Striper Assassin (33 page)

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” says Ohara. “How can I help you?”

Kirkland considers introducing Detective Pandolfini to the group, but decides against it. Ohara’s question deserves an immediate response. “You could explain why you withheld information pertinent to a homicide investigation.”

“Excuse me?”

“Robert Neiman, Steven Jorge, Thomas Harris. When you took over Exotech, all three were assigned to the Special Projects Section over in Germantown. You said you redesigned Exotech’s corporate structure, and that’s true, but that was complete in your first six months. Neiman, Jorge, and Harris weren’t reassigned until six months after that, until after the big blow-up at S.P.S.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Ohara says, still smiling like royalty, “but your information is incorrect.”

“Yeah? I don’t think so.”

“Those three unfortunate men you mention were all transferred to new posts well before the incident at S.P.S.”

That is almost certainly a lie. Kirkland’s gut tells him so, but he’s got more than just his gut with which to form an opinion. He’s got a hard-copy report from the office of the vice-chairman of KFK, a fellow named Torakido Buntaro. That report states that Neiman, Jorge, and Harris were transferred to their new positions after the accident at S.P.S. There’s an affidavit from the director of Exotech personnel supporting that statement. Kirkland strongly suspects that Ohara boosted Neiman, Jorge, and Harris up the ladder either as a reward or to keep them quiet. The question is what did those three men, now brutally murdered, see or do at the S.P.S. facility to warrant Ohara’s special consideration?

Did they threaten to blow the whistle on something? Did Ohara himself orchestrate their murders?

“Back in Seattle, you worked for an outfit called Seretech. You were in charge of overseeing a heavy-duty bioengineering project. One of the other top executives on that project died in an auto accident the Seattle P.D. classified as suspicious. Certain information critical to the project vanished. You left Seretech shortly thereafter.”

“Yes, I did leave,” Ohara replies, smiling brilliantly. “You will recall, Lieutenant, that I was attacked in my home. I was more than a year recuperating. I decided then to make a fresh start.”

“Ever meet a man named John Brandon Conway?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I asked you first.”

“I’ve heard of him, certainly. Everyone has.”

That much is true. Conway is a fixer, one of the biggest and most elusive. He works as a middleman for multinational conglomerates, governments. His deals involve twelve-and fifteen-digit numbers.

“Yeah,” Kirkland goes on, “everybody’s heard of Conway, but you actually met him. In Toronto. Maybe that’s where you sold him the data you stole from Seretech.”

“You should mind your manners, Lieutenant,” Ohara replies coolly. “Were I to take offense, I might find it necessary to sue.”

“You’re denying what I just said.”

“Certainly.”

“Then I guess you’d also deny that you used the proceeds from that sale to buy yourself a seat on the board of Kono-Furata-Ko International?”

“I did nothing of the kind.”

Ohara’s brilliant smile continues to gleam, but Kirkland notices a chink in the armor, a twitching at the outside corner of Ohara’s left eye. It could be just a muscle spasm, maybe brought on by fatigue, but Kirkland doesn’t think so. The man is acting way too confident to be real. Too confident even for a guy with serious ego problems.

Kirkland hopes Detective Pandolfini notices the twitching.

“I guess Seretech is old news. Not my jurisdiction. And how you got on the board of KFK really isn’t police business. I was just curious.”

“You’re a very curious man, Lieutenant.”

Kirkland nods. The remark probably wasn’t meant as a compliment, but he’ll take it that way for the moment. “Now about your dead execs. Neiman, Jorge, and Harris were all in the Special Projects Section. Their most recent posts describe a ladder leading straight to you. What do you suppose that suggests?”

“You’re the detective,” Ohara replies. “You tell me.”

“I’m asking the questions. Mister Ohara.”

“I’m not obligated to speculate.”

“Really? Well, that’s very interesting.” Kirkland takes a folded sheet of hard copy from his jacket pocket. “I have a copy of a memo here. You probably haven’t seen it yet because you left the office early today. It’s from the vice-chairperson of KFK, to all members of the board and all employees of Exotech, directing them to ‘assist the official police investigation into the deaths of Robert Neiman, Steven Jorge, and Thomas Harris, without exception or exclusion.’ Without exception or exclusion. That’s a quote.”

“May I see that?”

Kirkland folds the sheet and slips it back into his jacket pocket, saying, “Well, you understand, this is my copy. I’m sure there’s one waiting for you at your office.”

Ohara’s left upper eyelid twitches some more.

“So what do you think about the progression? Neiman, Jorge, Harris. Then you. What does that suggest?”

Ohara’s smile falters, just for an instant. “I’m sure I have no idea,” he says.

“Maybe you’re next.”

“Next? In what regard?”

“Next to be assassinated.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Really? Then why do you have a Birnoth mercenary unit in heavy armor guarding your door?”

“Simply a precaution.”

“Against what?”

“We live in a violent world. Lieutenant.”

“Maybe Seretech wants their data back. Maybe they want revenge. Maybe whoever killed your three execs is looking for revenge. Maybe that someone is unhappy about what happened over in Germantown.”

“I… I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Harris was in charge of the Germantown group. He reported directly to you. That means you had hands-on control of what the Special Projects Section did.”

“I’m Exotech’s chief executive officer. Ultimately, I have control over every group and section, not just Special Projects.”

“So you’re saying that the group that got you the smash hits of the century, the Hermetic Library chips like
The Summoning of Abbirleth,
operated pretty much on its own? You didn’t give it any special attention, no more than any other part of Exotech?”

Ohara leans his head back and laughs softly. “Obviously, Lieutenant, I played a role in guiding the S.P.S.’s activities. I don’t see anything sinister in that.”

“No?”

Ohara’s eyelid keeps twitching.

Kirkland watches that a moment, then says, “Last time we talked, maybe the time before that, you said that Robert Neiman was just a researcher before you promoted him. Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, but I’ve just seen some personnel records that describe Neiman a little differently.”

“How do you mean?”

“Neiman was a mage.”

“That’s not so.”

“Sure, it is.” Kirkland has copies of personnel records, and a few of his detectives have dug up corroborating witnesses on the point. “You had a bunch of mages up there in Germantown, a ritual team. That’s where you got the wet record for your Hermetic Library series of simsense chips. Neiman was a mage, and the accident at S.P.S. burned him out so bad he couldn’t handle magic after that. The same happened to Jorge. He got burned. The same for Harris. They all got burned. Now they’re dead. So out of the original group of seven mages, only one’s still alive. Three died in the accident, three just got murdered. That leaves one, and that one’s dropped out of sight. Do you know who I’m talking about.
Mister
Ohara?”

The twitching gets so bad Ohara actually lifts a hand to his left eye and rubs at it. That doesn’t help. “I’m sorry,” he says, the wide smile faltering again. “I… I don’t recall the name. It was a man.”

“Adam Malik.”

“Yes. I… I believe that’s it.”

Kirkland drops all pretense at politeness. “The guy survived an accident in which he saw three of his colleagues killed and the other three traumatized! Then he drops completely out of sight! Didn’t it occur to you that he might hold a grudge?”

“A grudge? For what reason?”

Kirkland sneers. The lies and attempts at deception have become more and more lame. “You know what your problem is, chummer? You’re too busy saving your own ass to worry about who dies for your mistakes.”

Interview concluded.

Kirkland turns and leaves.

* * *

In his bedroom, Ohara struggles out of his robe and hurls it to the floor. He feels like he’s suffocating. His hands are shaking and his fragging eyelid won’t stop twitching. All because of that skell Kirkland, all the innuendoes and lies and veiled threats. Ohara isn’t fooled. If that skell Kirkland had anything on him, he’d be arresting him, not harassing him. If Kirkland keeps it up, he’s going to get more trouble than he knows how to handle. Ohara knows how to arrange for that. If not legally, then illegally. If not by persuasion, then by killing. It wouldn’t cost much to buy the assassination of some overweight and not terribly bright police lieutenant. And Ohara’s got more than enough change to do it. More than enough.

Just thinking about lowlife skells like Kirkland has Ohara’s nerves in knots. P-fix BTL chips just aren’t giving him enough of a boost anymore. Direct input or no. He needs something stronger, more potent. What he needs is waiting for him, he knows, on the marble counter of his private bathroom—a gift from one of his biffs, no less.

He steps through the communicating door. The sleek, squarish box is plated in gold, the interior blue velvet. The pneumatic injector is mirrored chrome. Ohara doesn’t usually like to avail himself of narcotics so early in the evening, but tonight is a special case. He pops a vial of Dee Vine into the base of the injector’s handle. It’s just like loading an automatic pistol. Insert the vial, pull the latch, press the muzzle against his left upper arm, and pull the trigger. He feels a sudden gush against his arm like a burst of icy pins and needles, but then the flood of sweet sweet pleasure begins.

In another moment, he’s euphoric, on top of the world. In another two or three more, he’s as hard as steel and ready to ram it in, and in, and in, straight through the heart of the planet.

Grinning, he opens the door to the crystal-and mirror-decorated spa. Christie and Crystal are there, where they should be, in the huge marble bath, up to their magnificent, cosmetically enhanced boobies in foamy bubbles. They look at him and smile.

What he wants them for is obvious, and they’re more than willing to comply.

After all, that’s their whole purpose.

38

The glowing neon sign outside reads Ristorante, but the interior of the place looks more like a bar, a dark, dingy little bar hidden along a back street in South Philly. Inside are a dozen stools lined up along the plastic-paneled face of the bar, and a dozen small round tables sit draped in stained linen, each with two chairs apiece. Opera music carries out from some room in the back.

A fat woman in a dirty apron brings out a cup of some aromatic kind of soykaf romantically described as cappuccino. The old men sitting along the bar keep looking over their shoulders toward the table in the right rear corner. From behind the mirrored lenses of her black visor-style shades, Tikki notes their glances, but considers other things.

She’s here because this is probably the last place in Philadelphia where anybody would think to look for her, and she needs a few minutes respite from the need to constantly watch her back. South Philly is primarily owned by the Italian mob. What little contact she’s had with them in other cities has been violent and short-lived.

No one here should have any idea who she is.

She needs to think about what happened to her at the bank, for it makes no sense at all. A guy like Fat André isn’t going to rip her off and then sit there and lie about it. He just wouldn’t. It would be too much of a risk. Slags running banks in the shadows don’t stay in business by taking that kind of risk. And Fat André didn’t smell like he was lying, anyway.

The only explanation that makes sense is that someone, maybe someone with magic, got to Fat André and scrambled his head. Made him erase any records of Tikki’s account, made him fabricate that vid tape of her walking in and demanding her money. Made him actually believe that she has no money at his bank. Otherwise, she’d have picked up on his lies in a second.

The question, then, is simple: Why would someone do that to Fat André?

She already knows the answer. Somebody’s trying to jerk around with
her
brain. They want her so busy trying to figure what the frag’s going on that she doesn’t see the kill shot coming.

No such luck.

Tikki’s been in this position before. Once in Hangchow, once in Osaka. People got greedy, tried to hose her up. She kept her eyes on the big picture and when things started getting dicey she got the hell out. Only an idiot stands and fights when she’s got absolutely nothing—nothing but money—to lose by running. Later, when things cool down and people forget who they’ve used, there’s always an opportunity to settle the score.