by Rahul Bhagat
Their taxi was kind of banged up. It gave off a faint smell of food, and the air was dank inside. The vehicle asked them in a foreign language where they would like to go.
“Just park somewhere,” Charlie replied in English.
“The meter is running,” the AV responded in English and pulled away from the curb.
Martin asked Charlie, “What is this freighter business Dean owns?”
“Aventu. It’s a joke,” Charlie said. “It’s a small company, mostly recycled rockets, terrible safety record. That’s why he only flies out of here; there is little regulation or insurance overhead.”
The AV pulled into the visitor parking lot directly across from the arrival gate. “Gentlemen, would you like some music?” it asked.
“No, we’re fine,” Charlie said.
“How about some local favorites?” the AV insisted.
“Shut up!” Martin yelled at the AV. “This damn thing just won’t keep quiet. Hush… okay? Humans are talking.”
The AV didn’t say a word.
“I thought Dean was hungry to expand into space. How is he going to do that with this company?” Martin asked Charlie.
“He can’t do that with Aventu. It has no assets in space—LEO, the moon, anywhere.”
“Explains why he is so keen on Lunar Mining Company.”
“That’s right.” Charlie dug out his phone. “Let me check when Dean is arriving. Bambi, what’s the status of Dean’s plane?” Charlie asked the phone.
“Possible delay. In half an hour or less,” the phone replied.
“Bambi is your digital assistant?” Martin asked.
Charlie nodded with a smile. Martin still called his digital assistant Alexa, the default name it’d shipped with. But people in general almost immediately personalized their assistants with a name of their choice. Martin hadn’t expected Charlie to name his assistant Bambi. Who knew, maybe the guy had a soft core that he didn’t reveal to too many people.
Charlie said to Martin, “We have some time to kill. What do you wanna do? Should we check out Hotel Loma? Good to have a sense of the layout.”
“Sounds good.” Martin shrugged with indifference.
Charlie told the cab to take them to Hotel Loma.
“Very well,” the AV said. “Would you like me to take you through historic neighborhoods? You’ll get to see the city’s colonial past and unique architecture.”
“Whatever. I’m done fighting this taxi,” Martin said and slumped back in his chair.
Soon the hustle and bustle of the airport was behind them. The AV climbed steep roads and cruised through sleepy neighborhoods. All around, the houses had red-tiled roofs and arched windows. They passed churches with stucco exteriors and bell towers. Suddenly, Bambi informed Charlie that Dean’s plane has been cleared for landing. They scrambled back to the same parking lot and waited. Charlie placed his phone so Bambi could keep an eye on the arrival gate through phone’s camera.
Within a few minutes, Bambi announced that Dean had just stepped outside.
“Where?” Martin plastered his face to the window and scanned the crowd.
“He’s wearing cargo pants, big glasses, carrying a small backpack,” Bambi said.
Martin noticed Dean. He was walking toward the kiosk to hail a cab. Dean tapped rapidly at the kiosk’s touchscreen with experienced hands, and a taxi from the waiting row slowly peeled off and started driving toward him. Just then, another taxi showed up from nowhere, cut ahead of the original cab, and stopped in front of Dean.
“Look at that aggressive one,” Charlie said.
“Reminds me of an old movie where humans drove taxis. They would cut like that to steal passengers,” Martin said.
Dean disappeared inside the vehicle, and it took off toward the commercial district. Charlie instructed their taxi to follow Dean’s vehicle.
“What do you mean, ‘follow that vehicle’? Please give me a destination,” their AV complained.
“This piece of junk is useless.” Martin fumed. “We’re going to lose Dean.”
Bambi came to the rescue and started giving turn-by-turn instructions to their taxi.
Dean’s taxi picked up speed.
“We can’t keep up with it; it’s speeding,” Bambi said.
“Tell our cab to speed up too,” Martin said.
Their vehicle refused to break the speed limit.
“I’ll need access to the OBD2 port to override restrictions,” Bambi said.
Their AV slammed on the brakes and came to a screeching halt. Both Martin and Charlie were thrown from their seats.
“What happened?” Martin picked himself up from the floor and looked at an equally stunned Charlie. Then he looked outside and saw Dean’s vehicle in flames. They ran outside. His taxi had slammed into the concrete pillar of an underpass and sat crumpled at its base. Dean was dead.
TWENTY-TWO
MARTIN FOUND A large poster of the Martian landscape at the local police station. It was a popular shot, taken from a settlement in the Mariner Valley. He could just make out the tops of the four-mile-high canyon wall. Personally, he didn’t understand the fascination with Mars. Why would anyone trade life in a paradise for one in a desolate, bone-chilling desert? Not to mention, endure millions of miles of hazardous travel? Life in most space settlements was bare bones and hard.
The young police officer they were there to see was busy on the phone. He waved them toward visitor chairs and went back to his animated conversation. After sitting down, Martin quickly eyed Charlie next to him; he was lost in thought. Ever since Dean’s death, Charlie seemed to be in a bit of a shock. He had become unusually quiet and was suspicious of everyone. It was Martin who had to reach out to the local police and establish a working relationship.
The officer finished his conversation, looked at them, and immediately went on a tirade.
“Why don’t you Americans mind your own business? Why do you have to come here and create trouble? I was going on a vacation with my family, and now this mess.”
Martin felt anger at the man’s behavior. First, the guy had them waiting while he chatted away the encyclopedia, and now, such rudeness. But this was no time to lose his cool. “We’re here to help,” Martin said quietly.
“You are? Good,” the officer said sarcastically. “Go and explain to my wife that we are not going on a vacation. I have to deal with this mess first.”
Suddenly, Charlie asked, “Was it a murder?”
The officer nodded. He picked up a plastic bag and pulled a small electronic device from it. “Remote controller. We found this plugged in the OBD2 port.”
“What about traffic sentinels? They didn’t jam the signal?”
“Sentinels cost a lot of money; we don’t have any. That’s why we tell people to run anti-hijacking software. Or better still, put a lock on the OBD2 port.”
“But for heaven’s sake, this was a taxi,” Martin said. “Don’t you have any safeguards?”
“Taxis have their OBD2 under lock. That vehicle was not a taxi. It was just painted like one,” the officer said.
“Any ideas who did this?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? A lot goes on in this town. We are one of the busiest spaceports on the Pacific Coast.” He consulted the tablet in front of him. “The victim, Mr. Callaghan, owned Aventu, and Aventu played dirty. I’m sure he had his enemies.”
“Do you know where Dean was going?” Martin asked.
“Yes, we have the destination from the vehicle’s black box,” he said. “He was headed for Mr. Hidalgo’s villa.”
“Mr. Miguel Hidalgo?” Charlie asked.
“You guys know him?” the officer asked. He was surprised.
“Not really,” Martin quickly said. “I think someone mentioned him in the news or something…” He looked at Charlie.
“He’s the richest man in Tapachula. Owns a number of companies and all the plantations,” the officer said. “His house is a palace, with swimming pools and tennis courts, and
when they have parties, oh my God!” He threw up his hands. “They have ’em all night long, many nights in a row. I’ve been to some; you can’t imagine.” The officer looked away in the distance with dreamy eyes.
“Can you arrange a meeting for us?” Martin asked.
“With Mr. Hidalgo?” he asked with surprise.
“Yes. We just want to know what Dean was going to see him for.”
“I can pass on your request. It’s up to Mr. Hidalgo if he wants to meet you.” He laughed.
The police officer hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said Mr. Hidalgo’s house was a palace. It was huge, with a large courtyard that had big, leafy plants, a pond filled with huge koi fish, and Mayan decorations everywhere. They were ushered into a large, airy room. A waiflike young woman in heavy makeup was perched on an expensive couch. Hidalgo, a fit middle-aged man with his hair swept back, showed up the next moment. He wore expensive sunglasses and a mauve silk shirt. He dismissed the woman with a gesture of his hand, and she disappeared immediately.
“Have a seat,” he said. “You guys are investigators from the United States?”
Martin got to the point immediately. They were there to find out what Dean Callaghan was visiting him for.
Hidalgo displayed no nervousness. “Dean was a business partner. We had a profitable venture, and we enjoyed each other’s company. I’m going to miss him.”
“What was the purpose of his visit?” Martin asked again.
“We had a business meeting,” Hidalgo said.
“What kind of meeting?”
“I ship a lot of supplies through Aventu. We were planning to negotiate a long-term deal. I was hoping to get a price break,” Hidalgo said with a laugh. “This is bad. Now I’ll have to look for a new freighter.”
“What kind of supplies are we talking about, Mr. Hidalgo?” Martin asked.
“The usual. Rice, wheat, meat,” Hidalgo said.
Martin noticed Charlie was listening intently. His stupor from before was gone.
“Mr. Hidalgo, do you know anything about CasperX?” Charlie suddenly asked.
“Of course, I was one of the founders,” Hidalgo said. “I don’t like the path the company has taken, but I haven’t had anything to do with it for a long time.”
“Mr. Hidalgo, Dean’s AV was customized for manual driving, and the controller override was from CasperX,” Charlie said.
“CasperX sells all over the world,” Hidalgo said.
“But it was a technology-demonstration model. Not mass produced; it was custom built for Dean.”
“Listen. I’m not involved with CasperX. And I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“Any ideas who’s behind his murder?” Charlie asked.
Hidalgo got up. “If you’re thinking I did it, let me save you some effort. I didn’t. Dean was ruthless in business; he had his share of enemies.”
Martin and Charlie got up too. “Were you really planning to negotiate the freight price of rice?” Martin asked.
Hidalgo smiled. “Listen, I’m not afraid of you. You can’t touch me,” he said and tapped on Martin’s chest with his index finger. “Yes, Aventu was convenient for me. They turned a blind eye to what we shipped. But Dean was coming here to kill the deal. He was acquiring a lunar company, was getting serious about expanding into space, and didn’t want to carry Aventu’s risks. That’s what he was coming here to discuss, and he didn’t want anyone to find out. Yes, I was mad, but not so mad that I would get him killed. He was my buddy; we had good times together.”
Martin turned toward the exit. This was looking like a dead end.
TWENTY-THREE
THE DAY AFTER returning from Tapachula, Martin met Charlie in his office.
“Now what?” Charlie asked.
“The rabbit hole runs deep,” Martin said. “I don’t think we’re dealing with a technical failure here. The accident that killed Julie and Paige was definitely planned.”
“You sure? What makes you think so?” Charlie shifted in his seat.
“I’m not sure, but Dean’s murder definitely raises the stakes. Who? Why? We have to find out.”
“Are you planning to get involved in Dean’s case then?” Charlie asked. “I still think Hidalgo has something to do with his murder.”
“No, that’s an international case. It’ll be a distraction.” Martin dismissed the idea.
“You shouldn’t completely rule out a technical cause, either. Remember the prior map? There was some funky business going on in that AV’s head,” Charlie said.
“Well, that’s what you’re doing. Right?” Martin looked straight into Charlie’s eyes. “I’m going to make sure there was no foul play involved.”
“That reminds me, I have to set up a call with Dr. Cabrera for an update,” Charlie said. “You wanna come?”
“No, I’m going to pass,” Martin said. “I was thinking of completing remaining interviews.”
“What remaining interviews?”
Martin slumped back and scratched his nails absentmindedly. “You know, Rebekah Callaghan, Dean’s staff, Paige’s friends…”
Charlie clasped his hands. “Really? What are you going to get out of Paige’s friends?”
“I don’t know, just want to look around,” Martin said. “I definitely want to speak with Rebekah, though.”
“Her? Why?”
“Remember, she was the one who accused Dean of causing this accident. I want to see what she has to say now.”
“Good luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll be lucky to get an appointment.”
“I’ll subpoena her.”
Charlie was quiet for a second. “You don’t wanna make enemies of the rich and powerful.”
“I don’t care. What do I have to lose?” Martin said then added with a smile, “You want to come with me?”
“No.” Charlie let out a big sigh. “I have to finish the investigation. Give me a couple of weeks; I’ll show you it was a technical glitch.”
Martin got up to leave.
“I remember something Dad used to say,” Charlie said from his seat.
Martin looked down at him.
“We were two brothers,” Charlie continued. “We used to go picking mushrooms in the forest. And Dad would always remind us—be careful when moving rocks. You could disturb dangerous creatures.”
Martin held Charlie’s gaze for a second. “I’ll be careful,” he said and left the room.
*
At home, Martin did some more research. Senior Callaghan had bequeathed all his shares to his two children—sixty percent to Dean and forty percent to Paige. But Paige was allowed to exercise control only when she turned twenty-five. In the meantime, her mother represented her at the board meetings and voted on her behalf.
He found a company memo that contained a complete list of proposals Dean had brought before the board. One look at the list, and it was evident that Dean was the driving force behind the resurgence of Callaghan Enterprises. He was pushing his organization into high-growth areas. He found something surprising under the column that indicated how various board members voted. Rebekah overwhelmingly voted against his proposals. When it came to space industries, her vote was always a no.
Martin dug further into Rebekah’s life. She lived an expensive lifestyle—a permanent suite at the Four Seasons in low earth orbit, a private island in the Pacific South with its own spaceport, a body-sculpting agency that was hemorrhaging money. They were all money pits. He leaned back in his chair. Where was she getting the money from? Senior Callaghan had given a lot of money to Rebekah but not this kind of money. He wondered how she was financing her lifestyle.
Martin turned his attention to the next question—what would happen to Mr. Callaghan’s will if both heirs were dead? There was nothing definitive in the will. He submitted the question online with experts in inheritance laws. Most interpretations were in favor of Rebekah. The most likely scenario was that shares would be held
in custody at Callaghan Foundation, and Rebekah, as the executive director, would yield enormous influence over the direction of the company. She would not be able to sell the shares, but indirectly, through the foundation, she would have control over the organization.
Martin made up his mind. He quickly composed a letter, requesting Mrs. Rebekah Callaghan for an interview at her convenience and location. He thought for a moment before sending the email and added “if possible, this week” to the end of it.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING, Martin got up with a stiff neck. He hadn’t slept well and felt uneasy. So he poured himself a shot and downed it in one gulp. He hoped that would cure his feeling of unease. Then he noticed the fridge door; there was a message from someone by the name of Tory Avery.
“Mr. Stump, I have something precious for you from Aunt Julie. Please contact me.”
Martin felt a knot in his stomach; memories of Julie flooded his mind. He sat down at the kitchen table and called Tory, but it was intercepted by her digital assistant. She was sleeping. The AI told him that she knew it was urgent and that it would let her know the moment she woke up.
Martin poured himself a glass of orange juice and headed toward his home office. He wanted to see if there was any response from Rebekah.
There was nothing. He toyed with the idea of sending a reminder and copying the state prosecutor, but then he decided to give it another day.
“I’ll issue a subpoena if she doesn’t respond,” he reminded himself.
There was an incoming call from Tory Avery. Martin quickly accepted the call.
“Hello, Mr. Stump. How are you?” a young woman’s voice said.
“Hi, Tory,” Martin said.
“Aunt Julie… I miss her so much.” The girl broke down crying.
