"I want reports by eighteen-hundred." Chappel rose to let them out. "And, Phil, we need to finalise Blindeye before then."
"I'll call you." As she closed the door behind them, Roads caught a glimpse of DeKurzak, still seated in his chair opposite Chappel. The liaison officer nodded farewell, apparently unfazed by the cool reception his announcement had received.
"What a load of shit," Wiggs said when the door was firmly shut. "This whole thing stinks."
"We need to get together soon, to swap notes."
"Agreed. I'd mail them to you, but you know what I'm like."
Roads nodded. Wiggs' lack of computer skills was renowned. An attempt to mail Roads the notes on the assassin could easily misfire, and result in sensitive RSD files landing in the lap of a bulletin board. Safer, and more productive, to talk in person.
At the elevator well, Wiggs leaned up against a wall and closed his eyes. "To be honest, Phil, this case is driving me crazy. I'll be glad to see the end of it, if it comes to that."
"At least you've got a geneprint." Roads forced a smile. "All you have to do is test everybody and find the one that matches."
"Yeah, right. Except the city'll be full of outsiders. People like this O'Dell, or whoever he is, marching in to 'smooth the way'. Give them a month and we'll be overcrowded again."
Roads feigned horror. "Don't tell me you're anti-Reassimilation, Roger."
"No, it's not that. It's just..." Wiggs sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I was a child during the food riots, Phil. My parents weren't well off, and we were almost kicked out of the city. I remember what it was like — a little too well, sometimes."
"It wasn't pleasant, that's for sure." The elevator doors pinged open and they filed inside. "But I don't think it'll be like that this time. Outside's not so bad any more."
"It couldn't be." Wiggs glanced at his reflection in the mirror, grimaced. "Can't help but worry, though."
As the cage plummeted toward the carpark, Roads' phone buzzed for attention.
"Phil, it's Margaret."
"Christ, we haven't even left the building yet."
"Good. DeKurzak's on his way down. He wants to visit the scene on Old North Street."
"Great," Roads groaned.
"Lucky you," whispered Wiggs, with a smirk.
"It was my idea," continued Chappel. "I like the MSA about as much as you do, but we all have to live with it. And him. By letting him see the way we operate — and can cooperate — we decrease the chances of those above him taking the cases from us." Chappel paused, obviously waiting for a response. "Anyway, I said you'd give him a lift."
"Fine." Roads sighed. "It's not as if we've had much success on our own, I suppose."
"Exactly. When he's finished, lend him one of the cars so he can join homicide at the Yhoman place."
Wiggs' face fell.
"With pleasure."
"Good." Chappel's tone softened slightly. "Stay in touch."
"I will."
CHAPTER FOUR
10:30 a.m.
Roads would have preferred to drive the whole way to Old North Street in silence, but DeKurzak clearly had other ideas.
"You're not from here, are you, Roads? Not originally, anyway."
"What makes you say that?"
"Your accent, mainly. English? South African? I can't quite place it."
"My parents were Australian." Roads couldn't help but be impressed at the observation; few distinct accents remained in Kennedy, and only a handful of people of DeKurzak's age could distinguish one from another.
"Ah." DeKurzak nodded. "Expats?"
"No, on holiday when the War broke out. We were lucky to be staying near Kennedy at the time."
"Very lucky indeed. What happened to them?"
"Killed in food riots when I was a kid. I'd rather not talk about it."
DeKurzak smiled. "Of course. You don't have to."
Roads guided the car onto the south-bound arterial freeway. The road surface was rough after so many years without regular maintenance, but he preferred it to the Rosette routes when heading in that direction. As they drove, the ruins of Patriot Bridge dominated the forward skyline. Time was slowly pulling it down, piece by piece; Roads could see the odd gap-toothed hole where the road itself had fallen away, or been blown away by explosives. The old maglev track had been dismantled entirely.
He'd always thought the bridge had been hard done by, and privately hoped that the Reassimilation would result in its reconstruction — although he doubted it.
DeKurzak seemed to be reading his thoughts. Roads felt the liaison officer's keen eyes studying him.
"How exactly do you feel about the Reassimilation, Officer Roads?"
"Honestly?"
"Of course."
"Well, I can't see what all the fuss is about."
"What do you mean? This is the first contact we've had with anyone outside Kennedy — "
"No, what I mean is: it has to happen eventually, doesn't it? There's no point arguing about it, or putting it off any longer."
"That's the best way to think about it." DeKurzak nodded, waving one hand at the view before them. "Kennedy is like a tide-pool that has been isolated for so long it's forgotten about the sea. But the tide's going to come back in whether we want it to or not. The only question we have to ask ourselves is whether we let it in gracefully, or go down with a fight."
Roads looked at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. DeKurzak seemed to have missed the point entirely; Kennedy had to Reassimilate because it would die if it didn't, not because the RUSA wanted it to..
He cleared his throat, choosing tact rather than debate. "I would have thought the answer was obvious. If we send them away now, they'll only come back later, when they're even stronger."
"True. A lot of people feel otherwise, though."
"One in particular?"
"The killer? Yes, he — or she, of course — is an extreme case. But that wasn't really who I was talking about. I meant the Old Guard, the people who lived through both the War and the Dissolution. These people have seen terrifying things, and we can only sympathise with their reluctance to place themselves at risk again by reopening the city. But where do we draw the line? There are already enough of them in the Mayoralty to obstruct a move that the rest of us regard as being inevitable, even if it does make us all nervous."
Roads shrugged. "So? Politics and people have always been like that when it comes to change. King Canute wasn't the only one,"
"That's true." DeKurzak stared away from the river, at the distant glints of the city. "Would you count yourself among the Old Guard, Roads?"
Roads almost laughed. Either DeKurzak was extraordinarily clumsy at asking leading questions, or genuinely had no idea how his inquiries sometimes sounded. "I'm old enough," he said, "but, to be honest, I really don't give a shit. I just try to do my job. If you think I'm conspiring to wreck the Reassimilation, then you're barking up the wrong tree."
"I didn't say that." DeKurzak chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "What about Wiggs?"
"Too young. Haven't you checked his records?"
"Birth dates can be faked."
Roads glanced across at DeKurzak. The liaison officer's face was closed, serious. The urge to laugh abruptly vanished. "You're crazy."
"It's worth checking. And, what's more, if you stop to look at things objectively, it makes sense. The best way for the assassin to remain at large — and the thief for that matter, assuming they aren't one and the same person — is to ensure that the authorities don't want to catch him. Or to actually be the authorities."
"So you think I'm the Mole?"
"No. Your alibis check out. But the resemblance is uncanny, all the same."
Roads gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands and tried to keep his anger at bay. Again he wondered if DeKurzak was deliberately trying to provoke him, or simply didn't realise what he was saying, what open nerve he had unwittingly probed.
"How old
are you, DeKurzak?"
The liaison officer blinked. "Thirty-six. Is this relevant?"
"It might be. Anyone under fifty won't remember the War — "
"Obviously, but — "
" — and if you don't remember the War, how can you possibly understand what it was like? How can you speak for this 'Old Guard' of yours if you haven't been through what they have? Think about it for a moment. Doesn't it seem more likely that those who have seen the Dissolution first-hand would actually want the Reassimilation, rather than resist it?"
DeKurzak had his mouth open, wanting to break in, but Roads ploughed on: "The ones who remember what it was like to watch hungry people die rather than let them in and starve the city, who were forced to kill the beggars that screamed at the Wall for months, who had friends and relatives thrown out of Kennedy for fighting when there wasn't enough to go around ... These people aren't your Old Guard. These people won't kill to keep Kennedy closed. They've seen enough death already.
"The ones you're looking for are younger. They've lived here all their lives, and regard Kennedy as theirs. They don't want it invaded by upstarts from the Outside. If anybody's going to fight to keep Kennedy closed, they'll be the ones — not people like me ..."
Roads took a deep breath, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was sweating heavily.
DeKurzak looked surprised; Roads' outburst had clearly startled him, too. "What exactly are you driving at, Officer Roads?"
"That it's not me, you son of a bitch. I'm not the Mole, or the assassin, and I'm not protecting anyone."
"But Wiggs might be."
"He's not. Jesus." Roads felt like banging his head on the steering wheel. "We're just trying to do our jobs."
"And no-one's stopping you." The liaison officer glanced away. "No-one's questioned the fine work you've done for RSD over the years. That's not the issue here. What is at stake is this case, at this moment, and how we're going to solve it. Given that it's not a simple whodunit, and that there's no keeping politics out of it, we have to consider every possibility."
Roads bristled at the 'we', but kept his mouth in check this time. "Just give me a little longer, DeKurzak. I don't believe in the uncatchable thief."
DeKurzak smiled. "Neither do I, as a matter of fact. But we've only got three days left before General Stedman arrives."
The turn-off for Old North Street appeared, and Roads swung the wheel to follow it, grateful for the distraction. As the scene of the break-in approached, DeKurzak broke the brief, tense silence.
"I'm only doing my job, too, Phil. Remember that, and our relationship will be a little less strained."
* * *
With daylight had come the spectators. A couple of dozen had settled in shaded doorways and windows for the morning, curious to see what had happened. Most were young parents with small children in tow, looking for entertainment. Although loitering was technically illegal, being a waste of human resources, none of the attending officers bothered to move the crowd along.
Barney was asleep in the van, stretched across the rear seat with her coat bunched up against the window, acting as a pillow. He felt like a bastard for waking her.
"What — ?" She opened her eyes and rubbed her forehead. "Oh, it's you."
"Sleeping on the job?"
"Yes and no. HQ sent Rashid to relieve me not long after you left, but I thought I'd wait for you to come back." She glanced at her watch. "I only lay down ten minutes ago."
"This fanatical devotion to duty will get you places."
"That's a relief." She struggled upright and tugged at her clothes. The rear of the car was suffocatingly hot and her uniform damp with sweat as a result. "Are we going now?"
"Not yet. We have a visitor."
"Who?"
"The MSA have sent someone to watch over our shoulder. He's standing just over there and answers to the name 'DeKurzak'."
"Watch us why?"
Roads filled her in on the meeting that morning, content to let the MSA liaison officer wait a few minutes longer. By the time he finished, Barney had recovered a semblance of alertness.
"So they're giving us a deadline?"
"Seems that way."
"Bastards." She groaned as he helped her out of the van. "Okay, I guess I'm ready. As if I haven't already done enough for one day."
"I presume you went through this lot for eyewitnesses," Roads said, indicating the crowd with a nod.
"Yeah, not a one. Door-knocked, too." Barney raised a hand to point. "This is 114, right? One hundred and eleven, 113 and 115 are empty offices, haven't had tenants for at least ten years and haven't been converted to accommodation because no-one really wants to live in this area. One hundred and twelve and 116 are tenantable, but unoccupied. City records don't mention anyone ever moving in, so they've been empty since the War — just like 114 itself, supposedly."
They walked to where DeKurzak was standing, watching the squad move in and out of the house. Roads made the introductions. DeKurzak shook Barney's hand with an ingratiating smile, then suggested they move inside.
The cellar was cool but crowded, and considerably more ordered than when Roads had last seen it. The piles of components had been returned to their respective boxes; all the cupboards were closed.
Barney's replacement was talking earnestly with Raoul over one of the terminals. A short, dark-haired man, he had a large smallpox scar on his left cheek that Kennedy's utilitarian approach to medical care had not allowed to be removed. He looked up as Roads and company approached.
"Good morning, Phil."
"That depends. Have you got anything for me?"
"I'm not sure. We have the security check on the data system."
"And?"
"It looks like nothing was stolen."
Roads raised his eyebrows. "Run that by me again?"
"As he said," said Raoul, his dark skin dusty. He wiped his hands on a rag as he approached. "It's as clean as a preacher's prick down here."
DeKurzak looked curiously at the new arrival, and Roads explained as briefly he could: "Raoul ran this place. He can tell us what's been stolen."
"Which is nothing," Raoul repeated.
"But that's inconsistent," Barney said. "Why would the Mole go to the trouble of breaking in and then not take anything?"
"To prove he can?" DeKurzak suggested, obviously dissatisfied with remaining an observer.
"We already know he can."
"Then maybe he was scared off."
Roads shook his head. "The building was empty until Raoul arrived. Right, Raoul?"
"That's correct. He set off the alarm as he left. He must have finished what he came to do."
"Exactly. But what the hell was that?" Roads rubbed thoughtfully at his moustache. "How's the list of hardware coming?"
"Finished. We're about to check for discrepancies."
"Good. That might tell us something."
"Do you really think so?" asked DeKurzak, peering curiously into an open box nearby.
"Of course." Roads fought yet another explosive response, already sick of justifying himself to the liaison officer. "This is the first time the Mole hasn't lifted data in six weeks. If he took hardware instead, then that must mean something. And if he didn't, same again. Any break in the pattern, no matter how slight, is significant."
"I guess you're right." DeKurzak looked suitably chastised. "I wasn't thinking."
Roads, slightly mollified, turned away. "Rashid, this is Antoni DeKurzak of the MSA. When he's finished looking around, have one of the squad take him to see Wiggs at the scene of last night's homicide. HQ will give you the address."
Rashid mock-saluted. "Yessir."
"Meanwhile, I'm going to get some sleep. Have someone call me if you find something."
"Will do, boss."
"Okay. Ciao."
As they climbed the stairs, Roads felt DeKurzak's hurt stare at his back. The liaison officer knew he'd been dumped, but Roads wasn't going to let that bother him.
"He's keen, at least," said Barney.
"Yes, but a little on the paranoid side, too, if I'm any judge of character."
"Ain't that dandy."
"No, not really." They exited the building. The thinning crowd watched them walk down the steps to the sidewalk with mild interest.
They had hardly gone more than a few steps towards the car, however, when Barney stopped and squinted through the sunlight. "Hang on."
"What?" Roads followed the direction of her gaze. On the second floor of one of the neighbouring buildings, half-visible through a curtained window, something moved.
"That's strange," Barney said. "I checked 116 myself."
"Did you actually search every floor?"
"No. I just knocked where I couldn't get in, and left it at that." She squinted to see better, but the movement didn't return.
"Do you want to check it out?"
"Do we have to?"
"No." For once, he was glad to play devil's advocate. "Maybe it's time we called it a night."
"Well and truly." She didn't move on, however. "But I suppose we'd better have a look. Fuck."
Roads followed her past the van and through the cordon to the address next door. The building was narrow, two storeys high, and had obviously been much better-kept in years gone by; its stonework was now chipped and scarred, its glass for the most part broken. Like 114, it had a small yard and fence, with a flight of steps leading to its front door. From the street, its interior looked abandoned, and didn't welcome potential visitors.
Barney knocked once on the door, waited a second, then shouldered it open. Dusty silence greeted them, but both sensed the presence of an occupant, somewhere in the building.
"Squatters?" proposed Roads. Individual property ownership had been abolished in the first decade of the Dissolution, with housing dispensation resting in the hands of the Mayoralty. After the difficult years, however, the number of houses had gradually exceeded the number of tenants and the rules had been relaxed. Squatters presently had the right to move into any building, provided only that the building was officially listed as unoccupied. It was entirely possible that someone had moved into the house next door to 114 without registering the move with the Mayoralty.
Metal Fatigue Page 6
