. A panel in the meeting room wall slid open and she stepped into the big room, followed by Gomez and the camera bot.

Sid gave his partner a lazy salute. “We've been eavesdropping for a spell,
amigo
,” he announced.

“Got some terrific footage on the meeting,” added Sidebar, tapping his chest.

“That's too bad,” said Marriner. “We're going to have to call Cardigan's bluff—and we're going to have to get rid of every damned one of you.”

“That really is, and I hope you'll forgive my using a cliché, since I'm known throughout the world, and even in pestholes like this, for my clever and original turns of phrase, mostly academic,” said Natalie, folding her arms under her breasts. “You see, the truth of the matter is that it really doesn't matter if—”

“In the name of God,” said Anzelmo, “get to the flapping point, lady.”

The reporter scowled at him for a few seconds. Then she said, “Okay, all right, we'll do it your way, Mr. Anzelmo. For the past twenty-six minutes your little gathering has been going out to each and every Newz, Inc., client on Earth. So in every major city of this giddy globe, and in every little hamlet and rural village, in the caves beneath the ground and in the deep dark jungles—the few that are left—people now know what you've been up to and what you were plotting. Before the day is too much older, I'd imagine you'll all, each and every one of you, be up to your, if you'll pardon my indelicate expression, fannies in law enforcement agents.”

Anzelmo narrowed his left eye and glared at Marriner. “You asshole,” he remarked.

“I agree completely,” said Marriner, and sat down.

43

Bascom said, “I'm pleased.”

From the chair he was straddling, Jake asked, “Pleased enough to okay that bonus you mentioned earlier?”

“Sure,” said the chief of the Cosmos Detective Agency. “I put in for that before Natalie Dent's special Newz broadcast from up there”—he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the ceiling—“had been on the air for more than a few minutes.” He turned to gaze in Gomez' direction.

He was standing by one of the high, wide viewindows, watching dusk settle down.

“Sid, I just alluded to your bonus?”

“I heard.
Gracias
.”

“I was expecting a mite more enthusiasm.”

Gomez came away from the window and leaned against one of the worktables. “I'm wondering about some of the loose ends in this case.”

“Such as?”

“What about Jill's husband, Ernst Reinman?”

“Paid us the handsome fee he agreed to pay if we found his missing wife,” answered Bascom.

“He's tangled up in this whole mess. He could end up in the hoosegow himself.”

Bascom said, “The fee agreed upon moved from his account to ours. I have no further interest in the fellow.”

“I imagine the police do.”

“That's true, Sid,” agreed Bascom.

Gomez said, “Does anybody know who killed Austin Quadrill?”

“Somebody hired by the late Yedra Cortez,” said the agency chief. “Lieutenant Drexler is on his trail even as we speak.”

Gomez frowned. “Late? Is that nasty
mujer
dead and done for?”

“She had a very strange accident,” Bascom told them. “Part of her skull exploded.”

Jake said, “Quadrill no doubt. Something he arranged before she had him done in.”

“I'm glad I'm not on the other side of the fence,” said Bascom, leaning back in his desk chair. “Over there you can't trust anybody.”

Gomez eased over toward the door. “What say we take our leave, Jake?”

“If that's okay with our employer.” Jake was untangling himself from the chair.

“Be off, lads,” Bascom said, waving in the direction of the doorway.

Gomez was perched on the deck rail at Jake's beachside condo, his back to the foggy night Pacific. “
Sí
, the handsome bonus Bascom is promising to bestow on us for our work on the TekNet case will be gratifying,” he admitted.

“But?” Jake, a mug of sincaf held in his left hand, was sitting in a deck chair.

“The prospect of additional wealth, at the moment, fails to cheer me,” he said. “Even the fact that, because of Natalie's worldwide blathering by way of Newz, I am once again, momentarily, a famous and celebrated sleuth doesn't do much to cheer my heart,
amigo
.”