If it had been anyone but Catalea, Oscar would have called Brooks, given him the info, and gone about his life. This was some hairy shit and only an idiot would delve into it.
But it was Catalea. And this was personal. The one light left in Oscar's life had been extinguished far before its time. The one thing that made him happy was gone. Everything had been taken from him. Everything but his life.
His course of action was obvious. And he had nothing to lose but a job he hated and a life he no longer cared about.
CHAPTER 7
◆◆◆
Esbert Hoffman's place was on the furthest edge of town, closer to wilderness than city. He lived at the end of a long, level street. Sun-dappled pavement, twittering birds, car doors shutting softly, lawn sprinklers going chitter-chatter, children laughing. An upscale suburban paradise.
The Hoffman estate was on its own large chunk of land, about fifteen acres. There was a seven-foot wall, half brick and half wrought iron. A very private place. A place where it was unlikely that Oscar's actions would be overheard by anyone.
He stopped at the corner of the estate, looking like a fellow out for a walk, and lit up a cigarette. He thought that would make him look even more casual, but it just got him dirty looks, so he quickly snubbed it out, shoving the dead butt into his shirt pocket.
The road was quiet. Everyone was either at work or relaxing at home. A couple cars passed, then nothing for several minutes. Oscar looked both ways, then quickly heaved himself over the wall, careful not to skewer himself on a black iron spike.
Sticking to the shadows of trees, he darted along the edge of the property until he was parallel with the end of the house. A bush offered momentary cover as he hunkered down and studied the view through a large bay window.
A middle-aged man stood there, staring out across his yard as he sipped coffee. He had a vacant look in his eyes, a worried sort of expression on his face. Oscar counted his lucky stars; if Hoffman had been any less distracted, he probably would have spotted the stranger creeping through his lot.
Oscar waited and watched, staying as still as possible. He was willing to wait for as long as it took. The weather was warm. He had shade, and a nice breeze that was almost constant. He had done stakeouts in far worse conditions. Sometimes, in weather where he could almost feel the cold in his fingertips.
Just as Oscar was drifting into that familiar state of near-hypnosis, the scene changed. Hoffman finally drained the last of his coffee and, with a deep frown, he turned from the window and vanished.
Oscar counted to ten, then darted across the yard. He moved fast and stayed low, hoping there weren't any cameras. Even if there were, how much did it matter? He had already given up all pretense of legality and innocence.
He shoved himself against the wall of the house and strafed along it, scraping his back on rough bricks, wincing as he felt the jagged edges catching on his shirt. That was a whole lot of fiber sample, right there. A surprisingly good weapon for forensic detectives. But again, it hardly mattered anymore.
When he reached the window, he flattened himself on the grass and crawled past it, toward a side door that he hoped to god wasn't locked.
Unfortunately, it was, of course. The door seemed poorly maintained. The knob was loose, wiggling around. Oscar gave it a strong twist and a pull, and it came away with a zipping sound of threaded screws breaking through soft brass. On the other side of the door, the inner half of the knob fell to a carpeted floor with a soft thud that wasn't likely to be heard by anyone in such a large house.
Oscar reached his finger through the resulting hole in the door, grunting as he struggled to work the finicky latch mechanism. After a few moments the door popped open.
He was inside. The hall was dark. There was no one in sight. Oscar crept along, and soon passed the half open door to the home office where Hoffman had been standing before. Would he come back, maybe after refreshing his coffee cup? No way of knowing. So Oscar kept moving, glancing around to memorize the layout of the house.
As he approached the end of the hall, he heard a sudden seething outburst. It was the voice of Esbert Hoffman, and he seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument. Oscar froze, heart thumping, as he considered the idea that there were more people than just Hoffman in the residence. But no one could be heard answering Hoffman's words. The conversation was one-sided, which meant he was likely on the phone.
There was the suction sound and clatter of a fridge door being pulled open violently. And, a moment later during a lull in the exchange, Oscar heard the wonderful hiss of a beer can being popped open. Hoffman fell quiet, probably because he was sucking down a full twelve-ounce dose of Forget-About-It. Oscar crouched in the doorway of a dark bathroom, nervously licking his lips.
Come on down, asshole, he thought, silently praying for the beer to go straight to Hoffman's bladder. A bathroom, in many ways, was an ideal place to run an interrogation. They were reasonably soundproofed. There wasn't a lot of room for your target to move around, thus there wasn't much leeway for them to fight. All you had to do was shove them in the tub and knock some sense into them.
The fridge door finally shut, and Hoffman trod loudly across the kitchen floor, whispering into his phone. He popped open the microwave, tossed something inside, and started nuking.
"Well, I'll just have to talk to you again later," Hoffman suddenly hissed. This was followed immediately by the glug-glug of a beer can being drained. The fridge opened again, and another beer can popped open. It seemed Hoffman was just about to sit down to a very sad meal.
Oscar waited a bit more.
Organic humans were generally most at ease, and felt the safest, when they were eating. A bit of a buzz from two beers downed in quick succession wouldn't hurt either. Hoffman would be dull, and wide open to a surprise-attack. His thinking would likely be out of whack, and he might give away more than he intended by virtue of being confused.
The microwave went off with a series of loud beeps. Hoffman withdrew his meal and carried it across the room. A chair scuffed across the floor, then creaked as Hoffman threw himself carelessly into it. He must have thrown himself, because Hoffman was not a large man. He was of average height and quite slender. Around a hundred and seventy pounds, tops.
The time had come.
Oscar crept down the hall to the corner that led into the kitchen and dining room. A quick peek around the corner gave him all the information he needed. He saw just where Hoffman was sitting.
Drawing his gun, an ancient but well-maintained revolver, he launched to his feet and darted into the dining room.
Hoffman reacted slowly, first freezing with a bite of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, his eyes locked on Oscar. Then, with surprising calm as he stared down the barrel of Oscar’s large six-shooter, he set his fork down and sat back. Lifting his beer for a quick pull, Hoffman regarded the intruder with a serene look on his face.
"I guess maybe it's over now," he said. He sounded relieved.
"Not by a long shot," Oscar grunted.
Hoffman just shrugged. The silver fox was at rest. Since the weather was warm today, he had traded his pea coat for a brightly colored polo that was stained with sweat and green grass smears. He had been golfing. One of his hands still clutched the beer can. The other was hidden below the table, maybe just resting on his leg. Or maybe doing something else. Perhaps even drawing a gun. Oscar stepped to the side, fearing a gunshot straight to the crotch.
"Show me both your hands," he ordered.
Hoffman frowned and lifted his other hand into view. It was holding a phone, and he had been two numbers away from getting hold of emergency services.
"Toss it," Oscar snapped, gesturing with his gun hand.
Hoffman switched off the phone screen and gave it a calculated underhand toss so that it landed gently upon the countertop, five feet away from him.
"What's your name?" Oscar asked.
Hoffman looked stunned. "You don't know who I am? Then why a
re you here? Why choose this house? It might be large, but I assure you there's not much worth stealing here."
"I doubt that, but that’s not what I’m here for.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Information. Now answer the goddamn question," Oscar growled.
"My name's Esbert Hoffman. But you can call me Bert,” Hoffman said with a genial smile.
"Sure, why not?" Oscar replied. "Might as well be efficient with our words in what might be the last moments of your life. Wouldn't want to waste any of those precious minutes.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Hoffman asked. “This is a joke, isn’t it? Just look at that gun. Is that thing even real? Has anyone even used a revolver in the last one-hundred years? Who put you up to this?” Hoffman continued as he grabbed his arm rests and prepared to stand.
“Sit the fuck down or I will blow your head right off your goddamn shoulders,” Oscar warned. “If you think I’m fucking around then just try me you son of a bitch.”
“Alright! Just take it easy, okay?” Hoffman replied, as he realized that Oscar meant business. “I guess this is the part where I ask you to promise that you won't hurt me if I go along with whatever the hell this is."
Oscar barely heard the guy. He was scoping out the rest of the kitchen, taking things in.
"Don't move," he said.
Oscar moved around the table, keeping the gun trained in the general direction of Hoffman as he pulled the shades on the big bay window and blocked their view of the outside world. And the outside world's view of them.
Oscar moved back to where he had been standing. "Is there anyone else in the house?"
Hoffman shook his head. "My wife, she'll be home in a few hours."
"We ought to be finished a long time before that," Oscar said firmly. "I’ll get straight to the point. A synth working girl was killed by a robot sock puppet and you’re the one who gave it to her. I want to know everything about it. Everything you know."
Hoffman stared back at him, his eyes wide and a look of mock confusion on his face. He was a bad actor in every sense of the phrase.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said.
"Is that right?" Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Well, maybe I can jog your memory..."
He walked over and cracked the butt of the handgun against Hoffman's cheekbone. The silver fox reeled to the side, slumping across the chair beside him. He came up wincing, his eyes watering and a fresh welt swelling on his face, but surprisingly he still maintained a certain level of calmness. It was likely the alcohol. Who knows how many he had already drank before Oscar arrived.
"Ow," Hoffman, sarcastically replied while reaching out for his beer can.
Oscar sent the can flying with another swing of his hand. It crashed to the floor, spilling a fan of frothy beer across the tiles.
"I was going to drink that," Hoffman said. "Well, you certainly are a rude one, aren't you?"
Oscar shook his head. The guy hadn't learned his lesson, so it was time to take him through it again.
This time, he slammed the gun against Hoffman's nose. There was an audible wet crack. Hoffman's head flung back, knocking noisily against the chair, and fresh blood flowed onto his expensive shirt.
"I told you I’m not fucking around here, Bert, I want answers!" Oscar barked.
"You motherfucker," Hoffman growled, lurching out of his seat with fire in his eyes. He came toward Oscar, reaching for the gun.
Oscar thrust his left foot forward in a seamless motion and kicked Hoffman hard in the chest, sending him crashing hard to the floor. He wheezed and coughed, the wind knocked out of him.
"Get up, douchebag," Oscar said. "And you’d better stop wasting my time, or maybe I'll wait around a few hours for your wife to get home, too. How's that sound?"
Hoffman glared at Oscar over his shoulder as he gripped the edge of the table and hauled himself to his feet.
"Sit," Oscar ordered.
Hoffman sat, breathing heavily.
"You’re some piece of work, you know that?” Hoffman groaned. “You’re doing all this over some mechanical whore?” he continued, now trembling with anger and fear.
"She had a name. And if you call her a whore again, I’m gonna put two slugs in your goddamn ball sack, you worthless piece of shit," Oscar snarled as he aimed his powerful revolver at Hoffman’s groin.
Hoffman’s eyes were now wide with surprise, and he remained silent and much more obedient as he stared in horror at Oscar’s determined expression.
“Start talking," Oscar barked.
"Fine. But you have to promise not to harm my wife,” Hoffman pleaded.
Oscar had no intention of touching the guys wife, or of ever even meeting her. But he played cool, pretending to think hard for a moment.
"I'll see what I can do," he said at last. "It all depends on the quality of the intel you give me, so you'd better make it good."
Hoffman nodded quickly. "Alright, alright... It all started with that goddamn whore house."
“Watch it, Bert,” Oscar cautioned.
“Hey! I’m talking about the business, man. Take it easy!”
“The pleasure house. What about it?” Oscar demanded.
"Long story short… I’m a regular there. My wife doesn't know it but—"
"Of course, she doesn't,” Oscar interrupted. “You fucking hypocrite. So, you work for one of the most outspoken anti-synth people in the world. And one of the most powerful. Yet you can't help but get a little of that synthetic nookie on the side. Why?"
Hoffman stared at the floor, perhaps watching the drops of blood that fell from the tip of his nose.
"My wife," he said. "She's had... health problems. Suffice it to say, our sex life is essentially dead. I love her though. I have no intention of leaving. But..."
"A man has needs, right?"
Hoffman nodded.
"Especially a horny rich bastard who thinks he owns the world. So, what's with Catalea? Was she your regular girl?"
"No." Hoffman grabbed some napkins from the middle of the table and pressed them to his nose. "I only saw her a few times here and there."
"Okay. So what gives?"
Hoffman sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving. "One of the higher ups at the corporate office contacted me. A guy named Grant Carver. It was the end of the day, and I was just about to leave the office. Carver claimed to know about my visits to the pleasure house. I thought I was about to be blackmailed, but he only gave me a simple request; deliver the robot boy to Catalea, and convince her to take him in."
"And you said yes, of course," Oscar scoffed.
"Actually, no. Not at first. I work for the company, but I'm nobody's bitch. I wasn't about to run some strange errand, especially when the legality and purpose of it were obviously suspect. But the son of a bitch threatened me. 'We have video,' he said. And they even paid my regular girl for copies of her memory banks. I was able to confirm that the latter, at least, was true. Those memories would have ruined me, you have to understand that. My career would be gone, and so would my marriage.”
“What was it all about?"
Hoffman looked surprised. "What was what about?"
"Why did Carver ask you to deliver the boy to Catalea? Why did they want her dead?”
"I... I don't know. It’s not like they let me in on whatever the plan was. They just ordered me to give her the boy. I didn’t have a choice, you have to understand that,” Hoffman pleaded.
Oscar believed him, but he wasn’t done with him just yet.
“You did have a choice,” Oscar scolded.
“Really, what was I supposed to do? Go to the cops?!” Hoffman scoffed. “This is the Greyson Corporation. It’s essentially a fortune 500 street gang! Those bastards would have killed me!”
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” Oscar said darkly, as he tightened his grip on the revolver in his right hand.
Before Hoffman could scream or protest, Oscar squeezed the trigger and painted
the wall with the silver fox’s brains.
As the now mostly headless body flopped backward and toppled to the floor, Oscar turn to leave the kitchen.
Someone was there. He wasn't alone. The hair on the back of his neck went up as he stared toward the hallway, waiting. Perhaps a slight sound had tipped him off. Or maybe he had caught a hint of motion. Could also have just been paranoia but in his former life Oscar had learned to trust his gut with this sort of thing.
Suddenly, he remembered spotting a mirror on the wall at the end of the hall. Moving casually, as though he had no idea anyone else was here, he crossed the kitchen and cursed softly to himself as he "accidentally" kicked the beer bottle across the floor. He chased after it, and as he bent to pick it up he turned his head to the right. His eyes caught the left half of the mirror around the kitchen door and he saw a woman standing there on the other side.
The quick glimpse didn't tell him much. He could see that she was tall, with legs for days. She seemed to be wearing yoga pants, garishly colored running shoes, a tank top, her hair in a ponytail. Either she was one of those typical suburban housewives who likes to power-walk around the neighborhood, or she was just wearing a disguise. Oscar figured the latter, since she was holding a small silenced pistol in her hand.
She was young. Trim. Pretty. And she looked worried.
She was watching him. As soon as he bent down, and made himself vulnerable, she lunged for the kitchen door and came through like a bat out of hell, her running shoes squeaking on the floor.
Oscar didn't intend to hit her with his first shot. It would take too long to line up, and by then he'd probably have a few new holes in his abdomen. He just popped one off to suppress her fire as he wheeled backward and shoved himself up against the backside of the kitchen island.
He heard the solid wood table being flipped onto its side and dragged across the floor for a makeshift shield.
Damn, this chick must be strong, Oscar thought as his mind scrambled for a plan of action.
Grave Makers (Darkside Dreams - Series 1 Book 2) Page 5
