The Big Sheep (15 page)

“It's for show,” Keane said. “Somebody is trying to impress us.”

He turned out to be exactly right. Five minutes later we were directed to land on the roof of the Esper building. We were met by the head of security for the Esper Corporation and escorted to the office of Jason Banerjee. He didn't offer us coffee. In fact, he didn't even get up from his desk.

“You could have just called,” I said.

“It seems you've been a bit distracted of late,” said Banerjee. “I wanted to get your attention. I assume my friends in the LAPD treated you well.”

“Is that who those guys were?” said Keane. “I thought we had crashed some kind of fascist parade.”

Banerjee smiled wanly. “Please, have a seat.”

Keane and I took the chairs opposite him.

“So, gentlemen. Any progress in finding our missing sheep?”

“The investigation is ongoing,” said Keane. “Your theatrics aren't going to make things move any more quickly.”

“Nor is your feigned indignation,” replied Banerjee.

Keane studied him for a moment. “We've identified an employee who was involved.”

“The dead man, yes,” said Banerjee. “I heard you harassed his widow.”

“
Harassed
is a harsh term,” said Keane. “I heckled her a bit.”

“Mr. Keane's interrogative technique can be a bit brusque,” I said. “We believed Jessica Díaz may have been withholding some critical—”

“Let me be clear,” said Banerjee. “I don't give a damn about Jessica Díaz. You can tar and feather her if it gets results. What I want to know is, where the hell is my sheep?”

“We've connected Hugo Díaz to a criminal organization operating in the DZ,” said Keane. “As the investigation is ongoing, I'd prefer not to say more at the moment.”

“I see,” said Banerjee. “And might this criminal organization have some connection to Selah Fiore?”

“Not that I know of,” said Keane, without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”

I had to admire Keane's composure. Where the hell did Banerjee get the idea Selah Fiore was involved? Did he have somebody watching us?

“I've got a source in Selah's organization,” said Banerjee. “Esper has done some business with her in the past, and I've found it worthwhile to keep an eye on her. Mr. Fowler was seen on the
DiZzy Girl
set yesterday, and you two were there again today. My source says Selah was there at the same time.”

“We spoke to her regarding another case,” said Keane. “You understand I can't give you details.”

“I see,” said Banerjee. “So Selah didn't ask you about the sheep?”

“Why would you think Selah Fiore has any interest in your sheep?” I asked. “Just what sort of business did you do with her anyway?”

“My past dealings with Selah Fiore aren't relevant to this case,” said Banerjee. “Suffice it to say she has a bit of a grudge against Esper.”

“You know,” I said, “I'm getting really tired of people not telling me things because supposedly they aren't relevant. I have a crazy idea. How about we all tell each other what we know, and then we can all decide for ourselves what's relevant. I'll start. Selah Fiore thinks you owe her a sheep. Your turn.”

Keane scowled at me. I ignored him.

Banerjee smiled. “Selah provided Esper with some capital for an off-the-books project we were working on a few years ago.”

“During the Collapse,” I said.

“Yes,” said Banerjee. “Not illegal, but not commercially viable in the conventional sense. Selah wanted Flagship to be the sole beneficiary of the research.”

“Which was what?”

Banerjee studied me for a moment. “That information isn't relevant to the discussion at hand—”

I groaned and pounded my fist against my head.

“But I'm willing to tell you as a show of good faith. Understand I'm putting Esper in a potentially compromising position by sharing this with you.”

I nodded impatiently. Keane regarded Banerjee, a curious expression on his face.

“What is it, then?” I said. “What was Esper working on that Selah Fiore was so interested in?”

“Age reversal,” said Banerjee.

I frowned. “What, Selah wants to relive her glory days?”

“No,” Banerjee said. “That wasn't her stated motivation, in any case. She wanted to—as she put it—maximize her investment.”

“In what?”

“In people. Actors and actresses, primarily. Imagine how much a Clive Harrow or a TC Gemmel is worth.”

“Or a Priya Mistry,” I said.

“Exactly,” said Banerjee. “Priya Mistry's actually a better example, because the shelf life of actresses is so short. Even Selah Fiore's career really only spanned a couple of decades. How much time do you think Priya Mistry has left? Flagship Media spends a lot of money developing programs, finding out which actresses have star potential. And then, a few years later, they have to start over with someone new. Imagine how much more money they could make if they could just extend the life of Priya Mistry's career by five or ten years.”

“Hundreds of millions,” I said.

Banerjee nodded. “At least.”

“Did it work?” asked Keane.

“Animal trials showed some promise,” said Banerjee. “But there's a societal barrier to the adoption of this technology.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Like many new technological advancements, it's prohibitively expensive for most people. Generally, the way technology companies get past such a barrier is by marketing the first-generation product to wealthy people who value the cachet of having the latest thing.”

“The stupid rich,” said Keane.

“To put it bluntly, yes,” said Banerjee. “The stupid rich pay the cost of the initial R and D. Once the initial development is paid for, prices begin to come down, and the user base expands. As the volume produced increases, prices drop even more. The cycle is self-reinforcing, and prices ultimately bottom out somewhere just above the cost of the raw materials. So, for example, in 1980 a basic videocassette recorder cost over two thousand dollars. By 1990, you could get one for less than one hundred dollars.”

“But eternal youth isn't a VCR,” Keane said.

“Correct,” said Banerjee. “Nobody in 1980 expected everyone in America to be able to afford a VCR. But you can't sell immortality at a hundred million dollars a pop to the obscenely wealthy with the promise that everyone else will be able to afford it in twenty years or so.”

“It isn't a crime to sell things to rich people,” I said.

“Not a crime, no,” Banerjee said. “But it's bad PR to be viewed as catering solely to the elite, particularly if you're a company like Esper, which relies heavily on federal funding. Politicians like to be seen supporting companies believed to be promoting the general welfare. During the Collapse, when both the funding and the oversight were intermittent, Selah's scheme seemed like a potentially profitable one. Post-Collapse, it's too risky.”

“Selah came to you?” I asked.

“It was a mutual arrangement,” replied Banerjee. “We approached several potential investors regarding various … sensitive projects we were considering. Selah was very interested in the possibility of age reversal.”

“So you promised her immortality and then welshed on the deal,” I said. “No wonder she's pissed off at you.”

Banerjee shrugged. “Esper promised her exclusive access to the results of our R and D for ten years. The program was shut down, so there were no results. We abided by the letter of the agreement. But I'm glad you brought up the importance of fulfilling one's contractual obligations.” He opened a drawer in his desk and extracted a large brown envelope. He placed it on the desk in front of us. On the upper right-hand corner was a label on which was written a single word:

Maelstrom

“What's this?” I asked, picking up the envelope.

“Insurance,” said Banerjee. “Against the possibility you'll be tempted to renege on your agreement with Esper or expose sensitive information about us.”

“How is that?” I asked. “What is ‘Maelstrom'?”

Banerjee smiled. “Why don't you ask Mr. Keane?” he asked.

I turned to Keane, who was studying Banerjee dispassionately.

“Go on, Mr. Keane,” Banerjee said. “Mr. Fowler is your partner. Surely, you trust him.”

Keane was silent a moment longer. At last he said, “Maelstrom was a project I worked on several years ago.”

“What kind of project?” I asked.

“It's not important,” said Keane. “It has nothing to do with this case.”

I sighed. There it was again. Not relevant. Nothing to see here.

“No,” said Banerjee. “But it has everything to do with
you
, Mr. Keane.”

“How did you find out about Maelstrom?” Keane asked. He was clearly rattled, which I found extremely unsettling. I'd never seen Keane rattled before. “Nearly everyone involved is—”

“Dead?” said Banerjee. “
Nearly
everyone, yes,” he said. “But not everyone. You, for instance. I'm a very careful man, Mr. Keane. I didn't make the decision to hire you lightly. Although, as you deduced, I didn't originally plan on you conducting a full investigation, I wouldn't have put you in a position to discover potentially compromising information about Esper if I didn't have some leverage over you. A few weeks before our sheep went missing, I happened to come into some information about Project Maelstrom, and I held on to it in case I needed it.” He smiled broadly at Keane. “So when our sheep went missing, I knew you were the perfect man for the job.”

“Why didn't you just ask your friends in the LAPD to help you?” asked Keane.

Banerjee smiled. “I prefer to keep my relationship with the police simple,” said Banerjee. “I help them, they help me. No need for them to get involved with the seamier side of my business.”

“What's in here?” I asked, indicating the envelope. Keane continued to stare at Banerjee dispassionately.

“Everything I could find about Maelstrom,” said Banerjee. “It's by no means a complete accounting of the project, but it will give you a general idea. Your boss doesn't come off too well, I'm afraid. You can keep that copy; I've got another.”

I was sorely tempted to pick up the envelope and tear it open, but I was pretty sure that was exactly what Banerjee wanted me to do, so I hesitated.

“Not a big reader?” Banerjee said, smiling at me. “Let me give you the executive summary. Ten years ago Los Angeles was on the verge of imploding. Half the city was rioting. Fires everywhere. Anybody who had the means had gotten out, and the people who were left behind were just trying to survive. Nobody expected the city to last. But then, by some miracle, our notoriously ineffective city, state, and federal governments got together and came up with a plan to save Los Angeles: wall off the problem areas and focus on saving the more crucial parts of the city. You ever wonder how that happened, Mr. Fowler?”

I had to admit, I had been as surprised as anyone by the city's bold and decisive action during the crisis. At the time, the debate (to the extent there had been one) had centered on the ethics of essentially trying to quarantine the criminal element within the city. Only a few fringe conspiracy theorists had thought to ask how the city had come up with such an effective plan so quickly.

“You're saying Keane knew the Collapse was coming,” I said. “That this Maelstrom project developed the plan to create the Disincorporated Zone in advance.” No wonder Keane wanted to keep that secret: he had known the Collapse was coming and had done nothing to stop it. “Jesus, Keane,” I said. “Why didn't you do something? Hundreds of thousands of people died during the Collapse. If you had warned the feds, maybe they could have done something.”

Keane didn't reply.

“Don't be too hard on him,” said Banerjee. “Maelstrom was much bigger than one person. There probably was nothing he could do to prevent the Collapse. Of course, it's doubtful the general public will see it that way. And the feds will probably want to prosecute him for conspiracy to commit mass murder or some damn thing. In any case, understand I'd prefer to keep this information secret. I really only brought it up because your meeting with Selah Fiore has me … concerned. Remember who you work for, and everything will work out just fine.”

“I've never double-crossed a client,” said Keane.

“Good,” said Banerjee. “Deliver the sheep, and we won't have a problem.”

“And if we fail?” I asked.

Banerjee returned Keane's glare. “Then the contents of that envelope will be delivered to my friends at the FBI.”

 

FOURTEEN

Ten minutes after leaving Banerjee's office we were once again soaring over Los Angeles in the aircar. The envelope labeled
MAELSTROM
rested on the dash.

“Are you going to open it?” I asked.

“No,” said Keane.

“Then may I?”

“It has no bearing on our present case,” said Keane. “If you have some other pressing reason to review the contents, be my guest.”

“No need,” I said. “But to be clear, if he gives that information to the FBI…”

Keane stared straight ahead. “It will destroy me,” he said.

We rode the rest of the way to the office in silence. I dropped Keane off and asked the car's nav system to bring up all the Nifty Truck Rental locations in Los Angeles. There were fourteen of them. I figured I'd start at the Inglewood location and move outward. Maybe one of them had a truck that had been returned with its innards smelling like a frightened sheep. On the way to Inglewood, I called April. I hadn't talked to her since I'd hung up on her the previous morning.

“Oh, hello,” she said cheerfully. “I think I recognize this number. You're some sort of appendage of that famous phenomenological inquisitor, Erasmus Keane, aren't you? Do you have his permission to be using the comm?”