Clean: A Mindspace Investigations Novel

by Alex Hughes

  A knock came on the door frame. Cherabino looked up.

  “Michael,” she said. “Come in.”

  It was the junior cop from the earlier meeting. “I just thought you should know the older kid remembered the man with the garbage bag very well. The sketch artist was pleased.” He put a page in front of Cherabino, then stood there awkwardly.

  I reached over to get a better look. The sketch was of a fifty-something man with regular features and a thinning hairline. The face looked familiar, somehow; I knew I’d seen it before, but I didn’t know where.

  “Good work,” Cherabino said. “This’ll give us a place to start.”

  “Is there something else I can do to help you, ma’am?”

  She looked around. “Looks like we’re getting out of order, and there’s a meeting in here second shift. Could you see if you can match up the right papers to the right victims? Get the murder book squared away? We’ll need to be out of here by four thirty.” She met my eyes, a clear implication I was supposed to help him since the mess was my fault.

  I sighed and got up, paging through pictures and case notes, sorting through them by victim since Cherabino thought it was so important. Attaching papers to the correct pages in the battered gray book, flipping back and forth to make sure I had the timeline in order. Michael got the stack with the coroner’s reports first and—well, he was taking too long to hand me stuff.

  I went back to his side of the table, my hands full of the book and loose papers.

  He was frowning. “What does Ultrate mean?”

  “It’s an artificial glands company,” I said. “Why?”

  The cop flipped through the papers, putting his finger on one line of text on each. “Is there a reason why all of the reports have that name?”

  Cherabino stood up. “Let me see.”

  She ripped the paper out of his hands. Turned the pages. Then dropped them on the table and cursed a blue streak.

  Michael had shrunk back. “Um, are you okay, ma’am?”

  Leaning on the table, she looked up. “I’m an idiot, is what I am. We all looked at that, how many times?”

  I’d just looked at it this afternoon; I hadn’t thought anything of the brand name. They were the biggest market share. I was an idiot. All that work, and I hadn’t even seen the important clue.

  Cherabino put out a hand, stopping the junior cop from leaving the room. “No, you did good. Come back here.”

  Michael came.

  “You want to work in Homicide?” she asked him. “It’s a lot of stupid details, dead bodies, and no glory whatsoever. You’ll work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. Interested?”

  He smiled. “I’d like that more than anything, ma’am.”

  She straightened. “There’s a hiring freeze from outside the department, and transfers take for-fucking-ever. It could be a couple weeks. But that kind of eye deserves a shot. I’ll talk to Branen myself.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Externally, Michael was calm, but inside he was jumping up and down, doing a rather amusing happy dance all over the room. He and Cherabino talked details for a couple seconds, and he left the room with the express intention of doing his happy dance out of sight.

  “I thought you couldn’t get the money for another detective,” I said, worried she was promising something she couldn’t deliver. That guy was not going to do well with disappointment.

  She started gathering up papers aggressively. “Transfers come out of a different pot. Now”—she looked at the clock on the wall—“I doubt we can make it across the city in rush hour before the people in charge leave for the day, but we can set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

  I hesitated to ask, considering. But I did need to keep her safe. “Can I come?”

  “You’ll probably need to.” She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Help me get the boards out of the room. We’re running late as it is.”

  While Cherabino called Ultrate Bioproducts, I called Kara.

  “Any news?” I demanded.

  She sighed, and I heard her chair creak as she leaned back. “You know you’re calling me at”—she paused—“six o’clock after you saw me at two thirty?”

  “So?”

  “It’s a little fast for results, and I do have other things to do with my day.”

  I waited for it.

  As expected, she sighed. “It doesn’t look good for you right now. You’re an unknown, like I said. You didn’t leave on good terms. And this accusation of yours—well, it seems awfully convenient.”

  “Convenient?” I said. “I felt him choke me to death! How in hell is that convenient?”

  Kara sighed. “Bradley is Dane’s replacement. I thought you knew.”

  I stared out the window next to Cherabino’s cubicle. How long had my friend been dead before they’d replaced him? I was furious.

  I did vaguely remember some punk nerdy assistant in Research—had that been Bradley? If so, I hadn’t respected the guy at all. My stomach burned with the thought that this weenie, if that was him, had taken over Dane’s position. Maybe this was personal.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah. I hadn’t realized.”

  “Well, combined with the circumstances of your leaving, the higher-ups aren’t exactly eager to jump on this train. It looks bad.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Maybe, but you need credibility too.” She sighed. “Bradley’s been complaining to the higher-ups for a year that no one respects him as department head. Considering the circumstances, they’re understandably cautious about confronting him over something like this. I promise you, I’m working on it. I’ve got some balls in motion, and if it can be done quietly, I’ll do it. But some of this is out of my hands. I believe you, if it makes any difference. I’ve never known you to lie about something like this.”

  I didn’t comment. She was blowing me off. I wasn’t going to make it easier for her by saying it was okay. It wasn’t.

  She did the clicking thing with her teeth again. “I’ve got an appointment set up to open the vault tomorrow midday. I’ll get the maintenance team to help me. If anything’s missing, we’ll find out.”

  “And then what?”

  “If something’s missing, they’ll turn over whatever rocks it takes to find it. From a credibility standpoint, that’s exactly what we need. I hope you’ll forgive me when I say I’d rather nothing was missing.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I understand.” If something was missing, the consequences could be unthinkable. But part of me already knew it was gone. Now I just had to wait for them to catch up.

  “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow,” Kara said.

  “Fine.”

  By the time I made it back to the interview rooms, it was too late to help with the scheduled afternoon arrests. I’d broken a promise, even if it was for the multiples case, a good cause. But the other interviewers stopped talking to me. Literally, stopped. And my docket for the next day was suddenly full of drug pushers.

  I made a face and told the coordinator for the schedule that it was fine. I hoped to God I made it in tomorrow in enough time to do what I had to. We had the Ultrate meeting tomorrow morning, and I didn’t know what was going to happen with Kara. Her distrust, like the other interviewers’ distrust, burned like fire in my guts.

  Cherabino drove me home without comment, her mind quiet and sad, thoughts drifting through her mind like leaves on a stream. But I was too focused on my own worries to follow any of hers.

  That evening we watched television. Cherabino’s television, with one silly comedy after another, and she held the remote. It was a small couch; we weren’t sitting on top of each other, but we weren’t worlds apart either. We were both exhausted, raw from the emotional whiplash of the day.

  She started yawning by the third show, and her thoughts spilled contently into the room. I wasn’t really trying to listen. Not then. But my headache from earlier was mostly gone, and she and I—we—the connection I’d
discovered earlier, was coming through. The soft sad tone of her mind was so beautiful, beautiful in a whole different way than I’d ever seen from her, that I couldn’t help but listen. I found myself relaxing as she did.

  As she got more tired, she stretched out a bit more, rearranging herself on the couch in what was obviously habit. She went for a pillow to put under her head—and her hand ran into my leg instead. She tensed and started to scoot away on the couch again.

  I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her. “I don’t mind,” I said very softly.

  She frowned and yawned again. I could feel how slowly her mind was processing. But on some level—on this level—she wasn’t viewing me as a threat. I pulled her a little closer, softly, in the direction her body was already going, until she ended up cuddled half on my shoulder, half on my chest. I expected her to fight, but she didn’t.

  As her body lost all tension, relaxing into me, her brain fuzzily suggested this was a bad idea, that I probably meant something by it she’d have to deal with later. But it felt so nice, was so comforting….

  “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said, very softly. “You can hate me again tomorrow.”

  She was reassured; her mind muttered softly to itself about unrelated matters until finally she slept. I stayed up, watching her sleep, while I monitored Mindspace.

  CHAPTER 17

  The old north Atlanta Buckhead business center had been one of the hardest hit during the Tech Wars, both in electronic terms and with, well, actual physical bombs. In the sixty or so years since the end of the war, businesses had seen reclaiming the area as a matter of pride. Most of the craters had been filled in, the streets and skyscrapers rebuilt better than new by now, but the memory of uncontrolled technology lingered like the smell of ozone in the air.

  The largest crater in the area was different, though. Shifting earth and fused metal made a lousy foundation. After a few crumbled buildings, they decided the bowl-shaped depression would make an acceptable place to put a park. Ultrate Bioproducts’ headquarters was right on the edge of that park, all fifty-seven stories of their glass-and-chrome skyscraper having a very nice view of the drought-resistant grass and sun-resistant flowers. That it used to be a crater didn’t seem to bother them. It bothered me.

  Cherabino found us a parking spot across the street, and we hiked on foot the hundred yards to the gleaming glass entrance. It was already too hot to think, and sweat dripped down my collar. I tried to ignore both facts.

  “I hate mornings,” she muttered as we climbed the building steps like supplicants.

  “It’s nine thirty,” I pointed out. “The crime scene was earlier than this.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  We crossed the ultramodern atrium dotted with senseless sculptures intended to dwarf the visitors. Ahead, a copper reception desk dominated the space. On either side were security guards.

  “DeKalb PD,” Cherabino barked as she flashed her badge up at the receptionist. “I’m going to need to speak to somebody in charge of your artificial gland program.”

  We were shown to the office of Jonathon Evans, executive head of gland production—or, more accurately, to the seating area outside his office. The faux leather slab of a couch made me feel unwieldy, as if I didn’t belong, while the old receptionist looked at me with beady eyes. I couldn’t read her, which made me uncomfortable.

  After a half hour, Cherabino put down her magazine with a sigh. “Is Evans even here?” she asked the receptionist too loudly. Clearly, she wasn’t interested in getting up for something as minor as a rude question.

  “Mr. Evans is finishing up a conference call from London,” she said reluctantly. “He’ll be another minute or two. Did you require refreshments?” I noticed she didn’t make any suggestions as to what kind of refreshments there were.

  “That would be nice,” I said, just to be difficult. “Do you have any ice cream? Preferably chocolate with rainbow sprinkles?”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have anything like that. I can make you some simcoffee if that’s something you’re interested in.”

  “Please,” I said. I hated simcoffee—and rather thought anybody this rich would have the real stuff—but the thought of her having to get up to make it made me oddly happy.

  Sadly, just then the oak-paneled door opened and a man of about forty entered the room and Rude Receptionist was off the hook for the coffee. Evans’s understated pin-striped suit screamed money, but his smile was genuine. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

  He shook hands with Cherabino but only nodded to me. Huh. I hadn’t been introduced as a telepath yet. Either he was very, very used to protocol or he had enough sensitivity to spot one from a few feet away. Either way I was going to shield hard against him.

  I followed him and Cherabino to the office, an open-floor-plan wood-paneled place with a view of the city. The chair I took in front of his obscenely large desk was surprisingly comfortable.

  “What can I do for the police?” Evans asked, his hands folded in front of him politely. “I trust Delaney offered you refreshments?”

  “She offered,” I said.

  Cherabino quelled me with a look. “We’re here to talk to you about Ultrate artificial glands.” She offered him a piece of paper. “Specifically, the glands in these eight people.”

  He took a look at the list before setting it down. “While this is very interesting to me—particularly as I’ve taken time out of my day to meet with you—I’m afraid I can’t discuss specific glands without their owners’ consents. Besides,” he said, and laughed sincerely, “I hardly keep those kinds of names in my head. We sell two thousand thyroid glands a quarter, for example, and that’s just through our US affiliates.”

  I shrugged. “Their owners are dead. I hardly think they’ll mind you giving out information that may lead us to their killer.”

  “And we think those eight glands were sold directly through this office,” Cherabino told him. “We’d like the records. Now.”

  Evans picked up the phone. “Delaney, would you get on the phone and set up a meeting with the records department for this afternoon? Also, please check out the credentials of”—he looked at us, and repeated our names and Cherabino’s serial number—“with the DeKalb police, please. Feel free to go up the chain of command. Thank you.” He hung up.

  I shifted in my chair. I respected him more for being suspicious, but we couldn’t wait forever.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that some of our customers are dead,” Evans replied to us directly, “but I fail to see how our records can possibly be of use to you.”

  “Didn’t you just talk to your records department?” I asked.

  “I like to know what’s going on in my unit,” Evans replied. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up proprietary information without a warrant, particularly before I’m certain that you are who you say you are.”

  Cherabino nodded. “Fair enough. While your associate is confirming our credentials, let’s talk about the glands. All eight people on that list have glands from your company—who would have access to your customer lists?”

  “I hope you’re not implying some kind of wrongdoing on our part,” Evans said. “Naturally we’re as upset as you are to find out about these deaths, but our product is tested and approved, much safer than a comparable natural transplant in every case. We’ve been independently—”

  “Calm down,” I said, amused. “We’re not here to talk about product safety. We mentioned it earlier. These people were murdered.”

  He sat back. “Murdered? I’m very sorry to hear that. It’s…oh, I take it we’re discussing the Mystery Death Killer? The one all over the papers?”

  I nodded.

  “Who would have access to your customer records?” Cherabino repeated. “We’re looking at common threads between the victims as a routine part of the investigation.”

  He exhaled sharply. “Yes, of course. That kind of information isn’t easy to get. Our recor
ds system is highly secure. Our matching protocols are fastidious, and in any case they are handled by several teams of people. The odds of any one having all of those customers are very slight, though I promise you I will look into it.”

  “What about your Tuners?” I asked.

  “Tuners?” Cherabino frowned.

  Evans ran his hand through his hair. “Our Tuners are highly trained, calibrated, recommended highly by the Guild, and extremely professional. In fifty years we’ve never had a problem.”

  “Um, what’s a Tuner?” she repeated, annoyed.

  I glanced at Evans. It was his job; he could explain it.

  He leaned forward, the very picture of interesting professionalism. “You know that your heart contains small numbers of brain cells on the organ itself? They’re there to help your system regulate how fast it beats, the proper opening and closing of valves, and so forth. Like the mechanical pacemakers they used to implant. Well, artificial organs have similar nerve cells built in, preset with the correct dosage, interactions, and so forth with the rest of the body. But the organ can’t go ‘live,’ so to speak, without the nervous system accepting those cells as part of the grid. A trained telepath is needed to tune the cells to the body’s neural net and turn the organ on, so to speak. If it turns out your dosage needs an adjustment later—and your body doesn’t take care of the change on its own—we’ll bring a Tuner back to make the adjustment painlessly. It’s faster and more consistent than external medication in almost every case.”

  “Who’s in charge of your matching protocol?” I asked him. “Is there any way that someone is earmarking certain glands to specific kinds of people?”

  “The kind of access they would need would limit—”

  “Wait.” Cherabino held up a hand. “Let’s go back to these Tuner characters. They’re Guild, right?” When I nodded, she continued. “Well, you keep saying our killer is Guild. Would a Tuner have the kind of training he’d need to do what we talked about?”

  I thought about it. Other than the fact that Bradley was definitely not a Tuner—he was in Research, as I recalled from the articles—there wasn’t a good reason to say a Tuner couldn’t have done it. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with those guys, but anyone who interacted with the nervous system every day could probably figure out anything he needed to know. The machine I’d mentioned to Kara would be an easy shortcut.