by Nyx Smith
Raman gets up carefully. His head has cleared. He feels fine, vigorous and alert. He steps to the center of the room and lowers himself to one knee. Smiling seductively, Eliana runs her fingertips over his chest and around to the back of his neck, then lightly pulls him downward till his face is but a breath away from hers and that of the black cat, seated next to her cheek.
“I know exactly where Striper is,” Eliana murmurs, eyes gleaming. She pauses to smile. “And I will show you,” she adds softly. “But first you must serve me.”
Naturally. “What do you want me to do?”
Eliana releases his neck and stretches her arm out across the floor and lays her head against it. “There is a man who must be chastised,” she says softly, lightly. “Chastised in a physical way. It should not be difficult. Not for you.”
“That is all?”
The she smiles, arching one brow.
It is never just one thing. In this case, however, the second thing the she desires is not at all displeasing. Raman guesses what it is by Eliana’s next remark.
“Take off your clothes,” she croons.
Raman willingly complies.
37
“You set?”
Kirkland looks at the woman sharing the elevator with him. Her name is Val Pandolfini. She’s Italian, but you’d never guess it just by looking at her. Her hair is long and thick and a rusty shade of red-brown. Her face is almost dead-white, though touched by a pinkish hue high on her cheeks. Combined with her skin tone, the dark shadowing around her eyes and the black paint on her lips and nails make her look like a fragging vampire. The black bomber jacket doesn’t help. The skin-tight, short black skirt helps some, but her bare, pasty-white legs and idiotic low-heeled ankle boots detract from what little the skirt struggles to add.
Of course, that’s just Kirkland’s personal opinion, and they’re not here on this elevator for anything other than purely professional reasons. Ms. Pandolfini, approximately twenty-seven years of age, is a three-year veteran of the Minuteman Police Intelligence Bureau. She is a police recorder, and one trained for and experienced with undercover work at that.
“Twenty-six July,” she says, looking straight ahead at the elevator doors. “Nineteen fifty-three hours. Job number 23054.” She looks at Kirkland. “Accompanying Kirkland, Lieutenant, Homicide, Central Division, on subject interview, Platinum Manor Estates. Everything I see and hear from this point forward will be recorded, Lieutenant.”
Kirkland gives a nod. “Good.”
To look at her, you’d never guess she has cybercams for eyes and a sealed recording module implant. That’s the beauty of it. Once she turns on, everything she sees and hears becomes evidence admissible in any court. Her record of events is even better than that of an ordinary hidden camera because her memory module has been sealed by the court and can only be opened in the presence of a judge. Any form of tampering with the module would be overtly obvious, if only to the court’s appointed technician.
Kirkland’s glad to have her along, even if she does more resemble a vampire than a cop.
The elevator doors slide open. Stepping out, Kirkland glances to his right and his left, then immediately stops. Pandolfini stops, too. The corridor leading past the elevator is very short, no more than six, seven meters long. It’s a kind of private entrance hall giving access to a pair of luxury condos. To the left of the elevator stand three men in dark gray, military-style body armor, complete suits, everything from helmets with reflective faceplates to semi-rigid chest protection to armored gloves and boots. Two of them hold short-barreled assault carbines. The third holds an SMG. Back the other way, to the right of the elevator, are two more in full armor carrying assault carbines.
Kirkland immediately recognizes that if this is an ambush, he and Pandolfini are dead.
“We’re cops,” Kirkland says at once.
That turns out to be exactly the right thing to say.
Three move in close. The one with the SMG takes center stage. His voice is flat and raspy. Computer-modulated, Kirkland assumes. “Your identification.”
“They’re both armed,” another one says.
Somebody’s got sensors, weapon detectors.
Kirkland slowly draws the left side of his jacket fully open and slowly reaches into his inside breast pocket, then slowly draws out his shield case, flips it open, and extends it out for all to see.
“Kirkland,” he says. “Lieutenant Kirkland. Homicide.”
“Who’s the other?” says the one with the SMG.
The “other” identifies herself, displaying a brass shield and saying, “Detective-Sergeant Val Pandolfini.”
“State your business. Lieutenant.”
Kirkland’s arm starts to get tired. He closes his shield case and returns it to his inside jacket pocket. Pandolfini follows his lead. “I’m here on official police business. Who the hell are you?”
“Agent Two-Nine-Five, in command, Birnoth Comitatus High-Threat Defense Unit.”
“Fine. You wanna get the hell outta my way?”
“Contacting command,” says Two-Nine-Five. “Stand by.”
The tone of voice grates on Kirkland’s nerves, but he forces himself to stay calm. He’s encountered corporate mercenaries plenty of times before. Some of them are fraggin’ psychopaths. Others are just nuts. Birnoth mercs have a pretty good rep, based on everything Kirkland’s ever heard, but that doesn’t mean the average Birnoth operative has anything like a normal psychological profile. Caution is advised.
“Right,” says the Birnoth agent. “Who is your commanding officer. Lieutenant?”
“Captain Emilio Henriquez.”
“That’s the name. You’re clear to pass.”
“Thanks a lot, chummer.”
Agent 295 precedes Kirkland down the hall to the door, then keys the intercom. The door slides open. Kirkland steps into a small room with marbleized, mirrored gold paneling and several pieces of antique wooden furniture. Pandolfini comes up alongside him and runs her eyes around the room. She knows what to watch for. In a moment, the double-pocket doors leading into the rest of the condo slide apart and a man in a white servant’s uniform enters and approaches Kirkland.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Need to see Mister Ohara.”
“I’m sorry,” the servant replies. “Mister Ohara is not here at present.”
“Oh, yeah?” Kirkland lifts his brows as if surprised, then glowers. “Well, maybe you better go check with Mister Ohara again, because a good friend of mine just saw him and his two girlfriends come home. And if he still isn’t here, then Detective Pandolfini and I will just wait right here until Mister Ohara decides that he is here. And make sure you tell him that, chummer.”
The servant frowns very briefly, then goes back through the double doors.
About two minutes later, Kirkland steps through a sliding transparex door onto a spacious transparex-enclosed balcony providing a panoramic view of the expansive Platinum Manor Estates botanical gardens. There’s a badge down there somewhere, and another one in the underground parking garage. That Kirkland’s got Ohara under surveillance shouldn’t be construed as meaning he suspects Ohara of any crime within the jurisdiction of Philadelphia. Kirkland’s just covering the angles. Officially, he’s just covering angles.
Tonight, Ohara wears a long black satin robe and slippers, not to mention an excess of gold jewelry. He sits on a velvet-cushioned lounge. He smiles like the king of the world. A bottle of champagne on ice and a dish of caviar sit on the table beside him. Sharing the lounge with Ohara are a pair of blondes who look like raunchy sex just waiting to happen. The blondes are nude, and they look enough alike to be twins. Neither makes a move to get up or to cover herself.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” says Ohara. “How can I help you?”
Kirkland considers introducing Detective Pandolfini to the group, but decides against it. Ohara’s question deserves an immediate response. “You could explain why you withheld information pertinent to a ho
micide investigation.”
“Excuse me?”
“Robert Neiman, Steven Jorge, Thomas Harris. When you took over Exotech, all three were assigned to the Special Projects Section over in Germantown. You said you redesigned Exotech’s corporate structure, and that’s true, but that was complete in your first six months. Neiman, Jorge, and Harris weren’t reassigned until six months after that, until after the big blow-up at S.P.S.”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Ohara says, still smiling like royalty, “but your information is incorrect.”
“Yeah? I don’t think so.”
“Those three unfortunate men you mention were all transferred to new posts well before the incident at S.P.S.”
That is almost certainly a lie. Kirkland’s gut tells him so, but he’s got more than just his gut with which to form an opinion. He’s got a hard-copy report from the office of the vice-chairman of KFK, a fellow named Torakido Buntaro. That report states that Neiman, Jorge, and Harris were transferred to their new positions after the accident at S.P.S. There’s an affidavit from the director of Exotech personnel supporting that statement. Kirkland strongly suspects that Ohara boosted Neiman, Jorge, and Harris up the ladder either as a reward or to keep them quiet. The question is what did those three men, now brutally murdered, see or do at the S.P.S. facility to warrant Ohara’s special consideration?
Did they threaten to blow the whistle on something? Did Ohara himself orchestrate their murders?
“Back in Seattle, you worked for an outfit called Seretech. You were in charge of overseeing a heavy-duty bioengineering project. One of the other top executives on that project died in an auto accident the Seattle P.D. classified as suspicious. Certain information critical to the project vanished. You left Seretech shortly thereafter.”
“Yes, I did leave,” Ohara replies, smiling brilliantly. “You will recall, Lieutenant, that I was attacked in my home. I was more than a year recuperating. I decided then to make a fresh start.”
“Ever meet a man named John Brandon Conway?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I asked you first.”
“I’ve heard of him, certainly. Everyone has.”
That much is true. Conway is a fixer, one of the biggest and most elusive. He works as a middleman for multinational conglomerates, governments. His deals involve twelve-and fifteen-digit numbers.
“Yeah,” Kirkland goes on, “everybody’s heard of Conway, but you actually met him. In Toronto. Maybe that’s where you sold him the data you stole from Seretech.”
“You should mind your manners, Lieutenant,” Ohara replies coolly. “Were I to take offense, I might find it necessary to sue.”
“You’re denying what I just said.”
“Certainly.”
“Then I guess you’d also deny that you used the proceeds from that sale to buy yourself a seat on the board of Kono-Furata-Ko International?”
“I did nothing of the kind.”
Ohara’s brilliant smile continues to gleam, but Kirkland notices a chink in the armor, a twitching at the outside corner of Ohara’s left eye. It could be just a muscle spasm, maybe brought on by fatigue, but Kirkland doesn’t think so. The man is acting way too confident to be real. Too confident even for a guy with serious ego problems.
Kirkland hopes Detective Pandolfini notices the twitching.
“I guess Seretech is old news. Not my jurisdiction. And how you got on the board of KFK really isn’t police business. I was just curious.”
“You’re a very curious man, Lieutenant.”
Kirkland nods. The remark probably wasn’t meant as a compliment, but he’ll take it that way for the moment. “Now about your dead execs. Neiman, Jorge, and Harris were all in the Special Projects Section. Their most recent posts describe a ladder leading straight to you. What do you suppose that suggests?”
“You’re the detective,” Ohara replies. “You tell me.”
“I’m asking the questions. Mister Ohara.”
“I’m not obligated to speculate.”
“Really? Well, that’s very interesting.” Kirkland takes a folded sheet of hard copy from his jacket pocket. “I have a copy of a memo here. You probably haven’t seen it yet because you left the office early today. It’s from the vice-chairperson of KFK, to all members of the board and all employees of Exotech, directing them to ‘assist the official police investigation into the deaths of Robert Neiman, Steven Jorge, and Thomas Harris, without exception or exclusion.’ Without exception or exclusion. That’s a quote.”
“May I see that?”
Kirkland folds the sheet and slips it back into his jacket pocket, saying, “Well, you understand, this is my copy. I’m sure there’s one waiting for you at your office.”
Ohara’s left upper eyelid twitches some more.
“So what do you think about the progression? Neiman, Jorge, Harris. Then you. What does that suggest?”
Ohara’s smile falters, just for an instant. “I’m sure I have no idea,” he says.
“Maybe you’re next.”
“Next? In what regard?”
“Next to be assassinated.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Really? Then why do you have a Birnoth mercenary unit in heavy armor guarding your door?”
“Simply a precaution.”
“Against what?”
“We live in a violent world. Lieutenant.”
“Maybe Seretech wants their data back. Maybe they want revenge. Maybe whoever killed your three execs is looking for revenge. Maybe that someone is unhappy about what happened over in Germantown.”
“I… I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Harris was in charge of the Germantown group. He reported directly to you. That means you had hands-on control of what the Special Projects Section did.”
“I’m Exotech’s chief executive officer. Ultimately, I have control over every group and section, not just Special Projects.”
“So you’re saying that the group that got you the smash hits of the century, the Hermetic Library chips like The Summoning of Abbirleth, operated pretty much on its own? You didn’t give it any special attention, no more than any other part of Exotech?”
Ohara leans his head back and laughs softly. “Obviously, Lieutenant, I played a role in guiding the S.P.S.’s activities. I don’t see anything sinister in that.”
“No?”
Ohara’s eyelid keeps twitching.
Kirkland watches that a moment, then says, “Last time we talked, maybe the time before that, you said that Robert Neiman was just a researcher before you promoted him. Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, it’s a funny thing, but I’ve just seen some personnel records that describe Neiman a little differently.”
“How do you mean?”
“Neiman was a mage.”
“That’s not so.”
“Sure, it is.” Kirkland has copies of personnel records, and a few of his detectives have dug up corroborating witnesses on the point. “You had a bunch of mages up there in Germantown, a ritual team. That’s where you got the wet record for your Hermetic Library series of simsense chips. Neiman was a mage, and the accident at S.P.S. burned him out so bad he couldn’t handle magic after that. The same happened to Jorge. He got burned. The same for Harris. They all got burned. Now they’re dead. So out of the original group of seven mages, only one’s still alive. Three died in the accident, three just got murdered. That leaves one, and that one’s dropped out of sight. Do you know who I’m talking about. Mister Ohara?”
The twitching gets so bad Ohara actually lifts a hand to his left eye and rubs at it. That doesn’t help. “I’m sorry,” he says, the wide smile faltering again. “I… I don’t recall the name. It was a man.”
“Adam Malik.”
“Yes. I… I believe that’s it.”
Kirkland drops all pretense at politeness. “The guy survived an accident in which he saw three of his colleagues killed and the othe
r three traumatized! Then he drops completely out of sight! Didn’t it occur to you that he might hold a grudge?”
“A grudge? For what reason?”
Kirkland sneers. The lies and attempts at deception have become more and more lame. “You know what your problem is, chummer? You’re too busy saving your own ass to worry about who dies for your mistakes.”
Interview concluded.
Kirkland turns and leaves.
* * *
In his bedroom, Ohara struggles out of his robe and hurls it to the floor. He feels like he’s suffocating. His hands are shaking and his fragging eyelid won’t stop twitching. All because of that skell Kirkland, all the innuendoes and lies and veiled threats. Ohara isn’t fooled. If that skell Kirkland had anything on him, he’d be arresting him, not harassing him. If Kirkland keeps it up, he’s going to get more trouble than he knows how to handle. Ohara knows how to arrange for that. If not legally, then illegally. If not by persuasion, then by killing. It wouldn’t cost much to buy the assassination of some overweight and not terribly bright police lieutenant. And Ohara’s got more than enough change to do it. More than enough.
Just thinking about lowlife skells like Kirkland has Ohara’s nerves in knots. P-fix BTL chips just aren’t giving him enough of a boost anymore. Direct input or no. He needs something stronger, more potent. What he needs is waiting for him, he knows, on the marble counter of his private bathroom—a gift from one of his biffs, no less.
He steps through the communicating door. The sleek, squarish box is plated in gold, the interior blue velvet. The pneumatic injector is mirrored chrome. Ohara doesn’t usually like to avail himself of narcotics so early in the evening, but tonight is a special case. He pops a vial of Dee Vine into the base of the injector’s handle. It’s just like loading an automatic pistol. Insert the vial, pull the latch, press the muzzle against his left upper arm, and pull the trigger. He feels a sudden gush against his arm like a burst of icy pins and needles, but then the flood of sweet sweet pleasure begins.
In another moment, he’s euphoric, on top of the world. In another two or three more, he’s as hard as steel and ready to ram it in, and in, and in, straight through the heart of the planet.
