But she had to force herself not to read the engineering reports. Instead, she had been looking at the number of power glitches since the Dome’s systems had been rebuilt after the bombing.
If she had had to guess, she would have wagered that the number of glitches went down after the rebuild—and initially they did.
But about a year after the rebuild, the glitches started again. Only this time, they’d gotten worse.
And they were concentrated on specific areas—sometimes down to specific buildings.
“Rudra,” she said, “can our techs back-trace these glitches?”
“Hmmm?” Popova looked up. Her eyes were bleary from looking back and forth at two different-sized screens. “Um, I’m not sure. I would assume so.”
“Find out,” DeRicci said, and looked back at the data.
She heard rather than saw Popova get up from her chair. Then Popova walked over to DeRicci’s desk,.
“Before I forget,” Popova said, “I found some of what’s missing. It seems innocuous enough.”
“Write it up,” DeRicci said.
“I will,” Popova said. “But it’s weird.”
DeRicci looked up. She really didn’t want to lose her concentration. She had numbers floating around in her mind—the number of glitches, the address of the areas where the most glitches occurred, the different types of businesses located there.
But Popova seemed determined.
So DeRicci sighed. “Go ahead.”
“It’s mostly names. People’s addresses and backgrounds vanished from the public networks.”
“Everyone has the right to remove their name and address from the public boards,” DeRicci said.
“Remove yes,” Popova said. “But not obliterate all traces of those names. And even stranger, before the traces were obliterated, every single one of those people came through the Port of Armstrong.”
DeRicci leaned back in her chair. Her breath had caught. She had to remind herself to breathe.
“Every one of them?” she asked.
Popova nodded.
“Did they stay at the hotels that lost records?” DeRicci asked. “Did they bank at the banks?”
“All of the people were from off-Moon,” Popova said.
“Still, some of our banks have branches off-Moon,” DeRicci said.
“I don’t know the answer to that. I didn’t have time to check. But I would wager they stayed at the hotels. Most of them used the Port again about two weeks after they arrived.”
“They came into Armstrong, then they left two weeks later,” DeRicci said.
Popova nodded.
“What can you find out about these people?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Popova said. “I can’t find anything. What vanished is work records, birth and death records, records of marriages or divorces. Mundane stuff.”
“Anything unusual in it?”
“No,” Popova said. “They didn’t even work for the same companies.”
“Did they come to Armstrong at the same time?”
“The first group did. About five of them, during that initial missing period. But they didn’t seem to hang out together, and they didn’t seem to know each other.”
“Did they frequent the same places?” DeRicci asked.
“I haven’t had enough time to look.” Popova tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. Her hands were shaking.
She was clearly frustrated.
“We need more people working on this,” DeRicci said.
“I don’t know that, either,” Popova said. “I mean, the data is years old. So why the hurry now?”
“The glitches have increased in the past week,” DeRicci said.
“Meaning what?”
DeRicci shrugged, and then she closed her eyes as a realization hit her. She should have been examining the glitch information around the time of the Dome explosion. They’d never caught the bomber.
Maybe these people whose information vanished were saboteurs or part of terror cells. Maybe the people who came in had some kind of horrible plan to harm—or even destroy—Armstrong.
“Sir?” Popova asked.
DeRicci opened her eyes. Her mouth was dry. She was making things up. She didn’t have enough information yet.
But the information she did have was making her very, very nervous.
“See if these glitches can be back-traced,” she said. “And if they can, make the traces a priority. I want to know who—if anyone—is causing this.”
“Yes, sir,” Popova said. “Should I bring in someone else to search the information?”
DeRicci thought for a moment. If this was some kind of well-coordinated outside attack, then each glitch had meaning. And people with no history of trouble were causing the problems.
People with no history of trouble. Like the people who got vetted before becoming government employees.
“Not yet,” DeRicci said. “If we need more eyes on this, we’ll get them.”
“Yes, sir,” Popova said.
Popova was almost to the door when DeRicci said, “Rudra?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What do you think is going on?”
Popova bit her lower lip. “I don’t like to speculate, sir,” she said after a moment.
“Do it anyway,” DeRicci said.
“It could be anything,” Popova said. “From some kind of plan or plans against Armstrong to the placing of illegals throughout the city. I mean, what better way to become a part of a community if all you have to do is wipe out any record of your past, and create some new identity?”
What better way indeed? DeRicci made herself breathe. Or, she suddenly realized, it could be a combination of both. People who shouldn’t be in Armstrong establishing new identities—and then planning to do some harm.
“Thanks, Rudra,” DeRicci said, effectively dismissing her.
DeRicci looked at the data in front of her. She hadn’t yet compared the recent glitches to this week’s crime reports.
But she had a hunch she’d find something—something she wouldn’t like at all.
Forty-nine
Nyquist had never bullied his way into a law office before. He’d gone into doctor’s offices and high-end brokerage firms. He’d arrested people in schools and restaurants and museums.
But he’d never gone into a law office on official business. At least not on business that involved a possible crime still under way.
He had a team of ten officers behind him. He used his “official business” line with the expensive android that guarded the door. He overrode the circuitry with his police-issued chips when the android wouldn’t let him pass.
He had all of the officers draw their weapons as he hurried through Wagner, Stuart, and Xendor’s large lobby, demanding to know where Justinian Wagner was.
Assistant after assistant tried to stop him, and he wouldn’t be stopped.
He remembered how to get to Wagner’s office. He used his chip again to override the privacy controls in the needlessly fancy elevator, and commanded it to hurry.
It moved faster than he wanted it to, and if he had anyone to confess to, he would have told that person that the speed of the elevator made him slightly queasy.
But it didn’t get rid of the feeling of elation that had accompanied him from the moment he entered this place.
Even if his information—his guess—was wrong, he was enjoying this. He had a reason to be here.
He hadn’t realized how much he hated Wagner, how much he blamed the bastard for every single painful day in that hospital, for each and every agonizing movement in physical therapy, for all those excruciating surgeries designed to rebuild him the way he had been before.
As if he could ever be the way he had been before.
The elevator stopped. He remembered the way that the doors opened onto the reception area, the way that Wagner’s office seemed like its own fortress.
Well, Nyquist was storming that fortress now. Despit
e all the associates gathered in front of the doors, trying to protect their boss.
“Detective,” one of the associates said, “I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement—”
“And I’m sure we can’t,” Nyquist said. “Step aside, or I’ll arrest you.”
“You can’t arrest everyone in the firm,” said another associate, a thin young woman with glittery eyes.
He stopped for the first time since he started his charge into WSX. “Of course I can,” he said. “We have a report here of a kidnapping in progress. I can do anything I want to do. Now get the hell out of my way.”
They got. Leaving him and his team in front of that big black door.
Nyquist was about to open it when another associate stepped in front of him.
“At least let me tell him you’re here,” the associate said.
But Nyquist shoved him aside.
He’d tell Wagner himself why he was here.
And then he’d arrest the bastard, whether Flint was inside the room or not.
Fifty
“Hear me out,” Wagner said, his hand up, as if Flint could flee from the sound of the man’s voice.
Flint had been listening to the man ever since they both realized that neither of them had killed Ki Bowles, and he didn’t want to listen anymore.
He just couldn’t think of an alternative. If he grabbed Talia’s hand and burst out of the office, he’d get caught by those thugs again—and this time they might kill his daughter, especially after what Wagner had said about her.
Some people didn’t consider clones human. Apparently Wagner was one of those.
“You’re an investigator, right?” Wagner said. “I mean, you make your money finding people, but you’ve taken on stranger assignments, not quite specific ones. What if we team up? My resources, your skills, and we find who killed Bowles. Someone is trying to frame us both, and we shouldn’t allow it.”
Flint froze. Talia was staring at Wagner in disbelief. Flint wondered if he was, too.
“Team up?” Flint asked.
“We’re both businessmen,” Wagner said. “We have similar interests. I know you dislike me and I’m not real fond of you, but we could work something out—”
“You’re serious,” Flint said.
“Of course I am,” Wagner said. “Occasionally a man must ally with someone he dislikes to get a job done. We need to know what’s going on in the Bowles case. I think that by doing it together—”
“You actually think I’d work with you?” Flint asked.
“Of course,” Wagner said. “You’re a smart man. It’s in both of our interests—”
“I don’t work with murderers,” Flint said.
“I told you,” Wagner said. “I didn’t kill Ki Bowles. Weren’t you paying attention? I—”
“Or kidnappers,” Talia said with so much anger that for a moment, Flint thought she was going to jump on Wagner like she’d jumped on that thug.
“Child,” Wagner said, “your—father—and I are having a discussion. It doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns her,” Flint said. “Because if I were a man unethical enough to tie myself to you, then she would have to deal with that. And she knows better. I know better. I want you to pay for Paloma’s murder. I’m not going to help you out of this mess.”
“But I have nothing to do with it,” Wagner said.
“Even if that’s true,” Flint said, “I don’t care. You can’t bring us in here at gunpoint and assume we’ll help you.”
“Surely—”
“Surely, you’re not that stupid,” Flint said. “Surely you understand that I’ll make sure someone pays for Paloma’s murder.”
“The Bixian assassins are dead. The Bixian government can’t be charged.”
“And neither can the man who tipped them off,” Flint said. “But I stopped working for the police, remember?”
At that moment, the door to the office slammed open. Bartholomew Nyquist stood there, with a group of officers in uniform behind him.
Some associate—a man—waved his hands. “I tried to stop them, sir. They say there’s a kidnapping in progress.”
“There is,” Flint said. “Wagner brought me and Talia here at gunpoint.”
“I recorded it all,” Talia said, holding up a fist. She pointed to a chip on her knuckle. “You want it?”
Nyquist’s eyes were sparkling. But his expression was serious. “Are you injured?”
“No—” Talia started, but Flint put a hand on her arm.
“We’ll have to have someone make sure,” he said. “My daughter is probably badly bruised.”
“It’s not a kidnapping,” Wagner said. “I invited Mr. Flint here to discuss business.”
“He took us,” Talia said. “I have proof.”
“And witnesses,” Flint said. “Ask anyone in the law school cafeteria.”
“We already are.” Nyquist walked deeper into the office. He looked jaunty. “Justinian Wagner, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Miles Flint and Talia Shindo. Other charges, including attempted murder or murder by hire, might be added later. Have you anything to say?’
“I’m one of the most respected lawyers in Armstrong. You have no right—”
“You know the law, sir. Do you contend the charges or accept them?”
Wagner’s lips thinned. He looked like he wanted to punch Nyquist. Instead he said tightly, “Contend.”
“Excellent.” Nyquist removed the lightlocks from his pocket. “Turn around.”
“Surely that’s not necessary.”
“You’re being charged with a felony, sir,” Nyquist said. “It’s necessary.”
Then he grinned at Flint over Wagner’s shoulder. Flint grinned back.
“Took you long enough,” Flint said softly.
“Came as soon as I heard.” Nyquist finished attaching the locks, then roughly turned Wagner around and shoved him forward. “Figured this was one arrest I didn’t want to miss.”
Fifty-one
It had only been a half hour since the images of Gulliver Illiyitch were displayed all over Armstrong, but sighting reports had already overwhelmed the police station.
Romey had examined a dozen herself. The most credible seemed to come from the area around the Port, but she couldn’t get confirmation. And she didn’t want to go in, weapons drawn, without it.
“Savita.” Gumiela had come out of her office. She stood in the hallway just outside Romey’s small cubicle.
Gumiela looked even more put together than usual. She had probably refreshed her clothes several times during the day and reapplied her hair gel, all because she had known this was going to be a media kind of day.
Romey looked up from her desk. She was using the scratched screen to make a map of the city, trying to trace a trajectory of a possible Illiyitch path.
“You need to come see this.” Gumiela moved away from Romey’s line of sight.
Romey suppressed a sigh and stood. Her sons would be doing their homework or watching some vids. Maybe they’d even left the house, knowing their mom wouldn’t be back until long after their bedtime.
She stepped into the hallway. Gumiela had turned on a wall screen.
There, in the middle of a throng of people, stood Gulliver Illiyitch.
He looked just like the identification photos that Whitford Security had. He hadn’t even changed out of his black suit.
“Where’s this?” Romey asked.
“The Port, just like we thought. The media tracked him down. They’re questioning him right now. I’m having Space Traffic Control pick him up. You want to go down there and cap off the arrest?”
Gumiela was actually being kind. She wanted to know if Romey would like to make a high-profile arrest, the kind that would launch a career—turn Romey from a detective into an assistant chief or a media coordinator.
Into a junior Gumiela.
Romey made herself smile. “I think Space Traffic can handle it. I’ll take car
e of him in interview.”
Gumiela studied her for a moment, as if trying to figure her out. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Romey said.
“Are you worried that he’s not your killer? Because I’m convinced he is. I’ve looked at the reports. No one else could have gotten close to Bowles. And certainly no one else could have taken out the other guard so easily.”
Gumiela was being so nice that Romey wanted to ask why.
But she had a hunch she knew why. If this case got resolved today, then the department would get kudos, and the media would be grateful.
The longer this thing went on, the harder it would be for the department to take any credit—even if that credit was deserved.
“I agree,” Romey said. “But I’ve looked at this guy’s record. He’s got a suspicious history, and it looks phony to me. I’m reasonably sure he’s a hired killer. I’d rather get the person who paid for the murder than the murderer himself.”
“Interesting,” Gumiela said. “You know, sometimes we just have to be satisfied with the shooter.”
“Yeah,” Romey said, feeling almost like she was admitting defeat before she’d even started to fight. “I know.”
Fifty-two
After some argument, Flint got Nyquist to drop him and Talia at Van Alen’s. Nyquist wanted to take them first to a hospital and then to the precinct. To make the charges against Wagner even harsher, Nyquist wanted doctors to declare Talia injured. Then he wanted to take a statement from both of them.
“You got a statement,” Flint said. “We made them at the crime scene. And you have Talia’s recordings. That should be plenty.”
Besides, he wanted to say, but didn’t, charges against Wagner wouldn’t stick. Or if they did, they’d be reduced significantly. Wagner had too many judges in his pocket. He had worked for half the city government and most of the people who ran the United Domes of the Moon as well.
He would get out of this.
Although his law firm might not survive the negative publicity.
Duplicate Effort Page 28
