by P. R. Adams
The screen changed to the legal documents again.
“The company filed for bankruptcy, January 8, 2099. After making more than two million dollars in profits off whatever that Galatea was a month prior? How?”
Ichi shrugged. “Debt, perhaps.”
“None of those ledgers showed any serious debts. Everything was profitable. Search for another company that has a bankruptcy.”
She found one a few sheets later: Horizon Engineering Works. A quick search of the ledgers found a year of entries, with profits of $1.6 million. Three more checks uncovered another bankruptcy with ledger entries showing almost $3 million in profit.
I unslaved my system and ran a search on Galatea and tracked through the years in question. One story caught my eye. I skimmed it.
…an explosion of methane gas…all hands lost…Russian oligarch…believed to have illegally extracted billions…
Another search for the assets associated with Horizon Engineering Works pointed to something called Poseidon. That term brought up mention of a deepwater mining vessel abandoned after fifty-three crew members perished in the Indian Ocean.
Both investments came at the start of the operations, the bankruptcies before the disasters.
I searched for Horizon Engineering Works, finding a few “local folks do well” stories and not long after that the sad story of the company’s collapse after investors pulled out. Fairfax Associated Shipping played out the same way, with sweetheart investors walking away after a bad quarter.
I called Chan, bit back a comment at the sight of the same glassy magenta eyes I had seen earlier. “Chan, I need you to do some digging. Call in some favors—whatever it takes. Ichi’s going to feed you some company names, IDs, and dates. I need the financial records on those companies.”
Chan stared. “Private or public?”
“Doesn’t matter. They filed for bankruptcy. There has to be a trail. Chan, are you listening? I need you to clean yourself up. Okay? I need this data by tomorrow. Can you do that? Chan?”
Chan’s red LED earrings glowed. “Yeah.”
I disconnected, now more wound up than when Heidi had yelled at me.
Ichi took my data device. “Stefan-san, there is something else you should see.” She slaved the device again, then flipped through to images of the scans from the boxes of papers. Many of the scans were distorted, but she focused on one that had legible handwritten text. “This.”
I skimmed.
…dispensation of shared property…returning from Philadelphia…Jonas and his despicable business…political machinery…senator…dangerous for a child…must take care of yourself…
I read it again, this time taking my time, squinting through the parts that weren’t as legible. “Who is this from?”
Ichi squinted. “The signature is very hard to read. I will see if Chan can reconstruct the file.”
“That sounds like divorce. You recall the Weavers ever divorcing? I don’t. What about this Jonas? Heidi ever mention that name?”
“No.”
“And it sounds like the letter is talking about entering politics.” I thought about that. Perhaps Kelly Weaver hadn’t been the first in her family to consider a life on Capitol Hill. “Can you have the imaged files turned into text?”
“It is already done, mostly.”
I started to type, realized my device was still slaved to hers. “Search all the stored text for Jonas.”
She tapped at the device, which launched a window that showed progress. The name popped into view once…twice…five…nine times. I licked my lips. Nine mentions. A meaningful history that might produce something of value.
Ichi pulled up the first entry, one of the dense legal documents. Articles of incorporation for Ryan Investments.
“Jonas Willard,” Ichi mumbled. She looked up. “This is him?”
“Maybe. See what else is in there.”
The second entry was the one we’d already seen, and the third was another mention of only the name Jonas, as was the fourth. The fifth was a reference to a Pekingese puppy. The sixth reference was to Jonas Goldstein, a lawyer who handled the family’s estate planning. Seven and eight referred to Jonas Willard, and nine was another partial handwritten document. The handwriting was the same as the first letter.
I broke the slave to Ichi’s system and pulled up the second handwritten document.
…I hope you are not making a terrible mistake…reprehensible thugs…predatory practices…your father’s blind pursuit of wealth…full of promise and hope…
And a signature: Hannah Baumgarten.
Ichi was a step ahead of me; she showed me her device’s screen.
Hannah Kelly Baumgarten, mother of Elise Noelle Baumgarten, wife of Philadelphia magnate Terrence Montgomery Weaver. The Baumgartens were moderately wealthy, with commercial property holdings in the city. The Weavers came from older money—transportation, oil, and mineral investments.
I snorted. “Sounds like the sort of resentment you hear about between the wealthy. What about this Jonas Willard? Ms. Baumgarten seems to hold him in lower regard than Mr. Weaver. Looks like Mother Baumgarten didn’t like either of the men her daughter pursued.”
The search for Jonas Willard came back with a good deal more information than anything on the Weavers. Jonas wasn’t from real money—the child of a mid-level automobile manufacturing executive who’d cashed out nicely with the merger of the last American car companies and gone on to become the governor of Wisconsin. Jonas moved to Philadelphia after getting his MBA and joined Talbot Finance, a big money management firm. And then he was handpicked by Sebastian Talbot, owner of Talbot Consulting, to run Talbot Capital, a private equity firm.
I drilled down on a photo of Jonas. Handsome, with perfect hair and golden tan, a strong chin and perfect smile. “Sixty years old. Half a billion net worth in twenty-eight years. Not bad, if you can sleep at night—”
It finally hit me.
“Shit. Returning from Philadelphia. Your father. Predatory practices.” I searched the Baumgarten records again. Hannah Kelly Baumgarten was dead now. Elise Noelle Weaver was eighty-two. I switched to premium services and searched for Jonas Willard and marriage. Indirect references came up, one of them an advertisement for a defunct reception catering business. It cost $2,000 to access the archive.
I paid.
The advertisement filled my display. All the usual promises to help a marriage find bliss; the more money spent, the blissier the relationship. And the third image down: an opulent outdoor scene, a lush green lawn, wait staff dressed in gold jackets and black pants. I pushed the panoramic view, caught white lace, gold bows, and frills dangling from trees. Rows of tables with important people dressed in black suits and pale gowns, all smiling at the couple looking eye to eye, awash in unimaginable joy.
Jonas Willard with his pearly smile and perfect hair, and the unmistakable profile of a younger Kelly Weaver—a nose less prominent with fuller cheeks, shapely lips that seemed fuller, and the same big green eyes. With longer hair and a fuller body, she was a looker. She seemed strangely familiar yet different.
“The senator was married to this Jonas Willard?” Ichi asked.
“Apparently so.” Why hide that?
I glanced at the clock on the display. It was after 2 a.m. Even with the energy created by the discoveries we’d made, I was having a hard time focusing. I powered the data device down and set it on the nightstand.
Ichi cocked her head. “You are done?”
“You did good work, Ichi, but I’m a mess, and I have to be up early.”
She bowed and hopped off the bed. Despite the fatigue, I couldn’t help but appreciate the way she moved, the lithe beauty of her body, the pixie quirk of a smile. I thought back to Weaver’s wedding picture and the youthfulness she exhibited compared to the weathered look of today. Age took its toll on even the wealthy and powerful, but I would have gladly exchanged some more wrinkles and creaks to get back what I’d lost, to be whole again.
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The lights shut off and my mind followed.
Our limo breezed through traffic, which was always lighter on the northern outskirts of the metropolitan area. I sank into the quiet and avoided eye contact with Heidi. She stared out the window at the lawns—green in the winter—that stretched as far as the eye could see. Human eyes, at least. I could still make out the towers of the Canyon, even clenched in the lover’s embrace of the dun smog.
I shifted, uncomfortable in the outfit that had been waiting for me when I woke: charcoal gray coat and pants, a muted yellow shirt and umber tie. Mahogany brown shoes and darker brown socks completed the look. The leather pinched my sore foot, but I was able to walk, and I could dial back the sensitivity if I needed to. Heidi wore a gold shirt, midnight blue jacket and pants, and black pumps. The bangles were silver now, matching the diamond earring studs.
The limo pulled through an open gate between low stone walls, one of which held fancy bronze lettering that proclaimed the name of the establishment: Wildwood. It was an exclusive country club, reserved for the elite of the elite. The tires thudded over red brick.
We circled a white marble fountain where angels frolicked and came to a stop in front of a verandah lined with white iron tables and settees. French doors sealed off a large dining room elegantly adorned in gold and cream, crystal and fine china.
I pulled the data device from my inner coat pocket.
Heidi shook her head. “Leave it in the limo.”
The door opened, and Heidi climbed out, straightening and smoothing her jacket. I waited beside her, feeling exposed and out of place.
Several men in expensive-looking sports coats filed through one of the French doors; the last of them closed the door behind them. Universally white, silver-haired, and slim, they exuded moneyed smugness and were instantly detestable.
Heidi shot me a glance. “Try not to antagonize anyone. This shouldn’t take long.”
“The odds I piss someone off go up with each minute I’m around jackasses like this.”
I followed her, slowing to allow her to negotiate the few steps up to the porch. In the near distance, a golf cart breezed by over the immaculate lawn, a white-haired couple laughing in their bright sweaters and leather gloves. There should have been snow on the ground still.
The men settled at a large table, unbuttoning jackets and spreading out across three settees set out in a u.
Heidi stood at a table next to theirs, opposite the middle group. There were no seats; I dragged a chair over for her and considered standing.
“Do take a seat, Stefan,” the smallest of the men said. His pale eyes twinkled.
I set another chair close to Heidi’s, fiddled with the cushion enough to draw a glare from her, and sat. Of course we weren’t their guests, just visitors to a country club to which we could never hope to belong.
A broad, serpentine smile spread across Little Man’s face. “We’ve been watching you for quite some time.”
The man next to him bent his head forward and looked up from beneath perfectly trimmed white eyebrows with dark brown eyes that seemed far too energetic and sharp for his apparent age. “You come highly recommended.”
A man with a finger-length, deep purple birthmark on his left cheek turned at that, face blotching red. “Hardly justified given what we’ve seen so far.” Eyes the color of moss fixed on me. “I’m not inclined to tolerate failure or ill-advised courses of action, Mr. Mendoza.”
I scrutinized Mr. Birthmark. “Have we met before?”
“I should hope not, and it would be advisable we never meet again.” Mr. Birthmark slapped the tabletop with a delicate hand that had never experienced a day of labor.
Little Man leaned forward. “My comrades and I don’t wish to take up much of your time, Stefan. We all appreciate how busy you must be. However, we all wanted to be sure the message was clear that we trust you and expect results. Given the sensitive nature of this investment, the promised funds are in escrow. Should you fulfill your obligations as detailed by Ms. Ostertag, the contract will pay out in full. Should you fail, though...” He shrugged. “We will obviously have need to recoup our losses. All of us have grown accustomed to successful investments over the years.”
I clasped my cybernetic hands, hands they had purchased for me. “And do you commonly place bets to cover your investments?”
Mr. Birthmark’s splotchy skin lit up again. “We’re leaders, not gamblers.”
Trimmed Eyebrows chuckled. “He means the woman who attacked at the restaurant.” He had a strange accent, even among their stuffy, upper-crust accents. “She doesn’t work for us. Best you deal with her before she throws a spanner in the works.”
The French doors opened, and a young woman in a cream jacket and black pants stepped out with a silver tray balanced on shoulder and hand. Crystal cups encircled an ornate urn that trailed steam from its curved spout.
Little Man clapped and beamed at the woman. “And there’s our coffee! So nice to have met you two. I hope we answered your questions about Wildwood.”
Heidi pushed her chair back and braced against the table. “Of course. Thank you so much for your time.”
She took the stairs with enough caution that I wondered just how hard she’d already hit the bottle. Getting into the limo seemed easier for her.
I waited until we were clear of the gate before saying, “Captains of industry, and silver lions watching over their prey.”
She sighed and slumped in her seat. “This was their meeting, not mine.”
“Of course.” I took the data device from where I’d left it on the seat and downloaded the images from my eyes, then went straight to a premium search service and uploaded the best shot I had of Mr. Birthmark. After a second, I did the same for the rest.
“You’re worse than Chan,” Heidi said.
“The first step to recovery is to admit you have a problem.” I glanced at her; she didn’t seem to take my meaning.
Hits started coming in. Mr. Birthmark, Trimmed Eyebrows, and Little Man—individually and as a group. And with their comrades. Anthony Wicker, Nigel Chambliss, Charles Roberts. They all had names. Titles. Identities.
The U.S. Chamber of Commerce.
Wicker in particular bothered me. I knew I’d seen him before somewhere.
I backgrounded a detailed search off a few premium services and pre-approved up to $10,000.
As we headed toward the Beltway, I closed my eyes and slipped into a fitful sleep. Images of wealthy men with titles and stature flashed through my thoughts, and I kept coming back to Hannah Baumgarten’s letter to her granddaughter Kelly Weaver.
Jonas and his despicable business…dangerous for a child…must take care of yourself…I hope you are not making a terrible mistake…
How prescient the elder Mrs. Baumgarten now seemed.
Chapter 12
I was swimming in the hotel pool an hour later, under Ichi’s close watch. My splashing was like thunder in the silence. The water was warm and slick, the chlorine sharp in my throat and sinuses. My foot was tender, but a chat with Dr. Jernigan had confirmed that was just a defense mechanism—nerve simulation—meant to keep me from over-stressing the limbs. So long as nothing was completely broken, the synthetic muscles and bones would eventually work themselves out. That said nothing about my own tender body parts, which had been overtaxed by the strikes against the robot and the jumps made to escape.
Ichi was distracting in an impractically small bikini. She had to have taken notice of my glances and was now out to punish me. Or she simply enjoyed showing off what she had spent her short lifetime crafting. The one thing I had on her was that my synthetic flesh was unmarked where the robot’s stunning jolts had struck, while she still had discoloration.
She had just shifted in a chair, exposing one of the wine-red wounds, when I suddenly realized where I’d seen Wicker before.
I climbed out of the pool, loudly trailing water onto the concrete floor. The surface wicked the water into shallo
w drains while I toweled off with vigorous rubs and tugs. Ichi glanced up from beneath oversized sunglasses that were as inappropriate as her swimwear.
She lowered her glasses. “You are in a hurry?”
“I need to check on a hunch before the image slips away.”
She pouted.
I ran the towel over my hair, then hurried to the exit.
She tucked one leg of her sunglasses between her teeth and followed me to the elevator, nearly causing a collision in the lobby as we waited.
“You should cover up.”
Her eyebrows arched. “You are jealous?”
“It’s not jealousy. I was young once. But attention is the last thing we should be seeking out. Especially you.”
She slid the sunglasses back on and lowered her face. “I am sorry, Stefan-san.”
“Don’t be. Like I said, I was young once. I made enough mistakes to fill a multivolume book. It’s how we learn. But it’s a lot less painful to learn from someone else’s mistakes.”
I changed out of my shorts and set my data device on the dining table, then tapped through the images we’d taken from the Weaver mansion run, stopping when I got to the wedding reception picture. There was Jonas Willard and Kelly Weaver smiling at each other, certain of eternal bliss. And in the background, the tables lined with perfect people in their finery.
Except not all the people were perfect.
I drilled down on the closest table to Jonas’s left. An angry man of late middle age laughed, crystal glass held high. A finger-length, dark red birthmark stood out on his left cheek.
I tapped until the image filled the display. “Anthony Wicker. Chamber of Commerce, financier of Senator Kelly Weaver’s assassination.”
Ichi leaned in close to the image. “This is one of the men you met this morning?”
“The surliest of the bunch.” I shivered and began pacing. “A family friend, no doubt, but there—”
The data device chimed.
“It is Chan.” Ichi glanced at me for approval and pressed the accept icon when I nodded. “What is it?”
