The Blue Link

by Carol Caiton

  "Believe it or not, I do. Come on in." Nina pressed a finger to the miniature scanner and the lock released.

  "What a day!" Libby plopped onto the sofa, her coils of curls bouncing then settling. "What a week!"

  Nina dropped down onto the armchair and slipped off her sandals. "Everything okay?"

  "It is right now. But you know what weekends are like. Well, no, I guess you don't. But you will." She grinned. "I came to ask if you feel like going off property for dinner. I've been craving a Big Mac all week and I can't stand it anymore."

  Nina chuckled. "Marguerite will find out."

  "Oh, God, I know. On Monday I had half a slice of chocolate cake at Gabriel's. Just half a slice. And Tuesday morning Marguerite wanted to know what I'd eaten."

  "Wow."

  "She said my pores were clogged. I mean, I've always had a teensy little problem with chocolate, so I try to limit myself to one chocolate espresso a day. But I swear that woman has microscopic lenses for eyes."

  "And you're willing to chance a Big Mac?"

  Sighing like a drama queen, Libby stuck out her bottom lip. "What can I say?" Then she spotted the boxes on the floor in the dining area and pushed up to go investigate. "Whatcha got? Are you an artist?" she asked, picking up a blending stick.

  "No, not really. I can draw, but I've never earned money at it."

  "Well I don't think it matters if you sell or not. It's the talent." She unlatched the small clasps on the wooden box and opened it. "Cool. Pastels, right? What do you draw—like flowers and stuff?"

  Nina walked over to stand beside her. She looked down at the rainbow of colors and said, "Sometimes. But I'm better at people." She thought about Simon's reaction when he unrolled her drawing. He'd been genuinely impressed.

  Libby's stomach growled. "So, do you wanna go to McDonalds?" She closed the lid and looked up.

  "I can't. I have a dinner date."

  Libby frowned. "A dinner date with someone here? From RUSH?"

  "Yes. But I'm not sure what time."

  "Listen, Nina. You're new and there are lots of rules to remember so it's easy to forget some of them. But we're not supposed to hook up with any of the guys here. Does he know you're an R-link?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then he definitely knows better."

  "It's . . . it's complicated, Lib."

  "Complicated how?" Blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Nina leaned a hip against the table. According to Simon, word of their link, their potential link, was already circulating. So it probably wouldn't matter if she confided in Libby. "Remember you said you didn't have a lot of experience when you came here?"

  "Yeaaaaaaah."

  "Well, I don't either," Nina told her. "So Dr. Zeman wants me to start slowly. He wants to ease me into the R-link lifestyle. So my file was entered into the linking program."

  Libby blinked. "You've got a color link?"

  "Well, sort of."

  "Nina, you can't sort of have a color link."

  "Well I haven't exactly accepted it."

  "You haven't— Wait a minute. How do you know who the guy is if you haven't accepted the link?"

  "It's—"

  "Complicated. I know. Is he an employee or a client?"

  "Employee. He's a statistician."

  Libby's eyebrows shot straight up. "Simon? You're linked with Simon Yetzer?"

  "Yes. But only sort of," she repeated.

  "Nina, do you know who Simon Yetzer is?"

  A shiver of unease crept through her. Could the man be even worse than she'd first thought? She'd just begun to warm toward him. "Who is he?"

  Libby waved a hand in exasperation. "Simon Yetzer is on the board of directors. He's one of the owners of RUSH."

  It was Nina who was surprised this time. Why had he kept that from her? She thought back over their conversations and things began falling into place. No wonder he'd been called when a girl died at Threshold.

  Libby speared all ten pink-painted fingernails into her springy curls. "Wow." Her eyes shot to Nina. "What color is the link," she demanded, her tone suddenly as imperious as Marguerite's could be.

  She knows, Nina thought. Or at least she's heard about it. "Blue," she said. "With two black bullets."

  Libby's eyes bugged out in a cartoon moment. The image would have been complete if her curls had snapped out in electrical shock waves. "That's you???" she squealed.

  Back went the fingers, forking into all those coils. Then out again. "Oh, wow. Oh, wow." She paced over to the breakfast counter and spun around. "We heard there was a blue link, but no one knew who it belonged to. Oh, my God! It's a status-2! And Simon wants it?"

  "He says he does." Nina was baffled by Libby's reaction. In her opinion there was nothing special about a blue link, status-2 or otherwise.

  "Forget the Big Mac. Put your shoes back on. We need to talk."

  A little wary and a lot curious, Nina walked back to the sofa for her sandals. "Where are we going?"

  "I need a double espresso."

  The high pitch of a police siren grew louder as they exited the building. It was joined by a second one closing the distance quickly and Libby scowled. "It sounds like they're coming to RUSH. I wonder what's going on."

  Nina wasn't comfortable sharing what she knew. A death on the property wouldn't remain secret for long, but the phone call to Simon had been private.

  "Come on, let's hurry," Libby said. "My tropical blood doesn't like this cooler weather."

  They sat at a table inside Urns & Leaves. Libby wrapped her fingers around the warmth of her cup while the server brought a heated scone and a small salver laden with pats of butter, jellies, and clotted cream.

  "You should have worn a jacket," Nina said.

  "I know. But I don't like all the bulk. Summer clothes are so much freer, ya know?"

  Another siren approached and Libby frowned. "I've only heard police sirens here one other time."

  "What brought them?"

  "A couple of times a year the local churches organize a protest out on I-Drive." She coated the scone with butter, then spooned out a bit of clotted cream and smoothed it on top. "It's all very low-key, but there was this guy—not part of the church people, but he joined in and acted like he was. Then he pulled out a gun and shot at a car turning into the front gates."

  "I remember seeing that on the news."

  "Mmm. So, tell me about Simon."

  "Me tell you? Everything I know can be summed up in one sentence." She held up all five fingers and ticked them off. "He's handsome, arrogant, tenacious, cruel at times but generous at others, and he wants his own way."

  Libby chuckled. "Don't we all?"

  "I need details, Libby. Give me some background. I certainly didn't know he was on the board of directors."

  Libby took a delicate bite of her scone, closed her eyes, and swallowed. "Seven men got together and started RUSH. There were eight originally, but one was killed in a helicopter crash. And all of them are super rich—I mean millionaire rich."

  Nina nodded and took a sip of her coffee. That made sense. How else could they put together a posh, privately held corporation?

  "Multimillionaires," Libby emphasized. "All of them. So doesn't that sweeten the pot?"

  "The money?"

  "Of course, the money. Geez, Nina. You and Simon have a blue link. Blue. And you said he's coming on strong. Tenacious, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Sweetie, blue means happily ever after. And with Simon it means happily ever after while rolling in money."

  "Libby, I don't think I even like the man."

  "Oh, pshaw. You've only been here a week. How much of a chance could you have given him in a week?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  "There used to be a girl here, a client, who had a green link with Simon. This was a while ago and the link was only a status-1. But he dropped it after about ten days."

  "Really? How do you know he was the one who dropped it?"

  "Bec
ause the girl cried her eyes out. She'd hang around the food court hoping to see him, then cry her eyes out."

  "Oh."

  "She stuck around for a couple more months, had one or two more amber links, then she just didn't come back." Libby shrugged off-handedly and took another bite of her scone.

  "Did you know her?" Nina asked.

  "Not personally. But I know about the green link because she told Geneva and Geneva doesn't lie about anything. Ever. Remember I told you not to let her standoffishness bother you? It's not because she snooty. She's one of those people with a super-genius IQ. Her mind is always in high gear, like she's running out of time or something, and she doesn't have a high tolerance for artifice."

  "What kind of job did she have before she came here?"

  "She was a biochemist for Miger-Willow Pharmaceuticals."

  Nina, cup half raised, paused and stared.

  "Anyway," Libby went on, "I didn't know Simon's green link, but I did see her crying once. Someone—not Geneva—told me she'd been hoping for a deeper relationship. But it was only a green-1. I saw her a couple of times after that and then poof, she was gone."

  "That's sad."

  "Yeah. But this time Simon's the one doing the pursuing. He saw blue and went for it, so he's willing to give up all this and settle down. With you."

  Libby was the second person to point out that Simon was willing to give up his freedom for this blue link. Did that mean her freedom was less important? What if circumstances were different and she really did want to be an R-link? What if—

  "Well, well, if it isn't sweet Libby Pye."

  Nina looked over her shoulder as a brilliant smile spread across Libby's face. Approaching their table was an incredibly good-looking, surfer-type guy wearing a devil-may-care grin.

  "Michael Vassek," Libby gushed. "You smooth-talking seducer of womankind." She extended one beautifully manicured hand, which he accepted. He bent over, kissed the backs of her fingers, and turned her hand over to press a kiss to her palm as well.

  "That's me, sweetheart. So I'm forgiven?"

  Libby pursed her lips with mockingly exaggerated consideration. She looked about fifteen years old, Nina thought.

  "I'm still thinking about it," she said. "Michael, this is my friend Nina Millering. Nina, Michael Vassek. He's—"

  "Yeah," Michael cut in. Then, ignoring Nina altogether, he turned away and walked over to the take-away counter.

  Libby stared after him, mouth agape. "I can't believe he did that. Nina, I'm so sorry."

  Nina shrugged. "You have nothing to apologize for." Hiding her embarrassment, she looked over toward the take-away counter and saw surfer guy pick up a cardboard carrier filled with several Styrofoam cups before heading for the exit.

  "But I can't believe he treated you that way."

  "Really, it's okay." She reminded herself that she wasn't going to be at RUSH long enough for Michael Vassek or Simon Yetzer or anyone else to matter.

  "I wonder if he knows Simon has a link with you," Libby murmured. She looked across the table. "Michael's on the board, too. He's one of the seven business partners."

  Nina sighed. If that was the case, then Michael Vassek most definitely knew she and Simon had that blue icon in common. He knew a lot of other, very personal information, as well.

  "Michael programmed the linking system for RUSH," Libby informed her. "He and Simon used to work together before this."

  "Before RUSH?"

  "Yeah. They both worked in Washington, D. C. For the government. Michael was the genius child prodigy of Senator John Rawson. Ever heard of him?"

  Nina widened her eyes. Absolutely she'd heard of him. She'd done a paper on him during her freshman year at college. "Yes, I've heard of John Rawson. He took in a fifteen-year-old street kid and eventually adopted him." She gestured toward the exit. "That was Michael Rawson?"

  "Was," Libby reminded her. "He inherited everything when the senator died. Then he changed his name back to Vassek."

  "I'm almost speechless."

  Libby finished off her scone, took a last sip of espresso, and said, I've gotta get out of here before I order another one of those."

  Nina slid her cup away. "Do you still want a Big Mac?"

  "Yes, heaven help me."

  Back outside Libby shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Right away they both noticed the crowd of people crossing the food court toward the entertainment sector.

  "I wonder what's going on," Libby said. "Probably has something to do with the police. Wanna go check it out?"

  "You go on. I've got a dinner date to get ready for, remember?"

  Libby grinned. "Yeah, I remember. And Nina?"

  "Yes?"

  "I've never had an encounter with Simon."

  Nina blinked. It hadn't occurred to her to wonder about that. "Thanks, Libby. I don't think it's going to matter, but I appreciate that you told me."

  "Well you need to give him a chance."

  "I'm going out to dinner with him, aren't I?"

  "Okay, okay." With a fluttering wave of her fingers, Libby started toward the entertainment sector.

  * * *

  Simon slid both hands into the front pockets of his slacks. He watched from the sidelines as the body of Serena Mandek, an attractive, once-vibrant young woman was placed in a black zippered bag and lifted onto a gurney. He'd seen death before, but he'd never seen carefully plotted, premeditated murder. And the young woman in that body bag would still be alive if not for RUSH, Inc.

  There was a new chill in the air. He hadn't noticed it before but he did now. Perhaps the shadow of death prompted a sharper awareness of the physical world. Or maybe the temperature had taken a significant drop since he left Nina by the koi pond.

  "Where's Michael?" Ethan asked, his features somber as he looked on as well.

  "He left after he brought coffee for everyone. He has an encounter."

  "What the hell?"

  Simon breathed the cold air into his lungs. He stared into the thick stand of trees that provided a sound barrier along the outer wall of the property. "In Michael's defense, he did try to cancel. But he wasn't able to make contact."

  Ethan ran a hand along the back of his neck. "Okay, okay."

  They watched as two paramedics wheeled the gurney through the front courtyard. An elevator would take them back down to the tunnels where the girl's body would be transferred to a waiting ambulance.

  "Is this as obvious as it appears?" Simon asked.

  "Looks that way to me. But it wasn't our druggie who cut her up."

  "He's still in jail?"

  "No, not in jail. Mason said he bonded out as soon as bail was set. But he has a solid alibi. The police already confirmed it."

  "Let me guess. He was in a very public place all night, surrounded by credible witnesses."

  "Actually, he was. He's in the hospital."

  Simon turned to look at Ethan. "Then it has to be someone connected to him. His supplier maybe."

  "That would be my first guess."

  The last of the police officers strolled over to the pillory and stared. Centered in the open courtyard, it stood as the archaic punishment device it was originally intended to be. The openings that would lock a woman's head and wrists to the framework, the shackles at its base to spread her legs for a man's pleasure—details both officers examined at length, missing nothing.

  "Too many coincidences," Ethan said. "Serena catches sight of a white, powdery substance, Rundle is arrested for possession, then she ends up dead, her wrist slashed to ribbons and her body left hanging on a wall inside RUSH."

  "Revenge with a message," Simon agreed. He watched Malcolm approach the remaining officers, gesture, then escort them toward Threshold Tavern and the elevator. "Do you know what put Rundle in the hospital so conveniently?" he asked.

  "Stab wound."

  Simon shot his gaze back to Ethan. "Alibi, my ass."

  "Yeah."

  "So this guy sliced her wrist open to get her
microchip?"

  "That's what it looks like."

  "And you think he inserted it into his own wrist?"

  "Yep."

  "Why didn't Security or Medical Services pick up the heightened presence of testosterone?"

  "Because hematology scans are triggered by the sensors at the checkpoints and our murderer climbed the wall to get in."

  Simon looked away as Malcolm, Oliver, and Elliott headed in their direction, all three wearing equally grim expressions. "Where's Mason?" he asked as they gathered around.

  "Mason wants to be present when the family is notified," Malcolm said. "Ethan, can you tell us anything else?"

  Shaking his head, Ethan answered. "Only that we know for sure he's Caucasian."

  "Still no facial features?" Oliver pressed.

  "None."

  "Is there any chance a police artist could rough something out?"

  Ethan's frustration was apparent. For all the months of careful planning, designing state-of-the-art equipment, RUSH's cameras hadn't been able to capture even a profile of the murderer. He'd remained in the shadows, creeping from tree to tree after securing Serena to the wall. The only notable detail the cameras had picked up were a pair of epaulets on the shoulders of his jacket . . . a common ornamentation of little help.

  "The stocking over his face was black or dark gray," Ethan said. "That, and the fact that it was three-seventeen in the morning, leaves us with only a shadowy impression. Even if an alarm had been raised and the cameras zoomed in, that stocking would have done what it was intended to do."

  "And no alarm sounded because Serena's microchip was reading his vitals," Elliott stated flatly.

  No one responded. They didn't have to. Only one heartbeat had been detected when Serena's body was tumbled over the wall and it hadn't been hers. By slicing into her arm, noting the placement of her microchip, then burying it in his own wrist, the killer had been able to evade the sensors that would have picked up an unauthorized presence. The only positive aspect of that scenario was that it appeared Serena had been dead before he started cutting.

  "I want that chip back," Ethan muttered.

  "Has it been deactivated?"

  "Done."

  "Can he reprogram it?"

  "Not unless he's got an IQ higher than Michael's. But nothing's impossible."