The Immorality Clause (26 page)

“I just want to wear something different.”

“You’re never going to impress Teagan dressed like that.”

Her statement caught me off guard. “What?”

“Teagan Thibodaux does not seem like the type of woman who is impressed by rich men with nice cars,” she elaborated. “However, my research has shown that the majority of women appreciate a well-dressed man. Wearing tennis shoes with jeans does not qualify as ‘well-dressed.’”

“Not this again. Andi, is your short-term memory on the fritz? I kind of dated someone last week and that ended with me in jail and at risk of losing my job.”

“I recognize what happened last week,” Andi replied. “However, I will maintain my earlier statement that you need a stable, long-term relationship to be a complete individual.”

“No, I don’t. Lots of people are well-adjusted, contributing members of society… You know what? I’m not having this conversation with you again. Stay out of my personal life!”

I walked rapidly into the front room and yelled over my shoulder pointlessly, “Besides, my face is messed up enough that Teagan won’t care about what shoes I’m wearing at all.”

The front door wouldn’t budge. “Let me out, Andi.”

“There is an unidentified male in the hallway.”

I ducked away from the door and crab walked to the safe where I kept the Aegis. My sides protested the awkward positioning. “Who is it?”

“He’s holding a small box. Facial recognition is not returning any data. This person does not have a criminal record…or any record for that matter.”

I pulled the laser pistol from the safe and slid into the dining room, putting another wall between myself and the potential threat in the hallway.

“What’s he doing, Andi?”

The doorbell rang.

“Ringing the doorbell.”

“Put his image up on the wall,” I sighed.

The person in the hallway held a square box about sixteen inches wide, easily enough room to have a pistol or bomb of some sort. He had an unremarkable face, but seemed familiar and I couldn’t place him. He wore standard street clothes and a rain jacket in which he could have concealed several different types of weapons. A pulse blaster came to mind.

I waited a few seconds for something to happen. When nothing did, I said, “Open the comm line.”

“Yeah, what do you need?” I asked.

“Are you Detective Forrest?” the blonde guy with the box asked.

“Yeah. I’m busy. What do you need?”

“Mr. Ladeaux sent me. He has a gift for you.”

“Tommy Voodoo?” I probed.

“He’s been called that before. I’ll leave this here and you can get it when it’s convenient for you, Detective.”

I paused. “Zoom in on the face, Andi.”

The image intensified to double the size it had been before. He shared the same nose and forehead with Anastasia. “Son of a bitch. You’re a clone, like the woman at the shipping company.”

He sniffed. “Yeah, I’m a clone. So what?”

“So, what are you doing at my doorway?” I asked, relaxing enough to come around from behind the wall.

“I told you, Mr. Ladeaux told me to bring you this box. He didn’t tell me what’s inside it or anything.”

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” I shook my head at my own statement. The murder attempts had made me paranoid—not a good way to be for a police investigator.

The clone set the box down on the hallway floor in front of my apartment. “I’ll tell Mr. Ladeaux that you accepted his gift. Have a good day.”

The shadows receded and Andi stated, “The clone has left the building.”

“Can you scan that box?”

“It’s inanimate; not alive or radioactive. Other than that, I can’t tell you anything about it from the hallway sensors.”

I took the Aegis with me and opened the door. I nudged the box with my sneaker. It seemed fine, so I picked it up and brought it inside.

“The contents appear to be organic,” Andi stated as I carried the box to the table in the dining room.

Cautiously, I slipped a knife through the tape, expecting something to be amiss. Inside was a sealed box of cigars with a label that read “
The Cigar Box, LLC
.”

A small handwritten note rested on top of the cigar box:

Forrest,

I heard about your brush up with some droids. Wishing you a speedy recovery and rapid reinstatement to the force.

Ladeaux

ps. Since the Paxton model self-terminated I’ll find some other way that you can pay me back for all the information I’ve given you recently.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

NINETEEN: THURSDAY

The Tortuga took me over to West Lake Forrest and deposited me at the Pharaoh’s Tomb for lunch. I wasn’t even hungry; the meds were suppressing my appetite, but I knew that I needed to eat something to keep my energy up.

Karina gasped in shock when I walked in. “Oh my goodness, Zach! What happened?”

“I accidentally walked into a set of stairs. No big deal”

“Okay… I hope you get better soon.”

“Thanks,” I answered, craning me neck to see if Teagan was in her section.

“Do you want your normal table?”

“That depends,” I answered. “Is Teagan working today?”

“Yes, she is,” the hostess replied guardedly.

“Then I’ll take my normal table.”

Her smile made me hope that all was right with this part of my life. I liked my routine, coming to Amir’s restaurant, sitting in my… I stopped. “Oh shit,” I muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Karina asked.

“Hi, Zach!” Teagan said when she noticed me standing near the entrance to her section. “Jesus, you look like crap.”

“I gotta go,” I stated. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

I turned and tried to walk quickly toward the door, but Teagan was faster. “What’s gotten into you, man?” she said when she cut me off near the door. “You used to be really cool, now you’re acting all strange. Does this have something to do with you being in jail?”

“Teagan, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I may have put everyone here in jeopardy.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

Several of the restaurant’s patrons stared over at us, obviously enjoying the show. I grabbed Teagan’s upper arm and pulled her close to me so I could whisper in her ear. She stiffened, resisting me for a moment and then relaxed.

I breathed in the scent of vanilla and coconut before beginning. “Someone might be following me, someone very dangerous. It’s the same person who tried to kill me and then got me thrown into jail. Same person who shot up Amir’s house. Do you understand why I’ve got to leave?”

She nodded her head softly. “Good, I knew you were a smart girl,” I continued. “Say something loudly and get me kicked out of here. Make sure it seems like you don’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“Zach, I can—”

“Shut up. Your life depends on it,” I whispered harshly. “I will call you later.”

Teagan shoved against my chest with both hands, threatening to topple me. “Get away from me, creep!” she shouted. “God dammit, why do I always get the weirdos?”

She sidestepped around my half-hearted effort to reach for her and rushed toward the kitchen.

Give that girl an Oscar
, I thought as I made a rapid exit through the front door.

I hadn’t even sat in the car before my phone began buzzing.

I answered it and Teagan’s voice erupted in the car’s sound system. “Okay, Zach. I played along, now you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I made a mistake,” I admitted. The car shifted roughly into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “The killer in that sex club case is still out there, watching my movements. I shouldn’t have come to the Pharaoh… I may have put all of the employees at risk by doing so.”

“He can’t target an entire restaurant staff,” she reasoned.

“To be honest, I don’t know what he’s capable of, but I
do
know that he wouldn’t think twice about killing a few college kids.

“So what does that mean? Are you never allowed to come to the Pharaoh again?” she asked.

“That’s how I’m going to treat it until I catch this guy. I could never forgive myself if something happened to any of you because of me.”

“Wait. What do you mean you could never forgive yourself?” Her voice had the hard edge to it that I’d heard her get when customers tried to get lippy with her.

“Yeah. I would feel terrible.”

“You would feel terrible…for yourself, because something bad happened. That’s some self-centered bullshit right there, Zach.”

“Huh? No, Teagan, I mean—”

“Never mind, man. You go do your sneaky cop stuff and leave the rest of us little people alone.”

She hung up the phone before I could try to explain myself. “Another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself in, Zach,” I muttered aloud.

A companion droid body for Andi looked better with every conversation I had with a woman.

After wolfing down a greasy kelp burger and large order of sweet potato fries, I went to the address where the Bobby droid was located during the satellite changeover a few days ago. It was in a suburban neighborhood outside of the city to the west. The car’s nav system estimated that we’d arrive in an hour and ten minutes.

With the Thursday afternoon traffic, it took an hour and a half.

I wasn’t expecting to find a house that looked like it came out of a home and garden magazine. Normally, I dealt with warehouses, ghetto apartments and gutter sewage. The house that the Tortuga pulled up in front of was a white, wooden two-story, with a wraparound porch that boasted a hanging porch swing and a small sitting area for the homeowner and guests to sit out and listen to the rain. Narrow flowerbeds lined the walkway leading up to the house, separating the cobblestone from the manicured lawn. Tasteful, trimmed flowering shrubs near the house added just the right amount of softness and color to the home with their red, pink, white, and yellow flowers.

I double-checked the address given to me. It was the same one that I’d written down, so I got out of the Ford and walked down the pathway toward the front door. The home belonged to a Mr. Harold Wilson, a network systems analyst, and oddly enough, a Southern Baptist minister. He lived there with his wife and two children.

On the surface, it seemed like I’d been duped once again by the hacker, but a little deeper digging found that Wilson was an anti-droid activist. He’d been arrested on multiple occasions when he was younger, including assault, theft, electronic manipulation of public records and had even done a stint on Sabatier Island for short-circuiting an entire droid manufacturing facility. Once I’d read his rap sheet, I was certain that he was our man.

As I neared the porch, I saw a small square sign in the mulch stating that the plants were poisonous. The bushes gave off a sweet scent, like bubble gum, mixed with the normal flowery smell. All of the bushes had the same, long, symmetrical green leaf and the flowers were the same, just different colors.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures. “Andi, tell me what these are.”

“The plants in question are oleander, a popular flowering shrubbery used in landscaping. Oleander is grown worldwide in climates that do not experience extreme heat or cold. It is known—”

“Stop,” I ordered. “I wanted to know what kind of bush it is, not a whole horticultural briefing.”

“Sorry,” Andi replied. “You’re looking at the oleander bush, the cause of death in the first pleasure club victim.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“Interestingly, the third bush from the porch is the yellow oleander, native to southern India. Ingestion of seeds from the yellow oleander has been a popular form of suicide for as long as written records have been kept.”

“Is the yellow oleander easy to get in the States?”

“No. You must have permits for research to legally have the plant.” She paused for a moment and I knew she was checking to see if Wilson had a permit. “Harold Wilson is not authorized to legally own a yellow oleander in the state of Louisiana.”

“Thanks. I’m leaving you connected; monitor the situation.”

“Got it, boss.”

I slipped the phone back into the pocket of my duster without disconnecting the line. I wanted her to listen for noises that I might not hear when I talked to Wilson.

The doorbell played
Amazing Grace
instead of a normal chime when I pressed the button underneath a sign stating that the occupants of the home would follow the Lord’s bidding at all times. From what I could see through the door’s glass side panels, pictures of Jesus and crosses were as prevalent as those of the guy’s family. Either the Wilsons were an over-the-top religious family, or they were trying hard to appear so.

I wished I’d worn a suit.

A teenage girl’s voice came from the intercom, “Yes, can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Detective Forrest with the NOPD. Is Mr. Wilson home?”
Probably the girl in the family picture next to the painting of a bleeding Jesus
, I thought.

“You don’t look like a cop. Why are you all beat up?”

Dammit
. “I got in a car accident. That’s why I’m not in uniform, it hurts too much to put that uncomfortable suit on.”

I held up my badge to the small button camera for her to examine.

“Okay. My daddy’s gone on a men’s spiritual retreat weekend for fellowship with other Christians over in Hahnville. You can record a message for him and he’ll get it Sunday night when he returns.”

“Oh. There’s no way to communicate with him before then?”

“Technology is strictly forbidden.”

“How does he do it? I know I’d be lost without communication with the outside world for four days.”

“Daddy welcomes the chance to get away from the distractions of this world and commune with the Lord.”

“Heh… Has he done many of these retreats before?”

“He’s been going for as long as I can remember. Probably three or four a year.”

“Does he go alone or is he part of a group from your church?”

“He usually goes with Brother Cordova and Brother Hendricks, but dad’s one of the organizers and wanted to set the camp up, so he went early with Mr. Robert this time.”

“Mr. Robert—Bobby? Is he a family friend?”

“He’s been staying with us for a couple of days. My dad says he’s a lost soul in need of guidance and a purpose in life, but we’re not really allowed to talk to him.” She whispered into the intercom, “In case the Deceiver tries to corrupt us through him.”

“Well, you’ve been very helpful, Kristy. Thank you.”

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she accused. “How do you know who I am?”

Shit…think!
“I’m a police officer. It’s my job to know things. You know, to help keep you safe.”

“Okay… Hey, did you want to leave a message for my dad?”

“No, thank you. I’m sure I’ll be speaking to him soon.”

The intercom disconnected and I walked back to the car.

“Go around the block and park at the convenience store,” I told the Ford as I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the info the daughter had given me.

There was a new person hanging around the Wilson household with the same name as the missing droid and her father had deviated from his normal routine of taking two friends with him to the men’s retreat, opting to take the new fellow with him instead. Added to the fact that the droid’s transponder had indicated it was here a few days ago, I was confident the “lost soul” was the droid in question.

Wilson was a network engineer, so he certainly had the foundation in computer skills to learn how to hack into the pleasure droids. I also added a note that he had oleander growing right there at his house, although as common as the plant was, that wasn’t damning evidence. The inclusion of the illegal yellow oleander was interesting, but wouldn’t hold up in court since the lawyer would claim his client was unaware that one color flower was different from the others.

“Call Chief Brubaker.”

The phone rang twice and then he answered. “Bored already, Forrest?”

“Kind of, sir,” I admitted. “We need to get a search warrant for the residence of Harold Wilson, out in Metairie. He’s the hacker.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Forrest! What part of administrative suspension do you not understand?”

“He’s going to attack the Pope on Sunday.”

“The Pope? As in the funny hat, pajama-wearing Catholic guy with his own private army who will be here this weekend and has about half the police force assigned to protecting him; that Pope?”

“Er…yeah, that one.”

“Fuck me running. Okay, give me all of the details.”