Tek Power (5 page)

“You think he suspects I know why those thugs broke in here?”

“He must have an inkling that you were keeping something back,
sí
.”

“Actually, I do some lying in the course of my teaching work. I have to lie to parents now and then, to students, even to my department heads. You'd think, therefore, that—”

“Ah, but lying to civilians is much easier.”

A frown suddenly touched Richard's forehead. He jumped up, hurried over to a stack of cassettes they'd already sorted through. “Wait now,” he said. “Yes, wait a minute.” He grabbed up a vidcaz and held it up.

“Eh?”

“This one was made at a small Larson-Dunn dinner party we had here about a year ago.” He approached the wallplayer. “It was a dreadful affair that they pressured Eve into having. For some paroled swindler who was planning to write a faxbook about his colorful career.”

Grunting slightly, Gomez rose to his feet and pocketed the sniffer. “You think this is the very cassette those two
pendejos
were seeking?”

“No, but I just now recalled something about this particular gathering.” He thrust the caz into the slot. “Show me—what the hell was his name? Larry Seagrove, that's it. Yeah, show me something with Larry Seagrove talking.”

“Larry Seagrove,” repeated the voxbox of the machine.

“He's on the list,” muttered Gomez.

There was a brief humming, a faint clicking. Then a scene blossomed on the wall.

Richard inhaled sharply, then closed his lips tightly together.

His wife was up there on the wall, looking very pretty, standing near a living-room window that looked out on the twilit city.

“Let's see Seagrove,” said Richard, anger in his voice.

“Coming up.”

A wider shot showed a handsome, though going to fat, man of about forty-five standing beside Eve. He held a glass of dark ale in one hand; his other hand, pudgy tanned fingers, was stroking her bare upper arm. “What's that asshole doing here?” he was asking.

“Larry, love, we're taping this whole evening, remember?”

“So putting this fiasco on tape makes Elroy not an asshole?”

“That's enough.” Richard bent his head low, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

The image of his wife and the pudgy man faded and the wall was empty.

“I only met Seagrove once.” Richard's voice was husky. “But I ought to have recognized that slurred, drunken voice of his.”

“He's the
cabrón
who phoned you last night?”

“I'm certain of it,” he answered. “Seeing that label on the vidcaz earlier must've triggered my memory. Yes, he's the one who called me.”

“This
gordito
works at Larson-Dunn, too, doesn't he?”

Richard stared at him for a few silent seconds. “He does, but how'd you know that?”

Gomez looked away. “We have a list of all the employees. It's an unusual name and it stuck in my
cabeza
.”

“Yes, he worked with Eve here in Manhattan.”

Gomez went to the open doorway. “Jake,” he called into the living room. “Cease your labors for a moment and get in here,
por favor
.”

“Found something?”

“Not what we were looking for, but interesting nonetheless.”

7

“D
AMN IT,
I can handle this myself,” Richard insisted to Jake.

They were standing in the living room, toe to toe.

“Probably so,” conceded Jake. “But you're going to stay home and keep out of it.”

“Simply because you work for my father doesn't mean you can order me around like a—”

“Consider this,” cut in Jake. “Somebody killed your wife. Then two thugs broke in here to work you over.”

“I'm not afraid of getting hurt, if that's what you mean,” he said, his voice climbing. “I'm capable of going over to Larry Seagrove's and asking him what the hell he knows.”

Jake took two steps back. “Capable of asking him maybe,” he said. “But not necessarily capable of getting the right answers. I know what you're feeling, but you're going to have to let us work this case our way.”

“To you it's a case, nothing but a job. But
my
wife was murdered,” shouted Richard. “I mean to find out why Seagrove phoned me last night.”

“
Momentito
,” cut in Gomez, who was sprawled on the bright sofa. “I'd like to suggest that both you
hombres
calm down. You want to find out what happened to your wife and so do we.” He planted his feet on the rug and rested his palms on his knees. “Jake and I, however, know more about doing this sort of work. If you mess up, you'll not only lose us valuable information, but you may very well end up defunct.” He lifted his hands and clapped them together once. “This is a purely selfish motive, Ricardo, but I don't want to have to go home to GLA and report to Walt Bascom that I allowed his favorite
hijo
to do something stupid.”

“I can see that, yes, but still—”

“The Continental Agency is sending over a fresh batch of operatives,” continued Gomez. “Stalwart lads and, I am assured, smarter than the last crew and able to do a crackerjack job of looking after you. Stay here and as soon as we find out anything, you'll be filled in and totally informed.”

“It's just that I feel I should do something.”

“Anger always gets in the way of an investigation.”

Sighing, Richard shrugged and turned away from them. “Allright, okay,” he said. “I'll sit it out—for now.”

Jake moved to the doorway. “We'll track Seagrove down and talk to the guy.”

Gomez said, “
Amigo
, I'm going to leave that chore to you,” he announced. “I have a few contacts of my own in this bustling metropolis that I want to drop in on.”

T
HE MIDMORNING SUN
warmed the small Level 13 pedramp park. Gomez was sitting on a bench amid the holographic projections of oaks and maples, his portable vidphone resting on his lap.

Something was wrong with the simulated grass surrounding his neowood bench and it kept changing color, flickering from green to blue to purple and then to green again.

“You know what you need, sir?”

“Privacy,” answered Gomez.

A heavyset young black man had stopped in front of him. He'd been pushing a wheeled vending cart that had
BOOX
—
CLASSICS WHILE U WAIT
! labeled on its side. “Something to read is what you need,” he amplified. “My name is Enery.”

“Enery, begone.”

“How about trying our popular Boox version of
Oliver Twist?
Specially condensed for modern readers by our expert staff of university-trained experts for your reading pleasure,” recited Enery, smiling broadly down at the seated detective. “And here comes the best part—it only takes fourteen minutes to read.”

“I can read your entire version of
Oliver Twist
in fourteen minutes?”

“Bright fellow like you might knock it off in eleven,” answered the book vendor. “I can see the idea excites you.”

“Excitement isn't exactly what your product inspires in me, Enery old man,” he said. “But you should've hit me earlier. I already went and read the damn thing in its original form.” He made a shooing motion with his right hand.

“Too bad, sir, what a waste of time. Well, then how about taking a crack at
Hamlet?
Reading time seven minutes.”

“How about I toss you and your wandering press off the ramp and into oblivion?”

“You're obviously not interested in the lowpriced spread of literature,” concluded Enery. “So long, sir.” He pushed on.

Gomez punched out a number on his phone.

A ball-headed robot appeared on the screen. “Secure Zone Two Police Headquarters/Precinct B,” it said. “Personal Line 16.”

“Sergeant Ramirez,
por favor
.”

“Who's calling?”

“None other than Sid Gomez from out of the West.”

“Seashore or mountains?”

“
Qué?
”

“What sort of scenic footage do you want to watch while you're waiting?”

“Neither.”

The screen turned black.

Whistling quietly, Gomez watched the grass fluctuate.

A thickset man popped up on the screen, scowling. “What nerve. Don't you remember,
cholo
, what I told you the last time you attempted to bother me?”

“As I recall, Roberto, you swore undying devotion and—”

“No, not at all, on the contrary,
burrito
. I informed you that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with shady SoCal private eyes.”

“Odd, I have no recollection of—”

“You've got to quit intruding on my police work, asking favors,” warned the glowering policeman. “It violates all sorts of regulations and, in addition, Sid, it gives me a pain in the butt personally.”

“Accept my apologies.”

“For as long as you're hanging around our fair city this time,
amigo
, stay the hell away from me,” advised Sergeant Ramirez. “Oh, and let me give you one more bit of advice. Shed that gaudy Hollywood Sector jacket you're wearing and buy yourself some conservative Manhattan clothes.
Adiós
.”

He vanished from the phone, replaced by an impressive long shot of the Maine coastline.

Smiling, Gomez slipped the phone in his pocket and stood up.

T
HE YOUNG WOMAN
made another slow, thoughtful circuit of Gomez. “I guess we might, maybe, I don't know, be able to help you,” she said dubiously, tugging at a strand of her long dark hair. “The claim of the Park Avenue Haberdashery, afterall, is that we can fit anyone. But in your case …” She shrugged with both shoulders and both hands.

The detective said, “I didn't actually come here to be outfitted,
señorita
, so … But what exactly is bothering you about me?”

“I'd like to drag one of our servobots in on this.” She leaned far to the right, scrutinizing him up and down. “Probably, though I doubt it, our computers can whip up at least a partial solution to your problems.”

“What problems? I don't have sartorial problems.”

“You're seriously lopsided.”

“I don't happen to be lopsided at all,” he insisted. “My body is, in fact, so close to perfection that you could use it as a model for heroic statues or—”

“This shoulder,” she said, patting the left one, “doesn't match your other one.”

“You caught me in the act of shrugging and … But wait.” He held up his hand in a stop-gesture. “You're sidetracking me. Pay attention now. I want to visit Dressing Room 6 and then try on three pairs of plaid overalls.”

“You'll look even stranger in plaid,” she assured him. Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh, it's that password nonsense. You're one of Bob's cronies.”

“That I am. One of his least lopsided cronies.”

“Where'd you get that jacket you're wearing?”

Gomez repeated, “Plaid overalls.”

“Oh, right, yes. Come along this way.” She guided him through the rows of robot manikins to the rear of the clothing store. “Part of a costume maybe?”

“Eh?”

“Your jacket. Or maybe it's a disguise?”

“This happens to be,
chiquita
, a very stylish piece of wearing apparel,” he informed the young woman. “The truth is it's fresh from SoCal and, therefore, at the forefront of fashion. Here in this backwater of society, you haven't as yet—”

“Malarkey,” she observed. “Anyhow, here's Dressing Room 6.”

He scowled for a few seconds before entering the dressing room. He slid the door shut behind him and then tapped three times on the mirror with his left thumb.

When the mirror moved silently aside, Gomez hopped over into the shadowy room behind it.

Sitting in one of the three straightback chairs was Sergeant Ramirez. “You're in Manhattan about the Eve Bascom murder, aren't you?”

Gomez cocked his head. “So you lawmen are admitting it is murder?”

“Officially the police are admitting just about
nada
.”

“Why is that,
amigo?
”

Ramirez shifted in his chair. “I'm not sure, Sid, exactly what is going on,” he answered. “But the lid has been clamped down tight on this one. In fact, when your call came in there was a government agent right outside my cubicle talking, in a very low voice, to Detective Busino and Lieutenant Naprstek. That's why I rerouted you over here to my uncle's place.”

Gomez sat. “What kind of government agent, Roberto?”

“This guy didn't identify himself to me and I haven't asked anybody. I'm not, see, officially on this case at all,” he told his friend. “I'd tag him Office of Clandestine Operations or some similar sneaky outfit.”

Gomez tugged at his moustache and scanned the ceiling. “Why should the OCC be interested in the late
señora?
”

“Got no idea,” answered Ramirez. “And, being a few years older than you, I'm no longer interested in solving such puzzlers. I don't care to get messed up in anything that might screw up my retirement plans.”

“You set up this meeting, though.”

“We're still buddies after all, Sid. And I think I can pass along a tip that might help.”

“I'm wondering what sort of tip an
hombre
who knows nothing can give me.”

“It could be I know a little something,” admitted the police sergeant. “Of course, the absolutely best advice I could give you would be to
vamos
back to SoCal
muy pronto
. But I know you won't pay attention to that.”

“
Sí
. I won't.”

“We'll move along to Tip #2,” said Ramirez. “Go talk to Charley Charla. He's up in Spanish Harlem—right near the White Harlem border—these days. He might know something you want to know.”