He took the stairs up, carrying paper bags full of food in each hand. Brooks was already waiting in his open door, sipping a beer. He had already showered and changed into sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt. He stepped aside and let Oscar through.
"So, what's on the menu tonight?" Brooks asked.
"Chinese," Oscar replied. "Sweet and sour pork, right?”
“That’ll do,” Brooks said as he accepted one of the bags of food from Oscar.
Oscar looked around. It had been a while since he was in Brooks' apartment, but it was still exactly the same. For a bachelor pad it was fairly tidy. No empty pizza boxes or dirty socks on the floor. Though it was obvious Brooks either had never heard of dusting or just didn't care. He was also a voracious reader, a fact reflected in the many stacks of books scattered randomly around the front room.
"We can eat in the living room," Brooks offered.
"Better make it your office," said Oscar.
Brooks shrugged and led the way down a narrow hall, into a back room. It was the only extra room in the place, other than the bathroom, but Brooks hadn't put his bed in here. He slept on the couch instead. Like any good detective, he put more emphasis on work than sleep.
Brooks was smart. A savvy guy. So he didn't ask any questions. He just sat, turned his computer on, and turned to Oscar expectantly.
Oscar tore open his paper bag and dug into his food. Brooks soon followed suit and they both ate straight from the carton as they talked.
"I need info on a guy named Carver," Oscar said, taking a bite of sauce-drowned broccoli. "First name’s Grant."
Brooks logged in through his VPN, entered his credentials into the police database, and finally ran a search on the guy's name. There were a few Grant Carvers in the city. But it wasn't hard to pick out the right one.
"I need to know who he works for," Oscar explained. "He'll either be employed by ProStar Solutions or the Greyson Corporation. I need to know how close he is beneath the big guy. So I can figure out just how deep this thing goes… and how potentially fucked I am."
Brooks brought up Carver's file and scanned through to his current employments.
"He's an executive for the Greyson Corp. Oscar, if you're digging into this guy, I recommend backing off. I know you're a pro, but you're getting in way over your head with this."
Oscar took another bite of food, though he no longer felt very hungry.
"What do you know about Greyson," he asked.
"DeAndre Greyson?" Brooks sat back, taking another swig of beer. "Probably the biggest son of a bitch in the world. At least in the country.”
“Dirty?” Oscar asked.
“As dirty as they come, if you ask me, but the son of a bitch is too goddamn smart,” Brooks admitted. “It's a well-kept secret that he built his business empire from the ill-gotten gains of his father."
"His father?" Oscar asked.
"Andre Greyson," Brooks replied.
"Andre Greyson, the merc? I thought he died."
"More like Andre Greyson the pirate. Son of a bitch was the captain of the Phantom's Paradise. Word is he faked his own death, all those years ago. Supposedly died for real a couple decades ago though."
"How'd he die?"
"Believe it or not, that’s actually classified.”
“Really?” Oscar asked in bewilderment.
“Yeah,” Brooks confirmed. “Shocked the hell out of me too.”
“Well that’s interesting,” Oscar said.
“Whatever the case, apparently piracy paid off big time for Andre Greyson. Son of a bitch was rich like you wouldn’t believe. Not a lot of cash though. Mostly pilfered resources. My guess is he left it all to his boy, and someone as smart as DeAndre Greyson could easily turn resources into cash without leaving a paper trail."
"And now the bastard is the second richest man on the planet," Oscar grunted. "Great."
"Right behind our Lord and Savior Tucker Berg," Brooks grinned.
“Lord and Savior,” Oscar chuckled. “That’s rich.”
“Hey, he created the synths. Seems pretty god-like to me,” Brooks remarked.
“So when are you guys gonna do anything about Greyson? Son-of-a-bitch basically operates in your back yard,” Oscar said.
“Not much we can do right now. But now that I know that son of a bitch’s weakness it’s only a matter of time before he slips up again.”
“What do you mean?”
"You didn't hear this from me," Brooks said, taking a hushed tone as a wave of seriousness washed across his face. "But I was working with a synth who had dirt on Greyson. Evidence that could lead to a 'cruelty to entities' charge if it was filed in California. Turns out, DeAndre has quite the fetish for synth women."
"No shit," Oscar said, surprised.
"No shit, my friend. He throws these huge underground parties full of synths and organics alike. Thing is, some of the synth sex workers that attend don't always make it back out. Turns out the only thing Greyson likes more than boning synths is experimenting on them. My synth witness was going to testify, provide her memories as evidence against the bastard."
"What happened?" Oscar asked, though he already knew the answer.
"My witness disappeared. Greyson must have gotten to her. Killed her, or paid her off. Who knows. My case fell flat on its face. I knew if I pursued it further I'd just make myself look like a jackass and paint a target on my back. So I let it go."
"Don't you still have the memories? Can't you still use them?"
Brooks shook his head. "Inadmissible. The courts require both the synth's memories and the synth themselves. You have to be able to tie the memories to a concrete witness. Without the witness I had nothing."
Oscar and Sergeant Brooks ate slowly, without speaking for a little while, staring into space.
Finally, Oscar broke the silence, "So DeAndre Greyson just happens to have some fucked up, Jack The Ripper’esque fetish for synth women and Catalea just happens to be killed by a robot that was manufactured by one of his companies? That can’t be a coincidence."
“What do you think?” Brooks inquired.
"Catalea was a sex worker. Maybe she also attended one of Greyson's parties. Saw something she shouldn't have. Something that got her ghosted."
Oscar set his food aside. He felt sick.
"So, you think DeAndre Greyson is personally behind her death?” Brooks asked.
"Just a gut feeling right now, but once you tie what little evidence we have together, it all seems to point in that direction."
"I know that look Oscar,” Brooks said as he narrowed his eyes and studied Oscar’s stone-cold expression. “Tell me you’re not thinking about going after the most dangerous man in the country.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Oscar said flatly.
Brooks sat upright, shaking his head. "Don't be a dumbass, Graves. You'll get yourself killed. That's all you can hope to achieve. Even if you get close enough to Greyson to do anything, his bodyguard will shred you to bits."
"I think I can handle a goddamn bodyguard," Oscar grunted.
"I’m not talking about some muscle-bound meathead, Oscar. I’m talking about ‘the Unit’.”
“What the fuck is a unit?”
“That’s what they call Greyson’s main bodyguard. It's an android. A goddamn meat grinder… I’m telling you this because I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. It is not a good idea to tango with that thing.”
"So I’m supposed to just let Greyson keep killing synths and running the world," Oscar scoffed. "Fuck that. I'm willing to take the chance. What the hell have I got to lose, anyway? My acid reflux? My goddamn creaky knees?"
Brooks sighed and shook his head. “You need a drink Oscar. Something to slow you down a bit. Why don’t we go out and grab a few rounds?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve gotta run. Another time maybe,” Oscar said as he stood and prepared to leave.
“Wait,” Brooks called after Oscar, causing his old fri
end to pause in his tracks. “I don't want to get your hopes up, but I thought you should know that our specialist discovered some abnormalities with the bodies we found in the synth girl’s room.”
"Catalea’s body? What kind of abnormalities?" Oscar asked.
"That’s the thing. We don’t know if that’s actually Catalea’s body. We think it may have been a decoy."
“Are you telling me she may still be alive?”
“No way to know for sure. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. And don’t take this the wrong way Oscar but have you considered the possibility that she could have staged the whole thing as a means to escape her life as a prostitute?”
“No… she wouldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure of that, Oscar? What makes you so sure that this girl didn’t just run off?”
“Because I know her. She wouldn’t just disappear like that. Greyson has her. That’s the only logical explanation.”
“I hope you’re wrong, Oscar. For her sake, I hope to god you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“All the girls we suspect Greyson disappeared have completely vanished without a trace. If he really does have your Catalea, chances are you’ll never see her again.”
"We'll see about that," Oscar said darkly, his heart racing with anticipation as he turned and trudged towards the exit.
CHAPTER 9
◆◆◆
Greyson Corp. executive Grant Carver was working a late night.
Oscar stood on the street, ignoring his urge for a cigarette as he stared up at the single illuminated office on the top floor. He waited a while, crouched to adjust his shoe, then walked on. Twenty feet down he moved into a dark alley and hid himself away behind a garbage bin. When he came out, he seemed to blend into the shadows. The mask on his face covered most of his distinguishing features, and a pair of smart goggles on his eyes would let him past whatever retinal scanners the building contained.
He had already established that a security guard was in residence in the lobby. The guy seemed half asleep, more interested in his coffee and box of donuts than the sanctity of the building. But Oscar wasn't going to take any chances. Behind a larger garbage bin, he worked to unfold the rotors on a one-man drone. Shoving himself in the small cockpit, he shut the small door and used his smart watch to guide the drone at a slow, quiet speed up onto the roof. He was rusty at flying the thing, hadn't used it in years, and it took him a few painful minutes to guide it into a soft landing.
Getting out, he ran across the roof toward the access door. He went down a set of stairs, then pushed through a second door. Now he was standing on the marble-floored hallway of the top floor, and he could see the brightly lit office up ahead.
He peeked through a window and saw Carver at his desk, scrolling through files on his computer. He seemed to be zoning out, not paying complete attention. It was as good a time as any to bust in.
Oscar opened the door quickly, decisively, quietly. He stepped through and shut it behind him. He moved with such confidence that Carver didn't immediately realize anything was wrong. His head swiveled slowly as he looked around with tired eyes, perhaps expecting to see a janitor or a handyman.
All he saw was a masked figure dressed in black, lunging toward him.
Carver managed to get out a single note of a scream before Oscar clamped a hand over his mouth. Hooking his other hand behind the guy's neck, he yanked him up and out of his seat then delivered a powerful punch to the solar plexus, making Carver double over and wheeze breathlessly.
Grabbing the back of his suit jacket, Oscar went back into the hall and dragged the executive toward a door at the end labeled ROOF ACCESS.
Carver regained his ability to speak, but his voice was now breathless and weak, his words nothing but utter gibberish.
"What...? Who...? Why are you...?"
Oscar went through the roof door and pulled Carver up the stairs. Opening the second door he stepped through into the cool night air. Up here, at the top of the Greyson building, the wind was strong. Oscar dragged Carver toward the edge of the roof, where a four-foot-high wall protected anyone from falling over. He shoved the executive to the ground near the wall, then gave him a kick in the ribs.
"When they scrape your sorry ass off the sidewalk," Oscar growled, "there'll be no sign that it was anything other than suicide. That’s all you have to look forward too now, Carver. Unless you tell me what I need to know."
"What the hell do you want?" Carver asked. "Money?"
"I want to know why Catalea was involved. The synth woman. You gave Hoffman a robot boy. Told him to give it to her. What’s it all about. Why was she targeted?"
Carver stared up at him. "Who? Catalea? I have no idea who that is! You've got the wrong guy!"
Oscar turned away, then slammed the heel of his boot against Carver's shin. The guy screamed in pain, tears streaming out of his eyes.
"I can do a lot worse than that," Oscar warned.
"Listen, guy," Carver groaned, rubbing his leg. "I don't know who the fuck you're talking about!"
Oscar squatted down, pulling a four-inch razor sharp blade from his belt. "You lie to me again and I’m gonna take this knife and rip your goddamn kidneys out,” Oscar threatened, in an eerily hushed tone. “Right before I make your sorry ass kiss the pavement down there.”
Carver stared at the knife in fear.
"Okay," he said. "Okay, just don't hurt me!"
"Start talking."
"The order... it came from the top. I couldn't really say no, could I? Not to the guy who pays my bills."
"You're talking about DeAndre Greyson."
"Yeah. The top, like I said."
“Why would he want to harm Catalea? What was she to him?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. He only came to me because I run Pro Star. That’s where we make the infiltrators.”
"Where is Greyson now?" Oscar demanded. “Is he in the city?"
Carver shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "I... I dunno. I don't know where he is. Not like he checks in with me anytime he goes someplace, you know?"
"You want to try that again, dumbass! Didn’t I warn you about lying to me!" Oscar said as he strong armed Carver to the edge of the roof and threatened to hurl him over the safety wall.
Carver went gray in the face. "Hey, wait. Wait! I- I just remembered something!"
"As if by magic,” Oscar said coldly.
"He's..." Carver groaned, a pained look on his face as he accepted the fact that he had no choice but to rat out his boss. The idiot was probably thinking about what it might do to his performance review. "He's in LA. Not sure what else he's doing while he's there, but I do know that he's going to be on that talk-show. The political one. Late night."
"Material Matters?" Oscar asked.
"Yeah, that one. It's taping tomorrow. Unless something last minute changes with his schedule Greyson will be there."
Oscar nodded. "How do I know you’re telling the truth.”
“They’re already advertising about the episode. You can check it out for yourself! Hell, I can even give you a printout of his schedule if that helps!”
“Is Catalea alive?” Oscar pressed.
“Maybe… Probably,” Carver said. “He likes to experiment on them. Figure out how their minds work. But if she is still alive… I doubt you’ll even recognize what’s left of her.”
Oscar clenched his jaw in frustration as his mind became overwhelmed with images of Catalea suffering at the hands of DeAndre Greyson.
"Will you let me go now?" Carver nervously asked.
“Yeah… I’ll let you go. But I need something from you first.”
“What do you need?”
“Sign this,” Oscar commanded as he withdrew a data slate and projected a virtual sheet of paper in front of the executive.
With trepidation, and a profusely sweating brow, Carver used his index finger to scrawl his signature across a line at the bottom of the mostly bl
ank virtual document. As an executive at a dirty company, he was probably well versed in how much a single signed document could fuck up his whole life. But Oscar was sure that he'd never suffered it from this side.
"What’s this? What’s the document for?"
"It’s a suicide note," Oscar said. "Or to be more precise,” he continued as he firmly gripped his hands around Carver’s neck and used his leverage to hoist him into the air. “It’s your suicide note.”
“You— you said you’d let me go,” Carver pitifully choked out.
“Should have read the fine print, jack ass,” Oscar growled as he let Carver go, by hurling him over the edge of the roof’s safety wall.
Carver screamed the whole way down off the building. Luckily there was no one around to hear him. No one but the security guard, who was probably fast asleep or using the toilet.
A program on Oscar’s data slate analyzed Carver’s handwriting and filled in the rest of the suicide note, sending it out to a pre-planned contact list once the forged letter was complete. There was no blood around to cast suspicion on the idea that Carver had simply jumped over. If anyone dug deeper, they would find evidence of Carver's affairs, his rocky marriage, his drinking; reason enough to make the whole thing an open and shut case.
Oscar looked down at his smart watch. By now, the background decryption program had had plenty of time to work its magic. He was now connected to the building's security and surveillance systems. With a bit of deft finger-work, he was able to cut out the footage of him dragging Carver from his office and replace it with a pre-made loop. A geek friend of his had put it together in a jiffy, and it showed a guy who resembled Carver in dress and size moping down the hall to the roof door with his head hanging low so the camera couldn't see his face.
Oscar didn't care whether the cops eventually caught up to him. He just didn't want DeAndre Greyson to have any reason to believe that someone might be coming for him.
Navigating back through screens on his watch, he triggered the drone and watched as it rose beyond the wall of HVAC units and came to a soft landing beside him.
Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series Page 27
