He strolled casually a few doors down, then slipped into a doorway, watching back the way he had come. Nobody else appeared through the tall hotel doors. Maybe he’d just been imagining it, inventing things he could chase to keep himself occupied, but he didn’t think so.
“Hmmm,” he said to himself, barely noticing that he’d made the sound.
Something to think about anyway. It probably wasn’t Jack who was being watched—it could just as well be Bridgett Farrell, and that put an interesting spin on things. His guts were telling him something anyway, and that was progress.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked slowly back toward the department stores and the shuttle that would take him home.
By the time he got back to the apartment, Billie had made real progress. She looked up as Jack walked into the living room. She had that look of accomplishment on her face, and the set of her shoulders told him she thought she had achieved something.
“So . . . ?” he said.
“Well . . . Talbot, Carl.”
“Uh-huh?” He sat down on the seat opposite her, waiting while she drew the moment out.
“Antiques.”
“Good. Yes. That doesn’t surprise me. What else?”
“Arrived in Yorkstone four days ago. Registered at the Excelsior.”
She gave Jack a pointed look and he frowned at that revelation.
“What the hell?” That didn’t make any sense at all. If Talbot was registered at the Excelsior, then . . . No. That just didn’t make any kind of sense. Farrell would hardly hire him to look for the guy if he was staying at the same hotel, would she? The place was small enough, exclusive enough that she’d have to have some idea if he was there. It was possible she didn’t, but not likely.
“And?” he asked, ignoring Billie’s told-you-so look.
“Hasn’t checked out.”
“Okay, this makes absolutely no damned sense at all. If both of them are registered at the Excelsior. . . . Dammit. I was just up there.” He sat forward and scratched rapidly at his temple, grimaced and shook his head. “You got a picture?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Carl Talbot file. Picture,” she directed at the wall.
A man looking just as Bridgett Farrell had described appeared on the wallscreen. It wasn’t a good picture, an identity shot or something like that, but all the features were there. Front on, dark hair, square jaw, slightly shadowed. Widely set dark eyes beneath fine dark brows. Olive skin. Slightly tight mouth. He stared out of the wall arrogantly.
Jack whipped out his handipad and directed the system to download the image. He looked at it, trying to divine anything from it, but it was just a picture.
“Antiques, Billie. Anything more than that? What about antiques?”
“Dealer. Import/export. That’s all.” She shrugged. “Getting that much was hard.”
“Is there an address?”
“Not here. It’s not onworld. Somewhere called Utrecht. Balance City.”
He’d never heard of it. But then the universe was no longer a tiny place. There were worlds upon worlds that he’d never heard of. The new jump drive developed by Outreach Industries had opened up the known universe to everyone. No longer did people have to rely on the old, conventional means of travel. What had once been an impossible dream for those without the wealth to afford it was becoming accessible, well within the means of common people, and now those common people were moving to places previously inhabited only by corporations and the impossibly wealthy. There were other implications as well. Knowledge was growing at an exponential rate, and there was no way anybody could possibly keep up with it, let alone someone with limited resources like Jack. Just as well Billie was so good at ferreting out information from the vast array of systems that spanned the increasingly known worlds.
So this Carl Talbot, offworld antique dealer, had taken this artifact. Maybe he’d done it as a commission job. Something for a collector. It was not unheard of. The heirloom story was becoming less and less likely. He didn’t even know what Bridgett Farrell did. She’d said this Talbot was nothing to her, but that didn’t seem very likely either.
“Jack?” Billie was looking at him, expectantly.
“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking. What is it?”
“I haven’t had enough time to find anything about this thing you’re supposed to find.”
“Yeah, but. . . .”
“There’s more.” This time she was looking more than pleased with herself.
“Okay, give.”
“There is no Bridgett Farrell. Couldn’t find her anywhere. Apart from the Excelsior, there’s nothing.”
That wasn’t good. He narrowed his eyes at her and sat back. “Nothing at all?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Shit.” Billie might see it as a victory, but it more than complicated things. “Do me a favor? Look for any known links to Carl Talbot. People. Especially women. It might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”
She grimaced, but nodded.
So, his mystery woman was more than a simple mystery, and she was certainly being less than honest with him. Now that he had confirmation, he had a bit more work to do. Part of that would be to work out the exact nature of the game she was playing with him. The prospect intrigued him. He was starting to get more interested. Probably more interested than he should be.
Five
Jack paced back and forth in front of his desk, trying to work out what the best course of action would be. So what if the Farrell woman was a fake, and in more ways than one; he’d kind of expected that. Still, she had seemed convinced that Carl Talbot had taken the artifact. If he could find Talbot, he could find what she was looking for. He could feel it.
He wandered past the shelves on one side of the office and noticed the card he’d casually dropped there the day before. Pausing, he picked it up and looked down at it thoughtfully. He hadn’t even bothered to upload the information to his handipad yet. JIM MORRISH. INVESTIGATOR. He dug out his handipad, swiped the card, and then flicked it back to lie on the shelf. He’d file it away later. You never knew when a contact might come in useful, cop or not.
“Call Excelsior Hotel,” he said, turning to the wall.
The desk personality took shape in the wall in front of him, and he leaned back on the edge of the desk. “Welcome to the Excelsior Hotel. How may we assist you?”
“Could you put me through to one of your guests, please?”
“Of course, sir. Guest’s name?”
“Talbot. Mr. Carl Talbot.” If Talbot was there, Jack could pretend to be a collector, looking for what Talbot might have to offer. He’d at least thought that much through. He waited while the hotel program did its stuff.
“I’m sorry. We have no guest by that name.”
“What? You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. We have no guest by that name.”
“Look, put me through to a person, will you?”
The program paused again. “How may I assist you?”
Dammit. The programs were good, but sometimes there was a limit to what they could do.
“Put me through to . . . ah . . . Reservations.”
“Connecting you now.”
Moments later, another program took shape on the wall in front of him. He didn’t want a program. This time the program was a pleasantly smiling female replica.
“Reservations. May I be of assistance?”
“Can I speak to a person, please?”
“Please state clearly your requirements and I will try and fulfill your request. We currently have a weekend special in effect. Would you like to hear the special rates?”
“No, thank you.”
“How many people would you like to book for?”
“Listen. Can I talk to the manager, please?”
“Connecting you now.”
There was a long pause, and Jack could feel his frustration building. A bored-looking young man in hotel livery—red jacket, dark shirt—took shape on the screen, l
ooking away at something to one side. Jack coughed. The young man looked up, momentarily confused, then regained composure, smoothing his jacket and sitting up, looking slightly abashed at having been caught doing something else.
“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “I was having a few problems with your desk programs. I’m trying to track down one of your guests. We have some business together.”
“Certainly, sir. Can you tell me the guest’s name?”
“Carl Talbot. We were supposed to have a business appointment this evening.”
The reservations manager fiddled with something beside him, then looked up at the screen again, obviously watching a split display.
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Talbot has checked out.”
“Can you tell me what time?”
“Yes, about three o’clock.”
“Was there any forwarding information left?”
“No, I’m sorry. But there is a message waiting for him. We were instructed to hold any messages that came in.”
Okay, so someone else clearly knew Talbot had been staying there. “Can you tell me who it’s from?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not able to give you that information. Would you like to leave a message too? Though if he has checked out, I can’t guarantee that he’ll collect it.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Jack. “Thanks for your help.” He cut the connection; then, rethinking, he called the hotel again.
“I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please.”
“Yes sir. Guest’s name?”
“Bridgett Farrell.”
There was another brief pause as the desk program processed. “I’m sorry, sir. That guest is not taking calls at the present time. Would you like to leave a message?”
Jack suppressed a growl of frustration. “No, that’s okay.” He cut the connection again.
He had no choice but to go up there and confront his client with what he knew, try to get some more information from her about what was really going on. Finding an extra excuse for having a face-to-face was just an extra bonus. He grimaced. He had to stop thinking like that. The woman was trouble.
He shut down the wallscreen and headed into the living room. Once again Billie was staring at the screen, cross-referencing index material. The display was split into multiple panels. One held the finger sketch that Bridgett Farrell had left, another showed an article, yet another seemed to be some sort of catalog listing, and yet another showed scrolling text. Billie’s gaze flicked from one to the other.
“Right panel. Hold,” she said. “Pause.” She looked up at Jack, a question on her face.
“I have to go up to the hotel again. Bridgett Farrell or whoever she is isn’t taking calls.”
Billie just nodded.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in a while.” She’d already lost interest in him and was back watching the scrolling displays.
Jack nodded to himself and headed for the door. It looked like she was going to be occupied for a while yet.
As he left the apartment, something snagged his attention. He stopped in midstep, looking up and down the street, slowly turning, trying to find out what had set off his internal alarms. The street was fairly empty. An old guy walked farther down the same side of the street, heading in the opposite direction from the shuttle stop. A slight breeze riffled through the leaves in the surrounding trees and a couple of leaves floated down to be quickly snatched up by the pavement. He looked around again. Nothing unusual at all.
He tried to shake the feeling away from him and headed toward the shuttle stop, walking slowly, his hands shoved in his pockets. As he neared the end of their street, the feeling was back. He stopped again. The slightest flicker of movement from the other side of the street drew him. Across from where he stood, on the other side, someone had been standing in a doorway, partially shadowed. As soon as Jack had looked in that direction, the figure had slipped quickly back inside. It had been too quick for Jack to make out any real details, but whoever it was had been short and male, dark haired. He had picked up that much. The face had been a mere pale smudge. He stood watching the doorway for a couple of minutes, waiting to see if whoever it was would reappear. Maybe it had been nothing, his imagination working overtime again, but he’d learned long ago to trust those feelings. When it became clear that whoever it was had gone, he shook his head and wandered on. If he was really being watched, he’d find out about it soon enough, but it added an interesting element to the mix. Why would anyone be watching him particularly? Was it the guy from the hotel lobby?
There was no shuttle in sight, and he waited, riffling through the possibilities. What about Billie? If there was someone watching the apartment, or watching him, then it affected Billie by default. No, she’d be fine. Billie knew how to look after herself. Besides, the shuttle had appeared farther down the street. He watched and waited for it to pull in, and then climbed on board. A family group at the other end looked like they were heading for a shopping expedition near the end of the line, just as he’d done earlier. Despite the system access to everything you needed, people still went shopping. People liked going shopping. Maybe it was the actual social nature of it, but even that wasn’t true anymore. Maybe it was like the entertainment center. You went with crowds of strangers and sat there, not interacting with them, but sharing it all the same. He shrugged. Not Jack. He preferred watching a vid at home, the old stuff with real actors and real settings—not that you could really tell the difference these days. He could do without the crowds and the people. Mostly, he could do without the people. Billie was no different. She was just as happy as he was with their strangely cosseted existence. He wondered briefly if that was partly his influence or whether she was like that naturally. Whatever, it seemed to suit them, together. Too much analysis and he could drive himself crazy. He grimaced at himself. For someone who spent his time analyzing impressions and the feelings he got from people, he didn’t do a very good job of it when it came to himself. Nor, come to think of it, as far as Billie was concerned.
He was still musing when they reached the end of the line, and he looked up, semisurprised that they were already there. He stepped out of the shuttle into the stop, the curved white arcs above him blocking the outside view. Plenty of people still walked between the stores and sitting areas, looking perfectly content with their Yorkstone existence. Jack gave a little sigh. He too had become part of this. At least, for now, it looked like he had something he could get his teeth into.
He strolled in the direction of the Excelsior, taking his time—checking not only with his eyes, but also with his inner senses, testing if there was anything out of place. His internal alarms were out of practice, rusty, and he wanted to give them the time to trigger if there really was anything there, though the place was really too public for there to be much of a risk.
The Excelsior’s lobby was just as it had been before. He walked up to the front desk, giving the place a quick scan. A couple of businessmen sat in tall lounge chairs in front of a table, deep in conversation, but apart from the staff, they were the only other occupants. There was a different person behind the desk.
“Welcome to the Excelsior. May I help you?” She had a bright smile, and Jack felt himself smile back.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Ms. Bridgett Farrell. She’s staying here. I don’t know the room number.”
The woman gave him another smile. “Of course, sir. One moment.”
Again the ritual with the desktop and a brief frown.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Ms. Farrell has checked out.”
“What?”
“Ms. Farrell has checked out. I’m sorry.” She spread her hands in a gesture of apology.
Jack shook his head. “But that’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”
“I’m sorry, sir. No mistake. She checked out about twenty minutes ago. You’ve just mi
ssed her.” Her glance flickered to the side, as if seeking backup in case Jack was going to turn difficult.
“Were you here when she left? Do you remember her?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just come on.”
“Yeah, well, thanks.” He turned away from the desk and stalked over to one of the large comfortable couches that now sat empty around the lobby. Twenty minutes. She could be just about anywhere in Yorkstone within the space of twenty minutes. He sat heavily, propping his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. She was gone. Not good. So, if his thought processes weren’t betraying him, was his fee. The three thousand retainer was a start, but it wasn’t anything like he expected out of this case. Nothing like it. He shook his head again. What the hell was going on? Maybe she had cause. He was probably just being paranoid. For whatever reason, she’d needed to take off, and all he had to do was wait for her to contact him. Or maybe something had happened to her . . .
Whatever this artifact was, it was valuable, but, presuming he found the thing, he could hardly get it to her if she had disappeared too. Somehow, though, he suspected that someone would pay for its return. All he needed to do was work out who that someone was.
Right about now, Jack really needed Billie to determine what the object was, how it was significant. He also needed to find Carl Talbot and work out how he was tied into things, what his connection to Bridgett Farrell was. He should just walk away from this, he knew, but he was in too far. He straightened, ran his fingers through his hair, scratched his head and stood. He didn’t have much of a choice really. He could feel this was big, had the potential to be big, if only he could start to tie off some of these loose ends that kept appearing without a moment’s warning. Damn the Farrell woman, anyway. He’d come all the way up here for nothing. He gritted his teeth and let a slow breath out through his nose. Stupid, Stein. Stupid. He was letting the woman influence his thinking.
When Jack got back to the apartment, Billie was nowhere to be seen. He stood in the center of the living room, trying to ignore the spark of cold growing deep in his abdomen. He shouldn’t have left her. His guts had been telling him something as he’d left for the Excelsior and he’d ignored them. His memories flashed back to the Locality and the cold spot in his middle grew colder. He’d come back to an empty apartment once before with Billie nowhere to be seen. That time she’d been taken . . . taken by Pinpin Dan. But there was no Pinpin Dan here. Heironymous Dan was dead and the network of people he dealt with was far behind, back in the Locality. No, this couldn’t be the same thing. Yorkstone was different. He swallowed.
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