The Administration Series (22 page)

At least the dearth of live leads meant that he could take some time off over the weekend. It was Friday, and provided the interview with Tillotson didn't take too long, he might even be able to get away in reasonable time. Maybe he'd ask Sara if she had any plans for this evening that she couldn't cancel for beer and Thai.

One year, just
one
year, Tillotson would approve his grade increase and bonus recommendations without quibbling. When it happened, the shock would probably kill both of them.

With so many other things he needed to do before he could leave, the meeting took forever, or felt as if it did. Toreth checked his watch surreptitiously. Fifteen minutes, and they'd only just made it through the part where Toreth agreed that, yes, he had significantly more recommendations than the section average, and then carefully explained to Tillotson, in small words, that this was because his team was significantly
better
than average.

There was no arguing the section head's genius with budgeting, and from that point of view, they were lucky to have him. General Criminal didn't have the cachet of some of the other sections, and Int-Sec was always looking for somewhere to cut a little something. However, Tillotson still shared the normal management conviction that, where salaries were concerned, 'average' meant 'maximum' (and that when it came to results, 'average' was 'minimum').

Tillotson finally reached the end of a monologue. "Understand my position, if you can. I have to justify the overall budget."

When Toreth shrugged but didn't comment, Tillotson frowned and scanned down the list on the screen. This was the point at which Tillotson traditionally tested his resolve by picking what looked like a weak case and demanding an on-the-spot defence.

"Mistry. I'm sure she's a good enough investigator, but a promotion to level three
and
a third of the way up the pay scale? I don't see any outstanding cases credited to her."

"She's very sympathetic."

"Sympathetic?"

Look it up in the fucking dictionary. "Yes. She's good with people. Witnesses, particularly. People tell her things they didn't mean to, and it all adds up. If the witnesses don't talk to someone, we don't get any evidence, and then we don't close
any
cases. Unless you'd like me to run a lot more witness interrogations with damage waivers and all the rest of the trimmings."

Any chain of logic he could complete with a threat to spend more money was usually a winner. In this case, Tillotson sighed. "Oh, well. If you say so. Why is the jump on the scale necessary?"

"She's been approached by another section. Corporate Fraud. They're offering her level three, bottom of the scale, if she'll put in for a transfer. And a housing upgrade."

Tillotson frowned, tapping the edge of the desk. "Corporate Fraud, eh? Are you sure? How did you find out?"

"Mistry told me, Sara checked it out. It's a legit offer." All except the housing upgrade, which he'd made up, but odds were Tillotson wouldn't bother to verify the details.

"Hm. Why does she want to stay?"

Because I'm not quite as much of an arsehole as you and most of the others here. Toreth smiled. "She likes me."

"Oh." Tillotson looked back at the screen. "Maybe we should let her go. Then CF can pay for the psych discharge."

He laughed politely. With Toreth's reputation, most people would've come up with a different comment. However, Tillotson's mind didn't work like that. As far as Toreth could tell, it was mostly filled with numbers and division politics, with people existing only in relation to the wages they cost, the expenses they submitted, and the kudos they generated. Sex had no budgetary implications.

While he watched Tillotson studying the screen, Toreth wondered how section heads bred. Probably went down to accounts and divided. He was still working through the filthier permutations of double entry bookkeeping when Tillotson looked up, apparently reaching a conclusion.

"I can't justify a housing upgrade for a single employee."

"Then I'll have to try and sweet-talk her with the grade increase. Can I make it midpoint instead of a third?"

Tillotson hesitated, then shrugged and changed an entry on the screen. "If it's that or lose her to CF. Now . . . what about Parsons?"

Here he was on more solid ground, because there was a nice, numerical assessment to back this up. Tillotson must be desperate. He started with a feint. "He worked for me before I went to Mars, if you remember. I promised him a bonus if he'd wait in the pool until I came back."

"I am under no obligation to fulfil promises you made without — "

"And if you'll look at his interrogation record since I took him back on, you'll see he's more than earned it."

Tillotson studied the screen and frowned. "I suppose so." He paged through a few more screens. "Above average raises for Lambrick and Wrenn too, I see." His lips pursed, then he shrugged. "The rest looks fine. I'll approve them and send them on."

Toreth blinked, caught off guard by the sudden curtailment of their annual combat. "Right. Thanks."

"Just go away, and get on with finding out whatever's behind the mess at SimTech." He sat back, still frowning. "Is there any progress with that?"

Halfway out of his chair, Toreth sighed silently and sat down again. So much for a quick escape. "It's all in the IIPs."

"I'm catching it from all directions — Legislator Nissim called
personally
yesterday. Twice. And people are questioning the use of resources when we don't even have a definite crime — something I have wondered about myself. Do you think there's really an I&I case there?"

"I still think murder is the most likely possibility."

Tillotson's nose twitched at the disagreement. "Is there
any
evidence it's not this 'sim' itself? Untested technology? That's not an I&I matter."

Why the hell did he bother filing IIPs at all? "There's the wiping of the security records at SimTech. Systems are eighty percent sure it was deliberate. There's no reason for that to have happened if a sim fault was to blame."

"Hmm." Another twitch. "I've had memos inquiring whether it wouldn't be better to take the case out of your hands."

From who? Nissim? Departmental friends of the Tefferas? Suddenly cold, Toreth sat up straighter. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

Tillotson smiled sourly at the unusual politeness. "I told them you were my best senior, and you have the best — or at least the most expensive — team. So I suggest you get out there and start justifying
this
."

He gestured irritably at the screen.

Toreth stood up, his stomach still fluttering from the shock. "Yes, sir."

"God, this place is disgusting!" Sara's voice came from the tiny kitchen of his flat. "There's stuff decomposing in the fridge that even the forensics lab wouldn't touch."

Toreth swept an assortment of clothes, weights and pizza boxes off the sofa, looked around, and dropped everything in a corner. "It's only six months since you cleaned it."

"You should let me do it again."

"I can't afford you. The night out after the last time cost enough to pay for a monthly cleaning service for the whole year."

Sara reappeared, with two newly washed glasses and a handful of beer bottles held expertly by the necks.

"So get one," she said.

Old, comfortable argument. "I don't like having strangers messing around with my things."

"How the hell could you tell?" She put the beer down on the coffee table and frowned at the room. "I can't leave it like this."

"The food's getting cold."

"Five minutes."

Toreth sat down, opened a couple of bottles, then leaned back to watch Sara cleaning, or at least moving the mess around. It always mildly amused him, because her own flat was barely any tidier.

The mess didn't matter anyway, since she was the only one who ever saw his flat. He never brought fucks here, and it wasn't as if the place was large enough to invite more than a couple of people round. In the living room, the sofa — scene of his and Sara's one and only fuck — and the coffee table were the only items of furniture that had survived the gradual encroachment of Toreth's collection of exercise equipment.

When Sara had satisfied her domestic urge, they sat together, ate takeaway Thai and drank beer. Most of the meal passed in a thorough discussion of Tillotson's faults, personal and professional, which was always a reliable way to pass the odd hour or so.

Meal over, they moved on to more enjoyable topics. Sara lay on the sofa with her head in his lap, looking up at him while he recounted his first visit to the sim with Warrick — edited to his advantage — and then on to his evening with Warrick at the Renaissance Centre. Normally he'd have passed the news along over morning coffee, but coffee times had been short since the case started, and the encounters were too good to rush through.

The D&S made it a bit different from his usual fuck stories, so he found he had an attentive audience. When he'd finished, Sara helped herself to another beer, and said, "Does Tillotson know you screwed him?"

"Fuck, no. I fudged his alibi to 'with a lover, confirmed by surveillance and interview'. Identity concealed on request, not relevant to the case, etcetera. I got a security recording of him going in and out of the RC, so I'm in the clear. Tillotson never wants to upset corporates, so he won't ask who it was."

She shook her head, which felt rather nice, but she didn't say any more about concealing personal involvement in cases. "Was he good, then?"

"Yeah, he was. Very —" He snapped his fingers, hunting for the word. "Responsive. Didn't hold back. Maybe it's to do with all that fuck research in the sim. He was worth making a bit of an effort for, anyway. And he'd never done that kind of thing before."

She raised her head for a mouthful of beer. "I didn't know
you
did that kind of thing."

"Sometimes." He shrugged. "Not very often."

"Can't find anyone to do it with?"

"No, that's not a problem. Good tops are hard to find."

She laughed at the immodesty. "And you're good, are you?"

"I've had compliments." He leered down at her. "Want to find out?"

It wasn't a serious question, and Sara didn't take it as one. "I don't do kinky. So why don't you do it more often?"

"Usually it's all too, I don't know . . . friendly. Organised. It's a whole social scene — bores the fuck out of me." He leaned back, resting his arms along the back of the sofa. "You meet people who know what they want; they've got a list as long as their arm. What they like, what they don't like. All discussed in advance. Takes all the fun out of it."

"And respectable corporate guy doesn't have a list?"

Toreth grinned. "Exactly. Doesn't even know he ought to have one. Not yet, anyway. He'll learn, I suppose."

"You're going to do it again, then?"

She sounded mildly surprised, as well she might. Toreth had rather surprised himself at SimTech when he arranged another real-world evening with Warrick. "Yeah, I am."

"Not while the investigation's in progress, though?" Then her eyes narrowed. "You didn't screw him again
already
?"

"A couple of times." He finished the bottle. "And I'm seeing him tomorrow."

"Oh, Jesus. Tillotson'll blow a fuse if he finds
that
out."

"He won't. Warrick's not going to tell anyone." He tapped her on the nose with his beer bottle. "And it's not going to get onto the network, is it?"

Sara sighed, and made zipped lips gestures. "You know I wouldn't. I hope he's worth it, that's all." She sat up, burped loudly, and grinned. "Sorry. Chilies and beer."

He laughed. "It's a good job you don't want to fuck your boss, because that's not a turn-on."

Toreth couldn't help deliberately testing her alleged memory lapse, trying to provoke a readable reaction, so he'd know without having to drag it into the open and risk her leaving his team. He'd tried it plenty of times over the years, often on this sofa, and he'd never got a rise out of her.

This time, her smile turned into a more thoughtful inspection, before she pointed her bottle at him. "You know, I never thought I'd see you of all people getting into an interrogator junkie."

"A what?" Toreth blinked, distracted from his fishing expedition. "No fucking way!"

"No?" She arched an eyebrow. "Screwing him with his arm up his back? Sounds like it to me."

"Bollocks does it." Taking the piss was one thing, this was something else. "Do I look that desperate for a fuck?"

"You should be careful with him, that's all." Toreth couldn't tell whether she was serious or not. "Next thing you know, respectable corporate guy'll turn up outside your flat with your name carved in his chest. Remember Helen the psycho stalker?"

"Oh, fuck yes. Thanks for reminding me."

Toreth opened a new beer and downed half of it, trying to wash away the faint embarrassment the memory always stirred up. It was a well-known rule at I&I that anyone who went through a genuine high-level interrogation and came out the other end wanting to fuck interrogators was guaranteed to be certifiably nuts. Of course, he'd insisted on learning that lesson the hard way.