Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (13 page)

Gutterson dropped the children off early at school care, and headed into the precinct, hoping to catch Harding before the others arrived. He had lay awake most of the night deliberating on what might have happened. Was Newell deliberately sabotaging his requests, or had Harding lied and never submitted the approvals at all? Gutterson was determined to find out.

But the modest conference room that had become their home over the last week was empty. On the table, half a dozen tablets were spread along with yellow folders, papers spilling from their mouths, and a small number photos relating to Curwood’s death.

He expected Harding to be in early because of his short day on Friday, but as the time ticked past seven-thirty, and then eight, and finally nine, Gutterson wondered if something was wrong. He’d tried to get hold of Harding by phone numerous times on Friday evening and Saturday, but had given up in the end, frustrated at his colleague’s lack of effort. The sharp bite of instinct told him to be cautious.

Camilleri was first in, and she helped Gutterson construct a diagram on the large electronic screen at the front of the conference room. They used annual reports from Janefield’s website—starting with the CEO, Bryan Fox—to plot the hierarchy. In it, Gutterson added the two men he had observed at the coffee shop. It was part speculation, but Camilleri turned out to be a competent investigator and had managed to fill in more gaps through phone calls and website queries. They now had a level of senior management, in addition to a layer of middle management and administration staff. Gutterson asked Camilleri to search for employee photographs and build a complete hierarchical structure with names, photographs, job descriptions, and potential impact.

“Aren’t we supposed to be investigating the suicide of Dom Curwood, though?”

“It’s all part of it,” Gutterson said. “No harm in building an understanding of the company as we go. It will be relevant.”

“You think someone in the company is involved in his death?”

“I’m certain there’s a connection between Janefield, and both Curwood
and
Adler’s deaths.” Camilleri only nodded.

Harding arrived right before ten o’clock. He strolled into the conference room and greeted them in general manner, dropped his jacket and briefcase on the table and sat. Gutterson glanced at Camilleri’s cautious stare. Harding began clearing his workspace. As the silence drew out, he looked up and saw them both staring.

“What?”

“
What
?” Gutterson threw his tablet down and stood. “You didn’t notice how many times I tried to call on Friday? Or Saturday? You didn’t even have the courtesy to return my calls.”

Harding fell back in his seat, mouth in a half-cocked smile. “My implant isn’t working properly.”

“What about the back up?”

He stiffened. “I’m waiting on a new one from IT.” Gutterson felt the heat in his face. Harding’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the problem here, anyway? What happened?”

“It’s not what happened. It’s what
didn’t
happen. The goddamn approvals haven’t even been requested. When were you going to tell me that?” Harding’s mouth fell open. “I thought I could rely on you. It was a critical task. You assured me you’d take care of it and even last Thursday you said it was
under control
. What happened? At this moment, the person I had the least faith in is delivering the most.” He glanced at Camilleri, her face impassive.

Harding had lost his puff, his expression reflecting pinched bewilderment. “I put them in. I handed them to Newell myself.”

“How is that possible? I went down and saw Newell myself on Friday. She claims there are no approval requests for Janefield Investments and there haven’t been for
two years
.” Harding stared. “How do we explain that?”

Harding glanced at Camilleri. “She must have lost them, or misplaced them. I don’t know, but I certainly handed them to her.” He stood up, and pointed. “In fact, when I went down and quizzed her about them on Thursday, she said they wouldn’t be long.” He spoke swiftly, as if recalling the conversation. “She said ‘
I’ve almost caught up. They won’t be long’
.”

“Well someone is fucking with me.” Gutterson ran a hand through his hair. Camilleri was silent. It was the quietest she’d ever been. She raised her eyebrows as if to indicate she had no idea. Gutterson slumped into his seat. The floating chair rocked back with the force.

Harding stood. “I’m going down there to find out what the hell’s going on.”

When he had left, Gutterson said, “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Harding has always been reliable—at least from what I know. But…”

“Do me a favor, will you? Follow him downstairs and find out if he actually goes and talks to her.” Camilleri nodded, then stood and left the room.

It was difficult to believe that a woman he had despised a week ago had now become his most trusted colleague. The annoying qualities he’d come to know her by had disappeared, replaced by a stoic commitment to searching for what they needed to help the investigation. His admiration for her grew each day.

Gutterson returned to the hierarchical diagram on the wall screen. As he traced the line from Bryan Fox down to Charlie Billings, shadows moved in the doorway. He swiveled, prepared for Camilleri or Harding, but instead found Martinez in full police uniform.

“Cap,” he said, feeling unnerved. He had been expecting it; a rev up to get things moving, or less likely, to ascertain how things were travelling. But he caught a look in Martinez’ eye that told him whatever it was, Gutterson wasn’t going to like it.

Martinez thick black hair shone under the soft light. He stood with his hands on his hips in a stance that screamed authority. “I’ve got some bad news, John,” Martinez said. A cold fear spread through his lower abdomen. He didn’t want to respond, as if Martinez might go away. “I need your team back.”

Gutterson opened his mouth, and managed to catch the first response. “But I only just got them.”

“I’m sorry, John. It’s out of my hands. There are other cases.
More important
cases.”

Gutterson scrambled for an argument. He stepped over to the wall screen and thrust out a finger. “This is bigger than Dominic Curwood’s death. It doesn’t end there, Cap. And now we’ve got another dead person—Bryce Adler. Two deaths at the same company within a week? I just need these approvals so we can talk to their colleagues.”

Martinez swept a hand over the table. “Come on, John. There’s nothing here. You’re clutching at straws, trying to make something happen from ashes. Harding’s been briefing me.”

The lid of his control blew off. “
Harding?
” Gutterson waved towards the doorway. “Don’t listen to him. He’s doing nothing to help. In fact, he’s undermining this whole thing.”

Martinez Mexican blood roiled, eyes squinting in displeasure. “How is that?”

“I asked him to lodge the interview requests for Janefield employees. He didn’t…” But the truth was that Gutterson didn’t know what had happened. For all he knew, Harding might have done his bit.

“Didn’t what?”

He needed another angle. The Cap wasn’t going to give him more time on the back of delayed warrants—not for any reason. “What about the suicide? We know it wasn’t strictly that.”

Martinez shrugged. “What if your contact was playing you? Made it up for some reason?”

Gutterson’s heart thudded against his chest. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Martinez laid out both hands, palms up, as if saying
well, what else have you got?
Gutterson went on. “You’ve always had an impeccable sense of logic and a brilliant intuition, sir. All I ask now is that you trust mine in this instance.”

“
My
intuition is telling me there’s nothing, John.
Nothing.
I’ve got other things that need attention. I’ve got pressure from up top about solving important cases. You know we’re short on detectives. I gave you a week.”

“It’s not a week yet, sir.” Martinez closed his eyes, refuting the comment. “Okay. Just leave me Camilleri then. Please.”

“John… I wish I could.” Martinez’ eyes softened, and his mouth curled down at the edges.
The look.
The one he’d witnessed for years that said
I want to help you. I feel sorry for you because of your father. But it’s out of my hands now.
That look had twisted Gutterson’s insides a dozen times over the years, and every one of those dozen times he’d turned away gritting his teeth and jamming his fist into his palm. He had nothing left. He hated to do it, but it was the last rabbit in an otherwise empty hat.

“
Please,
”
—
Gutterson dropped his gaze—“if not for me, then for my father.”

He glanced up and saw Martinez still staring. His jaw clenched, the tight skin rippling. He shook his head, as if he was unable to make a decision. He stared out the window, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Finally, he looked at Gutterson. “You know, I always admired you, John. You never pulled the old man story on anyone, even in the worst of moments. But twice in a week?”

Gutterson looked away. It burned him to do so, but he had no choice. “Then you’ll appreciate how desperate I am, sir. I’m right about this. Would I do something so easily, that I’ve refused to do for so long? Undermine my own credibility in your eyes? I’d never want to disappoint you, Cap.”

Martinez looked at him for a long moment. “All right. All right, John. You can keep Camilleri for another week. But let me tell you, if you’re banking the highlight of your career on this one, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Charlie pulled his Lamborghini out of the Janefield underground car park at almost a quarter to six. Samantha still hadn’t returned his call. Mutinous thoughts of a terminal outcome had overcome him. The company had gotten to her first, just like Dom Curwood’s wife, and Charlie was next. As the afternoon had progressed, his focus had gone from the list to her immediate survival.

He guided the vehicle into the left lane, passing the AI driven vehicles in the right. Several passengers—a man with a beard, a woman with dark hair—watched him. Many people rode with AI’s these days. The chance of an accident was reduced significantly. The AI’s were never drunk, never sped, nor ran red lights. Everything was controlled to reduce the chance of fatality. But there were still those who chose to drive alone—permit required—which meant nobody was safe. The law had tried to minimize human driving but the public had voted against it in a referendum.

Ahead, a moderate stretch of road beckoned.
Do it,
his mind urged. Perhaps the speed would blow away some of the worry. He needed to purge his anxiety, disintegrate some of the stress of the day and his concern about both his and Samantha’s future.

Charlie planted his foot and the gauge rose sharply. The vehicle shot forward, leaving the AI’s behind, but he quickly caught up with more road users and he was forced to slow before really getting moving. The area was too populated. He caught the next turnoff onto one of the new freeways with only a handful of cars in the distance, and gunned the Lamborghini engine.

It revved, the needle leaping towards the red line. Charlie pressed harder, but his foot wouldn’t go any further. The cars acceleration thrust him back into the seat as the speed climbed and the engine did its thing—sixty in a blink, a hundred, passing the first vehicle, one twenty, one forty as he reached the second vehicle, which had tried to go with him. Charlie eased off the gas, dropping the speed from one fifty-five back to one forty. The other car—a Mercedes—kept pace momentarily before Charlie floored it again and took off. The Mercedes engine screamed and it shot forward a notch, but the Lamborghini’s engine purred, Charlie marveling at the power as it climbed over one hundred and sixty miles per hour. In a second, there was no Mercedes, and he shot past another vehicle in the right lane that might have been stationary. At two hundred, he felt the adrenalin surging through him, the excitement and terror of what he was doing. He counted to five, and then eased off the accelerator, wishing he might go on forever outrunning the insurmountable problems that had infected their lives.

Soon after, as the new highway topped a long, gradual rise, blue and red flashing lights appeared in the rear-view mirror.
The Police.

Since working for the company, Charlie had never been stopped by the police. With the introduction of vehicles driven by artificial intelligence, the requirement for policing speed limits had decreased dramatically, though the roads were not without patrol.

Charlie slowed to a lazy forty, knowing he could outrun the law, but that they would eventually catch up to him. Tapping his thumb on the wheel, he waited for the vehicle to arrive. When it finally did, he recognized it was an AI vehicle, low and sleek, a black bullet. The rise in roadside attacks on police officers in the early twenties gave way to police vehicles driven by artificial intelligence. The AI’s were equipped with a range of apprehension methods that meant fewer incidents and the ultimate safety of officers.

A message flashed onto the screen of the computer console: PLEASE PULL YOUR VEHICLE OVER. Charlie feathered the brake, depressed the gears, and edged it over to the side of the road. The police cruiser pulled in behind.

The gentle tones of a female voice spoke through the sound system as the AI patched through the Bluetooth. Concurrently, a ray of blue light swam over the vehicle, scanning for further information.

“For identification purposes only, please touch your finger onto the screen at the front of the vehicle.”

Charlie placed his finger against the scanning plate. The sensor beeped twice, followed by a flash of light as it read his fingerprint. Charlie was told to remove his finger and wait. He was almost curious to find out what happened. Clearly he’d been speeding and had broken the laws; he expected to receive some kind of fine or summons. However, he’d been told that company employees wouldn’t be incriminated on such matters.

The blue scanning light had ceased. It was a long time before the voice sounded again.

“You have been identified as Charles Neilsen Billings. You are a government employee. Your vehicle has been identified as classification diplomatic.”

Technically, he
was
a government employee; but his Lamborghini… a diplomatic vehicle? Charlie almost laughed.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. You are free to go. Have an enjoyable evening.”

“Thank you,” Charlie said, almost in disbelief. He hadn’t expected to get off that easily. The engine grumbled into life and Charlie took off.

He called home after leaving the police check and requested his ‘Bot to prepare a rice and vegetable dish. He made it home by seven-thirty, keeping the thrumming v12 engine below sixty miles per hour. The place felt cold without Samantha.

The ‘Bot had set the steaming meal on the table. Charlie took a cold beer from the fridge, planning on drowning his worries for the night, and checked his messages on a screen in the door. The Company had paid his quarterly bonus of one hundred and twenty three thousand dollars. Although it was down by almost a third of what it had been the first year of his employment, Charlie felt guilty that the bonus alone was miles above the average wage. It had been difficult to overcome in the beginning, going from a modest annual salary to big money, but Jennings had convinced him in the end that their purpose and risk deserved the reward.

Jennings. The Company.
As he ate, Charlie considered his employment with Janefield. In the beginning, when he and Tom had first discussed leaving, neither had really considered the ramifications of abandoning their contract. But now, as the reality of the situation became more palpable, he wondered whether shutting up and accepting the terms would have been smarter. It wasn’t even about losing the salary anymore, or the access to unlimited power and water. It might just come down to their lives.

After eating, he sat on the sofa with a second beer and watched the news playing on the wall screen. He tuned his implant into the channel and lowered the audio level. The station was running another report on global shortages of fuel and water. Although the government had just approved the construction of a third desalination plant close to the city, Charlie didn’t think that would solve the water problem. The place was still too crowded. Another earthquake had occurred along the San Andreas Fault. Charlie wondered whether the south-west division had architected it.

As much as he despised the process and his part in it, leadership measures alone would never solve the population crisis. The US government had implemented similar measures to those in China during the twentieth century, limiting people to one child per family. That had worked for a time, stemming a rapid population rise; however, it didn’t help with the existing populace and the increasing life expectancy. That was
his
and the Company’s job to smooth out; to balance the carrying capacity of their region—the entire state of New York, in this case—to ensure the environment supported the people. He knew they were failing—by the company’s measure anyway—but, if measured against the company’s non-existence, they were positively well in front. Fox had taken them through alternative scenarios early on—the world without the company’s global population control methods—and it had been cataclysmic… starvation, global sickness, the cessation of industry on a universal scale. More would survive, but that survival would be far worse than they could ever contemplate.

The cracks of demise were beginning to show though. Already the power companies were pulling back on allocations due to coal shortages. Both desalination plants were running at full capacity, and when it did rain, the city was a mess of miniature catchments, people desperate to attain more water. Charlie knew the company was underperforming. He had been part of it, but the downside of that was how it affected the general population. He didn’t know what the outcome might be; only that he had made a choice along with Tom to abandon the strategy and hope for the best.

The soft beep of an incoming call sounded.
Samantha.
He sat up on the couch, relief washing over him, and gave the command to receive it. The news audio shut off and the line opened.

“Hey there,” he said trying to sound relaxed.

“Hey, hun, what’s the matter?”

He swallowed, took a breath, trying to calm himself. “Oh, you know, I just wanted to check in, make sure everything was okay.”

“Of course. I’m fine. You had me worried. I thought something was wrong.”

He tried to talk in a normal tone. “No, nothing’s wrong. How’s the conference going?”

“Painful, but we’ve finished for the day now. The training was a bore. We’ve got a dinner. I don’t want to go, but other than hibernate in the room, I have nothing else.”

Before today, Charlie would have laughed off the idea of avoiding dinner. Now, he considered telling her to lock the door and stay inside, but she would be suspicious and demand answers he couldn’t provide. Perhaps dinner around other people was a safe option. Though he knew the company’s reach was ubiquitous.

“Go out and enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks. I might do that. How’s work for you?”

“The same… you know.”

“I was thinking,” Samantha said. “Why don’t we plan a holiday? You know, get some time away together. I’ve been working so much.”

“That’s a great idea. Really. I like it.”

“Start checking out some options then. What about the Bahamas, or something like that—you know, some place warm?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll start looking tonight.”

“Great. I should run. The others will be here at any moment.”

“Have a nice dinner. I’ll call tomorrow night.”

Samantha said goodbye and terminated the call. She was safe and due home in a few days; he could watch over her then. He would plan a holiday to the Caribbean and, although he disliked musicals, he’d ask Tabby to book him tickets to a show for Thursday night. Samantha loved them. He’d keep her close until the weekend, and was confident that while he was by her side nothing would happen. He couldn’t imagine the company doing anything to her before the deadline. He was just being paranoid.