“Yes, sir. I knew it was Bronze, sir.”
“I know you did. And you did a good job. When this is all over – likely with the execution of Bronze, so hold onto your belly – I’ll see to it that those cases you’ve flagged are closed.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll help where I can.”
“I know you will.”
They broke for lunch. The Empress disappeared, along with her brother and the rest of the Imperial Guard, though before he left, Dunham kindly told them to make use of the Palace staff cafeteria, and told them how to reach it. Dr. Galway excused himself, then entered VR to check in with his practice and tend to matters there.
Gorski and Ashton entered VR and tagged up with Colonel Peterson, filling her in on how the interrogations were progressing, then Ashton sent a private message to Cally Ames – nothing of significance, more of the “Thinking of you” variety.
Then they headed for the staff cafeteria.
An hour after lunch found them all back in the observation room – save the Empress herself. Joey Bronze was placed in the “lie detector” chair and cuffed in place, then Captain Mercer entered the room.
“We have opened up one VR channel to you. There is a recording there you may wish to view before your interview.”
Then he turned and left the room.
Bronsky entered VR and watched the previous two interrogations, but when he emerged from VR, he was calm. He didn’t have the same pallid, anxious expression Derek Beckham had had, and Ashton knew that meant trouble. He glanced at Gorski, sitting beside him, and saw his clenched jaw – the older detective knew it, too.
So somehow they were unsurprised when, upon the Empress’ entering the interrogation room, Bronsky usurped her place and addressed her first – and without acknowledging her status to start.
“I already know your spiel, Your Majesty. I’m not going to answer your questions.” Bronze was, if anything, almost insultingly cocky.
“And die instead, Mr. Bronsky?” The Empress, by comparison, was cool and reserved.
“Why not? You’re going to kill me anyway,” Bronze pointed out. “There’s nothing left in it for me but to deny you what you want.”
The Empress shrugged.
“I’ll get the answers anyway.”
“No, you won’t. One-word answers won’t tell you what you really want to know. You know it and I know it. Make me a better deal, Your Majesty.”
Ashton tried not to gape at the unmitigated gall of the man.
“I cannot allow you to run free in the Empire, Mr. Bronsky,” the Empress countered.
“I don’t want to die, but life in prison doesn’t thrill me either, Your Majesty.”
“Then we are at an impasse, Mr. Bronsky.”
“Not necessarily, Your Majesty. Isn’t banishment one of the traditional punishments in a system of high justice?” Bronze was negotiating for his life, gambling that the Empress didn’t really want another death such as Kaplan’s, and Ashton was abruptly reminded of his conversation with Cally regarding Bronsky’s gambling lifestyle, and the very nature of his life.
“You mean exile, Mr. Bronsky?”
“No, Your Majesty. Banishment,” Bronze clarified. “Put me on a passenger ship to some other polity. Let me be their problem. If I am ever caught in the Empire again, it is an automatic death penalty.”
The Empress considered for a long moment.
“Very well, Mr. Bronsky. If you answer my questions honestly and completely, banishment it shall be.”
Then she rose and left the room.
But for all his smooth negotiation, his high-stakes gamble, he misread the abilities of the parties assembled against him.
“Damn,” Ashton grumbled quietly, in the back of the observing room, “has he said anything truthful yet?”
“Not much,” Lieutenant Cox noted, keeping an eye on the readings from the chair. “What say you, Dr. Galway?”
“You nailed that one,” Galway agreed. “He committed to an agreement with Her Majesty to save his life, but he’s not fulfilling his end of the bargain. He just wants us to think he is.”
Abruptly the Empress spoke.
“Lieutenant Cox, please tell Captain Mercer to pause the questioning. Dr. Galway, come with me. Bring your bag. Major Dunham, would you attend?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the chorus of response.
A grim Empress Ilithyia II rose and left the room, accompanied by Major Dunham and Dr. Galway.
The door to the interrogation room opened abruptly, and the Empress entered, accompanied by the physician.
“I’ve heard enough,” she declared in a disgusted tone. “You’ve been watching the doctor’s notes, Captain Mercer?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And you know where he’s been lying, Captain Mercer?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Very well, Captain Mercer.” She gestured to Dr. Galway. “Drug the correct answers out of him, then execute him.”
“WAIT!” Bronsky cried, shocked, even as the Empress turned to leave. She paused in the door and looked back at him, raising a sardonic eyebrow.
“Yes, Mr. Bronsky?”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” he said, sounding borderline desperate to Ashton’s ear. “Ask me the questions again.”
“No, Mr. Bronsky.” She shook her head. “I’ll not give you a chance to lie more artfully. We may not be able to detect it.”
“But you can’t do this!”
“Why not? Mr. Bronsky, are you under the illusion that I’m one of the good guys? That you can trifle with me, because I’m naïve? I assure you, I am neither. I am the Empress of Sintar. I am pledged to protect my subjects in this, my Empire. There are no rules, no morals, no code of honor to which I adhere other than that one overriding purpose. You sat down by mistake at a very high stakes table, Mr. Bronsky, and you’re playing out of your league.”
Bang, Ashton thought. House wins. Game over.
In short order, under the influence of Dr. Galway’s drugs, the matter had been laid out. Stanley “Stash” Gorecki, the IPD’s hired enforcer, a man with whom Ashton was entirely too familiar, had hired Bronze for numerous hits, including several that Ashton had laid out in his profile, as well as the Medved woman. Based on prior knowledge of the man, Bronze had assumed certain references that Gorecki had used meant he was doing the bidding of members of the Imperial Council and their underlings.
Damn, a fifty-thousand-credit fee ain’t small potatoes, either, Ashton realized, as he listened to Bronze spilling his guts under the influence of the drugs. No wonder he got himself a nice expensive lifestyle once he started working for ‘em regularly. Then wasted it. He shook his head in disgust.
In the end, it only took about another hour to milk Bronsky dry. When he had answered every question put to him – including a number that Gorski and Ashton sent to Mercer through VR about the other murders in Ashton’s profile, and gotten confirmation on all of them – Mercer turned to Galway.
“All right, Doctor. Carry out the execution.”
Galway injected one more drug, and ten seconds later, Josip Bronsky, alias Joey Bronze, alias ‘JB,’ slumped in the chair, dead.
“And that takes care of that,” Gorski said.
Looking for Trouble
“Time for one more, Nick,” Gorski said the next day. “Are you up to it?”
“Sure am, sir,” Ashton replied. “You know me by now.”
“You know that you were seen arresting Bronsky, right?”
“So?” Ashton shrugged. “What else is new? By who?”
“Imperial Police stooges, like usual. You’ve been made. Again. They’re looking for you. Word on the street confirms it.”
“Aw, shit. Hey, it wasn’t like I was alone in the doing.”
“No, but we gave you the chance to show your stuff by putting you in the lead. And it was obvious, you were in the lead. In retrospect, I guess we shouldn’t have put you in an ICPD uniform, but it came across as more
official that way, and the Imperial Guard, in the person of Major Dunham, wanted official.”
“Damn.”
“You still up for this? We can keep you out of sight and send some of the others.”
“Nah, I wanna be in on this if I can.”
“Good man. You game for us putting you in some sort of disguise to do this? Maybe even a wig and makeup? We can call in Adrian to help. It might throw ‘em and they wouldn’t recognize you…”
“That’s…a definite option, Stefan. Yeah, we can do that.”
“Good. Just…keep your head down, okay? It’s a good one, and it needs to stay on your shoulders.”
“Will do, sir.”
Adrian Mott arrived in the Investigations office ten minutes later with a large duffel bag, and it was obviously crammed full of gear.
“What’s that for?” Cally Ames wondered, wandering over as Mott put the bag down beside Ashton’s desk.
“Nick got made at the Bronze bust,” Mott explained. “But there’s more work for him to do, so we’re putting him in a deep disguise.”
“What did you have in mind, Adrian?” Ashton wondered, as Gorski came up to watch, as well.
“Wig, makeup, and beard,” Mott decreed. “And a change of wardrobe style.”
“Aw,” Ames grumbled. “I don’t like beards. They scratch.”
Ashton flushed, but the others laughed.
“Well, Ms. Ames,” Mott declared, “you have the choice of a scratchy kiss from Nick, or a dead Nick. Which would you prefer?”
“Scratchy kiss,” she said without hesitation.
“I thought so. you’ll just have to get used to it for a while, at least.”
“Okay. I’ll deal.”
And Mott set to work.
As Mott worked, he pulled this or that out of his duffel, occasionally having to rearrange things to get to what he wanted. Most of it was obvious to Ashton, but when the undercover expert pulled out a pile of stretchy black cloth in a heavy weight, he raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that?” Ashton asked, curious.
“This?” Mott waved the wad of black cloth. “Oh, it’s no big deal. It’s a special suit for nighttime surveillance. It’s matte black so it blends into shadows and doesn’t gleam in the light, and it’s got a lining that’s essentially knife-proof. It isn’t bulletproof unless you put some special shock plates in, though. But it does pretty damn good.”
Ashton noted that Mott avoided meeting Gorski’s eyes, and wondered.
Then Cally quickly averted her glance, and he wondered a lot more.
When Mott was done, even Cally barely recognized Nick.
He had long, curly, dark-red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a full beard that matched the ponytail, a ginger complexion with freckles, and blue-green eyes. He wore blown-out sneakers, ratty, ripped blue jeans with one back pocket torn off, a wrinkled, stained green tee, and a threadbare gray fleece hoodie over all.
“Wow,” Armbrand said, wandering up. “You cut quite the different figure from the casual-dapper Nick I’m used to seeing, there, Ashton.”
“That’s the idea,” Gorski said. “If you didn’t know him, would you know him?”
“I…don’t think so.”
“Cally?” Gorski pressed.
“Um…” Ames began, uncertain. Then she looked Ashton in the eyes. “Yeah. His eyes. Even with the different color, they’re still Nick’s eyes. But I doubt any of the Imperial Police are gonna be gazing into his eyes.”
“Point,” Mott said with a grin, even as Ashton flushed again. “So I think we have something, here.”
“I’d say so. Oh, and nobody call him Nick or Ashton when you’re in the field with him. What’s your middle name again, son?” Gorski asked, pulling out a physical badge and handing it to Ashton. “Here; use this again. Xavier, isn’t it? Your middle name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Everybody call him Xav.” Gorski clapped his hands. “Round up the Team and go get ‘em, Xav.”
“Who is it this time?” Rassmussen wondered as they waited.
“Todd Whitmore,” the disguised Ashton noted. “Director of Acquisitions Testing for the Defense Department. He was involved in passing on the identity of the murdered woman, Medved. Um, Vasilisa Medved.”
“Ah, I remember. Right.”
Just then, Whitmore stepped out of the entrance façade of his condo building in Imperial Park East. Without making a scene, Rassmussen and Ashton approached him, Rassmussen in an ICPD beat cop uniform; Ashton was in his full disguise, which made him look somewhere between a homeless person and a bum. Rather than pushing his credentials to Whitmore in VR, he flashed the badge that Gorski had given him. Not only did it allow for the VR suppressor to be used sooner, it kept his exact identity hidden.
“Todd Whitmore?” Ashton asked.
“Yes, I’m Todd Whitmore,” the man responded, somewhat puzzled.
“You’re under arrest, sir,” Ashton said, as Rassmussen eased around to Whitmore’s other side. “If you would come with me, please.”
Whitmore stared at them, in shock. Obviously whatever he had expected, that answer wasn’t it.
“May I ask the charge, Officer?” he asked then.
“Accessory to murder. Come this way, sir,” Ashton said, then turned.
They led their prisoner to a nearby arcade cart, where they quietly put cuffs on him before loading him into the rear and belting him into his seat. Then Rassmussen climbed into the driver’s seat and Ashton got in beside him. Rassmussen released the brake on the cart, and they went through the arcade level to a police transporter. There, they loaded Whitmore into the back of the transporter; Rassmussen knocked on the side of the transport, and it shifted into gear and trundled off.
“And that takes care of that,” Ashton decided.
“Now let’s get you back outta sight…fast,” Rassmussen decreed.
But before they could get back to ICPD headquarters, and in despite of Ashton’s disguise, he was recognized.
A sudden crack! from the building façade close at hand sprayed him with masonry chips, cutting his cheek, even as a report sounded from somewhere close. He flinched, then ducked, and Rassmussen and Armbrand grabbed him by the arms and hustled him around the corner into an alley, as the others drew down and formed a flanking cover, scowling eyes scanning the buildings across the way.
By that time, Armbrand and Rassmussen had Ashton inside one of the maintenance access hatches, and out of sight.
That was only the beginning of the latest round of shell games that the ICPD had to play to keep Ashton out of the hands of a vengeful Imperial Police. After three more days of ducking and dodging and getting shot at, Gorski sat him down for a talk in his office.
“Nick, what the hell did you do to piss them off this badly?”
“I’m not entirely sure, sir,” Ashton admitted then. “It only seemed to really take off when I solved this one robbery… which is also when Lee Carter shucked me over here.”
“Tell me about this robbery.”
“Well, it was at a museum…”
“Oh damnation,” Peterson expostulated, when Gorski called her in upon finding out about the museum robbery Ashton had foiled. “You have to be kidding me. That thing is still floating around out there? No wonder they want the damn thing!”
“You mean it still works?!” Ashton exclaimed in shock. “I figured, as old as it was…”
“Unless one of the Empresses since then has issued an edict to the contrary, yes, whoever holds the Sigil is considered to speak for the Empress,” Gorski explained. “And I’m with Maia – no wonder they want it so badly. They could bollix up a lot of Empress Ilithyia’s plans at this point.”
“And they’re probably still trying to go after it,” Peterson pointed out. “Which is why they want Nick out of the way. He’s the only one who can tell anybody that they wanted it to begin with.”
“I’ll see if I can’t take care of that, really quick,” Gorski said
. “Give me a minute, here, and I’ll contact Major Dunham. I’m sure he’ll see to it that his sister negates that whole mess, in a damn hurry.”
Within hours, an Imperial Decree was quietly issued, negating all prior means of representation of the Throne save a literal or virtual-reality Decree, and specifying the Sigil by name as “a delightful historic artifact, worthy of scholarly interest, but long since overcome by technology and no longer effectual or recognized by the Throne.”
Which took care of that potential wrench in the works.
But it didn’t stop the Imperial Police – let alone the Council – wanting Ashton’s head on a platter. In fact, if anything, it made them even more vengeful over the lost opportunity.
Tired at the end of the shift, Ashton headed home, having changed into yet another disguise, with Mott’s help once more. He had kept the blue-green lenses for his eyes, and changed his wig to a sandy blond tone, along with a goatee and mustache. He was clad in the latest designer jeans and tee, with an expensive leather jacket over all…at least, that was what it looked like. Once more, Mott had raided the confiscated counterfeits inventory; even the jacket wasn’t real leather…but it was an excellent imitation.
So Ashton headed out, aimed for his apartment building several blocks south of the headquarters precinct. Given that he looked like an upscale young professional, he avoided the more clandestine ways, which tended to take him through alleys, mews, and maintenance accesses, and which would look odd at best, for someone of his apparent status.
Instead, he headed down to the arcade level, took a people-mover to the arcade proper, rode the slidewalk through it, then went up the escalator to street level.
That was where they were waiting.
As half a dozen goons – none of whom Ashton recognized, this time – approached him in a semicircle, Ashton concluded that they were finding ways to run pattern recognition algorithms on his face, for no matter what Adrian did, they always seemed to find him.
EMPIRE: Imperial Police Page 24
