Sims (32 page)

“Right.” The memory twisted his insides. “You think there's a connection between the SLA and—?”

“I guess not. But listen to this: The report says the Totuus was administered
before
they were tortured.”

“I don't get it,” Romy said. “Why use torture when you've got a truth drug?”

Patrick wandered to the window overlooking Henry Street and watched the traffic. The same question had been bothering him.

“Maybe for fun. I don't know what's driving these SLA characters, but it's pretty clear now they're a vicious bunch.”

“And if they want to ‘free the sims' as they say, where are the ones they ‘liberated'?”

“I was wondering the same thing. If they—”

A black Mercedes limo stopped and double parked on the street below. In this neighborhood that could mean only one thing.

“They're here,” he said. “Fashionably early.”

He watched as two dark-suited, briefcase-toting figures emerged, one male, one female; he noticed the woman lean back into the car and speak to someone still in the back seat.

Three arrive but only two come up. Odd . . .

“All right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Places, everyone. Tome, you know what to do; Romy, you know your part. We've got only one shot at this so let's get it right.”

The two Manassas attorneys soon arrived, trying unsuccessfully to hide their astonishment at being welcomed by a sim. Introductions were made, cards exchanged. The woman, a redhead, thin and pale as a saltine, was Margaret Russo; the heavy, dark-haired man, who looked like he scarfed up all his associate's leftovers, was David Redstone.

Russo glanced around. “Well, I must say, your office is . . . unique.”

“And that elevator,” Redstone said. “What an antique.”

“It's steam powered,” Patrick told them. “Can't be replaced because this is an historic building.” He had no idea if any of that were true but it sounded good. “Shall we get started?”

He led them the short distance to the conference table where Romy waited. He made the introductions, then indicated chairs across the table from Romy for the Manassas people. He sat next to Romy.

“What's he doing?” Russo said, pointing to Tome who had situated himself on a chair behind and to Patrick's left with a steno pad propped on his lap.

“Taking notes,” Patrick tossed off. “Now, before we—”

Russo was still staring. “But he's a sim. Sims can't write.”

“It's shorthand. He'll type it up later.”

He watched Russo and Redstone exchange glances. Good. Get them off balance and keep them there. They didn't need to know that Tome would
be making meaningless scribbles or that Patrick was recording the meeting. He was sure they had their own recorders running.

“We'd like to get right down to business,” Redstone said, pulling a legal pad from his briefcase. “The nitty gritty, as it were. To expedite matters I propose that we drop all pretense and skip the verbal jousting.”

“No trenchant legal repartee?” Patrick said. “Where's the fun?”

“Look, Mr. Sullivan,” Russo said, “we all know what this is about. We know Ms. Cadman was injured, but we also know the incident was set up.”

Patrick glowered at her. “You'd better be able to back that up with proof, Ms. Russo.”

“No jousting, remember?” she said. “Whatever it is you want, other than money, you're not going to get. So let's just end this charade here and now. We are authorized to make the following offer: Name a figure. Tell us the magic number that will make you walk away from this, and we will pay it.”

Patrick had been expecting an attempt to buy them off, but nothing this blatant. But if that was the way they wanted to play . . .

“A magic number,” he said, tapping his chin and pretending to ponder the possibilities. “How does an even billion sound?”

Russo and Redstone blinked in unison.

Russo recovered first. She cleared her throat. “Are we going to have a serious discussion or not? Did you call us here to waste our time or—”

“Whoa,” Patrick said. “First off, you called us. Secondly—let me check with my assistant here.” He turned to Tome. “Didn't they say, ‘Name a figure, any figure'?”

The sim consulted his steno pad and said, “Yes, Mist Sulliman.”

Tome had been instructed to say that, no matter what Patrick asked him.

“There, you see? ‘Name a figure.' And I believe a billion is a figure.”

“You can't possibly expect a small company like Manassas Ventures to come up with a sum like that,” Russo said.

“Why not? It owns billions worth of SimGen stock. But maybe it doesn't have the stock anymore. I've learned that it's a wholly owned subsidiary of MetaVentures, based in Atlanta, so maybe the stock went there. Or perhaps it traveled further up the ladder to MacroVentures, a Bahamian corporation. But MacroVentures is owned by Metro Ventures in the Caymans. Maybe that's where the stock ended up. Wherever it is, we know one of these companies has the financial wherewithal to pay Ms. Cadman's ‘magic number' in a heartbeat. So don't cry poverty to me.”

“This is preposterous!” Redstone sputtered.

“Not as preposterous as you two trying to keep me from having my day in court,” Romy said.

Patrick had instructed her to play it sincere, and she was doing fine, because she was genuinely outraged.

“Oh, please—” Russo began but Romy cut her off.

Here it comes, Patrick thought.

“All I wanted was a little information,” Romy said. “Nothing complicated. I simply wanted someone to explain why a truck leased by Manassas Ventures in Idaho was driving around the SimGen campus in New Jersey.”

He scrutinized the two attorneys, watching their reactions as Romy dropped her bomb.

Patrick had gone half crazy trying to ferret out the principals in all the subsidiaries behind Manassas. Only the discovery proceedings of a lawsuit would give him a chance to pierce their multiple walls of secrecy. But it still might take him years to reach the end of their corporate shell game, and even then he might well come up empty. So he'd decided to shake things up by tossing a live snake into Manassas's corporate lap.

But neither Russo nor Redstone showed even a hint of surprise or concern. They either were clueless or had nervous systems of stone.

Damn.

“Write that down,” Patrick said irritably, pointing to Redstone's legal pad. “It's important.”

“What?”

“Your clients will want to know about those trucks. Trust me.”

As Redstone made a note with a gold mechanical pencil, Russo said, “Can we stop playing games? A billion is out of the question.”

“Out of the question?” Patrick said. “Gee. And we haven't even discussed punitive damages yet. I was thinking at least another billion—”

Russo slammed her hand on the table and shot to her feet. “That's it. I see no point in prolonging this farce. You two have an opportunity to be set for life. You've been offered the moon, but you want the stars.”

“Very poetic.”

She glared at him. “When you and your client come to your senses, Mr. Sullivan, call us.”

“It won't be a call, it will be a subpoena. Many subpoenas. A blizzard of them. The first are already on their way.”

“Send as many as you wish,” Redstone said, snapping his briefcase closed. “You won't see a dime.”

Patrick smiled. “Perhaps not, but we'll get what we want.”

They stormed out.

After the door slammed, Romy said, “Wow. They're taking this personally.”

“I've got a feeling they were offered a big bonus if they got the job done.” He headed for the door. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Romy said.

“Down to the street. I'll only be a minute.”

He took the stairs and beat the Manassas attorneys to the lobby. He waited until they were outside, then trailed them to the limo. When they opened the door he caught up and leaned between them.

“You folks forgot to take my card, so I brought one down for each of you.” He peered into the dim backseat and looked into the startled blue eyes of a balding man, easily in his seventies, sporting a dapper pencil-line mustache. “Hello,” Patrick said. “Have we met? I'm—”

“Get in!” the man said to the two attorneys. He turned his head away from Patrick and spoke to the driver. “Go! We're through here!”

The doors slammed and the limo moved off.

Who's the old guy? Patrick wondered as he took the stairs back up. He'd half-expected to see Mercer Sinclair or perhaps that Portero fellow, but he'd never seen this guy before. Whoever he was he hadn't seemed at all happy that Patrick had got a look at him.

When he reached the office Romy was just finishing a call. She snapped the PCA closed and turned to him.

“That was our mutual friend. I told him about the meeting and he's a little upset that we didn't clear your idea with him first.”

“I'm not used to having a nanny,” Patrick replied. “Besides, we're just stirring up the bottom of the pond to see what floats to the surface.”

“He's worried that mentioning the Manassas-Idaho truck connection at this point might give them time to cover their tracks. Or worse, precipitate a rash response.”

“You mean like running my car off the road again? I don't think so.”

Patrick didn't think whoever was behind Manassas would risk hurting him or Romy. That would raise too many questions; might even prompt a Grand Jury investigation.

“Still, he suggested that you invest in a remote starter for your car. Just in case.”

Patrick stared at her, his mouth dry.

Romy smiled. “Joking.”

Patrick was about to tell her where Zero could store his remote starter
when her PCA chirped again. He watched her face, expecting the usual light-up he'd noticed whenever she spoke to Zero, but instead her brow furrowed as she frowned.

“Have you got a car available?” she asked as she ended the call.

“I can get to it in about five minutes. Why?”

“Road trip.” Her expression remained troubled.

“Something wrong?”

“One of my NYPD contacts. He gave me the address of a house in Brooklyn. Said they'd found something there that would interest me.”

“He didn't say what?”

“No. He said I had to see it to believe it.”

NEWARK, NJ

Meerm here some day now. Little happy here.

Still tired-sick and hurt-belly-sick, sometime cold-sick and hot-sick. No more cold-hungry. Have place live, have food. Lonely in day when all sim go work. Meerm try help by clean and make bed. Must be quiet. Not let man downstair, man call Benny, know Meerm here.

Shhh! Benny come now. Benny come upstair ever day.

Meerm rush closet. Hide. Peek through door crack. See Benny walk round and open window. Come once ever morning. Always talk self.

“Damn monkeys!” Benny say. “Bad enough I gotta play nursemaid to 'em all night, but why they have to stink so bad?”

Benny open all window, then close all. Ver cold while window open, even in closet. Meerm shiver.

Benny leave and warm start come again. Meerm stay closet and wait. Better when sim come. Sim laugh, talk, bring Meerm food, not tell Benny. Meerm lonely till then. Wait Beece.

Beece friend. Try make better when Meerm hurt. Beece say Meerm need doctor. No doctor! Not for Meerm! Doctor hurt Meerm. No doctor! Beece say okay but not like. Meerm can tell.

Meerm little happy here. Meerm stay.

EAST NEW YORK, NY

“One thing I've got to say about hanging with you,” Patrick said as he drove them past peeling houses behind yards littered with old tires and charred mattresses. “I get to see all the city's ritziest neighborhoods. Say, you live in Brooklyn, don't you?”

Yes, Romy thought as she stared straight ahead through the windshield. She thought of the neat little shops and bistros along Court Street, just around the corner from her apartment in Cobble Hill. That was Brooklyn too, but a world away from this place. East New York was the far frontier of the borough. The economic boom of the nineties had run out of gas before it reached here, and the boom of the oughts had kept its distance as well. The faces were black, the cars along the trash-choked curbs old and battered, the mood grim.

“Hello?” Patrick said. “Are you still with me?”

She nodded and looked down at the map unfolded on her lap. She knew she hadn't been good company on the slow, frustrating drive across the Manhattan Bridge and through the myriad neighborhoods of the borough, but the nearer they moved to their destination, the tighter the icy clamp around her stomach.

Lieutenant Milancewich's call nagged at her. Her sim-abuse tips had helped him make a few busts over the years and in return he occasionally gave her a heads-up on investigations he thought might interest her. But he wasn't a friend, merely a contact, and she knew he considered her a little wacko. Maybe a lot wacko. He had no use for sims and thought her overzealous in her one-woman war, but a bust was a bust and he was glad to have them credited to his record.

Today, though, she'd heard something strange in his voice; she couldn't identify it, but knew she'd never heard it before. She'd pressed him about what it was he wanted her to see but he wouldn't say anything beyond,
I
ain't been there myself, so I don't want to pass on any secondhand reports, but if what I hear is true, you should be there.

Is it bad? she'd asked.

It wasn't good.

And that was what bothered her. The strange note in his voice when he'd said,
It ain't good.

“I hope we're almost there,” Patrick said. “I don't think I want to get lost out here, especially with sundown on the way.”

She focused on the map. “Make a left up here onto—there!” She pointed to a pair of blue-and-white units just around the corner. “See the lights?”