I looked around. There was a printer, but no computer. Strange for someone whose job was computers.
“Check for a phone, and see if he owned a car.”
“There’s a parking pad in the back, but like I said, no car,” Mychal said. “The top three floors are built out over the pad.”
“Yeah, the blood trail out the front door ends at an empty parking space on the street. I’ll put out word to the hospitals.”
“Two different blood samples,” Kevin Goodman, head of the forensics lab told me. “What it looks like is, one person pulled the knife and slashed or stabbed the other. Then your knife wielder got shot as a reward. The shooter ran, then the one with the knife dragged himself down the stairs to the basement, where he vanished.”
“He?”
Kevin nodded. “I feel fairly confident. I haven’t run across too many women who wear a size thirteen men’s shoe. He left footprints in the blood.”
“Lieutenant,” someone called. I turned and saw a uniform trying to stop a young woman, who simply ducked under the cop’s arm and continued toward me.
“May I help you?” I asked, my hand on my pistol.
“I’m Jurgen’s girlfriend,” she said, pulling her jacket aside just enough to flash a badge at me. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
I signaled Novak to join us, then took her out the kitchen door to the back of the house.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Carmelita Domingo,” she said when the three of us were alone, “although my cover name as Jurgen’s girlfriend is Dolores Hernandez. I’m with the HLA task force. DC Whittaker sent me.”
Carmelita looked more like a high school girl than a cop. Wearing tight leggings, trainers, and a baggie sweatshirt, she barely topped five feet, with straight black hair hanging to her waist. The Domingo Family was one of the Ten and allied with Findlay, but that didn’t mean she was related to them. Still, I minded my manners.
“It looks as though he’s got himself in a mess,” I said.
She sighed. “Lots of book smarts, very little common sense. DC Whittaker said you folks think he’s tied into the murders up at the Greer mansion.”
“What’s his talent?” I asked.
“Electrokinetic, but not very strong. You know, a lot of those end up in computers and communication.”
That described me, to a certain extent. I considered my electrokinetic abilities as an enhancement to my magitek talents, not a talent in itself.
“We think he allowed a magitek to sabotage the Greers’ security system and covered it up,” I said. “We found a device. When we came here to talk to him, we found evidence of a fight with someone else. There’s a lot of blood upstairs, but no bodies.”
“He always carried a big folding knife, five-inch locking blade,” she said.
“That sounds like the knife we found. How about a gun?”
Carmelita-Dolores shook her head. “I never saw one, and he never mentioned having one.” She gave me a faint smile. “He left me alone here several times, and I’ve searched the place rather thoroughly.”
“We didn’t find a computer,” Novak said. “Did he have one?”
“Of course. Two. One of those fancy expensive ones. You know, the kind that fold up into a pocket? He carried it everywhere with him. And a more conventional one that stayed in his office upstairs.”
“He must have taken them,” Novak said, “because we haven’t found either one.”
My phone rang, and when I answered, it was one of Whittaker’s assistants.
“They’ve found him,” I said when I hung up. “He showed up at UM’s emergency room with a bullet hole in him. Said he was shot by a mugger.”
Novak chuckled. “Well, let’s go get him.”
I saw the look of alarm on Carmelita’s face.
“There’s no hurry,” I said. “He’s still in surgery. Sergeant Domingo, what do you think?”
“He’s the best link we have into the HLA. I don’t want to lose that, and if a bunch of cops show up and arrest him, his usefulness will be over.”
“But they tried to kill him,” my partner said.
“Someone did,” I replied. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee somewhere private and talk this over.”
We found an upscale pizza place about a block away that was almost deserted in the middle of the afternoon. Domingo ordered a personal crab pizza and a latte, while Novak and I stuck with coffee. The off-hand way she ordered reminded me of Novak and made me think our young detective sergeant had grown up with money.
For the next couple of hours, we received a quick and dirty briefing on the Human Liberation Army, its ideology and beliefs, its organization, and its internal conflicts. As with any movement with members all over the world, it wasn’t homogeneous, and the factions didn’t always play well with each other. Domingo was brief but thorough, and displayed her intelligence in an understated way.
“So,” Domingo said, “you have the violent wing, whose members think a repeat of the French Revolution is the only answer, you have the dilettantes and college students who are there for the parties, the drugs and the sex, and you have the serious, public political face. The radicals can hardly stand to be in the same room with the moderates, and both find the hangers-on contemptible.”
“I always thought the HLA was anti-magik, but Danica says they’re anti-Magi.”
“Anti-establishment,” Carmelita said. “There are a lot of mages and witches involved, but very few from the Families. It attracts magikers from the lower classes. But from what I’ve seen, the movement has managed to recruit an unusual number of magiteks.”
Mychal raised an eyebrow.
“Told you,” I said. “We’re the under-appreciated group. You won’t find any rich aeromancers from the Ten wanting to change their status, but people like Schwartz with a little bit of electrokinetic talent are going to feel slighted. Why aren’t they invited to the fancy parties with the beautiful people?” Both of my companions blushed slightly and dropped their eyes.
“Dead on,” Carmelita said, looking up. “Most people don’t have any concept of the difference in power between someone like Jurgen Schwartz and Olivia Findlay. They’re both electrokinetics, right?” She laughed.
Novak gave me a quizzical look.
I chuckled. “Mychal, you know how you’re always looking down your nose at me because I don’t keep up with Family politics? Now you know how it feels. Ms. Domingo is obviously a student of history.”
Our companion finished off the last bite of her pizza and nodded. “I’ve always been fascinated by the emergence of the Magi and the Rift War. Even the demon lords feared the Findlay Family. Still do, probably.”
“So,” I asked, “what are we going to do about our Mr. Schwartz?”
On our way back to Jurgen’s house, I got a call. Novak and Domingo waited for me, and when I finished, I said, “It appears that Jurgen Schwartz got the better of the deal. That was Whittaker. A man named Robert Earling was involved in a car crash about half a mile from here. ME says the cause of death was a stab wound.”
Carmelita nodded. “Bob. That was the leader of Jurgen’s HLA cell.”
Chapter 10
After a conference with Deputy Commissioner Thomas Whittaker, I found myself on detached duty—assigned to the HLA task force, but still nominally in charge of the Carpenter and Greer homicides through Novak. I wondered when I was going to find time to sleep.
Before we left Whittaker’s office, he handed me a small, square package.
“Schwartz’s computer,” he said. “It was in his pocket. We also recovered another computer from Earling’s car that appears to belong to Schwartz. We’ve already started working on that one, but this has a magitek security device incorporated into it.”
I unfolded the package and saw that it was one of the most expensive portable computers on the market.
“I’ll take a look at it tonight,” I told my boss, and he nodded.
I also found myself with another new par
tner, Carmelita Domingo, also known as Dolores Hernandez. University Hospital wasn’t very far from Police Headquarters, so she and I walked over there to visit our suspect. It would have taken us twice as long to drive, even using police parking privileges.
I rarely walked around downtown during the day. It was brisk—a breezy but clear autumn day. The tall buildings of the corporations blocked out the sun for the most part, and there was a lot of traffic. The people on the street varied from business people to teenagers hanging out in groups, to beggars and druggies looking for a handout.
On the way, I pumped Carmelita-Dolores for more information about the HLA.
“Jurgen is just a foot soldier, mostly a hanger-on,” she said. “Like most underground groups, they’re compartmentalized, with most members unaware of anyone above them or outside their cell. But because of his position with Greer, they took a lot of interest in him. I just didn’t know that was what they planned to do. I know Bob Earling was his contact with people above him, but I hadn’t gotten the chance to follow up.”
“That’s probably who shot him,” I said.
“Looks that way.”
“Do you think they’re behind the Palace of Commerce bombings?” I asked.
She was silent for at least half a block, then she turned her face up to me. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but after the Greer killings, I think there are HLA fanatics who would do almost anything.”
There was a cop on the door of Jurgen’s hospital room because he was a gunshot victim. We had to break our cover before the cop would let us in, but I gave him a stern warning not to disclose our secret.
I had seen pictures of Jurgen, but he turned out to be bigger than I imagined. I figured him for late twenties, well over six feet, broad shouldered, and handsome. The bullet had taken him high in the left chest, missing any vital organs or major blood vessels. It had fractured his scapula, though, so it would be a couple of months before he could use his left arm. Magikal healing was expensive.
He was groggy but attempted a smile when he saw his girlfriend.
“What did you get yourself into?” she asked, taking his free hand and bending down to kiss him on the forehead.
“Got mugged.”
“In the upstairs hallway of your house? That’s a little hard to believe. Who shot you? Bob?”
His smile faltered.
“Are you aware that the police have an all-points bulletin issued for your arrest?” I interjected. “They want you for the murder of Joseph and Elaine Greer.”
Jurgen might have been groggy from the drugs, but he was cognizant enough to be alarmed. He tried to sit up, winced, and settled back on the bed.
“That wasn’t me.”
“Oh? That’s going to be hard to prove. We know you tampered with the security system.”
“One of Bob’s friends.”
“Bob’s dead,” I said. “They’re probably going to charge you with that murder, too.”
“Bastard shot me.”
“Before or after you stabbed him?”
He stared at us, his eyes shifting back and forth between me and Carmelita. Finally, he said, “Who are you?”
“The woman who is going to decide where you spend the rest of your life. Stonewall me, and you’ll be a permanent resident of Antarctica. Cooperate, and depending on how much you help, you could end up in the Yukon or in Gettysburg. Your choice.” I leaned over him. “But understand me. You won’t be judged by a regular court of law. You’re going to be facing a Magi tribunal.”
He was already pretty pale from blood loss, but his complexion managed to turn even whiter.
About that time a nurse came in and told us Jurgen needed to sleep and that we should come back later.
“In a minute,” I said. “Please, just one more minute alone with him.”
The nurse reluctantly nodded and slipped back out the door.
“Tell us who Bob’s contact is,” I said.
“You’d better tell her,” Carmelita chimed in. “She’s dead serious, and you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“Susan Reed. In College Park. I don’t have her number, but she’s head of the HLA on campus.”
On our way out of the hospital, Carmelita said, “Susan Reed is his ex-girlfriend. I’ll bet she’s the one who recruited him.” She snorted. “And I’ll bet my trust fund that he lied when he said he doesn’t have her number. He only said that because I was there. He thinks I don’t know that he’s seeing three other women besides me.”
I made arrangements for Carmelita to pick me up the following morning for a visit with Susan Reed. Then I walked over to Kirsten’s shop.
“You look tired,” she said when I walked in. “What time did you leave this morning?”
“About three thirty. My bike is up at Jenny’s. Do you suppose we can take your van out to Findlay?”
“Definitely, and you’re not driving.”
I called my grandmother. “Can I talk you into feeding Kirsten and me this evening? We have a business proposition we’d like to discuss with you.”
A long silence at the other end, then, “Business proposition? Am I going to like this?”
I chuckled. “Your blood pressure will appreciate it if you put yourself in a positive, receptive mood.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Come on out. I think the cook plans fish for this evening.”
Even though we left before most businesses closed, we were still headed in the wrong direction for end-of-day traffic. Unfortunately, the aerodynamics of the van precluded me from enhancing it as an aircar. It took us an hour to get out to Findlay.
After parking the van, I dropped by Osiris’s office to give him a heads-up about the HLA and the Greer and Carpenter murders.
“You’re sure the HLA has a magitek working with them?” he asked.
“Positive. I found proof. Any of your systems that are magikally enhanced need to have a non-magikal backup. Osiris, these people are crazy.”
“We’ve deployed magitek systems you or your father designed all over the world.”
I grinned at him. “Backing them up should keep you busy, then.”
Kirsten and I slipped into the main house through the servants’ entrance, and I led her up the back stairs, through a maintenance corridor, and out into the hallway with my grandmother’s suite of rooms.
“Is it really necessary to come in that way?” Kirsten asked. “I never get to see all the fancy furniture and art.”
“And you miss all my snotty relatives. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.”
I knocked, and a maid answered almost immediately. She looked me up and down, obviously less than happy with the way we were dressed. Especially me. Kirsten usually wore a long, old-fashioned dress at the store, as befitting the stereotype of a witch.
“Good evening, Mistress, Miss Starr. Her Ladyship is in the sitting room.”
“Thank you, Hilda.” She didn’t move out of my way until I handed her my coat. When I was in high school, I tried to refuse letting the servants wait on me. Then I discovered that such behavior seriously offended them. The head housekeeper finally confronted me and asked why I wanted to turn all the servants out on the street to starve. She came about as close as she could, within propriety, of accusing me of being selfish and self-centered, not to mention a socialist.
In the sitting room, Olivia sat in one of three chairs surrounding a small, round table by a bay window that faced east toward the Bay, although one really couldn’t see that far. We took our seats, and Hilda poured us each a glass of sherry. My grandmother had spent years attempting to culture my appreciation of fine sherry, an effort that still hadn’t succeeded. But I had learned to fake it and to recognize the various varieties.
“So, a business proposition?” Olivia asked after Kirsten and I had taken a polite sip. “I checked my inventory, and I really don’t need another bridge or any swamp land this month.”
“How about a magitek factory? One that produces not only weapon
s and security systems but also home appliances and decorations. One that pays for itself.”
With that last part, I had her attention.
“Why do I feel as though I should hide my credit card?” she asked.
“I’ve decided that I don’t want to come to work for Findlay,” I said, “but I am interested in setting up a design business with an attached factory. I have someone who is business savvy and a great marketer to run it, and we’ll let you in for one-third ownership.”
She threw back her head and laughed, a deep, genuine burst of appreciative mirth. When she sobered to a chuckle, she said, “And I assume that I get to finance this venture as my one-third contribution.”
I grinned at Kirsten. “See? I told you she was sharp.”
Kirsten blushed scarlet, but Olivia chuckled.
“You also get to control two-thirds of the factory’s output,” I said. “Cost-plus pricing. You will also share one-third of the profits from the other third of the production.”
She sat back in her chair, sipped her sherry, and studied me, with occasional glances at Kirsten. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.
“And who is this business and marketing genius who is going to make us all rich?” she asked.
“Mary Sue Dressler.”
I could tell I surprised her, and her brow knitted in thought. Presently, she said, “She just finished a total renovation of Gloria Flanagan’s house in Dublin. Very impressive, and ungodly expensive. Took two years. Not just the magitek, but the entire interior design.”
“Think about bringing the price down with factory output and the mass marketing of such devices and services,” I said.
“She’s good?”
“As good as I am at what she does, and she enjoys the business side of things. She’s a perfectionist, obsessive about the little things. When we were at university together, I just cared if a project worked. She wanted to saw off the sharp edges and make it pretty as well.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Design the weapons, security systems, and transportation enhancement devices. All the stuff I’m good at. I design them, turn the designs over to the factory employees, who engineer and produce them. Mary Sue makes them pretty enough to sell, or discreet enough that people don’t realize what they are. You won’t have to wait a month to get a single device, you can have a hundred produced in the same amount of time. She says that we might even be able to work a deal with Dressler Robotics to sell them control systems if we can undercut their present supplier.”
War Song (The Rift Chronicles Book 2) Page 6
